Ghosts, Wendigos, and Winchesters
"'ean, son. Wake up."
The world was sloshing side to side, a raft in turbulent waters. Cold freezing water, slapping his face.
"Dean." A rough garbled voice urged beneath the swells. "Open your eyes."
His eyes were closed? "Now son." Dad. It was important to do what Dad said. Not doing so could get you killed.
He struggled to obey, moaning, and the water receded, the side-by-side sloshing stopped. What replaced it was the headache from hell, tight plunging pain at the back of his head that was so much worse.
A heavy paw jostled his shoulder and the world sloshed back and forth again, eliciting another moan, this one with bile curling up from his gut. Not on the water then, but being bodily shaken. The cold slapping hand moved back to his cheek. "Dean, I need you." Whispers, only whispers, that struck like sledgehammers inside his wounded skull.
But his dad needed him so he bore down against the raging sumo wrestler slamming inside his head and lifted his five thousand pound eyelids.
His dad's face swam into view, literally swam, watery and indistinct, a reflection in a pond, the dark eyes larger than normal but the worry radiating off the man was sharply in focus, breaking past the edge of haziness.
"You with me, boy?" John's voice echoed.
"Yeah." Dean pinched his brows together. Even that hurt. "Yeah, I'm with."
But where he was with, was an altogether question. Some place freaking cold. And windy. Inside barely. If you could call the half-standing shack inside. A biting wind howled through the missing boards in the walls, whipping dark limbs of shadowed pine trees in the forest right up to the walls, reclaiming the ancient forgotten structure. What was left of the ceiling was already more forest canopy than wood and thatch. They lay on a hard-packed dirt floor, cold seeping into them from the ground, Dean's head resting on John's thigh.
"Some old blacksmith's forge far as I can tell. What do you remember?"
Not a blacksmith's place, that's for sure. He saw it now, his unfocused gaze tracked over an old rock forge and the torn remains of a billows, nearly buried by dry fallen pine branches and caved in ceiling. It looked like something right out of the eighteen hundreds, abandoned and forgotten, even the tools of the trade remained scattered across the dirt floor—long-handled tongs and flat ended hammers used to flatten and shape hot metal. He didn't remember any of this at all.
Last he remembered…"Wendigo," he slurred. They were in the pine forest on the trail of a miner turned cannibal, he'd thought. It was raining. That's what came to mind. He frowned up at his dad, waiting to be supplied with the answers of what was up with the shack.
But John needed answers from him. "I know you're hurting, concussed, but I need you to think hard. I need you to remember. Sam. What happened to Sam?"
Dean's world plunged under water again, echoy and . Sam? Something happened to Sam?
Alarmed, he tried to push himself up and an ice pick stabbed inside the back of his head, bringing him back to the surface. Curling over, Dean pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, dragged heavy clinking metal across his chest. What the…?
A manacle circled his wrist, no joints or screws in the warped metal. It looked like it had been forged on, same as the heavy thick links that, angling his throbbing head, he followed across the floor and up, up, where the other end, a larger metal cuff was attached to one of the thickest ceiling beams he'd ever seen. Dilapidated shack or not, that beam wasn't budging or breaking. Another wide cuff circled the beam attached to chain links that fell down and encircled his father's wrist.
He could see that the links were solid, yet he pulled on it just the same. "The wendigo did this?"
"No." John shook his head. "There's something else here. A spirit."
"Vengeful enough to knock us both out and bring us here."
Fear slithered through his gut like a snake. "It bring Sam too?"
John's lips thinned and he shook his head. "I need you to remember. You need to concentrate. We had the wendigo cornered. It got the jump on me…" He tried to prod Dean's memory, worry lines digging deep into the corners of his eyes and bracketing his mouth and Dean's heart stuttered, realizing what was goading their dad's fear. If Sam wasn't here, it was likely the wendigo got him. Oh God. They had to get out of here, had to go…
He was already pulling to his feet, pain flaring red hot in his head, stabbing behind his eyes. And fell right back down again into his dad's waiting arms.
"Think, Dean. What happened to Sam?" His dad was desperate. Afraid.
