Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The road to Blackwood Pines isn’t a road so much as a dare. A lazy scribble of scarred blacktop worming its way up the mountain, ice crowding at its curves- the kind of road that leads nowhere good. The impala takes it anyways, its engine a warm and steady hum through the growing darkness of dusk.

They’d spoken with the ranger mere hours ago, a tired balding man who either didn’t notice or didn’t care that their ID’s were clearly faked. Dean expected the latter. He’d called them into his cramped office, calloused hand wrapped around a Corona, and stared somberly at them across the desk.

Beth and Hannah Washington. Twins. Kids of some big wig director, who spent most of their time in a cushy mansion in LA. They had a lodge in Blackwood Pines though, a hulking thing perched on the mountain- hardly used aside from teenage parties and Christmas morning. The twins had gone missing exactly a year ago, cloistered up in that lodge with their brother and seven of their friends. Something about a prank gone wrong, a night so snowy the authorities couldn't make it up in time to find them.

The Pines themselves seemed like an amusement park for nightmares. A long abandoned Sanitorium, a mine accident so odd it faded into the landscape of history. People disappeared into those woods every year. Sightings of odd creatures- too long, too lanky, to be fully human. The ranger- Torres- warned them against their ill fated adventure up the road, and Dean was beginning to think he may have been right.

He had one hand on the wheel, the other clutched around a cooling cup of coffee that tasted like burnt pennies. Squinting through the snow fall, he sighed as they passed yet another rusted over warning sign: AVALANCHE AREA.

“Y’know, Sam.” He broke the easy silence, “When you told me Canada, I pictured a nice ski resort. Marshmallows and cocoa. Maybe a hot receptionist named Holly.”

Sam grinned, looking up from the folder he’d compiled on the case, and patted his brother on the flannel clad shoulder.

“Come on, man! Look at the brightside- this roads gotta end eventually.”

“Yeah, at a freaking Wendigo den” Dean shot back, taking another sip of his coffee sludge, “Tell me about that Sanitorium, again.”

“Closed in the fifties.” He flipped through the photos in the folder, a hulking black silhouette of a building against iron clouds. “There were…experiments, Dean. Mining accidents, quarantines, shock therapy. Bad history on top of worse history. Not to mention the fact that this area has been mentioned three separate times for Wendigo activity- all decades apart.”

He tapped the old journal they carried with them then, as if to punctuate the stream of bad news he’d just delivered. Dean exhaled through his nose, long and annoyed.

“I hate those evil sons-of-bitches.” His eyes flicked from the road to Sam, “You think that's what happened to those girls?”

“I mean, it seems like it. Two girls run into the woods in a blizzard, and just vanish? It doesn't necessarily add up, Dean.” He shrugged, leaning back in his seat, “Either way, we’ve got a long night ahead of us.”

“Damn right.” Dean smiled slightly out the windshield, and dropped his coffee cup back in its holder. Tasted like shit, anyways.

It’s dark by the time the Sanatorium looms above them. It looks more carcass than building, and the inside is no better. It's a cathedral of rot, operating chairs coated in rust, floorboards decaying beneath their feet, a light layer of ash coating nearly everything.

“Festive.” Dean muttered, kicking at what appeared to be a pile of dog bones. Or what he hoped were dog bones.

Sam made his way across the entry, to a locked door standing oddly strong against the wilted rest of the building. It needed a key card for entry, but it was already cracked open.

It was relatively clean in this area- almost lived in. Sam had just knelt to open a chest pressed against the wall when they heard it. A scream. It echoed against the steel, hot and human. A woman's voice, high and hoarse, the sound of fear ripping its way through a throat. It punched straight through Dean’s ribs like they were hollow.

Sam was already moving, chest forgotten, boots pounding toward the stairs closest to the sound. “She’s gotta be in the basement,” He said, breath fogging as he ran, “Those stairs lead to maintenance tunnels that go under the ridge- mine access.”

Dean's heart was loud enough to be embarrassing as they ran through the tunnels below the Sanatorium, ears searching for any sound of the girl.

There. Another scream- or more a shout this time. A name, maybe, but the syllables lost themselves in the endless echo. She was closer. They kept running, Dean pulling the shotgun from his waist band, Sam holding the sloshing container of gasoline.

They made it into the mine- all old rusted rails and dirt floors- when Sam abruptly threw out an arm to catch Dean by the shoulder. He nearly tricked over his boots, but as he turned to glare he saw Sam had a finger pressed to his lips.

He stopped, listened, and heard it. The rattled breath of a monster waiting around the next bend, paired with the frantic gasps of a human. He turned back towards his brother, who nodded, his eyes set and determined even hidden in shadow.

They swing around the corner and the world becomes a strobe of light and noise. The beams of their flashlights slice over low rock ceilings, rotting beams above their heads, and there, a figure. A girl, wrapped in nothing but a bathroom towel, pressed against the rock as if she could merge with it. She held a rusted up pipe in both hands, blonde hair stained with blood and mud, staring at them in shock. And there, the Wendigo. It was a living nightmare. No more than ten feet away from her, six and a half feet tall. Human in the way a shark is a guppy- stretched out, rotting, wrong. Teeth like five inch needles, eyes rotting in their cavities. It turned toward the new source of sound and light, its ugly mouth bared in a hiss. For a second, Sam watched it watch them, calculating in an almost intelligent way.

“Down!” Dean barked.

The girl, to her credit, didn't flinch. She dropped to the ground so quick Dean worried she’d lose her towel, and he fired. The shot launches the thing sideways in an explosion of rock dust and an echoing shriek.

The girl was back on her feet before the echo died, swinging her pipe with the desperation of something hunted. It connected wetly with the things knotted kneecap. It quickly went on three limbs and scattered along the wall like some freakish bug, its eyes bright with fury as it considered its prey.

Sam was already moving, unscrewing the canister and dousing the thing before it could crawl away. Dean was there before the thing had a chance to lunge, thumb flicking on the Zippo in a way that could’ve been badass if his hand didn’t tremor at the maw that was open before him. For a second, time stood still. Drool dripped from jagged, blackened teeth. He saw the rotted flesh peeling from its skull, the laughable remains of what once might have been hair matted and merged with grey skin.

He drops the lighter.

It took like paper. They always did. For all that they were fast and mean and smart, Wendigos burned ugly and easy. Its scream started high and long, and in the end it sounded almost human. Dean didn’t blink. You learn not to, in a job like his.

He backed up from the rolling heat emanating from the body, standing shoulder to shoulder with Sam. The old habit of two bodies pressed into one wall.

When the monster was no more than a charred smear and a stink like burned flesh and victory, Dean turned to the girl. She was crouched against the wall behind them- her eyes wide and wild, the rusted pipe still clutched in her dirty hands. She must’ve bit her lip at some point, blood dripped down her chin morbidly.

“Who the hell are you?” Her voice was sharp, young, bruised. She glared at them with ferocity- which seemed rich to Dean considering they'd just saved her ass. He opened his mouth to respond, but of course, Sam beat him to it. Probably for the best.

“We’re here to help,” His voice was soft, eyes wide and earnest in that Sam-way, “Are you here alone?”

There was a sudden sound from a tunnel to the left, footsteps. A furrow formed between her brows.

“Not for long.” She raised her pole, and Dean reloaded his gun warily.

Something scuffed in the entry, and a second figure emerged from the dark- tall, dirty, wincing, a makeshift bandage wrapped around a hand that didn’t look handshaped anymore. His breaths were ragged, and he lost them completely when he saw the girl.

“Sam.” The sound was punched out of his throat, dry and brittle. He was staring at her like a man dying of thirst would a lake. Like he was soaking up the fact that she was live.

“Mike.” Her voice was cracked, close to tears, and reached for him without another thought.

Mike staggered toward her, breath hitching, and clung to each other for a few long moments, a lifeline.

Dean glanced towards Sam, his Sam, and raised his eyebrows. Sam shrugged, and Dean cleared his throat.

“So. Names are Sam and Mike? We’re Dean and Sam- yeah, confusing as hell. Question is: how many of those things are down here and where the hell is the exit?”

Mike laughed, a terrible sound that echoed against the rock.

“Who the hell knows?” He glanced down toward girl Sam, who was beginning to giggle.

Great. Of course they had to work with kids who’d lost their minds.

Sam finally composed herself, and turned back toward Dean.

“We have no idea how many. A lot. And the exit… well, it's complicated.” She turned toward Mike then. “Oh my god Mike, thank god you found me.”

