3 Years Ago
Upper Peninsula, Michigan
As he shifted the truck into park, John laid his head back against the cushioned headrest of the truck, his head sinking into the interior.
Rubbing sleep from his eyes would have been a joke.
After working the past six to seven years as a solo hunter had prepared him for the extra long drives with no copilot . It was just him and the open road most of the time.
That wasn't a big issue for John, but he was ready to leave the vast wilderness of northern Michigan behind.
Wendigos were nothing new to John. He could tell you the history and mythology that lead to their horrific beginnings, where they were usually located, their talents, and how to off one. Hell, he had each fucking detail written down in his damn journal. The only thing that ever changed was the timing of its particular hunting season, or it's location.
This time, the location had royally screwed John.
After several missing persons cases, all of which were drawn up to ill informed hikers or bear attacks, John thought it necessary to visit. Only being a handful of hours away, the drive was short.
The case as an entirety, had been short. Drawing up the conclusion of the wendigo attacks had been fairly simple.
Scanning through an array of newspaper clippings and barely there articles spanning from present day back to 1938 gave way to a timeline in which the creature stuck to. Every nineteen to twenty-two years it reared its ugly mug to stock up for hibernation, taking three to five individuals along for the ride. The families of the victims provided little to no information obtaining to the hunt. The best they could give was a general area in which the person had been heading.
After glancing over several cases, circling and crossing out different sections of the Porcupine Mountains, John had narrowed the wendigos whereabouts to a rarely used trail deep in the forest. Within a seven mile radius arose two caves, one of which he was fairly certain was the monsters den. The northern cave was housed farther from what seemed to be the general destination off the missing persons, where the western cave was closer to the zone where the people seemed to be disappearing from.
Pulling the truck off to the side of a backwoods road John stuck it in park and dug through the center counsel. Rummaging through a multitude of false ID's, badges, and licenses, he came up with the permits 'allowing' him to be roaming the mountain, should he run into a ranger. Ripping down the zipper of the duffle, he stuffed in the permit and unloaded himself from the car. He went through a mental check list of all needed to make the expedition. Checking once, then twice in assurance, John made sure had had the flare guns. Without them, he was better off dead.
It was late morning by the time he finally started his trek off towards the western cave. In late July, the flies and mosquitoes were floating in steamy packs through the humid air of the mountains. The week seemed to be hitting record highs for this time of year. He was barely into the hunt and already had pools of sweat gathering from the nape of his neck to the small of his back. Sighing in disgust, John kept on his way. He'd been through worse in Vietnam.
A little sweat doesn't break a Winchester.
Three and a half hours later, John was finally nearing the western cave. He reached around his back and flung the duffle onto a nearby boulder. After opening it, he rifled through the contents until he pulled out the two flare guns, and a shotgun. Checking over the shotgun to make sure the safety was on, and the bullets were stocked, John carefully approached the mouth of the cave. He could faintly here moaning from the cave, clearly coming from a human.
As he quietly strode through the entrance, each foot step starting at the heel of his boot and ending at the toe of his boot, he realized something wasn't right. As he disappeared deeper into the cave, a faint glow could be made out the farther he went. As he rounded a bend to the right, John realized he had no damn clue what he'd just gotten himself into.
Inside the cave didn't live a wendigo.
His stomach dropped as he realized he was in the completely wrong location. The thought of having to trek to the northern cave was long gone when he realized that there were at least half-a-dozen people in the cave.
It wasn't even a fucking bear.
A foursome of small tents were arranged in a half circle around a small fire that had been built. The encampment looked as if it had been set up for days, when he finally looked upon the people.
Through all of his years, John had seen some shit. Not just the monster sort of horrors that make your skin crawl. He'd had the pleasure of receiving motel rooms that were still in use, usually by the hooker from the corner of main street and the mayor's wife- who was happily married- for another forty-five minutes.
Around the fire, lying on a mass of pillows and blankets, were six twenty-something year old college kids in what appeared to be an orgy for all intents and purposes. As he gave a quick glance around the cave, John saw it was also strewn with cigarette butts, empty bear bottles, and still smoking blunts. He felt like he was back in the seventies. He couldn't tell where one body ended and the next started.
Backing up as quietly as possible, John wasn't able to make his escape without being noticed.