Dean tried, he really tried, forcing the memory. It got the jump on Dad. His head pounded, brain sloshing like water. Like water. They were by the churning rain swollen river. The wendigo came out of nowhere. It was fast, tossing Dad into the trees and brush. He didn't get up. Dean fired his rifle, heard Sam shout near his right by the river and the whoosh of fire erupting as the kid fired his flare gun. But the wendigo was too fast. Dean turned, shouting for Sam to watch out and a giant of a man appeared between them out of the air, head lowered and racing for Dean. Sam cried for him to watch out, taking his attention away and the wendigo, lighting quick surged into Sam—
Dean gasped, clammy sweat coating his skin. "The river. The wendigo, it went after Sam, it tried…"
"Tried…?" John's Adam's apple bounced hard, his brows knit together.
Dean shook his head. "It, the wendigo and Sam, they went into the river."
John leaned back, his features stunned.
Worse case, the wendigo had Sam tied up somewhere, hopefully in a cave or something out of the weather. How bad did life suck when you hoped your younger brother was hanging in a cave? Pretty sucky. Worser case, he'd made it out of the river, but was now in the forest alone, wet and exposed to the plummeting elements. Unthinkable scenario, Sam didn't make it out of the river.
"Sam's a strong swimmer," Dad echoed his fears, his tone shaken. Yeah, good idea. Don't even look sideways at Door Number Three.
Dean yanked on his chain again, while scanning the room for anything they could use to free themselves. Lock picks were useless against something that had no locks. Gun? He'd dropped his rifle and the Glock wasn't digging into the back of his jeans. He felt around his waist and boots for his hidden blades, and came up empty. What the hell was going on? How did they get in here and in chains?
Dammit, anything they could use—anvil, tongs, hammer, give him a gaddamn rock, was far out of reach.
"Dad," he pleaded as though the mighty John Winchester could get them out of this. Maybe he could. He was up to something. He had his boots off and was unlacing them. Slowly though, as if taking the laces out was a job needing infinite care. No, not careful. His fingers kept missing the laces.
Dean looked closer at his father, really looked at him like he should have before now. Wet blood made a slow crawl down the side of his face, skin gray, eyes glassy, mouth set in hard lines against pain.
If he was anywhere as disoriented as Dean. Shitshit. This was bad.
"Give me your laces."
Of course. They could lasso something and pull it over to them. Dean reached to take off his boot when John grabbed his arm. "Possum."
It only took one hissed warning for him to obey and Dean lay his head back on his dad's thigh—he'd never gotten up too far to begin with—and closed his eyes.
The door slammed open. Heavy footfalls trudged across the dirt floor. Dean slipped his eyes open into slits to see what kind of ghost they were dealing with. Dude was huge, the guy from the river, legs like tree stumps, soiled leather blacksmith apron over buckskin, bearded. All he needed was Babe the blue ox.
The ghost shuffled over to them, lifted and checked the chains, grunted, nudged Dean's leg, and then left, back out the way he had come. What was that?
"He's done that a few times," Dad rasped. "As long as we don't move, I think he'll leave us alone til we can get out of here."
"Great for us, but how we going to help Sam if we're stuck in here?"
"Dean, calm down." John's cold fingers pressed into his wrist. "We're going to get him. Sam's going to be okay." His eyes, glassy moments earlier, were fierce with determination. "Laces."
They both went back to working the laces out of their boots and then tied them together so they had a good length with a small noose at one end. That John handed the laces over to Dean to try to lasso something proved just how bad John's head and vision were, not that Dean's own headache wasn't screwing into his left cornea like an iced over drill bit. He decided to try for the end of the long blacksmith tongs, closer than any other tool scattered on the floor. They might be able to wedge it between one of the chain links and break it open. He wished he still had his rifle.
He'd just gotten the loop over the end and was about to pull the noose tight when the door creaked. He and John instantly lay back down and the door slammed open, bringing swirling wind and leaves inside.
Eyes closed, Dean listened to the blacksmith lumber across the dirt-packed floor, stop near them, but instead of checking the chains again, something heavy thudded to the ground, nearly making Dean flinch, and then the steps shuffled away, and the door banged closed.
Beside him, John made a strangled noise and Dean's eyes flew open. About a yard beyond their feet, Paul Bunyan had dropped a muddy, wet, bedraggled floppy haired kid.
"Sam!" Scrambling to his knees, Dean rushed to get to him, but was stopped short by the manacle on his wrist. Dean stretched both arms to their limits, but Sam was still a few feet out of reach. "Sam!"