“It’s okay, you're okay.” A whisper.

“I don’t understand- I- How did you get here? How did you find me?”

“There’s some fucking maniac up here on the mountian-”

“Yeah I’ve noticed.” It was quick, almost snarky, “He attacked me. He showed me these videos, too, and one of them showed Josh being killed… just ripped apart by this huge fucking sawblade.” Her voice was shaking, full of emotion.

“Jesus Christ.” Mike's face collapsed, the color drained from it, like his heart had just dropped into his shoes.

Dean glanced at Sam, who shook his head- clearly just as lost as he was. Dean opened his mouth to ask, but Sam was already talking again, her voice hushed and quick.

“And Mike, I think- somehow- Josh is involved in all of this.”

“Wait, what? How?”

“I’m really not sure, but… there was this message from his doctor and, it mentioned a ‘plan’, that was like a ‘bad idea’, and now he’s dead and theres fucking monsters everywhere!” She wrapped her arms around her towel again, frenzied eyes searching for answers somewhere in Mike’s.

“What the fuck is going on around here?” Was his only reply, hands threading through his hair as he paced backwards.

“I second that.” Dean interjected, and they both jumped slightly, “What do you mean, a maniac? There’s more than just Wendigo?”

“Wendigo?” Sam asked, and then shook her head, “Nevermind. Look, all I know is I was taking a bath when some psycho took my clothes and led me down to the basement of the lodge. That's where… where he showed me the videos. And I, I ran. Hit him with a baseball bat. Ended up down here, with that fucking monster- and then you two showed up.”

Mike, who seemed to be recovering from the state of shock he was in, turned to them quickly.

“Wait just a minute. Who the hell are you guys?” He stepped between them and Sam, face pale from what must have been blood loss, and Dean scoffed.

“We’re here to help. I’m Sam Winchester, that's my brother, Dean. Hunting down scary shit- like that Wendigo, is kinda our job.” He was crouched, flipping through the pages of the folder he had somehow stashed in the backpack slinging across his shoulder. He paused at a group picture, a group of kids huddled together to fit in the frame. “I knew it. Mike Munroe, right? And Samantha Giddings?”

“It’s Sam, but yeah. How the hell did you know that?” She didn’t sound accusatory so much as curious.

“Sammy here does his research thoroughly. I’m assuming you’re the asshole friends of the Washington girls?” They both flinched, and Sammy shot him a glare, “I’m kidding, jeez.”

The girl, Sam, narrowed her eyes- he was glad to note there was still a fire burning behind them.. Mike clutched his wrapped hand closer to his chest for a moment, looking almost unsteady on his feet. Dean cocked an eyebrow.

“Hey, hey there tough stuff. You need stitches or something?” Mike's expression faltered, something raw scraping against his mind. He said nothing. Sammy, ever the caretaker, frowned slightly.

“We’ve got some first aid stuff, man, and plenty of experience using it. I’m sure we can patch you up quick.” He was using his kid gloves, his voice gentle and his eyes wide.

Mike scoffed.

“Sure, man. Have at it.” He grit his teeth, and started unwinding the blood soaked fabric wrapped around his hand.

Dean wondered, for just a moment, what kind of hand wound could ever produce that much blood. He didn’t have to wonder for long.

“Oh my god- Mike!” Sam nearly yelled, her hands instantly reaching for him.

“Well, shit.” Dean murmured.

From the looks of it, two of Mike’s fingers had been messily chopped off at the knuckle, where bone shone white through the mess of gore. Dean flinched for the guy, and reached to grab all the gauze they had.

This was going to be a long night.

Chapter Text

Mike wasn’t sure of much- of anything, really. But he was sure of one thing; he was going to get the fuck off this cursed mountian and never set a foot into the Pines again. 

He knew he’d bruised Sam’s hand, clinging to it through the white hot agony that was Dean cleaning and wrapping the mangled stubs where his fingers used to be. He’d grit his teeth to stop from screaming, not even registering Sam’s quiet whispers of reassurance. 

Now they stumbled through the tunnels, a few paces behind the weird-ass monster fighting brothers. Sam had tried to ask about what had happened- eyes wide and worried- but Mike had brushed her off. Some stories could wait till morning. 

The mine breathed around them, damp and heavy. Quiet besides the occasional back and forth between the brothers ahead; a question, a joke, a response. He didn’t pay much attention to it, their voices bleeding into the ringing in his ears. The taller one glanced back every couple minutes, his dark brows furrowed in concern. The two of them moved like soldiers, like this wasn’t the first nightmare they’d walked into and beat. Like they owned the world, owned the damn hallway. Mike hated how safe it made him feel. 

They made their way back through the dark underbelly of the mountain, heading toward the lodge where the shit-show began. His hand pulsed like a second heartbeat, pain emanating through his body from the wound. Every shadow held the promise of a monster, a maniac, a quick and brutal death. He thought of Jess, bloody and afraid, falling to her death down the elevator shaft. Sam reached for his good hand, and he held hers like a lifeline. 

They’d get through this. They had to. It was the only thought left in his tired, blood deprived mind. 

The tunnel finally transitioned, old timbers and dirt floor melding into cement and electrical boxes. The air felt lighter, somehow, like the evil that lived in the mines hadn’t quite infected this place yet. Real lights finally flickered above them, and Mike found himself standing straighter, breathing easier. He glanced at Sam and found her already looking at him, the relief in her green eyes mirroring his own. 

“Feels like we just crawled out of hell's basement.” He muttered, one side of his mouth lifting in a tired grin. Her response was more a violent exhale than a true laugh, but it brightened the hall all the same. 

“I know. Something down there is…” She shook her head, voice tapering out as they continued walking. 

“Wrong.” Dean cut in, glancing over his shoulder, “You got that right.”

He rolled his shoulders, his leather jacket lifting up to his ears for a moment, and looked at his brother. 

“I can tell you’re thinking, Sammy. Care to share with the class?” His brother let out a tired laugh. 

“I don’t know, Dean. I mean- the smell alone down there spells out bad news, and the feeling? It’s like- like the mines are alive .” His head was down, reading the map of the tunnels he’d somehow secured, and his voice was earnest, “There’s no way it’s just Wendigos, it doesn’t make sense.” 

“Woah woah woah, hold up Sam.” Dean stopped, grabbing ahold of him by the shoulder.

Mike and Sam pulled up short behind them. “What are you saying- like there’s some kind of, ‘entity’ or something?” 

His voice was gruff, he sounded almost annoyed. Mike could sense the fear lurking behind it. He recognized it- he’d heard it in his own voice already that night.

“I don’t know! Maybe?” Sam was gesturing as he spoke, appealing to his brother, “I mean, it could explain the maniac. Kids being killed. Last I checked, wedigos don’t set up giant saws to tear their victims apart, Dean.” 

Dean was opening his mouth to reply, frowning, when a gravelly new voice cut in.

“That’s damn right.” 

Dean had his gun out before Mike could blink, both brothers moving as one- pushing in front of him and Sam.  

An old man walked out from an adjoined hall, face covered with a mask that made him look less like a man and more like another ghost crawling up from the deep. His gloved hands were raised in a promise of peace, and stumbling out behind him was- oh god . 

“Em.” He whispered, and pushed through the wall that was the Winchesters. Her brown eyes caught on his and she let out a sob. She seemed thinner, dirty, eyes ringed with black- but she was alive.

“Oh my god- Mike .” He enveloped her in his arms without another word, feeling her shake against him. He breathed in the smell of dirt and mildew and sweat and her. Alive. One less thing to be afraid for. He made eye contact with Sam above her head, and she nodded once, grimly. 

Up until then, Mike and Sam were equals in suffering, in confusion. With Emily, something had shifted. Mike had to get them out of here, and he knew Sam felt the same way. 

The responsibility was just settling around his shoulders when Emily pulled away, glancing between Mike, Sam, and the Winchesters. They were talking in hushed voices with the old guy, faces grim and set. 

“Who the fuck are those guys?” She whispered, her voice reverting almost back to normal- though she wiped her nose with the torn up sleeve of her puffer. 

“Hell if I know.” He sighed, watching Sam pull Emily into a hug, “Monter hunters, supposedly. Whatever that means.”

“Their brothers, Sam and Dean,” Sam pointed at them both in turn, her nails split and bleeding slightly, “They just showed up out of the blue, but they saved my ass.” 

