Chapter Four
Sam dragged himself up the path toward the cabin with leaden feet. A flycatcher sang in the trees and fell abruptly silent as he passed. He waited absently for it to start up again, then stopped and listened closely to the absence of birdsong. He looked up, his eyes drawn unwillingly to four long parallel scratches above a branch way too thin to support a bear. It was about five seconds after he started running that his mind caught up with his feet and told him where he'd seen that mark before, and what had made it.
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Sam barrelled out of the woods like all the hounds of hell were after him (again). Dean took one look and grabbed the shotgun, raising it to cover him.
"What?"
"Wendigo. We need to fortify." Dean slammed the door behind him and started piling up furniture against it.
"How close?"
They stared out of the cabin into the woods, lit from a cloudless noon sky. The quiet fooled neither of them, especially Sam. Even in bright sunshine, things came out of the woodwork to kill him, and that's how he knew he was special.
"No idea. I saw the tracks..." There was a thump as something heavy landed on the roof, followed by scrabbling.
"Shit, right, okay. Guns aren't worth a fuck, the machete is good, fire- we got that half-can paraffin for the stove an' another can – I'm on Molotovs. Got any protection symbols?" Dean jumped over to the low shelf next to the stove where they kept food and beer and started emptying cans, dumping the contents on the floor and replacing them with accelerant.
Sam racked his brain for protective symbols of Native American lore – all written in Dad's journal, and therefore safe in the trunk of the Impala two klicks down the path. Weapons yes, journal – much lighter and ten times more useful – no. Dean and his stupid textbooks and his dumb, Sam-based priorities.
"Dean, I ain't even got a pen." His voice cracked incredulously.
They'd pulled harder jobs than icing a Wendigo, but not without info, backup or even a cheap goddamn free-at the-gas-station disposable biro. Leaving aside that Sam felt pretty fucking far from okay, babbling voices competing in his head till they were cut through by an imperative You will not panic because Dean sure as hell isn't doing this alone. He forced himself to reason, to think out loud, and if he was shaking a little and if it was audible Dean had the good grace not to notice.
"It's daylight, fucker should be holed up till dark. Must be desperate."
"I ain't complaining. Could have jumped us in our sleep easy enough."
"Desperate's good. Means it'll be stupid. This whole cabin's mostly wood, right? I say we trap it in here and burn the cabin."
He looked across to see Dean, the pyro, grinning like Sam had just bought him a year's supply of ice cream-covered strippers.
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So the plan – formed over two action-packed minutes in a low-voiced hurry, reeking of the fuel splashed into every corner of the cabin– was for Winchester A to lure the Wendigo in through the door, slam it closed, and escape out the bathroom window, while Winchester B barricaded the door and two windows from the outside and maybe provided some covering fire while A hauled ass.
"Rock paper scissors?" Sam offered guilelessly, stowing a knife at his ankle for if (when) the plan went south and it came down to the ragged edge of weaponless struggling.
"Naw, you always cheat." Dean said, not meeting his eyes. "I'm luring." There was a hideous screech as the Wendigo's claws found the rusting guttering at the edge of the roof, followed by a muffled thud as it hit the ground. It would be at the door in seconds.
"No -"
"No time, Sam. Get into the bathroom and leave the door open a bit, the handle sticks."
"I'll see you outside." Sam said emphatically.
"Yeah, you will." Dean spared him one look, affectionate and true. "Take the guns and the Molotovs, keep the bitch busy while I'm running 'n don't hit me. Go!"
Sam had gotten better at taking orders somewhere down the line. He realised this climbing out of the bathroom window, hearing the sound of Dean yelling "Come get me!" to the centuries-old evil crossing the threshold. Barricade door, fire through windows, Dean if you get 'creative' I'm gonna hurt you.
"Hey!" Dean barked, firing both shotgun barrels straight at the Wendigo towering above him. It screamed, a sound like the tearing metal of a three-car pile-up, and lunged for him.
"Okay, that worked." He dropped the gun and ran for the bathroom door, the few feet seeming like miles. He could feel rank breath on the back of his neck.
The Wendigo, starving and angry, slammed him into the wall with one blow of its arm.
As Dean crumpled to the ground Sam froze, and then began breaking down the makeshift barricade at the front door, yelling incoherently. He threw the door open and the Wendigo swung round to face him, cocking its head to one side in curiosity.
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"Get the fuck away from him!"Sam screamed hoarsely. The machete in his hand felt way, way too small. The Wendigo approached , swaying sinuously like some parody of a catwalk model. Something like a smile crossed its face and even through his anger Sam could feel its amusement. A human with a sharpened bit of metal against those claws and those teeth – yeah, funny. Come here and tell me how funny I am. Come on...
Behind it, Dean stumbled into the bathroom, his scent masked by the stink of paraffin and his sounds by Sam. Head aching, he wrenched open the small bathroom window and fell out onto the grass. Keep moving. Bottle. He picked it up. Lighter. Jesus, I hate concussions. Sam was defending the doorway, long arms and blade a fragile barrier keeping the Wendigo penned in the cabin as Dean moved to his back.
Dean lit the Molotov cocktail with shaking hands, pulled Sam to one side and threw it straight at the Wendigo's head. Fire consumed the Wendigo's body as they staggered away from the door.
There was a long shriek, punctuated by a whumpf as the rest of the paraffin caught and the cabin began to burn.
At a safe distance the brothers lay on the ground and watched their short-term home go up in flames. Sam paled at the scent of burning Wendigo, rolled over and retched thin bile onto the grass.
"Should have brought marshmallows." Dean said weakly, voice roughened by smoke.
Sam spat and wiped his arm across his mouth, wincing at the sting of burns. "And graham crackers. Dude, we coulda made s'mores."