Supernatural Fresh Meat (8 page)

“There ain’t nothin’ there but a tree, Sam.”

Sam laughed, a sad, forced laugh. “I know.”

This wasn’t good. He was probably seeing Lucifer again. Bobby worried about the kid. He hated that Sam was suffering those visions of Hell. And it was dangerous going on a hunt when Sam wasn’t all there. Now that they’d stolen the wendigo’s food, tonight’s battle was going to be worse than fighting an enraged grizzly bear while wearing a jacket made of prime rib and bacon.

In the distance, a scream suddenly tore through the quiet. Sam jumped, and Dean spun in that direction.

“Here we go,” Bobby said, standing up.

Jason stood up too, with some difficulty, leaning against the tree.

Sam and Dean slung on their flamethrowers and stood back-to-back with Bobby. Jason pulled out a Molotov.

“Help me!” a woman’s voice pleaded. Then she screamed again.

“Are you sure?…” Jason started.

“Yes. It’s the wendigo.”

“Oh god!” she cried.

“But what if?…”

“It’s not human,” Bobby told Jason firmly. “Don’t leave the fire.”

“Stephen?” she called. “Are you out there? Help me!”

Jason stared in the direction of the voice. “Stephen? That’s pretty specific.”

“It’s just trying to fool us.”

Dean turned to Jason. “Bobby’s right. The one we fought in Colorado did the same thing. Just hold your ground.”

Jason hobbled over to them, gripping his Molotov. Together they formed a ring, each man facing outward.

The woman’s voice cried out again, trailing off into an agonized scream.

“It’s taking everything in me not to go after her,” Jason said through gritted teeth.

“It’s not a her. It’s the damn wendigo,” Bobby told him.

“You can’t be sure of that.”

“No, but one thing we can be sure of—you go out there now, that thing’s going to rip you to shreds.”

They stood in tense silence. Bobby hoped to god he was right, that some woman wasn’t out there, dying an agonizing death while they stood by.

“Carol?” a man’s voice called. “Carol? Jesus, where are you?”

“Oh, god,” Jason said. “It
is
a couple.”

He started to move away and Bobby grabbed his shoulder. “No, it’s not. It wants you to think that, and it’s working.”

The man cried out in surprise, then screamed.

“Don’t buy into it,” Dean warned.

Jason almost broke away from them, but faltered, staying in place.

The man’s scream became a strangled cry, fading off into the forest as if he were being dragged away at tremendous speed.

Then they heard the woman begging for help, this time closer, her voice reduced to a whisper, but growing nearer. “Is someone out there?”

Bobby saw a shadow under the trees, a figure moving falteringly toward them.

“Hello? There’s something out here! It got my husband!”

The dark shape staggered forward, thin arms grabbing trees for support.

“Incoming,” Bobby whispered.

With Jason staying at Bobby’s back, Dean and Sam pivoted outward, staring into the dark.

“Please help me,” whispered the figure. Bobby held his ground, despite the urge to rush over and offer aid.

It crept toward them, glancing behind in fear.

Bobby took a step forward.

The wendigo rushed him, its open mouth full of needle teeth. He dodged to one side, lighting his Molotov, then flung it at the wendigo. The missile crashed over the thing’s spindly shoulders, fire raining over its torso. It howled in agony, darting away into the dark. They saw it fall to the ground and roll, the flames darkening until they were extinguished.

“Damn it!” Bobby cursed.

They watched that part of the dark forest. No one moved.

Then it dropped down on Sam from above. Sam jerked his shoulders violently, throwing it off. It fell in the dirt and Sam fired off the flamethrower, a tongue of flame billowing out just as the wendigo leapt up to avoid the blast.

It grabbed a tree branch and swung itself deftly upward, landing feet first on the limb. Its eyes narrowed and it glared down at them.

Dean blasted his flamethrower, but the wendigo leapt clear.

“Thing’s slipperier than a conger eel,” Bobby cursed. He lit another Molotov and launched it at the wendigo as it landed near the camp fire.