“Well- that freaky old guy saved mine.” She shuddered, flipping her dark hair over her shoulders, “I mean- have you guys seen those monsters? The Wendigos, or whatever?” 

They both nodded grimly, and somehow Emily paled even more. 

“Damn. I was kinda hoping this was some kind of stress induced hallucination or something.” 

“I wish,” Mike said, watching their unlikely saviors as Sam gestured wildly and Dean scowled. “Hey, where’s Matt?” 

The question came out sharper than he intended, almost raw against the roof of his mouth. He turned back in time to see her eyes well up, and his stomach dropped for the thousandth time that night. 

“Hell if I know. We were trying to radio help at the fire tower- because of the fucking psycho that killed Josh- and it, it just fell. Something snapped and we collapsed into the freaking mines. I think I saw him jump- but..” Her voice broke, hushed, “I don’t know if he made it.” 

Damn it. 

“I was just wandering through the mines alone- and guys?” Her voice was frantic now, eyes wide, “I found a bunch of Hannah's stuff, and scratches on the walls, and… and Beth's head. ” 

Her voice was a high pitched whisper, and she brought a dirty, manicured hand to her mouth, like she could swallow the words and make them not true.

“Oh my god.” Sam sounded wrecked, a tear spilling down her dirty cheek. Mike reached for her shoulder, steadying her- or maybe steadying himself. His legs felt weak, his chest hollow. Beth. Hannah. Not monsters, not miners, not “entities”. Their friends. Friends they had a hand in killing. 

They stood, the three of them, their eyes wet with shared grief and guilt. Mike's mind raced. Where were Chris, Ashley, and Matt? Were they wandering through the freakish veins of the mines, hunted by unknowable monsters? Were they already gone- carved out by some murderer or eaten alive by the Wendigo? His mind ran the death toll, loud as church bells. Hannah. Beth. Josh. Jess. Each name was a stab in the chest. 

He didn’t even notice that the hall had gone completely quiet, the Winchesters watching them carefully. 

They exchanged an old look, one familiar to them. 

Oh shit. 

Chapter Text

Sam hadn’t stopped shaking since the mines. She told herself it was the cold- the bone deep chill that permeated through the air into her very bones. Mike had long since shrugged off the jacket he’d gotten from who knows where and wrapped it around her- but the shiver persisted. Maybe it was exhaustion, shock- the aftershocks of adrenaline. But when the old man turned to them, lowering his mask with a calloused hand, her mind found something else. Recognition. Not of his face, but the look in his eyes. She’d seen it once in her Dad’s face, when the divorce was at its worst. The kind of tired that never truly left.

He looked like he’d crawled his way out of a different century, face weathered and papery, hair sticking up in white shocks. His eyes were old in the way the ocean was. Unbreachable, unknowable. The eyes of a hunter- though she didn’t have the word for it yet. 

“Name’s Fiddler.” His eyes stuck on the Dean, who glared back, “Jack Fiddler. And I know what's in these mountains. In those mines. I know what happened to your friends, and what’ll surely happen to you if you ain't careful.” 

His voice was low and rough, like his vocal cords were made of gravel rather than flesh. Dean’s jaw tightened, and his grip on his gun never loosed. Jack's gaze drifted towards the tunnel behind them- the one that led back into the mine.

“Wendigos aint the root. They’re just the symptom. The result of a sickness so deep in this mountain you can’t tell the healthy from the diseased. They dug too deep. Took too much. Woke something older than I’ve ever seen.”

Sam felt her stomach turn. Something about the man, his voice like stone sliding down a mountain, felt inevitable. Beside her, Sam W let out a breath. His muddy green eyes were fixed on Jack, but unlike his brothers they weren't clouded with suspicion. 

“What kind of something?” He frowned slightly, and it was like she could hear his mind whirring. 

Jack's lips pressed into a grim smile. 

“Not the kind you got latin for, boy.” His gloved hand reached out and knocked on the plastered drywall beside him. “Older than scripture. It don’t talk. Don’t bargain. Don’t want nothing. It just seeps. Gets in the veins of a place and rots it from the inside out. The miner thought it was gold driving them mad. It wasn’t. It was this.”

Emily made a soft, strangled sound beside her. Mike cursed under his breath, his voice heavy with burden and fear. 

“Thats one hell of a campfire story, old man.” Dean’s voice was flat, eyes narrowed. The LEDs flickered above them, and Sam thought her heart might've paused to listen. 

“Tell that to the bodies you’ll be carrying outta here. Hell, tell that to the bodies who’ll never leave.” Jack’s voice was iron.

For a moment, it was silent. The two forces of nature were eyeing one another, as the quiet hum of electricity filled the air. Sam looked at Mike, who shrugged silently, eyes wide and tired. It was him who cut through the heavy silence, voice sharp.

“Okay. Great story. Now, what the hell are we supposed to do about it?”

 -----

They moved as a group through the maze-like tunnels back to the lodge. Sam had Emily's hand clutched in hers, the other still struggling to hold the damn towel in place. She felt naked, exposed, unarmored- even with Mike’s jacket pulled tight around her. 

The Winchesters had been talking in low voices with Jack just behind them, things about monsters and demons and somebody named Bobby- but they walked in relative quiet now. Dean and Jack moved to the front of the pack, hands gripped on their weapons as they walked, shoulders set. 

Emily was murmuring something to Mike about Jess, and Sam felt her heart squeeze as his voice faltered and broke. It felt private, painful, and she felt ashamed to admit she couldn't bear to hear it. 

“Em… we don’t need to talk about this right now. You don’t need to hear this.” His voice was quiet, a desperate whisper. His posture was all false security, shoulders straight despite the pain she knew must've been radiating from his hand. 

“ Of course I need to hear this, Mike!” Emily’s voice was cutting, her eyes angry and afraid. “Just because we were fighting doesn't make her any less my friend. I need to know .” 

Her voice broke, and Mike pressed the heel of his good hand into his eye like he could blot the whole conversation- hell, the whole night- out of existence. 

Sam squeezed Emily’s hand once, then let go, falling back. Sam Winchester looked up as she did, and smiled in a gentle way that almost reached his eyes.  

They walked in tandem for a time, listening to the sound of boots on concrete and the quiet murmur of conversation from the rest of the group, before she broke the silence. 

“Is it always like this?” It came out more a whisper than a question, and he turned to look at her, brown hair brushing across his forehead. 

“Yes and no.” His voice was measured, thoughtful, “I mean, normally it's not…this weird I guess. But it’s all pretty bad.” 

“Why do you do it?” The question was out before she’d even thought about it, and he let out a quiet laugh.

“You know, I was always the one who asked that.” His eyes became distant, shadowed, “I tried to leave it, once. But hunting's not an easy career to quit. It tends to come back and bite you in the ass.”

It was odd, the way he talked like he’d lived a thousand lifetimes. He looked no older than most college kids she knew. She thought he might leave it there, but his eyes slid to Dean walking a ways ahead, and something softened. He smiled as if remembering something. “It’s not all bad, though. We get to help people. Save lives. And kill as many evil sons of bitches as we can along the way.”

She thought of Hannah. Beth. Jess- even. The things she couldn't stop, the things she had to carry anyways. Hunting seemed a lot like surviving. 

“Why does he do it?” She asked, nodding towards Dean. Sam’s eyes were so full of annoyance and fondness as he looked at him she felt dizzy- though that could also be due to the cold. His voice lifted from the whisper as he spoke, casual.

“Same reasons, really. Revenge. Helping people. He’s damn good at it too, when he's not being a complete idiot.” 

“Heard that.” Dean grumbled from ahead, and Sam’s returning laugh was so true, so boyish, that she couldn't help but smile. 

“Revenge?” She couldn’t stop herself from asking, but could tell from his face she wouldn't get much out of him. 

He looked at her, and smiled. It was the smile of a wolf- sharp, dangerous. Not a boy's smile, but a hunter's.  It make her stomach clench. For a moment, she wondered which version held the reins- the boy, or the hunter. 

“Hey,” His voice was all grim satisfaction,  “Everybody needs something motivating them.”

Dean barked a laugh ahead of them, and slowed down to look over his shoulder.

“Ah, don't let him fool you, Sam.” His voice was faux mocking, but his eyes were affectionate, “Sammy here is a teddy bear when it comes down to it.” 

Sam stuck out his tongue, and lengthened his stride to catch up. He shoved at Dean’s shoulder, grinning, before falling into easy conversation, their voices low and familiar.