Lying on his side, facing away from them, one arm bent behind, Dean couldn't even see his face. He was covered in mud from head to toe, plastering his wet hair to his head and neck. His clothes were sopping, leaking brown water into the hard ground, and he was missing one shoe and sock, probably dragged off in the river.
"Is he breathing?" John had crawled up beside him.
Dean's head snapped up so fast it sent another spike of pain digging into his skull. Of course Sam was breathing! Dean wouldn't allow anything less. Although…he couldn't be sure. Sam was so still and with the way his jacket was bunched up and how he was on his side…he couldn't tell. Come on, Sam, just one sure inhalation, come on, kid.
Dean reached back for the boot he'd taken off and threw it at Sam's back. No response. Not a twitch, amping up his anxiety. He and John shared a terrified glance and then Dean was stretching out on the floor, desperately hoping he could reach him with his legs. His wrist pulled roughly against the metal of the cuff, cutting into his skin.
His socked toe touched Sam's shoulder.
"That's it, son," John encouraged. "Just a little more."
Teeth clenched, wrist now trickling blood, the jagged edge of the manacle hadn't done him any favors, Dean stretched his leg for all he was worth and wriggled his toe beneath Sam's arm and jammed it into his armpit and began bending his knee, pulling Sam toward them. If Sam was conscious, it would hurt like hell. Maybe it would wake him up. Dean's thigh muscles were on fire, his foot locked, trying not to slip out. A few inches and he adjusted his hold, wiggling his entire foot into the vee between Sam's arm and side, and managed to pull the kid over onto his back. Sam's head flopped over with the jerky movement, giving them their first sight of his face.
The kid was well and truly unconscious, the sharp angles and contours of his young face more pronounced under the thick coating of black mud.
John was on his knees, uncuffed arm stretched out, ready to grab Sam the moment Dean got him within reach. "You're doing good, just—" he groaned. "Almost…" He got his fingers curled into the wet material of Sam's jacket and heaved, pulling Sam across to them.
The relief on Dean's leg was immense as he spun back around and latched onto Sam's shoulder, helping their dad pull him up between them. "He's so cold." Dean rested his palm across Sam's belly, waiting for the lift of air.
John didn't say anything, lips tight, his concentration focused at his two fingertips he held at the side of Sam's neck. All at once his shoulders dropped and he dragged in a shaky breath. "I've got a pulse."
Dean nodded, colors seeping back into his world as he felt a minute rise and fall beneath his hand. "He's breathing. Hell."
"Get him out of these clothes." John was already guiding a limp arm out of the soggy jacket and lifting Sam up to get the jacket off around him. Sam's head flopped back on a boneless neck. Dean took over on the other side. Working together, they got him out of jacket, overshirt, and T-shirt and then pulled his water heavy jeans off him. He was covered in bruises, one nasty one on his chest, but nothing felt broken. They found his pocketknife and lighter still in his jacket. Good to know.
Sam's skin was freezing, an icicle, his skin pale and lips turning blue. Without thinking, Dean pulled his own jacket off, but was stopped by the manacle. Dammit! They couldn't leave Sam exposed.
Pants. They were close to the same size. Sam was growing, already an inch taller, but still thinner. Dean pulled his own jeans off and he and John got them onto Sam. They were a little loose on his waist, but hey, he didn't think Blacksmith Bob would be rating them on fashion. And they were dry and warmer on the inside from Dean's body heat Next he pulled off his one dry sock and slipped it on Sam's foot. It was a block of ice so he held it, trying to get some warmth back into it. His other sock was wet from being in Sam's arm pit.
Without words passing between them, John took off both of his socks and layered them onto Sam's other foot. Then he put Dean's boots back onto Dean's feet as though he were friggin five again, before slipping back into his own. Well, yeah okay, Dean was so focused on Sam, he wasn't thinking about himself.
All this was helpful, but Sam still hadn't so much as stirred. Who knew how long he was in the river or how long he was lying exposed on the river bank after he crawled his way out. Hypothermia was a real danger here. They had to get his core temperature up better than this. Shrugging back all the way into his jacket, Dean laid back down on his side and spread his jacket open as much as he could along the ground, and with John's help, got Sam on top of it and his arm and pulled him in close. At least it got Sam's bare side off the ground and his head and chest pressed into Dean's warmth, what little there was of it, though it left them both exposed from above, until John pressed in close, dragging his arm and side of his jacket over across the top of Sam.