It roared with rage as its arm ignited. Slapping desperately, it smothered the flames and snarled. Dean crept toward it, ready to fire again.

Suddenly it sprang forward, growling, jaws open and ready to bite. It shot through the air toward Dean, but instead of backing away, Dean ran to meet it. It slashed an arm at him. Pulling out his Bowie knife, he thrust it upward, into the creature’s chest. Roaring, it landed in front of him. Dean shoved the flamethrower inside the gaping knife wound and pressed the trigger.

Fire lit up the wendigo’s insides. It howled in agony, spinning away from Dean and tripping into the camp fire. Seams of fire erupted inside its torso. Flames caught its legs. Brilliant white and gold filled the creature. It turned its head up, arms thrown out, flailing, giving out a deafening, shrill shriek of anguish. Ash began at its feet and billowed upward. Then suddenly the wendigo was made of dust, a grey whispering column in a skinny humanoid shape. A gust of mountain wind swept through the trees and hit it, scattering the ash in a hundred directions.

They’d got it.

The wendigo was toast.

Bobby let out a celebratory whoop and turned to the others.

He saw Dean falter, gripping his arm. Blood sprayed outward between his fingers as Dean tried to clamp down on the flow. Gritting his teeth, Dean toppled over into the dirt.

TEN

Sam gripped his brother’s shoulders, practically dragging him. “C’mon, Dean, just a little farther.”

The wendigo’s claws had ripped through Dean’s brachial artery, and he’d already lost too much blood.

“You said that half an hour ago, Sammy. I’m starting to not believe you.” Dean flashed his brother a half-hearted smile, then winced with pain.

They’d made a tourniquet out of Sam’s belt, but Dean had already lost a lot of blood. Despite the cold, his skin was slick with sweat. He was breathing way too fast, staggering forward in a confused state.

“Well, then we’re a half hour closer,” Sam told him.

Dean’s face was completely drained of color. Even his lips had gone white.

“Pick up the pace, Dean,” Sam urged.

His brother stared up at him. “Maybe if you weren’t such a friggin’ giant, it’d be easier to lean on you.”

They hurried as fast as they could, with Dean’s hand on Sam’s shoulder for support. Bobby walked on his other side, making sure periodically that the tourniquet held. Jason took up the rear, limping and sucking in air between clenched teeth. Sam didn’t think this ordeal had done Jason any favors. Poor dude should spend the next few weeks sitting in a bed reading a stack of good books.

The hike through the night seemed to last forever. Each time they went over a rise, Sam was sure it would be the last one, that they’d see city lights below, and each time only the dark forest greeted them.

Dean got worse, leaning more heavily on Sam, who kept his brother upright. Sam pushed down the fear that kept rising up inside him. They were going to make it. Dean would get fixed up.

Bobby met Sam’s eyes. “I don’t like the looks of this.”

Dean glanced blearily at him. “You don’t like the looks of what? I look like a friggin’ world champion cage fighter right now.”

“Well, he’s still ornery as hell,” Bobby said.

“Yep,” Sam answered.

“You do know I’m standing right here, right?” Dean asked. “You don’t have to cluck over me like a couple of mother hens.”

“Too bad,” Bobby said. “You got to pick up the pace, son.”

“Fine,” Dean said angrily, and did.

Sam thought they should probably fashion a stretcher, but he didn’t like the idea of pausing to scrounge up materials.

They struggled over another incline, and to Sam’s huge relief, lights twinkled in the distance. “We’re out!”

“Thank god,” Dean murmured.

Another half-mile and they reached the trailhead and their cars. Sam drove Dean straight to the emergency room in Truckee.

While the doctor stitched Dean up and gave him a transfusion, Bobby and Sam took turns sitting nervously or pacing. They both suggested a doctor have another look at Jason, but the hunter stubbornly refused. “They’ve already seen me once,” he reasoned. “Bones just have to finish healing.”

Moments later the doctor appeared. She was a short Chinese-American woman, and spoke to them compassionately. “Mr. Blackwood will be fine. But I want him to spend the night.” Sam knew there was about as much chance of that as Dean attending a Backstreet Boys concert and buying the T-shirt. “But he doesn’t seem to be very agreeable to that.”

