Chapter Text
The forest was thick and dark, the trees forming a dense canopy that all but eradicated the sunlight. It was midday, but you wouldn't know it. It didn't deter the birds, their happy trills and chirps a pleasant soundtrack to the rustle of leaves in the breeze. The lack of direct light helped the lush ferns and other assorted greenery to thrive and spread over the forest floor, moss painting dead tree trunks a vibrant green. It was lovely and peaceful and it completely sucked, he thought as he tripped over a buried root.
Dean Winchester was not having a good time. His feet hurt, he was sweaty, bugs were dining on every bit of exposed flesh and he was ever so slightly hung over. Well, maybe a bit more than slightly, but that was his secret. He was cranky and just wanted to be back in the motel room with a beer and some TV.
He and Sam had been tromping over the bucolic woods for what seemed like the better part of forever and the tranquil scene had lost its appeal long ago. They had headed in at first light and it was way past that now. Drawn here by the recent reports of missing campers and day hikers that could be tracked to a twenty three year cycle, they had already found scattered remains of campsites and backpacks. Missing people plus ransacked campsites usually equated to a bear except that in this case no bodies had been found and bears didn't kill on a cycle. So wendigo it was. Awesome.
Glancing over at his brother, he could see that Sam was having his own issues. The air may have been cool and damp, but trekking uphill for several miles straight had both of them plenty warm. Swiping at a bead of sweat working its way down his forehead, Sam took a long pull from his canteen. Dean looked on enviously, then followed suit, the water a welcome balm to his throat. He glanced down at his watch, knowing that they needed to keep an eye on the time. They would need to wait for darkness for the wendigo to make its move, but they were hoping to find some signs of it first. Maybe even get lucky enough to find its lair. Because luck was the Winchesters' middle name. Right.
"Dean, it's going on one. You want to take a break?" Sam asked the question, but he was already sitting down wearily on a log, making the executive decision that he was taking a break whether Dean wanted to or not.
Dean stopped and took a quick glance around their surroundings. It was as good a place to stop as any. He joined Sam on the log, pulling his backpack forward to rummage inside for their lunch. He tossed Sam a packet of hohos followed up by some beef jerky. Sam looked down at the food items in disdain, then over at his brother.
"This is lunch?" Dean didn’t miss the tone, and bristled slightly, but then shrugged. Sam really should have known better than to put Dean in charge of provisions.
"Hey, I got you some protein. Quit your bitchin," Dean replied, tearing into his own hoho package with his teeth. He could tell Sam that he had actually bought them some trail bars and fruit, but then he would have to admit that he forgot them at the motel. If he was getting the bitch face now, he would get that and a lecture if he admitted to that. Sam did ask him at least three times if he had everything before they left the motel, so the lecture would definitely be forthcoming. Dean was having enough fun without adding that treat to the mix, even if he did deserve it.
With a sigh, Sam bit into the jerky, tossing one last irritated glance Dean's way. Sam pulled out the map they had been marking on as they found the campsites. It wasn't much help in triangulating the potential lair of the creature as wendigos had been known to drag their victims sometimes a hundred miles away from where they were snatched, but it was better than nothing. They had been studying trees, looking for scratches from the horror show claws they sported. Studying the ground for any blood, torn clothing, anything that might have come from someone being dragged. So far, they hadn't found jack shit.
Dean looked over the map, mouth full of hoho. "At least it seems to be staying in sixty mile zone. That's pretty considerate, actually," he noted with a smile.
"Better than a hundred miles, anyway. Let's hike to here and then set up camp." Sam trailed a finger over the map, plotting out a course.
Ripping of a chunk of jerky, Dean nodded, his eyes back up in the tree line. "Sounds good. I think it's had enough time to get our scent. I happen to know from experience that wendigos like the way I taste." It had only been a few months ago that Sam and Dean had hunted another wendigo, helping a woman and her little brother locate their other brother. Dean had ended up getting snatched and tucked away in the monster's larder for a later meal. For a change, it had a happy ending. The missing brother was found alive and everyone else had made it out of the creature's den. "Here's to hoping this hunt goes as good as that one." Dean saluted the air with the rest of his jerky, then ate that too.