She watched them, falling back into place with Emily, whose eyes were now red-rimmed and silent, and turned it over in her brain. 

The edge of that wolfish smile still burned in her retina, and she thought of the dangerous gleam in Dean’s eye when he’d leveled his gun at Jack. For some reason, she trusted them. They were dangerous- undoubtedly so. But wolves were loyal to the pack. And somewhere, somehow- she’d become a part of it. 

The tunnel groaned. 

At first she thought it was her imagination, but then the pipe directly overhead buckled with a sharp crack, and shit . 

Freezing water poured down on them, soaking through Mike’s jacket and making her towel slip slightly from where it wrapped around her. She gasped, clutching it tighter. It was like jumper cables had been attached to her heart, and she stumbled out of the line of the pipe, pulling a shrieking Emily out behind her.

Her heart was beating so fast she could hear it over the rush of water, slowly trickling to a stop. 

The lights flickered once, twice, then buzzed back to life. For just a moment, it seemed their shadows on the wall grew- twisted, too tall, too thin, fingers extending into claws. 

Scratching. From inside the walls. Like their shadows were beasts ready to claw their way to the smell of fresh meat. 

The Winchester's guns were up in a blink, Jack’s rifle with it.  All of them braced like they'd done this millions of times before, and that was the worst part. Seeing them rattled, ready- the threat became real. 

Sam froze, blood thundering in her ears, breath caught in her chest. She pressed back into Mike without realizing it, fingers digging into his arm as she shook with shivers. 

The scratching stopped.

The silence that followed was almost worse. 

Jack didn’t lower his weapon, eyes locked on the rusted seam between the wall and the floor, calculating. 

“Not yet.” 

They stood, dead silent, for a long moment. Then Dean muttered something under his breath, and lowered his gun, rolling his shoulders uneasily. Jack was slower, the head of his rifle slowly falling as he squinted into the corridor behind them.

“Keep moving.” Any humor was stripped from Dean’s voice. “Whatevers down here, we don’t want to wait and see.”

No one argued. No one spoke. 

They walked fast now, soaked and shivering, huddled closer than before. Mike hadn’t let go of her hand, and she sure as hell wasn't going to let go of his. She pulled the sodden jacket around herself, hair dripping onto the cement in echoing drops. 

The air smelled like wet stone and sulfur, and they climbed up a set of concrete steps, each one slick with moisture. Finally, down a narrow hall lined with wiring and humming with electricity, they reached a pair of strong wooden doors. Doors with a pattern she recognized. 

She heard Emily let out a breath of relief behind her, and Mike grinned grimly. They had their ticket out of the dark. 

Sam’s chest felt tight, her blood still humming with unspent adrenaline. Mike's hand flexed at his side, blood had begun to bleed through the bandaging, and his shoulders set. 

Dean gave the handle a testing push, and it turned. He paused, eyebrows quirking up. He glanced at his brother and Jack, eyes steady. 

“You boys ready?”

Sam Winchester nodded, green eyes gleaming. 

Sam’s mind went back to wolves, like a scab she couldn't help but pick.

Wolves are loyal to the pack, sure.

But even wolves can die in the dark. 

Dean turned the handle, and opened the door.

Chapter Text

The door creaked as Dean pushed it open, and Sam found himself bracing for a blow that didn't arrive. Nothing but a yawning dark mouth awaited them, silhouettes of furniture just a deeper shadow in the black.

The lodge. 

Dean stepped through first, of course. It was always him. Sam watched the steady set of his shoulders as he skimmed a hand across the wall until it found a switch. Light flared, abrupt after the darkness of the tunnels, and he blinked hard to adjust- one hand absently brushing the hair out of his eyes. 

The place looked normal, painfully so. A hallway, a rug- a painting of a lake coated in a layer of dust hanging on one wall. But Sam knew better than to trust in what seemed average. Too often he’d walked into places just like this only to find rot just below the surface. 

“Huh.” It was Mike, stepping in beside him. Sam’s eyes flicked to the bloody bandages around his hand and winced. They’d have to change those soon, if they could scrounge up any more gauze. Infection was bound to set in if they weren't, and Mike already looked pale and worn. He filed it away for later, and glanced at the hall around him again- closer this time. 

There was only one thing off about the place. The silence. There was no hum of electricity, no creaking pipes, no wind pressing against the windows. It felt less like the quiet of an empty house and more like the place itself was holding its breath as they walked in. 

Dean kept walking, boots dull against the carpet, shotgun held in both hands. Jack trailed behind him like a shadow, rifle cocked, mask in place- more monster than man. The kids followed after. Mike with his shoulders set and eyes steely in a way that almost reminded him of Dean, Sam and Emily pressed shoulder to shoulder, wide-eyed and wary in the way of people unused to the monsters that lurked in the dark. 

Sam took a deep breath, readjusting the backpack across his shoulder. The hair lifted on the back of his neck as he stepped to follow. He swallowed, once. 

The lodge wasn't waiting. It was watching.  

--------

The halls seemed more like a maze than a basement- almost as if a second lodge was buried just below the first. Everything was coated in dust. The lights flickered. Emily and Sam G were pressed close behind Mike just ahead, who was talking to them quietly- a half smile on his face. Emily laughed, a timid, brave sound. Sam could only grimace. Something was wrong. 

His head was pulsing like a second heart, every throb beating against his skull. The blood rushing in his ears made everything fuzzy, static, disjointed. Dean felt it too- not the house, but Sam. He kept close, letting Jack take the lead, eyes flicking to Sam every few steps. 

“You good?” It was a gruff whisper, the familiar smell of leather steady and warm.

Sam didn’t have the presence of mind to care, much less to answer. The air felt thick with dust and dread, each breath sinking into his lungs and polluting his veins. 

Like the mountain was trying to work its way into his very being. 

The air stayed heavy as they walked. The halls narrowed, carpet fading into bare wood floors that groaned beneath their boots. 

A sound cut through the stifling air, and they froze. 

It was a voice, rambling, desperate, indecipherable. Rising and falling and breaking like a great wave of emotion. It was human.

“ Chris .” Sam's voice broke around the name, and she lifted a hand to her mouth in fear. 

Mike was already moving, pushing forward into a run, but Dean grabbed him from behind, finger to his lips. 

“That’s our friend , asshole!” Mike's voice was bright with emotion, though hushed, and his eyes were lit with determination and fear in equal measure. 

Dean ignored him, tilting his head toward the sound. The voice trailed off, but a new one picked up. A girl. Her voice high and panicked, broken up by sobs. She was saying one word, over and over. No. The wet sound of a gun being cocked was unmistakable, and Dean glanced at Sam, his eyes so damn tired it made him want to punch something They nodded, once, and broke into a run. 

They passed Jack with ease, their boots banging across the wood carelessly. He felt more than heard Mike just behind them, and he was sure the others were at his heels. His heart was thundering in his ears, his mind broken up into adrenaline and grit and dread. 

They slowed as they came to the end of the hall, to a door. Time was slow, thick, pulsing around them.

Dean shoved it open.

A room. Bigger than the hall suggested, wallpaper peeling at the edges. In the center, two kids were chained on either end of a long table, their faces dirty and tear streaked. A wicked saw gleamed above them- its teeth glinting like a rabid dog with its first taste of blood. The girl was sobbing, even as she stared at them in horror, her shoulders shaking with every breath. One of her eyes was swollen and black. The blonde boy with glasses held a shotgun in his trembling hand, and he trained it on them, pupils blown wide and desperate. 

“Stay back!” His voice was cracked, wild, loud, “Stay the hell back!” 

“Hey.” Sam’s voice was soft, and he raised his hands in surrender, “Hey, it's okay. We’re here to help.” 

Dean nodded beside him, his eyes mapping out every shadow in the room before lowering his gun. 

“Who the fuck are you who-” The boy was shouting, shifting the barrel between the brothers- when the kids finally pushed out from behind them. 

“Chris, Chris, its okay man,” Mike’s voice was scratched and worn, but shining with relief. “It’s just us. It’s just us.” 

Sam was already making her way across the room, trailing water droplets from her bare feet as she ran- Emily close behind. 

Chris’s hands shook, the gun still clutched in his palms- until his frenzied eyes landed on Mike. There, finally, recognition. 

“Holy shit. Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit.” He dropped the gun, burying his head in his hands, and broke into a sob. 

The girl- Ashley, he assumed- was staring, tears still flowing down her face. 