Between the two of them they had him covered, even though Dean knew with the way John was angled, there wasn't much left of his jacket between him and the cold ground. He looked across Sam's stiff hair into John's worried eyes, understanding how much the man was willing to endure when it came to his boys.
There wasn't much else to do but wait for Sam to revive. If he revived. Dean bit off that thought as soon as it surfaced.
The cool air was frigid across Dean's naked legs. Water from Sam's cold wet hair seeped into Dean's shirts. He kept his fingers curled around Sam's wrist, feeling his faint pulse. It was a miserable hour or so before the kid's fingers curled into the material of Dean's shirt.
He looked over at John's closed eyes, sleep when you can, and nudged him. "He's waking."
John's eyes instantly opened and he shifted up to look down on his youngest. "Sam?"
"Mmnnph." Fingers tightening, Sam burrowed closer into Dean. One side of John's lips hitched up in a half-smile. Dean had no idea what his own expression must look like. How would getting back the kid who was your whole damn world manifest across one's features?
"Sam?" Dean lifted his shoulder beneath Sam's head to nudge him. "Come on, bro. You're freezing me. I'd like to get out of here now."
Sam's face scrunched into a frown before his eyes started fluttering open.
"Hang on." Using the bottom of his T-shirt, Dean wiped at the mud coating Sam's lashes.
Sam blinked, finally able to open his eyes—and wasn't that a relief?—and his hand went immediately to the large bruise on his chest. "Ow. What happ—ow." He hissed in a breath.
"Sam," Dad said and Sam's face whipped up, then his eyes tracked across the sunken broken ceiling and pine boughs. His eyes immediately began sinking.
Dean nudged him again. "Stay awake. We need you." He said the same thing his dad had said to him and it worked just as well on Sam.
His brother's lids lifted again, though he still looked completely out of it and ready to go under again. "What's going on?"
"A lot to explain, kiddo." Dad lifted his arm, dragging the clinking chain links up. "We need your help first."
Sam's eyes bugged out at the chain. He bolted upright, wavered, and would have fallen back if not for Dean, all the while his gaze traveled over the manacle on John's wrist, then to the other on Dean's and up the links to the thick rafter where the larger cuffs were attached.
"There's a hammer over there." John pointed toward the old forge half buried in dead branches. "We need it. I know you're still unsteady so crawl if you have to."
Sam nodded, trying to shift up and Dean smiled, proud of the effort. Standing at the same time, Dean and John got him to his feet, steadying him as far as their chains allowed.
Sam frowned down at this bare chest and borrowed pants, then to Dean's bare legs, questions in his expression, but he had a job to do. Explanations could wait. Get the hammer, then John and Dean could crack open these chains and better take care of Sam.
Dean winced at Sam's first step away from them, expecting him to topple to all fours. Sam moved slow, socked feet swishing through dry pine needles and debris, but he kept on his feet. He saw the tongs with the shoelaces looped on the end and bending, slid it across the dirt to them before going for the blacksmith hammer.
Picking it up, something on the other side of the forge caught his eye. "There's a skeleton back here. Long one."
"Got a leather apron?" John asked.
Dean smirked. "Well that saves us the trouble of searching for bones."
"There's an axe over here too." Sam scooped and picked that up as well. "Must have died out here alone." Only Sam would feel any kind of sympathy for a hundred-year-old ghost.
"So why'd he go demented and chain our asses up in here?" Dean demanded.
"Who knows why spirits do what they do," John said. "Could have once been a nice guy."
"Should be easy to burn," Sam said, shuffling back. "He's covered in dry pine needles. Anyone got," He swayed and Dean was sure he was going down. "…any salt?"
"Actually." John rooted around the inside pockets of his jacket and pulled out a little packet of table salt. "Not much, but should do the trick."
Dean looked at him skeptically. "He's a pretty big guy, uh ghost, guy."
Axe in one hand, hammer in the other, Sam made his way achingly back toward them, halfway across when the door ripped open and Paul Bunyan stood in the open frame.
Shriveled eyes like walnuts took in the scene, landing on the only one of them so far unchained, and letting out a bellow as loud as Babe the blue ox, gigantor ghost launched all his weight toward Sam.
"Sam!" Both older Winchester's shouted, pulling at their chains.
Eyes wide, the kid reacted, tossing the hammer toward them and swinging out the axe, passing through the ghost in a dispersion of sparking light.
