Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Abraham woke to a strange keening. He twitched in the faded and torn chair, which was not so much a flashback to the seventies but a relic of. As he came to, he rubbed the sleep from his eyes, casting about for the source of the ear-splitting noise.

When he was fully awake, he pinpointed the sound as emanating from his TV. Static raged across the box. He grabbed for the remote, flipping through channels and finding nothing but more static. He stood up and shuffled over to the TV, fiddling with the rabbit ears, idly scratching his crotch. Finally, he gave up, giving the piece of junk a few good thumps, before clicking it off.

Relieved that the sound went away, he was about to head back to his chair, when his dog started barking.

“Old Blue, whatsamatter?” he asked, sleepily slurring his words together.

The barks became more insistent.

Abraham wandered over to the back screen door, tripping over his dinner bowl where it lay next to his chair. His golden lab was suddenly more tense than he had been in years, hackles rising, ears laid back. The air coming through the screen was oppressive, turgid with moisture. He swatted at a mosquito that came in through a tear.

Leaning down to get at Old Blue's eye level, he absently petted the dog, whose teeth were now barred, trying to discern what might be the cause for his commotion.

Peering at him, not ten feet away, was a set of glowing red eyes.

“Holy shi-it!” Abraham yelled, rocking back on his heels and sprinting to get the gun he kept over his kitchen sink. He came back, hoping whatever it was had been scared away. No such luck though, as the dog was still growling.

He looked outside again and sure enough, there they were. Two round, red eyes, like nothing he'd ever seen before. They were floating slightly higher up now, and he wondered if it was a wolf. They'd been getting braver, human encroachment forcing them to come out of the wild. But his dog wouldn't be growling like the thing was Satan, himself, if it was only a wolf. Well, maybe if it was a rabid one.

Not sure what to do, he rattled his door, hoping to frighten it away. He wasn't sure if his sad, wooden door could handle the attack of a full-grown wolf, but he hoped so. However, the eyes didn't move.

He shifted his feet. The eyes were damn eerie, not moving—just sort of hovering. And despite staring into the darkness for a few minutes, he still couldn't make out any body. Damn eerie.

Blue started yapping again and Abraham suddenly clutched at his head.

One hundred and five.

Now what the hell was that? The pain was blinding, and honest to God, it was like the headaches he got right before his wife had died, right before he took up drinking to make them go away. They hadn't happened in years and now they were coming back?

Despite the headache, his head came snapping up at the noise that sounded like a woman screaming. It came from ten feet away, but echoed in the woods around his home, and he wanted to say it was a screech owl but he knew it came from that thing.

“Ok, you,” he muttered, half to it, half to himself. “You don't go getting my dog angry and making noises like that. I'm coming out now.”

Blue seemed to know exactly what Abraham was doing and pawed at the door, begging to get out. The air only seemed to get thicker as he slowly opened the door, gun at the ready.

Then the eyes moved. In one movement, they surged up to a man's height, blinking once.

One hundred and five.

“Ahhh!” Abraham cried out, and he hefted his gun to shoot, but by then the thing went tearing off through the woods, with one final bone-chilling scream. Blue leapt, chasing it.

“Blue, come back! Blue, old boy!” he yelled into the night, voice echoing just like that screech.

But the dog didn't come back.

One hundred and five.

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“So, you find anything yet?” Dean was cleaning and recounting their guns and various weapons for the third time in as many days. While it was a job that tended to relax him, he was, to put it frankly, bored. They'd been stuck here in the outskirts of Omaha for those three days, nowhere to go. And hell if city motels weren't more expensive. He was going to have to fill out some new cards soon.

“Maybe...” Sam began, clearly absorbed in his laptop.

Dean rolled his eyes. “Right now, I'd take a random sighting of Paul Bunyan and Blue, I'm so bored.”

“Ok, ok, keep your pants on, Dean. Are we sure you're the older one? 'Cause sometimes I swear I'm the thirty to your fifteen.”

“First off,” Dean said huffily, “I am not thirty. Not even close.”

“Twenty-eight's not too far,” Sam muttered but Dean ignored him.