"Hey man," one of the kids called. John's gaze snapped to his face, which was situated between a busty brunette's thighs. He had scraggly blond hair sticking to the girls thighs, and bloodshot eyes.
"Do ya wanna stay a while? Plenty 'a room. Don't they say seven's a lucky number, guys?" The stoned boy said, glancing amongst his groupies. The others mumbled in eager agreement, whatever high they had making them easily agree to any decision. If the scraggly blond boy said drink bleach, they'd down a whole gallon just to go with the flow.
Speechless, John just kept on stepping backwards until he was out of the cave. He didn't stop until he stood over his duffle he had left on the boulder outside, starring at it in shock from his latest encounter. It took a lot to knock John off his block, but this had done it.
Shaking his head to snap himself back into reality, he looked at his watch for a time confirmation.
It was three in the afternoon.
There was no way to make it to the northern cave, kill the wendigo, and get back to the truck before sun down. He sure as hell wasn't going to leave himself out as easy bait. Wiping a hand down his face in agitation, he realized he'd just wrecked the simplest of hunts.
"Fuck."
By eleven that evening, John had finally rolled into an old-fashioned wooden-paneled bar.
Scrolling, through his phone, he'd quickly texted a local hunter the coordinates and backstory about the hunt. (Leaving out his miss steps he'd taken to the western cavern and its inhabitants.) He was leaving with what little dignity he could scrounge from the Porkies.
Walking up the steps of the bar, the sounds of glasses clanking, billiard balls busting, and music booming could be heard as John pushed through the old rusted doors.
As soon as he had two feet within the bar, all sounds stopped. Glasses were held in mid air, the music turned to a barely audible sound. Over the last year or two, John had finally become accustomed to his now famous status.
In early 2004, John had finally gone toe-to-toe with the yellow eyed demon, Azazel. After months of tracking acquaintances of the demon, and keeping track of crop and electrical failures, he'd finally met the son of a bitch in a crooked town on the northern border of Wyoming.
With the infamous Colt in hand, and few words exchanged, John had pulled the trigger. Things played out as John could only imagine; he watched as the bullet tore its way through the meat suit until it inevitably reached the heart, ending the demons long rain of terror.
Strolling past the suddenly quiet crowd, John took a heavy seat on the nearest bar stool. With a sigh, John rolled his shoulders back and locked eyes with the bartender, "A bottle of bourbon. Jim if you've got it," John ordered.
With fumbling hands, the bartender bumbled his way through the bar trying to get the order out as quickly as possible for the John Winchester.
A loud thump alerted John to the man who'd seated himself in the next seat. Looking out of the corner of his eye, John recognized the man as Jack Roberts, a low-ball hunter. Jack was a man more up on the gossip than the hunt.
"Where you headin' Johnny?" Jack said, loudly rolling a worn tooth pick between his yellowed teeth.
"South. Got a poltergeist down in Jacksonville," John muttered, eyeing the bottle of Jim coming his way.
The bartender set down a tumbler and bottle. John already knew it was on the house. He rarely paid a penny out of pocket around other hunters. Nodding in thanks, John ripped the top off the bottle, dumping the amber liquid til it hit the rim. Picking the glass up, he took a deep swallow, drinking the liquor like a fresh glass of lemonade.
"Saw your boy down in Nashville. He's askin' if I've seen ya lately," Jack blurted, bushy eyebrows raised, waiting for John's response. He was like a dog waiting for a treat; on edge, waiting for the info to spill from one hand into the others mouth.
Taking a deep breath, John let the scent of the bourbon waft through his nostrils, he barked, "And you haven't seen me lately," his eyes glared into the red neck's eyes, "isn't that right Jack?"
Grinning with what few teeth he still had on full display, Jack nodded his head up and down in a dopey manner, "Johnny you say? I ain't seen hide nor hair a him in years. Years."
A/N: Sorry for such a long wait guys! I've been writing bits and pieces, trying to get everything put together. I'm happy to finally be able to get something out to you guys this week. Please read and review, tell me your thoughts! The next chapter will finally make it to present time, from Dean's point of view no less! Thanks for all the love you guys have been giving me, it's more than I can even imagine receiving or deserve. Have a good week!
Indigo