November 26, 1988
The ranger station for this section of Mark Twain National Forest off Highway 63 is a long low gray building, and Dean enters in front of the ranger dragging his feet over the nondescript industrial grade carpeting. In Dean's hand is the walkie talkie that connects him to Bobby Singer. And as he is walking, the nine year old is pressing the talk button in a series of dots and a dash, hoping his "Uncle Bobby" gets the message.
Ranger Carl Adams let the boy gather his walkie talkie from the car, but he has kept a hand on his shoulder guiding the boy into the building. Some sixth sense there's something wrong with this situation, and he doesn't want to end up physically chasing this skittish kid. With one hand keeping the boy pointed in the right direction, Ranger Adams uses the other to flip on light switches and turn the heat up in the center.
"Take a seat over there," the ranger directs Dean onto a faux leather couch in a small office. "Then you and me need to talk." Dean turns distrusting eyes towards him. He knows he isn't supposed to let himself be caught, and he's not allowed to draw attention to himself. Dad's told him that every time he's left him and Sammy in a motel room.
Dean's thinking about what he can safely add to the story he already told the ranger when he bumped into him next to Bobby Singer's Chevelle. Uncle Bobby has Dean for the holiday, and they were planning to hike, but Dean must have been asleep when they got there, and he's sure his uncle will be there in just a moment. He wouldn't have gone far.
Then Dean gets an idea. "Hey, Mister Ranger, I heard a story that lots of people go missing in these woods. Seven just recently, my uncle said. Do you think he's gone missing too?"
Ranger Adams frowns. There have been reports of missing hikers and hunters, but part of it is just the vastness of the wilderness and the fact that there's not really a way to get everyone to check in and out in one place. "I don't think you need to worry about that." He dismisses the boy's concern.
"Well, maybe they fell into a cave." Dean tries again even though talking is still painful from his sore throat. "There's caves here, right? Or maybe a monster got them?" He opens his eyes wide trying his best to look like a scared little boy. "Do you think that's what happened?"
The ranger actually gets out a map showing the cave systems in an effort to calm the boys down. "See, it's miles until any cave system on that trail," Adams adds. Dean gives a few dry coughs and rubs his throat. "Could I get some water please?" The ranger promises him one better, instant hot chocolate. He leaves the office to go make it, and Dean pulls out a piece of paper and begins to trace the cave system, adding GPS coordinates. He works quickly and puts away the notebook just as the ranger returns.
"Let me see that walkie talkie so we can figure out where your uncle is," the ranger begins, but then he hears a pounding on the door and a gruff voice calling for help.
"Anybody in there? I need help. There's a kid lost." Dean bites his lip and lowers his head to hide a smile before jumping up and rushing toward the door. "Uncle Bobby!" He yells, grinning because he can tell Bobby got his Morse Code message. He throws open the door and before the ranger can stop him; he throws himself into the older hunter's arms.
Bobby's practically smothers Dean in a bear hug, playing his role to the hilt. "Dean! Damn boy. What the Hell were you thinking? You scared me half to death. I've been looking everywhere." And while Bobby is playing the part Dean sent him via code, the hug he gives is real. He was horrified when Dean let him know a park ranger had scooped him up as an unattended child. And Bobby felt like the world's biggest hypocrite too. Hadn't he been damning John Winchester for leaving this same kid alone to fend for himself?
The park ranger shrugs this one off. Maybe he jumped the gun a little, let the cold dictate how quickly he moved the boy inside. If this uncle has been looking for him this entire time then the kid wasn't abandoned. He hands Dean back his handset as he prepares to send them off. "So, can I ask why you left the kid alone?" Ranger Adams starts.
Bobby turns a deep red. Dean thought this part up too, but Bobby was hoping not to have to use it. "Well, I was, umm, doing what a bear does in the woods." Bobby mutters, pulling Dean in closer as the both starts erupting into giggles. "The boy was sleeping, and, umm, well, it's not like I wanted him along for it. Anyways, I came back, and he was gone."
Adams can see these two know each other, are affectionate, and the excuse makes sense. The uncle had to go after a long drive. While the uncle was taking care of business, the boy woke with a need of his own. He decides everything ended okay, so he just reminds them that no one should go hiking into the woods alone. First the ranger takes Bobby slightly aside, letting him know the kid seemed to have a cold or the flu. Bobby grunts acknowledgement. And then the ranger ends by cautioning them both. "You all have fun, but be careful."