“Em, Sam- Oh my god- Em- ” She thrashed against the rope around her wrists, her eyes wide and bloodshot, her jacket splattered in mud and what looked like entrails.

Sam watched as Mike untied them, a sick feeling growing in his stomach. They may be able to get them out of here, but the fear in those kids faces wasn't the kind you healed from. It was the kind that hollowed you out. 

Ashley collapsed into Sam before she’d even finished cutting through the second rope, a puppet with the strings cut. Chris stood, unsteady, pushing his glasses up on his nose. Whatever had happened to these kids- they were coated in blood. He was murmuring something, but his voice was rising. Mike had a hand on his back, everything about him dripping with concern. 

“Mike, man, Mike.” Chris looked up, and his eyes were haunted. “I killed him, Mike. I killed him.” 

“Chris, you gotta relax.” Mike kept his voice calm but eyes cut to the Winchesters, and it was fear shining beneath the surface. “S’okay now, alright? We’re gonna get the fuck out of here, but you gotta relax, man.”

Chris was nodding rapidly, eyes pressed closed. Sam- Giddings, that is- was beside him now, and pulled him into a hug. 

Sam pulled his gaze away from the kids, surveying the room. The silence, the thickness, the wrongness- it felt tenfold here. Dean’s eyes were on the ceiling, the corners, the shadows as black as tar and bent all wrong. Jack was standing back in the doorway, his rifle ready in his hands. 

Sam knew the unease they felt- he felt it too. There was something very, very wrong about this room. A sharp pain lanced through his head, and he grunted, hands gripping his hair hard enough to hurt. 

Dean was there in a blink, one steady hand on his shoulder. 

“Sam.” His green eyes searched Sam’s, “What is it? A vision?” 

“ No. ” He forced the word out between his teeth, groaning. The pain was sharp then, like someone had flipped a switch in his brain. His breaths came shallow and ragged, the air sour in his lungs like something rotten. He felt Dean tense beside him. Heard the sound of him cocking his shotgun, as familiar as breathing. 

“Miss me?” 

The voice slid out of the shadows before he did, distorted and wrong. It was a face Sam had seen before, in grainy prom pictures and polaroids. 

It was Josh Washington. 

His eyes were wrong, bloodshot and manic. It was a look that never meant anything good. The shadows clung to him like oil, spaying out behind him in a way that wasn’t quite right . As if they had a mind of their own. In his hand he held an odd clown mask, all white and black horror.

Chris was frozen, staring. 

“Josh?” It was Sam, her eyes wide, one hand reaching out as if to grab him.

He started to laugh, his shoulder jerking and mouth curving into some twisted imitation of pleasure. Pain, white hot, shot through Sam’s temples and he stumbled, just slightly. Dean steadied him with one hand, the other aiming the shotgun at Josh.

“Josh.” Mike's voice was harder, more wary. 

“Oh, oh very good!” He was giddy, walking closer as he laughed, “Everyone of you! Got my name! And after all you’ve been through- good, good, good!”

No one spoke. He didn’t seem to mind. 

“I mean how does that feel? Do you enjoy feeling terrorized? Humiliated?” His eyes had a dangerous light in them now, and he stopped, facing his friends. “I mean, panicked? All those emotions that my sisters got to feel once, one year ago?” 

Chris was shaking his head, backing away. He stared down at his hands, splattered with blood. 

“Only guess what? They didn't get to laugh it off- no, no.” He was yelling now, voice still painted with mirth, “Nope! They’re gone!” 

“I don’t know if you noticed this Josh, but none of us are laughing.” Mike's voice was all fire and steel, fury drenching every syllable.

“Oh, come on . Why the long faces?” Josh was gesturing all wrong as he spoke, "It's good to get the heart racing every now and then, right? I mean- it was such a delight, to play the puppet master to- to all your Pavlovian panic! Fake bodies, fake ghosts, fake gore! And you all fell for it- hook line and sinker for every little stinker! ” 

It sounded rehearsed, almost, but he stumbled over it- voicing rising and breaking with every beat. 

“Josh…why are you doing this?” Emily was in front of Ashley, her face pale and confused. 

“Dont even ask this squirelly little runt.” Mike said, eyes like shattered glass, “He’s got no clue. He’s out of his fucking tree.” 

If the situation wasn't so sickening, if his head wasn't throbbing like it was going to explode- Sam might've laughed. 

Chris looked up, somehow composed. His eyes were tired but steely behind his glasses.

“Well, he’s definitely off his meds.” He stared at Josh, head tilted.

“Come on, man! Revenge, is the best medicine!” His voice was stilted, inane. 

“You’re done.” Mike shot back, shaking off Sam when she tried to steady him.

“Mike, he’s sick-” Chris started, but Mike ignored him. 

“ Jessica is fucking dead. ” 

Sam made a sound like her lungs had been punched out, Ashley pressed a bloodstained hand over her mouth in horror. Something was itching at the edge of Sam’s subconscious but he could hardly think through the pain. 

“What?” Josh looked honest to God confused for a moment, his eyes clearing for just a second.

“Did you hear me?” Mike was walking toward Josh now, anger pouring off of him in waves. “Jessica is dead, and you are gonna fucking pay, you dick! ” 

He shouted it, his good hand raising and punching Josh straight across the face. He dropped to the floor in a heap, unconscious. 

No one breathed, for a moment. 

Dean walked over to the body, nudging it with his boot.

“Well, he seems nice.” He said, looking over at Mike, who was standing stock still, staring at Josh. “Hey, man. Chill out, he seemed like he deserved getting a couple teeth knocked out. Acting weird as hell, at least” 

Something clicked into place. He felt like an idiot. 

“Dean.” His voice was strangled, “Dean, it's not just him.” 

`Dean turned, eyes landing on Sam, who was nearly doubled over. 

“What?”

“ Get away from him. ” Sam growled out, and stood, “Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus-” 

Immediately, Josh's eyes snapped open, the white almost completely red. 

“Ah, shit.” Dean grunted, and pushed Mike behind him, leveling his shotgun at the most certainly possessed Josh.  

“No!” Chris’s voice was raw, “Don’t shoot him, the fuck?” 

Sam and Emily pulled him back, Sam meeting his eyes for a moment and nodding. 

She’d keep them out of the way, then. 

The latin kept pouring out of him, thick and foreign in the air. Josh’s body arched, spine bowing sharp enough to snap. He scrambled, nails against wood, his movements grotesque.

The shadows swelled around him. Thickening, lengthening, deep pools and long fingers stretching across the floor and walls. Sam’s head pounded in rhythm with his words, each one ripping fire from his throat. 

Josh was laughing again, loud, jagged, wrong. 

A thousand voices bled through his ears. 

Girls, begging for help. 

Cruel laughter.

A shriek, a long fall.

Hannah, Beth, Jessica. The souls taken by the mountain, their voices echoing alongside Josh’s in a horrifying symphony. 

Chris had dropped to his knees, hands pressed against his ears. Ashley's screams joined the cacophony, as Emily drew her close, her own eyes glazed with fear. 

Dean was suddenly pressed against Sam, one hand steady on his shoulder, the shotgun up with the other. 

“Keep going, Sammy. You got it.” His voice was low, hard, but even in his fevered state Sam heard the fear behind it. 

The shadows reached his feet, and coiled up around his boots. He dropped to his knees, and watched as an invisible force pushed Dean away, against the wall. He kept chanting. 

“ Sam! ” Dean fought, shouting, his voice already distant.

The world narrowed down to him, the shadows, and Josh. He was lurching toward him now, mouth still bared in a horrible laugh, the bloodvessels in his eyes burst and leaking. Sam forced the word out of his jaw, choking on them, spitting them out like an illness that had to be dispelled.

Josh moved unnaturally fast. One moment he was yards away, the next Sam felt the air punch out of his chest as his back slammed against the wall. Plaster cracked around his skull. Josh's hand, unreasonably strong,  wrapped around his throat, cutting the word to tatters in his mouth. 

He thought he could hear screaming, someone shouting his name. 

The latin burned in his lungs, desperately crawling its way out. He forced out the next syllables, strangled, desperate, his vision narrowing to Josh’s glinting eyes. Not black. Worse. Human, but not. Stretched out and mad, natural but vile.

Shadows riled around him, swirling their way up his arms and legs, tightening around his ribs with every ragged word he forced out. His lungs screamed, his head throbbed, but he wouldn't stop. He couldn't stop.  

A voice bent close to his ear, breath hot and sticky. It smelt like old fruit and rot. Not Josh. Not Hannah, or Beth, or Jessica. His fathers.