“Second,” he continued, “I know for a fact I'm the older of us. Not only did I carry you out of that house, but isn't there some saying that the eldest gets all the good looks and fortunes? 'Cause,” he grinned cheekily, “I think it's safe to say I get all the ladies.”

“You can be so insufferable,” Sam said, rolling his eyes.

“I just tell it like it is.”

“Whatever,” was Sam's witty reply. He sighed and then said, “Anyway, I think I may have found something.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. There's some poltergeist activity up north.”

“Some?” Dean asked, not so sure he liked Sam's vagueness.

“Well, it hasn't occurred all in one place. It's almost like a town poltergeist.”

“Sure it's not just some kids being dumb?”

“That's what I thought at first, but then I did a little research on the area, and it seems to be a kind of hot spot for weird activity.”

“When you say weird activity, you don't mean like X-Files kind of weird stuff, like UFOs, right?”

Sam laughed but didn't answer the question.

“Sam,” Dean let his voice go lower and Sam glanced up. “Seriously, dude. Stop being so vague and tell me if you have something real or not. Cause if not, I say we take a fucking break and go down to Miami or something. Beach season will be startin' real soon.”

“Always with the girls,” Sam joked.

He got a look in return.

“Ok, don't get your panties in a twist. Do you know the Mesabi Range?”

“Like, mountain range? Not that I can think of.” Dean picked up another gun, twisting the cleaning cloth over its grooves, refamiliarizing himself with its angles and curves.

“Well...” he seemed hesitant to say anything, but continued. “It's in north Minnesota and it seems--”

Dean's head had snapped up, hands stilling on the gun. “North Minnesota?”

Sam ducked his head, trying to hide behind his screen. “Yeah,” he mumbled.

“Do you not remember what happened last time? Uhhh, you got yourself kidnapped by a bunch of fucking crazies and I had to rescue your ass.”

He didn't mention the burn even as his fingers immediately jumped up to rub at it, absent-mindedly.

“I know, Dean, I--”

“Is it really something, or are you just shittin' me?”

“I wouldn't do that and you know it.” Sam was suddenly defensive and Dean had to concede that no, he probably wouldn't want to relive that as much as Dean didn't want to.

He held up his hands in mock surrender. “You're right, I'm sorry. So this weird activity. Tell me more.”

Sam's shoulders relaxed and he continued. “Ok, well the Mesabi range is mainly known for the mining that occurred there in the 1800's and 1900's. It started out as a hopeful gold area, but little gold was found. Instead they found iron ore and that led to Minnesota being the number one iron producer for awhile. Most of it been entirely mined, with a few exceptions here and there. Starting in the late nineties though, a different type of iron was discovered there that was found to be useful—a mineral called taconite. Since then, Minnesota's been able to pick up on production again.”

“Fascinating history lesson,” Dean interrupted, “but what does this have to do with what we do?”

“I'm getting there.” Sam had shifted into lecture mode and it was at times like these when Dean knew his brother would have made a great lawyer. He was able to teach without being condescending, he leaned forward a little with a relaxed posture and his eyes took on that academic light. When he got like this, Dean usually found himself doing whatever his little brother suggested. Fucker.

“It seems that these deposits make the area some kind of geomagnetic source for phenomenon. Bigfoot's been spotted. Lots of ghosts, Indian legends, and yes, UFO activity.”

Dean rolled his eyes. This just got better and better.

“That though, is not what's piqued my curiosity. Instead, look,” Sam gestured him to come over to the computer screen. Dean placed the gun back in its spot, leaving it gleaming a dark gray. He wandered over and leaned over Sam's shoulder.

“There's this guy,” Sam continued, “who claims to have seen a demon. And more than once. He seems to be the town kook, but, with all this activity, who knows? Maybe there's some demon that got released a long time ago from the mining, causing all of this freaky stuff.”

“Why would it just be showing itself now, though?” Dean turned his head to look at Sam who kept staring at the screen, intent on the article. Dean could just make out the small smile lines around his brother's eyes from this close.

“Maybe because the area is getting more people? So it feels it's being threatened. Minnesota has started becoming more populated in recent years—especially the north shore. Surely, they're expanding into this region too.”