“Yeah, he wouldn’t be,” Sam said apologetically.

Bobby stepped forward. “I’ll talk to him.”

She nodded. “Great. He’s in room 102.”

While Bobby disappeared down the corridor, the doctor narrowed her eyes at Sam. “You should really talk to him about his hobby. Filming himself doing crazy feats in the hopes of breaking in as a stuntman could prove extremely dangerous. I think he’s kind of proud of his wounds.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

She shook Sam’s hand, then turned, heading back through a set of swinging double doors.

Jason stood up. “That’s a relief.”

Sam finally allowed himself to breathe. “I’ll say.”

“Hard thing about this business,” Jason said. “I’ll bet that’s not the first close call you two have had.”

Sam heard Bobby’s raised voice on the other side of the swinging doors. “Dean, get back here.”

“I don’t need rest and hospital food,” he heard Dean bellow. “I need a hamburger—no, a
great
hamburger and a cold beer.”

“Why do you have to be so goddamn stubborn?”

The swinging doors burst open and Dean appeared, his face much more full of color than when Sam had last seen him. His cheeks were almost rosy. “Let’s roll,” he rumbled.

Reluctantly, Sam left the hospital with him. In Truckee they celebrated at the Liberty Bar. Bobby and Dean knocked back a few shots of whisky, and Sam drank beer with Jason.

“That was one tough mother,” Jason said. “Glad you all were there.”

They clinked glasses. It was the end of another hunt, and Sam knew soon he’d have to say goodbye to Bobby. Every time they wrapped up a case, Sam was filled with a mix of pride, elation, relief, and worry about what waited for them next.

Dean still looked a little peaked, and Sam knew he should have spent the night at the hospital.

Finally Bobby stood up. The moment had arrived. “Best be going. Got to pack up my things and head north. Want to be over the Oregon border by tomorrow morning.”

Bobby shook hands with Sam and Dean, then with Jason. It was always hard to say goodbye. For as long as Sam could remember, Bobby had pretty much been their second father, and in some ways a more attendant father than John had been. They all said goodbye to Jason, who waved at the door of the bar and went out to his truck.

Before he left, Bobby told them about a possible rakshasa in Utah that warranted checking out.

After they finished their drinks and ate, Sam and Dean headed out, too. While Dean slept in the passenger seat, Sam drove eastward across Nevada. The sun rose ahead of him, bathing the green and brown landscape in gold. Sharp mountain ridges rose in the distance. On all sides of him, there were no signs of civilization except the road. He passed another car only occasionally.

They slept over on the Utah/Nevada border in a classy little joint decorated with fishing regalia. Where the heck people fished in this thirsty country, Sam had no idea.

The next day they continued into Utah, Dean still sleeping most of the time in the passenger seat after his brush with blood loss.

Sam’s cell phone jangled in his jacket pocket. He fished it out. “Yes?”

“It’s Bobby.”

“What’s up?”

“You boys see the morning news?”

“No, we pretty much just left our motel.”

“There’s been another disappearance in the Tahoe National Forest.”

“What?”

“Deer hunter kissed his wife goodbye at five a.m. yesterday to meet his friends at a hunting camp in the forest. He never arrived. His buddies found a pool of blood and their friend’s rifle. Said they heard something fast, up in the trees.”

“You’re kidding me!”

“Nope.”

“That’s after we wasted the wendigo. Think there’s a second one?”

“Must be,” Bobby said. “Maybe another Donner Party survivor.”

“How could we have missed that?”

“I don’t know. We were a little distracted, what with Dean on the edge of passing into oblivion.”

“Good point.”

Dean stirred, yawned, and straightened up. “What’s up?”

“There was another killing in the Tahoe National Forest this morning.”

“You’re kidding me.”

“Nope.”

To Bobby Sam said, “We’ve got to get back there.”

“Already on my way.”

“We’re turning around now.”

Sam slowed and pulled a U-turn on the highway.