“ You’ll never be enough, Sammy. You’ll choke on it like you always do .”

The words caught in his throat. His vision blackened. His chest seized, too tight, too empty. 

And then- 

Dean’s roar. A gunshot. Ashley screaming. 

The grip faltered, for just a second- but it was enough. Sam dragged in a ragged breath, and spat out the final words like blood. It was ragged, hardly recognizable, but the shadows screamed, and released him. 

Sam collapsed. Face pressed against the wood, he forced air into his lungs in violent breaths. The air felt like knives, tearing through the flesh of his throat and lungs. He heard nothing but the ringing in his ears, the blood rushing through his head. 

Suddenly, broad hands were pulling him up to lean against the wall, desperately running along his arms and chest, trembling. 

“You're okay, Sammy, you're okay.” Dean’s voice sounded like he was underwater, garbled, quiet, frantic. 

Sam, limbs weighed down and exhausted, leaned into his brother, and felt arms wrap around him, rubbing up and down his back. 

“It's okay, Sammy. You did it, damn it. You did it.” Dean's voice was quiet, shaking slightly, but proud. 

Sam pressed his face into Dean’s shoulder, breath ragged, but his mind whispered the truth he couldn’t say aloud. This wasn’t over. The darkness, buried deep in the mountain, sure as hell wasn’t gone. It was waiting.

And now, it was angry. 

Chapter Text

Dean had never heard his brother breathe like that.

Shallow, ragged. Catching in his chest like an invisible hand was still wrapped around his throat. Like his lungs were tearing themselves apart just for air.

Sammy was slumped against him, eyes closed, and Dean’s hands couldn't stop moving. Frantically mapping his brothers broad shoulders and long arms, searching for wounds that weren't there. For bruises, for blood, for something to punch that was more than just shadows. 

Sammy just leaned into him, heavy, trusting. Too heavy. Too trusting. 

Behind them, the kids were coping. At least trying to. Ashley was sobbing, face pressed into the jacket Sam wore over her towel. Mike was standing, silent, staring at where Chris was hunched beside Josh’s crumpled body. Chris was feeling for his pulse, face white and hands shaking. 

Jack still stood in the doorway, rifle aimed at shadows. 

Dean kept his eye on his brother. Kept his hands moving. Because stopping meant thinking. And thinking, meant panic. 

A noise pulled him back- wet, choked, too close. 

Chris had both hands pressed to Josh’s neck, muttering something over and over. His voice was shaky and wet, clearly overcome with adrenaline and emotion. Mike was hovering beside him, jaw tight in the way that meant he was moments away from losing his cool completely. Ashley couldn't even look, crying into Sam Gidding's shoulder like the world was splitting under her. 

Josh twitched. Then again, harder. His body jerked, like a puppet on strings, and Mike pulled Chris away, stretching an arm in front of his friends as if that could protect them from whatever the hell had Josh. 

Dean had the shotgun trained back on Josh before he could blink, still crouched beside Sammy, barrel locked on the boy's chest. 

“Back up.” His voice was rough, maybe even cruel. He couldn't bother to care. 

Mike had to wrap his arms around Chris to keep him from scrambling in front of Josh, his glasses askew and his blue eyes wide. 

“He’s alive. I swear to god, I felt his pulse-” 

“Alive doesn't mean safe.” Dean watched as Josh’s chest began to rise and fall, evening out. 

Behind him, the sound of boots on gravel. Jack finally stepped into the room, rifle aimed back at Josh. The old man's voice was low and rough as gravel.

“That boy’s not free. The kid might've driven it out, sure. But it's still trying to seep through the cracks. And that boys got more cracks than most.” 

Dean ground his teeth. As if he needed reminding of that. The room was still too dark, the shadows too oily. His mind raced for some kind of plan as he watched Sammy press the heels of his hands to his eyes. 

“Dean?” His voice was completely wrecked, and Dean's heart squeezed uncomfortably in his chest. 

“Right here, Sammy.” He turned his back on the kids, on Josh. Hopefully Jack would keep that rifle where it was. 

His brother merely hummed in response, his eyes red and tired as he surveyed his surroundings. The room was in disarray. Plaster was scattered around their feet, teenagers hunched over and crying in every corner, saws still glinting dangerously above the table. The air itself felt hot, thick with tension and the sickly smell of fear. Dean grimaced. 

Sammy started shaking, running a hand through his hair. For a moment, Dean thought he might be crying, but his broad shoulders shook in silent giggles. 

Great. His brother was insane now, too. Just what he needed.

“What-” Sam’s voice, sandpapery and choked on laughter, “What the hell was that thing? I mean- like- what a freak!” 

Dean, against his better nature, laughed. Because, hell. If Sammy was cracking up, he might as well crack with him. 

—--

It had taken them the better part of half an hour to hammer out a plan- or at least something resembling one. Mostly it was Dean barking at the blonde kid, Chris, while Sammy lolled against the wall like a rag doll. It wasn't his fault the kid was so deadset on not leaving Josh tied up and locked in a closet somewhere. The rest of the kids were quiet, dazed. Crossed legged on the rug like overgrown kindergartners after story time- but this story was all blood and demons and murder. 

In the end, Dean had let it go. Fine. Safe room it was, creepy passed out dude in tow. At least there he could figure out what the hell to do next- with Sammy if the kid could keep his brain from melting out of his ears, and maybe with Fiddler, if the guy could keep from keeling over in the next doorframe. 

Perfect. 

He had one arm around Sam, helping him walk through indecipherable hallways, and the other palming his shotgun. Chris and Mike were just ahead, Josh swinging between them like a dead weight. The halls smelled overwhelmingly of cedar, and the quiet murmurs of the girls blended into white noise behind them.

And of course, and unfortunately, Dean found himself thinking. 

He’d never seen anything like that possession before. The shadows, the lack of black eyes, the voices curling out of Josh like he housed more than one soul. That force, almost like a poltergeist, holding him against the wall as Sam fought the demon head on. There were only a handful of things Dean hated more than being useless. Watching Sam be torn apart was at the top of that list. 

He adjusted his grip on Sam, his hand gripping the soft fabric of the flannel. 

“You good, Sam? Or are you gonna start laughing again like the freaking Joker?”

Sam made a sound part laugh, part groan, leaning his head back against Dean’s arm. 

“Better than crying.” 

“Debatable.” Dean muttered, but the corner of his mouth twitched up. “Creeped the hell outta me, for the record.” 

Sam huffed another laugh, quiet and fond in his puppy dog way. For a stretch, they just walked. Boots heavy through the cedar scented halls, leaning against each other in the old familiar way. Then, softer:  

“It’s weird, Dean.” Sam whispered it, his voice still ripped to shreds from the exorcism. “I mean, what kind of demon was that? I’ve never seen anything like that before.” 

Dean felt a special kind of dread trickle down his spine. You see, fear left unnamed is easier to ignore. Easier to push through. Dean was an old pro at the technique, but Sammy? Sam could never learn to let it rest. 

“I don’t know, Sam.” He readjusted, pulling Sam forward down a step to the safe room, “I don't know.” 

Sam responded only with a tired wheeze, like someone had a hand wrapped around his lungs, and they walked on. 

Mike, it seemed, was trying to talk to Chris- despite Josh’s body still morbidly hanging between them. Mike was all wife beater and dirt, biceps coated in a sheen of sweat, while Chris was parka and blood, his glasses sitting crooked. They made a mismatched pair, and Dean bit back a laugh. It was like some kind of fucked up football huddle. 

Mike, for all his bark and bite, kept glancing sidelong at Chris like he was waiting for him to crack, gauging if he’d be able to pick up the splinters if he did. Chris muttered back sharp little words, ones Dean couldn’t quite make out. He could read the tone well enough, though Sammy might disagree. 

The more he watched, the clearer it got. Chris clung to Josh like the guy was some kind of anchor- even after all the shit he’d pulled. He kept adjusting Josh’s arm slung across his back, careful, serious, as if he owed the kid something. Mike, on the other hand, looked like he’d almost rather drop him and be done with it. Every muscle cording across him was tense, taunt, and Dean could read the word Jessica like it was branded across his back in big black letters. 

Dean’s jaw ticked. Great. One kid drowning in blind loyalty, the other in rage. And in the middle of it all, Josh swinging like a grotesque trophy between the two.