Dean's heart pounded hard against his ribs, though the kid did good. He did real good. Dean wished his pulse would clue onto that fact already.
"Sam, there's not much time." John tossed the salt packet across to him. "You're going to have to do it."
Catching the salt, there wasn't much, Sam nodded and held his hand out for the lighter. John tossed that as well and then bent, reaching for the hammer Sam had thrown toward them. It was still just out of reach.
But Dean had the tongs now. He hooked them on the head of the hammer and dragged it over. Now they were talking.
While John went to work pounding one of the thinner chain links, Dean kept an eye on Sam, watching him edge back around the forge and sprinkle salt over the bones. He had the lighter in hand when the blacksmith reappeared behind him and tossed Sam into the wall by the door. The wood groaned, splintering before Dean could call out a warning and half the wall fell over Sam, but Paul Bunyan wasn't finished yet.
He yanked Sam out of the debris, showering the room with leaves and broken boards, lifting the kid high over his head. Dean didn't know how Sam still had hold of the axe, but he did and swung it down through the blacksmith's fat hairy head, dispersing the ghost in watery sparks like splitting the red sea. Unfortunately the axe continued on its uninhibited arc, slicing across the side of Sam's thigh as he dropped.
"Sam!" John shouted behind Dean. The chain was tough, tempered metal, too hard to break apart easily, but their dad wouldn't give up.
Groaning and panting, Sam curled over on himself, clutching his thigh, and the damn ghost came back at him, kicking the kid, rolling him across the floor. At least he was going the right way, coming toward Dean.
And the wendigo dived in through the ceiling, clawing through the branches, getting between Sam and the ghost.
"Are you kidding me?" Dean shouted over John's, "Sam, look out!"
The wendigo and ghost both went after Sam, the cannibal grabbing the kid about the waist and dragging backward while the ghost thrust into them both, breaking them apart.
"Sam, here, over here," both Dean and John were shouting, beckoning him to get to them while the monster and ghost were entwined. Sam shook his head to right himself, disoriented at the direction their voices were coming from. He lunged to his feet and promptly slammed back to the ground, his leg going out from under him.
"Sam, crawl dammit!" Dean urged, his heart lodged in his throat. Pinpointing his voice over the wendigo's growls, Sam headed their way on all fours, nearly making it. Dean had his hands on the kid's arms when the wendigo broke away from Paul Bunyan, slashing between them, slicing claws across Dean's arms.
Dean howled, but no way, NO WAY, was the beast taking off with his brother. Using what he had, Dean swung his chain around the wendigo's neck and twisted. The beast shrieked, eyes bulging, clawed fingers swiping out. It was strong, too strong for Dean. He felt the monster pulling the length of chain off his neck, but John was there, tripping them both to the ground, with a shout of "Dean move!" and as Dean rolled away, he glimpsed the hammer swing down full force, heard the crunch of bone, and looked back to see the head of the heavy hammer plunge down inside the skull like breaking pottery, flinging gore and brain tissue across Dean's bare legs.
"Thought fire was the only way to take them out," he gasped.
John wiped gore out of his eyes. "Never been able to get this close."
Fire whooshed across the room. Sam leaned over the forge like it was the only thing holding him up. How did he get over there? Where was Bunyan?
Never ask a question you don't want the answer to. Bunyan was right there, his meaty hands going around Sam's neck, lifting him off the ground. He wasn't burning. Why wasn't he burning? Not enough salt?
Sam's legs scrabbled in the air, hit the forge and tried to kick off, gaining leverage, but it was no use. He couldn't break the blacksmith's hold, couldn't break…
His legs stopped kicking, his arms fell to his sides, limp, and Dean's heart fell with them. He couldn't do anything but stand there watching a sick ghost squeeze the life out of his brother. Behind him, John hit the chain furiously with the hammer. Chink-chink-chink. And then it happened. Maybe there was just enough salt, the small amount took a longer time to absorb. The meaty blacksmith shrieked, going up in a plume of inky flames and Sam dropped out of view behind the forge.
Please, no, not in the fire. Not in the fire. "Sam!" Dean cried. The hammer hits continued on behind him. Chink-chink-chink. "Sam!"
Then the hammer stopped. Breathing raggedly, John stared at the impregnable links. He hadn't made a dent. They looked at each other. This couldn't be happening.
