November 25, 1988, morning
Still alive. He's still alive, so there's still hope for him. John Winchester's mind is skittering around on that idea like some kind of gerbil on ice. He's trying hard not to think about how he watched Paul Robertson screaming while the Wendigo pulled out his intestines yesterday. Yes, yesterday. John knows he's missing some time, and that dehydration is starting to make him fuzzy.
Yesterday the Wendigo ate parts of Robertson right in front of him, and the other Hunter died screaming. John's pretty sure that's something he'll never forget.
His wrists are bleeding and hurt, and John doesn't care. He knows why some animals will chew off their legs to get out of a trap. His level of fear after what he saw, what he knows will be his fate, is overwhelming. He struggles to try to loosen the ropes on at least one hand. One hand free, he could reach his pocket knife. His lighter. His journal is in his coat pocket, at much as he'd rather not use it as kindling, it would burn. He'd rather burn than die like Robertson did. John's been told the trick is to inhale the smoke and suffocate before the flames get you.
Up in flames, like Mary. His Mary. John's mind wanders to earlier days. He pictures Mary when he met her. Mary was a month short of turning twenty-nine when she died, just a year younger than John. He thinks about how whenever she smiled, it seemed like the sun came out. The bounce of her blonde hair. The curve of her lips. The unexpected strength in her arms when she saved him from drowning on their honeymoon. He remembers how important it was to her that they be a normal family. He thinks of how fiercely she loved her sons.
John doesn't know, so he can't think about, how it was a high-priority match for Cupids under Heaven's control to bring the two of them together, a Campbell hunter and a Winchester legacy to the Men of Letters. And while the night that both her parents died was traumatic for him too, he did not know that she traded that visit to the nursery for his life. He will never know that the interference from Heaven and Hell is what makes the wound from her death still seem so fresh, the obsession so mind consuming.
Mary's death is as fresh to him today as it was five years ago – just like powerful unseen forces want it to be. The wound that never heals is the impetus driving John to raise the boys the way he does, the way that leads to self-sacrifice and the apocalypse.
Heaven needs John to keep doing what he's doing with the boys.
. . . . . . .
November 26, 1988, morning
The motel they stop at has a familiar big black car parked out front. Bobby talked to the manager once, and he even paid up the back rent on the room. The he decides that maybe Dean should stay there. "Just in case your dad finds his way back here."
"Uncle Bobby, you promised!" Dean is twisting around as well as he can to confront Bobby Singer, who has a grip on the back of his jacket and is steering the boy in front of him toward a motel office. At four foot tall and less than sixty pounds, Dean is small for his age, kind of scrawny. What he does have is wiry muscle where most kids haven't developed any yet. That and a determination few people ever find.
Dean digs his heels in, and the pair stops. "Uncle Bobby, I can't let you do this." Dean says again, but this time he sounds resolved, and Bobby's wondering what the boy's planning. "I'm going to scream. And people are going to wonder what's up. Then, just like they teach us in school, I'm gonna start yelling 'He's not my father.'"
"I oughta…" Bobby sputters off, and then he decides not to be out-smarted by this smart alec kid. "Dean, kid, you're sick, and I was a damn fool to let you talk me into bringing you along to begin with." Bobby crouches down a little. "We just almost lost ya to a park ranger. I can't … oh balls … I can't lose ya, and I can't babysit ya. I'm just trying to do what's best for ya, kid." Dean straightens and his face draws into a frown. Bobby keeps talking, not letting the boy interrupt, or scream.
"You've already been a big help getting us a better location idea and a map of the caves. So don't think we won't let yer dad know how helpful ya were. But we've looked over the research, and we're pretty sure we're dealing with a Wendigo – damn strange place for one – but that's what it is. You ain't big enough for this. They're too fast and strong. And if they catch ya, they eat…." Bobby trails off as Dean's face gets paler.
"You think Dad got eaten?" It's shaky and not much above a whisper, but Dean gets it out.
"Don't be putting words in my mouth." Bobby cuts him off. "That's not what I said. I said it was too fast for you."
"I'm faster than you." Dean confronts the older Hunter.
"…and strong." Bobby keeps going.