"Careful, as in not getting caught." Bobby mutters grumpily to Dean as he takes a moment outside the door to pull Dean's hat from his pocket and push it back down on his head, checking for fever and looking displeased by what he finds. "But that signaling – that was quick thinking." He adds, and Dean looks up with a proud grin.
As Bobby and Dean head back toward the car, Dean pulls out the drawings he made in the ranger's office. "Uncle Bobby, I think we're starting in the wrong place. First of all, there're no other cars here. And second, this is where there's a cave system – about ten miles north of here. I think we should call the other hunters back and move up toward this place called Devil's Elbow near the river there."
Bobby chews on his lip a little. "Kid, I like you. You're smart, resourceful, and already a better hunter than a lot of men I know, but I'm heading into town to get you a motel room. You ain't well yet, and I ain't going to be the fool who drags a sick kid into the woods. Because you deserve that, and not doing that - that's just not who I am."
. . . . . . .
Thanksgiving evening, November 24, 1988
The past five years John Winchester hasn't spent much time giving thanks and counting his blessings, but he'll make an exception today. It's a sorry state of being though, when what you are most thankful for is that the monstrous - practically preying mantis looking - Wendigo seems content to gnaw on the arm of a dead body trussed next to you in its dank lair instead of on you. "I'm thankful it's not eating me. I'm thankful it ain't biting a live person. I'm thankful to still be alive because I can still hope to get out of here and back to my boys."
John's litany may be short and done silently, but it's heartfelt. His list of things he could do without is longer, but given today's a holiday it seems fitting that he acknowledge the good first. The bad, hanging like a sausage over the rafters for later provisions, that's bad. The pain in his wrists and shoulders, ditto. The broken leg he has to take some weight on. The growing thirst. The need to relieve himself. The pain in his head where the monster hit him, probably with a rock. Being separated from the boys when he knows they've got to be worried. And finally – losing Mary – and losing the chance to make that demon pay for taking her. Yeah, the negatives are far outweighing the positives.
He's been hanging here for hours, watching the slow crawl of sunlight travel across the mouth of the lair. Sometimes he's lucky and he dozes through the pain and discomfort, but mostly he has been awake and aware. His eyesight sharpened as his eyes grow accustomed to the lighting. His military mind taking stock of the situation. The lair is old and dilapidated. It's above ground, an old barn, maybe?
Including John, there are eleven hanging humans; the Wendigo's harvest, gathered to see her through the winter or however the hell long she'll hibernate when she is sated. Only John and Paul Robertson are alive, and both of them are injured. John still has his leather coat on, add that to the thankful pile because it provides some warmth at least, but it's hanging open. He has a lighter in his coat pocket and a knife. If he can work an arm free, he has tools to fight back.
John must have been drifting because he's startled when the Wendigo is suddenly right in front of him. Its breath is foul and warm as it sniffs along his shoulder and into his neck, like a lover might. John shudders and jerks away. The loose gray lips purse, and the Wendigo lifts a long claw on an elongated hand and slices his cheek. Blood wells from the cut, as surely as though it had used a razor. She runs her finger down the cut gathering blood and sticks her finger in her mouth sucking it off her finger lewdly.
Next, as John watches because he's afraid to look away, the monster hooks her claw into the fabric of his tee-shirt and rips it open as easily as scissors might. Her puke green eyes hold his gaze as she laughs. John's chest is bared to his naval, and the monster draws circles with her clawlike fingernails, tracing muscles and circling his nipples. She is making incisions like paper cuts. John winces, and she chitters.
At John's gasp, Robertson feels compelled to try to help, his voice cracking with thirst. "Winchester. Just stay still. She did this to my friend George. Seems to like to play with her food." Whatever Robertson intended, his voice draws the Wendigo to him. It is no lover's caress as she slashes at his chest, but it is a sick parody as she leans in lapping at the streaming blood as he screams.
John takes advantage of her inattention to struggle harder. Being killed on the job is something he has contemplated. Being molested by a monster isn't. Robertson's screams turn into broken sobbing as John starts to use the blood from his wrists to lubricate his hands as he tries to release himself.