Sam huffed out a harsh laugh, staring incredulously at his brother. "That's your standard of a good hunt? Dean, you had three broken ribs and four gashes that got infected because you didn't tell anyone about it. You were sick for weeks, man, half of that in the hospital."
Dean just smiled and shrugged. "Aw Sammy, no one died. Well except for the guide, but we did our best with him. At the end of the day, we saved the people and killed the creature. Job well done."
Sam smiled wanly in response, shaking his head slightly as he looked away. "Yeah, job well done," he repeated softly.
Finished with their meager meal, they silently collected up their belongings then headed out to their designated stopping point, eyes continuing to dart warily over their surroundings. They felt like they were being watched and, while they didn't know it yet, they were right.
They reached their destination just as dusk was falling. The brothers wasted no time in starting a fire and settling down to grab a quick bite to eat. Their conversation was minimal and hushed, their ears and eyes trained to the forest around them. It had become clear that they were being hunted a few miles back. When all other sounds stopped, no birds, no bugs, nothing, they knew that they had been spotted. The silence was the best clue they had. Their flare guns were ready, extra flares stuffed into their pockets. All they had to do now was wait and it was a tense wait. Wendigos were extremely fast, extremely strong and very sneaky. They could be right on top of you and you wouldn't know until it had you. They had the benefit of having backup in each other and experience dealing with these particular nasties, but that didn't make it any more relaxing.
Dean had just been getting ready to try and snatch the remains of Sam's hostess pie when they heard it; a low growl was coming from behind them. Dean immediately jumped to his feet, the flare gun held ready, his heart starting to pound as adrenaline started to rush through him. Sam followed suit, falling in behind him so they were back to back. He could feel the tension in Sam's body as they stared into the darkness. "I got nothing. You?" Dean whispered quietly.
"I think it circled around my way." Sam quickly used his foot to toss some dirt onto the fire, dampening the flames slightly. It was a good call, it had been killing their night vision.
Eyes riveted before him, Dean slowly moved forward, seeing only the vague outline of bushes and trees. The thing was smart, it seemed to know they were armed and was being accordingly cautious. His gazed moved higher into the trees, and he saw it just a split second before it was on top of him. He didn't waste the flare, he knew he didn't have a shot. Long fingers wrapped around his throat, jerking him forward, his feet dragged behind him. The other hand smacked against his wrist, his flare gun flying into the night as sharp pain radiated up his arm, his fingers springing open in reflex.
He could hear Sam calling out to him, but he was too busy trying to get some air into his lungs to discern what he was saying. He knew the creature was using his body to block Sam's shot and he tried to get his feet more solidly on the ground so he could shift away but the hand around his throat just tightened and lifted him until was held in the air. He could barely breathe before, now it wasn't even an option. Dean wrapped his unhurt hand around its fingers, trying to relieve the pressure on his throat. For a moment he was face to face with it. It was hard to believe that something that fugly was ever human. Its eyes, while misshapen and dark, held intelligence as it stared back at him. It was unsettling. Not as unsettling as its breath, though. Yikes.
Reaching into the waistband of his jeans with his other hand, gritting his teeth against the pain, he grasped the knife at the small of his back and swung it into the wendigo's throat in one smooth motion. A piteous scream left the creature's mouth as blood pulsed from the wound. The hand at this throat heaved him away and Dean was flying through the air, right into Sam who had been shifting position to get behind the creature.
They collided roughly, air rushing out of lungs, bones crashing into bones. Both tumbled to the ground, Dean landing awkwardly on his already injured wrist, a grunt of agony leaving his mouth as the pain swelled into heat and ice and nausea. Well that's broken, he thought as he immediately rolled to the side. Sam clearly had the breath knocked out of him, having taken the brunt of Dean's descent, but he was getting to his feet. Dean pulled in a few desperately needed gulps of air, then started to work his way back up, his eyes firmly on the screaming thing in front of him.
