November 26, 1988
Freezing rain, also known as an ice storm, results in the most hazardous of travel situations. Since the cold rain falls but coats surfaces before freezing the roads quickly become lined with cars in ditches. The coating on power lines and trees branches can carry thirty times the original weight, frequently causing them to snap, and those lines and branches fall alongside or in roads making obstacles even serious drivers swerve to avoid. Weathermen universally advise against traveling in an ice storm.
Dean hasn't been watching any weather reports, and he is no where near an experienced driver. Moving the car a couple of times for his dad don't add up to all that. But he has grown up in the car and has an almost instinctual feel for it. As he is heading into Mark Twain National Forest the storm begins to pick up in intensity. Fortunately for him, there are no other cars in sight.
Dean slows to practically a stop – almost standing to see better over the steering wheel and perching precariously on the seat's edge. He leaves off the seat belt. He carefully corrects the car's trajectory several times, skidding lightly across black ice before steering gently back into the middle of the road, straddling the yellow line. His eyes dart to every road sign searching for the parking area nearest his destination.
What would normally be a five minute drive takes Dean thirty with the scariest part coming at the end. As the nine year old turns toward the parking area, the car slides looping in a one-hundred-and-eighty degree turn before stalling out. Dean is tossed into the steering wheel and his nose starts bleeding. He grabs paper napkins from the glove box to staunch his nose as he sits trying to get his shaking body under control. He almost hurt the car. Dad will kill him if he puts a dent on it.
Dean finishes wiping blood from his face, and stretches trying to make the aches his body feels from being thrown around the car ease. Pushing open the heavy door and gingerly climbing out, Dean steadies himself against the big black car as he circles it, checking for scratches. He takes in the other cars parked in the lot, noticing Bobby Singer's Chevelle and Bill Harvelle's pickup.
It is cold, but not as wet under the shelter of big trees. He is shaking with adrenaline and relief when he sees that the car is fine. With no one around to see, the nine-year-old gives in to his fear and sits leaning against the rear wheel for a moment crying. He puffs out breath and watches as it forms a white cloud. The damp and cold seep into his body, and he shivers.
"It's okay. It's okay." He tells himself, pulled into a ball with his arms around his knees to comfort himself and stop trembling. Then because he can hear his father's voice in his head, he straightens and wipes his eyes and nose of his coat sleeve. "Buck up, Dean. We don't have time for you to act like a big baby."
Dean bites his lower lip and straightens up, moving back inside to get the key so he can gather supplies from the trunk. A canteen, power bars, first aid kit, emergency blanket, and a few other supplies go into a backpack which the boy slips onto his shoulders, tightening the straps to fit him. He finds one of his father's belts and wraps it twice around his waist outside the coat, using the excess to hold a machete he wears like a sword. He finds a flare gun and loads it, slipping it and two extra rounds in his coat pocket. Finally, he takes a long metal flashlight under his elbow while he shuts the trunk.
Closing his eyes, Dean mentally pictures the map he saw earlier in the park ranger's office, remembering where the old homestead is located. When he opens his eyes, Dean allows himself a moment for his eyes to grow accustomed to the gathering dusk before locating a trail that leads in the direction he wants to go. He steps carefully, avoiding rocks and slippery piles of leaves. His light weight and thin form allow him to travel the animal track as silently as one of the deer.
Dean finds himself praying, and calls himself a big baby for it. Mom might have said angels were watching over him, but if they are they sure haven't intervened to stop anything bad from happening. What he does know is that he needs his dad, he needs what little family he has, and he has no one to rely on except himself.
. . . . . . .
It doesn't take long after finding him before Bobby Singer is wishing John Winchester was still unconscious. After the older hunter patched up the younger widower, John has figured out that Bobby brought his young son along on the rescue. Ever since then the two have been sniping at each other - John at Bobby for bringing Dean; Bobby at John for leaving the boys behind. The other three hunters are alternating between amused and annoyed as the two men bicker like an old unhappily married couple.
"He's a kid, Singer. Dean sure as hell isn't ready for a Wendigo hunt!" John bellows his outrage. "I left him safe in Iowa."
Bobby almost growls his response. "He's a kid you numbskull, he sure as hell shouldn't be the sole parent for a five year old. You left those two boys without money for food and shelter. You're damn lucky the state didn't take 'em."
"They had enough if I hadn't broken my damn leg. And Dean knows if I'm not back on time to call Jim Murphy. So where is Dean? Where'd you leave him?" John spits out the question, and Bobby lowers his eyes. He knows that the answer is going to make him sound like a fool. First, he let a kid who hasn't even reached double digits manipulate him into bringing him on a hunt, and second because he had to drug him to get him to stay behind. If he's lucky, John Winchester will never know the kid's been sick on top of that.
"Will you two cut it the hell out! We got other things to worry about right now." Bill Harvelle is contemplating knocking them both out, except it's going to be hard enough to move the group because of John's broken leg, his own bruised hip, and the various head injuries the group has suffered under the Wendigo's barrage of thrown rocks and tree branches. The only good thing about the attacks is the branches can be broken and added to the small fire.
"Listen up!" Harvelle's tired, sore, grumpy and ready to get back to his wife and child. "We've got five Hunters here versus one Wendigo. We're armed. Ain't none of us helpless, except maybe Winchester over there." John glares. "So I say we take this bitch down and head back to Minnesota."
"What we got is too many chiefs and not enough Indians." Creedy mutters.
Joshua, who is closest to the barn door, adds what else they've got is bad weather. "Looks like freezing rain." That news settles like a weight on all the Hunters. Even if they get out of the barn, the roads will most likely be too slick to travel.
"What we need is a coordinated plan of attack taking all that in," Bobby suggests, "and we need to keep the plan quiet enough that the freaking monster doesn't know about it ahead of time." And as much as he hates to – John agrees. The men found out during their first escape attempt that the monster is listening to every word they say.
Grumbling, John draws his journal out and turns to a blank page as the men huddle and begin to draw out a plan. They know the bad weather and early sunset work against them, and if they don't make it out soon it is likely the monster will be able to pick them off one by one.
. . . . . . .
Traveling softly, Dean stops when he scents smoke drifting low because of the cold rain. He has kept the flashlight off relying on the low light and his night vision. An advantage Dean has is that he moves as softly as prey animals. His size has become part of his protection. The Wendigo is not expecting trouble to come from a small creature. In fact, the cannibal is still intent on getting back into her lair and not looking out behind her at all.
Drawing closer, but staying close to trees and surrounded by brush, Dean halts when he sees movement in the shadow outside an old barn door. By avoiding looking toward the dim light from inside, the boy manages to make out the form hunkered just outside the structure about twenty-five feet away. While he can't make out details, he sees enough to know that the form is abnormally tall and thin, its joints leaning back like a preying mantis as he watches through a gap in the boards.
Dean eyes trace the structure and follow along the outline noting that most of the old barn is tucked into a hillside. He also hears men's voices murmuring inside, and notes that the smell of decomposition is strong enough here that it should mask the smell of one small human. All he has to do is move into place on top of the hill and get the drop on the creature. He wishes he had some way of knowing what the older hunters have planned, but he's pretty sure what he's seeing is that the men are trapped inside the structure.
Dean can't stop himself from praying that his dad is in there, and that he's okay.