No. No! Looking around the ruined shack, Dean saw the axe not more than a few feet out of range. Grabbing the tongs, he reeled it in. Rusty old thing had Sam's blood on its edge. Growling, Dean lifted it and went to work on the thick beam the other end of their chains were hooked around. It took twenty minutes to get through it. Twenty minutes that Sam could be burning or choking on his own windpipe.
The fire spread, rose higher, the dry pine needles catching quick and the flames catching on the dead branches with thick smoke billowing outward. Concentrated near the forge where Sam had fallen.
Dean hacked through the last wedge of wood, dropped the axe and pulled the large chain cuff from the split beam for all he was worth. He didn't wait for John to do the same, but took off into the smoke and fire, trailing a length of chain behind him.
He found Sam trying to crawl out of the smoke, disoriented to the point he was going the wrong way, while at the same time coughing up a lung. Eyes burning, Dean couldn't see a blamed thing. How he ran straight to Sam as though he knew right where he'd be was a mystery they didn't have time to puzzle out. He just knew.
Heat blasted across their skin. The metal on Dean's wrist burned hot. Fire raged above them, around them. Hollow orange muted in black smoke. He didn't care. The only thing he focused on was getting his brother out of here. He pulled the kid up, arms around his stomach and ran, legs and chain tangling with Sam's limbs. They didn't make it more than four steps before they crashed back down. The wood groaned around them, ready to cave.
Choking down smoke, Dean couldn't breathe. He curled over Sam while at the same time trying to pull his dead weight up, and suddenly he was lifted to his feet. Sure and strong hands shoved him forward, but Dean wouldn't go. He couldn't leave. There was something important that he couldn't just leave.
A shoulder butted into him and got him moving. This time he went, sensing that whatever that important thing was was taken care of. He cleared the smoke, was steered toward the hazy outline of a door and burst into breathable rain-soaked air with smoke billowing after them like a plume of steam. John ran beside him, carrying Sam around the middle like unwieldy luggage.
They fell to their knees, coughing and gagging. Dean tilted his head sideways to check on Sam. The kid was conscious, how could he not be with all the hurling his body was going through? John knelt behind him, holding him up. It went on for hours, okay, maybe ten minutes, but by the time Dean was done, his stomach muscles felt like they'd turned inside out, and Sam was still hacking, grayish fingers clawing into the spongy leaf-litter, his ribs pressing hard against his bare skin with each heave. Smoke inhalation was doing a number on him. He needed oxygen.
Finally the worst of the hacking coughs stopped and Sam sagged over John's knees. Their dad quickly took his jacket and overshirt off, dragging the sleeves through the long coil of chain—those were going to be a bitch to get off—and draped both over Sam. His large palm curled over the kid's dirty hair, while his other moved to inspect the damage on Sam's thigh. "Try to take in large breaths. You need it."
Dean met John's eyes, passing on the silent question: He going to be okay? And John answered with a solemn nod.
They sat there for a long time, watching the fire claim the shack, scanning the encroaching trees to make sure that the forest wasn't in danger of going up in a blaze. The leaves and rain seemed apparently too wet and saturated to catch, keeping the fire contained to the dry wood and pine needles inside.
They were cold and wet, even this close to the fire, but alive. They were all alive, a little worse for wear. Sam had lost all his clothes and shoes, had flame-broiled lungs, and was sporting a nice gash in his thigh. John and Dean both had concussions, and new long-assed bracelets, but, hey, they took out both a ghost and a wendigo. A two for one hunt. Didn't get much better than that.
"Hey, Sam?" He waited until the kid's head lifted from their dad's knee to focus exhausted eyes on him. "I want my pants back, bitch." Then he waited some more for the humor to catch in Sam's eyes, waited to see the moment Sam grasped on to the fact that if Dean was giving him a hard time, then everything was going to be all right. Boiling lungs and bleeding thigh or not, he was all right.
And there it was. The tight lines around Sam's mouth smoothed, transforming into something new when he grinned and then laughed, or rather coughed and laughed, which is when John joined in, his laughter shaking both he and Sam. And ah hell, Dean found himself laughing right along. It wasn't often there was anything on a hunt that even remotely cracked John Winchester's stoic demeanor, but Dean having to walk out of the forest in a singed leather jacket, boxer briefs and boots?
Yeah, that was worth an entire Winchester clan laughfest.
Disclaimers: Crossroads demon wouldn't deal, so… I don't own Supernatural or any tales of Paul Bunyan and Babe the blue ox.