They kept moving, boots dragging across planks that creaked too loud, the girls whispering behind him with every step. Every so often, he’d watch Josh’s head loll, half expecting him to start spewing shadows and deadbeats voices again. He tightened his grip on Sam, steering him towards the heavy oak door at the end of the room. 

Finally, the so-called safe room. Dean pushed the door open with more force than strictly necessary, swinging his shotgun at every corner before walking in, pulling Sam behind him. The kids followed in a stumbling group, and Jack, ever their shadow, creeped in last. 

The air in there smelt stale. Like cedar and mothballs and something older, but hell. It had four walls and a lock. It would have to do. 

“Plant him there, before you drop him on the floor.” Dean barked, gesturing at Josh and a cot shoved against one wall with the shotgun, “And keep your damn eyes on him. If Sleeping Beauty so much as twitches, scream.”

Mike all but dropped Josh, his expression splintered into a million different kinds of grief before settling on anger. Chris caught him, easing him into the cot with care. Too much care.

“Don’t treat him like that.” His voice was quiet, worn. “He’s still Josh, man.” 

Mike laughed, eyes shining. “The hell he's not. He’s dead weight. He got Jess killed, man, and you know it.” 

“Like hell I do! You have no fucking clue what he’s been through, Mike. And there's no way in hell he killed Jess.” Chris faced Mike, arms crossed. “I mean, after whatever the fuck we just saw? That wasn't Josh. And you know that.”

Dean swung the shotgun in their direction, not for aiming but for silence. 

“Enough! I don’t give a damn what either of you think of him, right now. Nobody’s dying in here because you can’t keep your mouths shut!” 

They settled, and Dean turned back to Sam, nudging him toward a dusty old armchair. He pushed him down unto it, hands feeling for the telltale rhythm of his brother's pulse- ignoring the scoff that Sammy gave. He had bigger fish to fry. That was, until Sam opened his mouth. 

His voice, though shredded, was steady and warm. 

“You’re right, Chris. That wasn't Josh. It was a demon.” He coughed into his sleeve before continuing, “But not like any demon I know of. The shadows, the voices. And-” His green eyes flicked to Dean’s, tired and hollow, “Dean, it sounded like Dad. For just a second.”

Dean froze, hand hovering over Sam’s shoulder awkwardly.

“Yeah, well,” He forced the words out, “maybe the sonofabitch finally called home. Long distance plan from Hell.” 

The joke fell flat. Sam rolled his eyes with a frankly impressive amount of energy, and the kids just looked uncomfortable, shifting nervously behind them. 

Dean sighed, and the house settled around him, groaning. One of the girls gasped, hands flying to her chest. Another looked at Dean, eyes resigned. 

“I heard something.” That was Sam, her voice deep, wavering. “Voices, maybe?” 

Dean had his gun aimed at the door already, head spinning with unspent adrenaline. 

A low, gravelly laugh split the air. 

Fiddler.

He leaned against a wall, hands deep in his pockets, mask pulled up above his eyes. 

“Safe rooms only work if the walls want you safe.” His voice was sardonic, dry, “These ones? They’re just waiting to swallow.” 

Mike laughed.

“Is that supposed to be comforting?” He asked, all false bravado. 

Jack shrugged. “It ain't my job to comfort. What you saw back there?” He jutted his chin towards Josh, “it ain’t your garden variety hell-spawn. We can’t kill something like that. Not with all the salt lines and latin in the world. Our only shot in hell is binding it.” 

The kids stiffened. Dean felt his stomach turn. 

Jack’s mouth twisted into something that wasn't quite a smile.

“Course, binding it means someone's gotta hold the chains. And trust me-” His dark eyes slid across the room, passing over Mike and Emily and even Dean, before locking on Sam. He lingered there, heavy as a curse.

 “It already knows who it wants.”

Dean's grip on his shotgun tightened till his knuckles ached.

Chapter Text

Emily was starting to get majorly pissed off. 

Matt had ditched her favorite Chanel bag. She'd taken a swan dive off a fire tower. Josh had gone full exorcist. Not to mention the two plaid-clad randos that showed up acting like they were in charge.

Oh- and her top? Ruined. Obviously. Courtesy of sprinting through the armpit of hell while being chased by honest to god freaking monsters. 

Honestly, she deserved a medal. Or at least a one way ticket off this god forsaken mountain. 

She sat on the rug, knees pulled up to her chest, trying to ignore the grimy wetness of her jeans sticking to her legs. The whole place smelt like cedar and blood, and she staunchly ignored the bandage soaked with it wrapped around Mike’s hand. The hunters- Sam and Dean, apparently, which was confusing as hell because Emily’s Sam was sitting only two feet away- were whispering with Jack. Probably about the many horrible ways they were all going to die tonight. 

Ashley was curled in on herself on the floor, staring at nothing, while Chris was still hovering over Josh like if he could magically make him less of a psycho. Mike wouldn't stop moving, pacing like a tiger in a cage. Sam, though she’d finally found some real clothes, had an all too familiar look on her face, and Emily felt her heart sink. Stubbornness. She doubted either of those two would listen to whatever crack pot plan the three resident weirdos came up with. 

And Emily? Emily was stuck here, jeans soaked, top ruined, watching her friends completely unravel. 

She rubbed her eyes, forcing her brain back into safer territory. 

Like seriously- Chanel didn’t even make that bag anymore. As soon as they got out, she was going back to the city to find a new one. Hell, she’d make Matt pay for it. 

But even that fantasy shattered when she glanced at the door, waiting for his familiar silhouette to slouch through it. As if he hadn't disappeared into those mines the same as she had. 

Bile rose in her throat, and she swallowed it down. There was no way in hell she was crying in front of everyone. She wasn’t about to let them see her mascara run like she was a widow in some B-list Hallmark movie

She glared at the Winchesters instead. 

“So, what? You guys are like, demon Ghost-Busters or some shit? Because, congrats, you’ve just won the award for weirdest fucking hikers in history. And that plaid? Hasn't been in since, like, the Bush administration."

Dean’s eyes jerked up from where he was reloading his shotgun, narrowed. 

“Excuse me? This jacket is vintage.”

“Yeah, vintage and ugly.” Emily rolled her eyes, deadpan.

Sam Winchester sighed, grinning slightly. “Not helping, guys.” 

“Well, neither is the plaid.” Emily muttered.

Dean made a disgruntled sound, but before he could fire back Mike finally stopped pacing. He turned to them, eyes bloodshot, grin sharp and humorless. 

“Are you ladies done? Or should we all start braiding each other's hair and talking about boys as we wait for those freaks to come and rip us apart?”

Emily rolled her eyes, watching Sam as she reached for Mike placatingly. 

“C’mon Mike, let’s be civil-” She started, but Dean interrupted.

“Nah- he’s right.” His tone was all business, and he grasped his hands together in a clap, “Alright, Fiddler. I’m thinking it’s time you wow us with your all star plan.” 

Jack didn't look up from where he sat cleaning his rifle, but laughed. A gruff sound, like rock grating against rock. 

“There’s no all star plan, kid.” He started, and Dean bristled, “If I knew how to kill the thing, it’d already be dead.” 

Emily felt a chill down her spine, and started pulling absently at the polish on her nails. It was all cracked, anyways- and hell, at this point? She might not even make it until dawn. Manicure be damned.  

“The only way I know to stop it would be a binding ritual. A strong one, at that.” He finished, and Sam Winchester was already nodding. 

“You’re right. That exorcism was the strongest one I know, and it hardly touched it.” His voice was softer, though hoarse, and steady. Thoughtful. “But how do we bind something like that? I mean, I’ve read some for your run of the mill demon, but this? I don’t even know how to exorcize something like this”

Emily was struck, for the umpteenth time, by the oddity of these two brothers. On the surface they looked like your typical edgy college students- all leather and height and messy hair- but then they opened their mouths. Like, who the hell talks about “run of the mill demons”, and carries big bins of salt and gasoline everywhere? She half expected them to pull out tin foil hats and start shouting about aliens abducting them from the sky. 

Emily narrowed her eyes at them, picking off another flake of polish from her thumb. 

Dean leaned forward, green eyes sparking with stubbornness- a look she’d seen on him already tonight, god help her. 

“Alright, so we bind it. Lock it down so it can't touch anyone else.” He was nodding to himself, eyebrows furrowed, “Any ideas on how?” 

He looked towards his brother, eyebrows raised. To Emily’s surprise, it wasn't him that answered. 

It was Chris.