The neck wound wouldn't kill the wendigo, but it clearly alarmed it at least a little. It had pulled the knife out and flung it away, one long fingered hand wrapped protectively around its throat. Sam fired off his flare gun just as it moved, the flare hitting it in the shoulder. A roar of pain filled the air as the flare embedded in its body, the flames licking out of the wound. It wasn't a kill shot, but Sam was preparing to take care of that when he was knocked into a tree. He slumped down to the ground, not moving.
"Sam!" Dean yelled, seeing what had happened. He started for his brother, one eye on the injured creature, then his brain finally caught up with what his eyes had already seen. It couldn't be, it shouldn't be, but it was.
There were two of them. Two wendigos.
Son of a bitch.
Dean spun around, his gun already in his hand. It was a good thing their Dad taught them to shoot as good with their left hand as their right. The gun wouldn't do any significant damage to the creatures, but it was better than nothing. The other wendigo was shuffling over to the injured one, seemingly uninterested in him at the moment. He took the opportunity to dart to Sam's position, dropping down to his knees beside his brother, his eyes still fixed on the creatures across from him.
Sam was face down, his arms covering his head. Dean rolled him over carefully, relieved to see that Sam was already moving, his face scrunched up in pain. Dean noted a scraped bump on his forehead, but didn't see any other signs of injury. He checked back on the wendigo duo and saw that they had disappeared. What the hell? His eyes darted around the woods, searching for any movement or indication of where they may have gone. There were no signs of them and the normal sounds of night started to creep back in. He never appreciated the sounds of insects quite so much as he did right then. He didn't think they were out of the frying pan yet, but the heat may have been turned down for a bit.
"Sam? You all right man?" Dean asked urgently, his voice rougher than usual. His throat felt like sandpaper, the skin of his neck hot and throbbing. It was going to be an awesome bruise.
"Yeah," Sam replied with a groan as he struggled to sit up. His hand went to his forehead and his eyes squeezed shut. Dean quickly put his gun away and placed a supporting hand behind his back to help him. Sam's eyes opened in sudden panic, sweeping over the area. "Where is it?"
"I dunno. They took off," Dean replied distractedly, checking the bump on Sam's head. He lightened up his touch when Sam winced. Sam batted his hand away, which was enough to tell Dean that he was doing okay.
"They?" Sam asked, looking at Dean sharply.
Dean sat down heavily next to Sam, needing to take a moment. His wrist was throbbing, sharp waves of agony streaking up his arm and down into his fingers. He hated broken bones. It meant at least four weeks of light duty, which meant nothing but watching TV if Sam had any say in it. After he caught his breath, he would grab the first aid kit out of the duffel. Yeah, he needed the wrapping, but he wanted the flask of whiskey more right about now.
"There were two of them," Dean said flatly, not really believing it himself.
Sam's brow furrowed deeply in confusion. "Did you get bashed in the head or something?"
Dean smirked and shook his head. "Nope. There were two of them Sammy. Hard to believe, but I saw it. We finish this up, we'll get in the hunter's book of world records!"
"Dean, wendigos don't pair up!" Sam exclaimed.
"Next time I see them, I'll let them know." Dean's sarcasm was met by Sam's bitch face and he sighed deeply when the bitch face won yet again. "I don't know man, you got one of them with the flare gun, then there was another one that tossed you into the tree. It could have had me, but it went to the wounded one. Strangest damn thing I've ever saw and I spent a week in Tijuana, so that's saying something."
"Why would they take off?" Sam wondered, frowning in confusion.
"Maybe they left the stove on? I don't know, I'm not looking a gift cow in the ass or however it goes. I'm sure they'll be back at some point." Dean had been pondering the same thing. Even injured, that wendigo could have had them and the other one wasn't hurt at all. It almost seemed like it was concerned for the injured one...He shook the thought away. Too weird.