Dean shrugs. "It'd have to catch me first."
"No, it won't!" Bobby's patience is gone as he snaps at the boy and gives him a little shake. "Cause I ain't letting you go out into those woods. You ain't ready for that yet, no matter how big you think you are. You ain't. You're a little squirt who'll get one of us killed if we take you along."
Dean's chin gives a wobble and his lower lip trembles before he bites it almost hard enough to draw blood as he fights to get his feelings under control. His already red-rimmed from illness eyes fill with tears that threaten to spill over. Bobby's watching him carefully, but even tearing up he doesn't see any signs of Dean giving in. He gives a big sigh.
"Alright. First – We need to eat. We're going into that diner there and have breakfast and talk. Go in and get us a table, will ya? I'm going to call Harvelle and the others." Dean eyes him suspiciously. "I'm not going to ditch you there. Order me coffee, and the breakfast special, over easy if it's eggs. Get yourself some food and a big glass of orange juice."
Bobby watches Dean head to the restaurant as he reaches for the walkie talkie to make plans with the other hunters. Then he makes a stop at the drug store before heading into the diner himself.
Harvelle, Joshua, and Creedy show up before Bobby and Dean's food is even served, and they all sit in a booth around the table going over the new plan and eating. The best bet as far as cave formations also happens to be not far from a road, and Harvelle has driven near to see an old homestead peeking through the autumn bare trees. He says there's a truck parked not too far off the road that he thinks must be Robertson's.
As the hunters plan, Bobby pours a measured amount of a dark green liquid into the plastic cup and has Dean take it. "It's cold medicine." Twenty minutes go by before Dean's head droops onto Bobby's shoulder. Joshua helps Bobby get the sleeping boy out of the booth to the motel room across the parking lot.
Folding back the bedspread, Bobby arranges Dean carefully on the mattress, pulling off his shoes and coat, and stroking his hair gently when he stirs a little until it's obvious the boy is deeply asleep again. He leaves juice and some wrapped sandwiches on the table. Bobby sets the bottle of Nyquil down next to a box of Sominex and writes a short note to Dean while the other hunter lays salt lines.
Dean, if you wake up before I get back, stay put. We plan to bring your dad here once we find him in case he needs patching up. If we aren't back before morning, call Pastor Jim. I'm sorry it came to this boy, but someday you'll understand why I couldn't take chances with your life. Bobby looks the note back over, hesitating before signing it Uncle Bobby. Leaving the note near the food, Bobby tucks a folding buck knife under Dean's pillow.
"Damn fool stubborn Winchester," he murmurs.
. . . . . . .
November 25, 1988 afternoon
One hand is free, and John uses it to get out his knife to saw at the other binding. The pain in his shoulders and barely healing broken leg is excruciating, pulsing in time to his heightened heartbeat. He knows he's in too rough a shape to make a run for it, but he has a plan. Finally free, John shuffles to grab his back pack and rifle through some of the others near him, collecting canteens, food, medical supplies, and other useful items as quickly as he can. He moves cautiously toward the light, and as he draws closer he can see he's in some sort of old barn.
Thinking back, John remembers there was a ramshackle old homestead not too far from where Robertson parked. He wants to kick himself for not checking it out back then. The only good news is John's pretty sure that if he sets it on fire, the park rangers and forestry people will be able to reach his location.
One step at a time though. John paces off a circle wide enough for him to stretch out, and he uses spray paint to draw the Anasazi protection symbols right on the floor. Crawling back into the center where he left the supplies he had gathered. First, John shakes all the canteens, finding one mostly full, he opens it and takes a small sip, knowing that if he does not do it slowly he will vomit. After a few more sips, John takes out a first aid kit and begins to patch himself up.
When he looks up from his task, he sees the Wendigo is back, and she is studying him.
"Not this time, bitch." John's muttering darkly. He pulls out some medical gauze and lighter fluid and starts making a Molotov cocktail. Whether the monster understood the significance, John doesn't know. But as he finishes, the monster is nowhere in sight and the late fall sun has started to set. He takes the time to pull on the shirt he took from Robertson's pack, and eat a power bar. Nighttime will give the Wendigo an unfair advantage. He can wait until dawn.