“Uh—look, I don’t know much about demons, or rituals, or whatever you guys do,” He started, voice frayed from too many hours of fear, “But Jo- I mean, the Washingtons- they used to talk about the folklore up here. Nothing super specific, but… stories. Old Cree stories. About the mountain. About things older than people.” 

He swallowed hard, eyes flicking toward Josh in the corner. She could read the anger there, though it was drowning in years of friendship. 

“They used to say the totems had power. You know, those carved little things lying all over the trails? Warnings. Protection. If you… I dunno, harness them right, maybe they could do more than just sit there. Like—anchor something. Trap it?”

For a second, nobody said anything. Chris’s words hung in the cedar scented air, heavy as stones. Emily was ready to roll her eyes when Sam leaned forward, his whole face shifting like someone had given him a puzzle piece. 

“No, you could be right.” Sam said, low and thoughtful, “Totems were carved as protection. Prayers, really. Connected to old gods, and spirits. If this thing is tied to the mountain, there’s a chance these totems could have some power over it. If we gather them, maybe place them in the right pattern…” He glanced at Dean, eyes sparking, “They could work as anchor points.”

Dean groaned, running a hand over his face. “So, what? We’re playing scavenger hunt for creepy ass wooden knick knacks in the middle of the Wendigo playground? Sounds like a blast, Sam. A perfect Blair Witch starter project.”

“We know where most of them are.” It was her Sam, voice as even as ever, eyes pensive, “We used to come up here every year, we’ve been through most of these woods. We could split up, find them.” 

Sam Winchester pressed on, hands tapping against his legs.

“Look, we know it won’t destroy it. Nothing will. But, if we’re lucky, we might be able to cage it. Keep it from killing anyone else.” 

Jack grunted from his place near the door, still wiping down the long barrel of his rifle. 

“Binding’s risky. If you screw your circle, it’ll just make the damn thing angrier.” His eyes flicked up, finally, dark and grim. “And I think we all know we don’t want that.” 

His words landed heavy. Sam ran a hand through his hair, the skin under his eyes so dark Emily was tempted to offer him a swipe of concealer. She sighed, staring down at her hands, and spoke.

“Okay, cool. Plan A is arts and crafts with ancient artifacts. Anyone got a plan B?” 

--------

As it turned out, nobody did. After a painfully uncomfortable conversation, they’d split into pairs. Chris stayed behind with Josh and Ashley-who hadn’t said a word since they found her- glaring at the gun Fiddler had handed him like it was some kind of snake, while the rest went in groups to track down the totems. Sam Winchester with Mike, Jack with Sam, and Emily stuck with Mr. Leather himself. 

Honestly? Could’ve been worse. Sure, he was bossy as hell, but he held his shotgun with the ease of someone dearly familiar- which was fine by her. If something came crawling up out of the dark, she’d rather have him there than nobody. 

She watched the others file out the door, splitting up. The other two pairs would be going outside, where most of the totems lay. Emily wasn’t as familiar with the place as Mike and Sam, and thus had the fantastic luck to be stuck heading back through tunnels and mines, searching for any that lay down there. At least she wouldn't be snowed on anymore, though if she had to pick between a rabid flesh eating monster and a couple snowflakes she’d probably lean towards the snow. You know, survival instincts. 

Dean sighed, checking his ammunition again before swivelling his head toward where she still sat on the floor. 

“Well, princess?” She stuck her tongue out, and he continued, “Come one, we gotta go.” 

He stalked out the door, and Emily sighed, and stood. Her jeans peeled from the back of her legs with a wet squelch, and Emily grimaced. Fabulous. Nothing better than fighting evil demonic monsters in wet skinny jeans. 

“Was that supposed to be an insult?” She asked as they walked back down the halls, “At least princesses don't crawl around other people's basements waving salt shakers around.” 

He snorted, dismissive, but Emily didn’t miss the way one corner of his mouth lifted. 

They walked in silence for a while down the old warped halls, Dean waving his flashlight around corners with the casual air of someone looking for tomatoes at the super market. Emily stayed close, though she’d never admit it, absently pulling at her jacket. 

The halls of this place were weird. Got weirder the deeper you went, really. You could almost taste the wrongness, the atmosphere heavy with the promise of danger. She nearly laughed when she realized Dean was humming something (Metallica, maybe?) under his breath, but found something about it oddly comforting. It was better than the empty silence, at least. Better than just sitting with the feeling of something hiding just out of sight.

“So.” She started, eyes still mapping across the floorboards for any sign of a totem, “What’s the story with this whole ‘binding ritual’ thing. Like, on a scale of one to ‘we’re doomed’, how screwed are we?”

Dean glanced over and smiled, shotgun resting easily in his hands. His grin was sharp, wolfish. 

“Depends. Sammy knows more than he lets on, but hell if I’ve got a clue.” 

“Oh, I see. He’s the brain, you're the mindless brawn in a leather jacket” She smiled back, snarky. “Which, by the way, should not have the popped collar. You look like you're trying to be a vampire or something.”

“Hey. It’s vintage.” He glared, crouching to look under a countertop. 

` “Oh my god, how many times do I have to say vintage doesn’t always mean good?” She rolled her eyes, shining her own flashlight across what looked like an old sitting area. Dust clung to ratty old couches, cobwebs clung to lamps sitting unused. 

Her beam swept lazily across the wall-

And froze. 

For a moment she thought- hoped, rather- that she’d imagined it. That her eyes had played tricks on her.

But no. A shadow moved in front of her. 

A body too twisted, too long. Distorted. 

Crawling up the wall, and out of sight. 

Emily’s breath hitched in a gasp, and she was pressed back towards where Dean was crouched over in a blink. 

“Did you-”

She was interrupted by a noise. Nails on wood, dragging. Scraping. Slow. 

Dean was up in an instant, humming gone, and pressed her behind him, gun raised. 

For just a second, there was silence. Her breath filled the room, her heart thudded in her ears. 

“Come on, you ugly bastard.” Dean muttered, his body tense and ready- and all hell broke loose. 

The- Thing- dropped out of the shadows above them. It was just as disgusting as its counterparts, all gaping maw and stringy teeth. Its eye sockets were gouged into pits, beady eyes shining with bloodlust in their depths. Everything about it was wrong. Foul.

Dean cursed under his breath. 

“Back up. Now.” His voice was flat, controlled. 

The thing let out a screech, half-human half-monster, and charged. 

Dean fired. A sharp, ear shattering shot. The creature staggered, but didn't fall, its claws leaving gouges in the wallpaper as it leapt towards them again. Its mouth unhinged, drops of drool dripping from its three inch teeth. 

Emily screamed, staggering back. 

Dean reloaded smooth as breathing, jaw tight, and shot again. This time, the wendigo fell to the ground- but it only roared in fury before clawing its way up again. 

The third shot left ringing through Emily’s ears, and the thing slammed against the wall, plaster exploding into dust. Dean was already reloading, turning his body to shout while keeping his eyes on the wendigo.

“Find another way out. Move!” 

Everything in her wanted to bolt, but her eyes caught on a splintered side table the thing had ruined after the first shot, slammed against the wall. She was moving before her mind had time to catch up, ripping one of its legs off and spinning back to where Dean faced the monster.

It lunged again, despite the shots continuing to ring off, its claws reaching for Dean with intent to kill. Emily's heart stopped, but instinct took the reins. 

She hurled the broken table leg with every bit of strength she could muster. It flew end over end, colliding with the things head with a sickening crunch. The creature staggered, just for a moment- but it was all the time Dean needed. 

The shotgun roared again, buckshot shredding the thing’s chest. It screamed, flailing its inhuman arms in the air, retreating back into the shadowed hall it came from. 

Emily’s arms dropped to her sides, her heartbeat still thundering in her ears. Her throat felt like she’d swallowed a bucket of acid and pure terror. Dean looked at her, shotgun still up, chest heaving in deep breaths. His eyes were wide, green, and surprised as hell. She licked her lips, mouth dry, and spoke. 

“You’re welcome, asshole.” 

Dean huffed out a laugh, smoke still curling from his shotgun, eyes back on the shadows the demon came from. 

“Nice throw, priss.”

For a second, she could almost hear Matt’s voice—smug, stupid, proud—‘that’s my girl.’ Then she shoved the thought down, hard. There’d be time for that later. If they made it out alive. She let out a breath, wiping the plaster dust from her top (not that it mattered- it was ruined anyways). 

“I told you, plaid boy. I don't miss.”