Dean got to his feet, his arm tucked firmly against his stomach to keep it still and headed toward the duffel bag that had been discarded by the fire. Sam got up to follow him, only slightly unsteady on his feet. Spying the flare gun he had dropped, he snatched it up and started to reload.
"Dean, what's going on with your arm?" he asked, not so occupied that he didn't notice his brother favoring the limb.
For once, Dean didn't play it off. "I think it's broken. It's no biggie, just need to get it wrapped up before those bastards come back." He sat down heavily on the log in front of the fire, resting his wrist on his thigh. He hooked the duffel back with his foot and started dragging it toward him.
Sam took a seat beside him, picking up the duffel when it bumped against their feet. He pulled out the first aid kit and turned worried eyes onto his brother. Dean knew he couldn't wrap it by himself, so he didn't argue when Sam took his damaged limb gently into his hands. Dean gritted his teeth together tightly to stop the pain noises from escaping as Sam examined his wrist. Broken bone rubbing against broken bone was pretty high on his list of "worst things ever".
"Well definitely broken," Sam said with a sigh. "I'll set it and get it wrapped up. Here, take a few swigs." He offered Dean the flask. His brother grabbed it gratefully and took a long swallow.
"It's going to be rough hunting two of these things with one arm," Dean grumbled, taking another pull on the flask.
Sam looked up sharply at Dean, lips tight. The bandage he had been unwrapping was clenched between his fists. Dean knew what was next. Sam explosion coming in 3..2..1…
Fire in the hole.
"Dean, it's not going to be rough, it's going to be impossible. Just to get one of these things is practically an act of God, but two? We can't go into this injured, Dean. We need to hike out of here, get some backup. You could seriously screw up your arm if you don't get it taken care of. How much hunting do you think you'll do with one arm?" Sam exclaimed heatedly, his tone uncompromising.
Dean looked over at his brother, meeting those exasperated eyes. He had known this was coming the second he knew the bone snapped. If it were Sammy, he would be dragging them out of there, even if he had to knock Sam out to do it, then would come back and finish up on his own. He was well aware that it was a dangerous hunt to start with, and knowing that they now had double the shit to shovel through to get it done, it was even worse, but they had a small window of opportunity.
"Sam, we can't leave. They've taken enough people now that they might go back underground again. Twenty three years, Sammy, twenty three years until we get another chance at them. I've hunted with way worse than just a broken wrist, this is nothing. Besides, they've got one wounded too, so that evens the odds, right? That makes it more like one and a half wendigos! Easy as a five dollar hooker!" Dean's best high watt smile was only slightly dimmed with pain. Yeah, he knew he was full of crap and so did Sam, but if you could keep it light, that was half the battle.
"If it was my wrist that was broken, would we be heading back right now?" Sam asked tightly, not ready to give it up.
Dean said nothing, just stared his brother down with a small smile. They both knew the answer, no need to voice it.
Sam sat there for a moment, lips pursed, silently seething. He held Dean's eyes and he could see the fight in his little brother as he weighed his options. Dean could almost hear what was going through his head. Sam knew Dean which meant he was well aware that Dean wasn't going anywhere until the hunt was finished one way or another. He knew he wouldn't let Sam go alone. The thought that there may have been options was just an illusion. There was only one way this was going to go.
Sam let out a deep sigh, dropped his eyes, and resumed unwrapping the bandage for Dean's wrist again.
"You really can make a person nuts, you know that?" Sam asked wearily, starting to position his wrist to set the bone, the wrapping resting on his thigh.
"Yeah, I know Sammy. Part of my charm," Dean replied, grimacing in pain at the slight movements of his wrist, letting the emotion flood his features since Sam wasn't looking. He knew he frustrated his brother because he didn't think he took care of himself, but the reality was that he couldn't handle knowing people might get hurt when he can save them. That pain was worse than just about anything. Especially when it was his family; his brother.
"Ready?" Sam asked, glancing up at Dean. Dean drew in a breath and braced himself. Then he nodded. With a small jerk and a slight twist, the bone was set. Dean groaned deep in his throat. For such a small movement, it caused a wave of agony to flood through Dean, the hostess pie he'd had earlier almost making another appearance. Dean squeezed his eyes shut as he rode it out, waiting for the burning bile in his throat to settle back down before he took another swig of the flask. God bless cheap whiskey.
Sam wrapped it quickly and tightly, checking his fingers to make sure the blood flow wasn't cut off. "This will do until we can get you to a hospital. I know it's not even worth my breath to say it, but try not to use it unless you have to, okay?" he asked, all earlier irritation and anger replaced by concern and a touch of fear. The puppy dog eyes were at full force, silently pleading for Dean to take it easy. Dean was far from immune from that gaze and Sam knew it. He would listen to him, but he wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of knowing it.
"You got it, Dr. Winchester. I'm not going to mess with my power hand, the Busty Asian Beauties must be worshipped properly," Dean replied with all seriousness. Sam actually smiled a bit, a definite win.
He flexed his fingers experimentally, glad that he still had some movement. Should be just enough to pull a trigger if necessary. It still hurt like a son of a bitch, but it was manageable. He wouldn't mind a few more swallows of the whiskey, but they still had two wendigos to track down, so he needed to stay sharp.
"You sure your head is good?" Dean asked gruffly. He had been watching Sam closely and didn't see any signs of concussion, but he wanted to be sure.
Sam nodded, grabbing some over the counter painkillers out of the kit. "Yeah, a few of these and I'll be fine."
Grabbing the flashlight out of the bag, Dean started sweeping the area for his lost flare gun. Sam starting repacking the first aid items into the duffel bag, his own flare gun still held ready in his hand. The dull glow of the fire faded as Sam kicked more dirt over it to put it out. Dean kept his wrapped hand against his body, letting it hang down made the throbbing worse. The woods around them were still buzzing with the typical night noise, but he scanned through the darkness every few seconds just to be sure as he pressed further into the trees. Those things had gotten the jump on them last time; he didn't want that to happen again.
The flare gun was found about fifteen yards from where it had been knocked away from Dean's hand, the distance highlighting the reason his wrist was broken. He picked it up, checking it over. It was dented on the side by the trigger, but the barrel looked straight. He counted himself incredibly lucky that he found it at all. Sam was a few feet behind him, his own flashlight highlighting a tree. Dean followed the stream of light to the smear of blood on the trunk. It was fresh.
"Looks like our friends went this way," Sam noted. The blood was high up on the trunk, around Sam's shoulder, so it was clearly from the wendigo they had injured. Sam moved the flashlight up the tree, checking for any movement in the branches, but aside from the glowing eyes of some small mammals, all was still. Dean was checking below, looking for broken branches, disturbed stones, blood on the leaves. He saw further signs that the creatures had come through there, a new fir knocked to the side, a scratch along another tree like it had needed to catch itself from falling quickly. All good news. It was injured enough that it wasn't taking to the trees and wasn't as stealthy as it would normally be.
"Let's keep following along here. Keep your eyes open," Dean shoved the flashlight into his wrapped hand, forcing his fingers to close around the barrel. The dull throb of his wrist spiked back up into sharp jabs of pain at the movement. His jaw clenched to keep the groan that filled his mouth in. He didn't want to worry Sammy any more than he already was. He rested it on top of his left hand that was holding the flare for support and also to highlight his way. It wasn't comfortable, in fact the pressure hurt like hell, but it would have to do.
"Let's get this shit show on the road," he grumbled, moving forward.
He was down to one good hand, Sam was worried for, and possibly pissed at, him, they had two wendigos to deal with, the whiskey was running low, and they were out of hostess pies. Shit show pretty much summed up the situation.