Dean stood up, hand accidentally brushing Sam's shoulder as he stretched. “So, north Minnesota, huh?” He faked a yawn to cover his trepidation. He'd never admit it out loud, but those Benders had really given him the creeps. Hunting people. He shuddered.

Sam, as always, seemed to know or guess, though. He caught Dean's hand on its path back down and turned to actually look at him. “You ok with this?”

“Yeah, of course.” Dean shrugged and gently took his hand back. “Ghosts and demons in north Minnesota. What's to worry about? It'll be a piece of cake.”

“Yeah,” Sam smiled. “No problem at all.”

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As they'd traveled from Omaha to Coleraine, Minnesota, where the crazy guy lived, they stopped in the suburbs of Minneapolis to freshen up supplies and get a cover story straight. They decided, with all the different spooky things happening, they'd pose as writers compiling a book on weird spots in America.

“So, are we related or not?” Sam asked, trying to decide which license to use.

“Well, much as I hate to say it sometimes, Sammy, yes, we are.”

Sam blew at his bangs, which were really getting too long, and whined, “De-ean...”

“I don't know. Can we wait until we get there and see what the girls are like? 'Cause if they're hot, then we're totally related. If they're all ugly and trying to get all up on me, then no—you and I are definitely not related.”

“You can be such a dick.”

“Hey, I gotta keep my standards up, don't I? And I'll need an easy out.”

“Fine, whatever. Just don't expect you'll be getting any from me, after knowing I'm your fall-back.”

“Aw, you're no fun, Sammy,” Dean winked.

“You have no idea what you're missing,” Sam grinned.

And that was that.

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They stopped again in Duluth for a few hours, just to find out more about the mining in north Minnesota and to get some decent maps of the mountain range. As they sat at a small bar and grill on Lake Superior—Sam with his coffee, burger, and side salad, Dean with fish supposedly straight from the lake and fries—they tried to make sense of them.

“Dude, these Minnesotans just cannot get this area mapped right,” Dean grumbled.

“I imagine not too many people care. And hey, these are better than the maps in the library. At least these show the roads. Definitely more current.”

“Either way it's a pain in the ass. We're headed straight for hicksville.”

Sam looked up. “Dean. We were born in the middle of Kansas. I don't think we're any less hick. Especially considering we travel everywhere in your car and stay at ghetto motels, eating at diners. These people at least shop at malls—even if they're fifteen miles or more away.”

“You think shopping at malls makes you less of a hick? I think if you live in the middle of the woods, and you know, hunt things for a living, you're a hick.”

Sam started laughing, a full-bodied sound.

Dean realized what he'd just said, and almost blushed. “Touche,” he muttered. “Goddamn,” he said, sitting up in the booth. “I'm not a hick. I'm more...classic American. You know—James Dean.”

Sam just kept laughing. Dean glowered for a minute and then turned back to his map and dinner, tracing out the roads with his fingertip.

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They reached Pine Ridge Motel on June the second. The manager, a burly man in his forties, tossed them the key, smacking his gum and said, “You fellas ought to be glad you got here on a weekday. Weekends come and this being one of three motels in town, it can fill up fast. Lake folks, you know.”

Sam and Dean both nodded, exchanging a glance.

“So what're you here for? You don't look like lake people—though we get all kinds. Here to hunt?” The man barely glanced at Dean's clothing—leather jacket, even in the heat—but eyed Sam up and down who happened to chose that day to wear a polo shirt rather than his usual flannel and hoodie. Not that Dean blamed him. Who knew Minnesota got so fucking hot?

“Actually,” Dean spoke up, “we're authors. We're here to research the paranormal activity around here for an upcoming book.”

“Yep,” Sam picked up, “We're Sam and Dean,” he pointed to himself and then to Dean.

He happened to say it just as Dean said, “We're Dean and Sam,” pointing to himself and then to Sam.

Shocked, but refusing to acknowledge it as the guy stared them down, they both just smiled.

“Writers, huh? Well, I'm sure plenty of folk round here will be willing to give ya interviews and whatnot. Now,” he changed the subject, settling back in his chair and flipping his TV on again. “Ice machine's broken. Guy ain't coming out until next Monday. We do have air conditioning, though, which you'll want. If it gives you any trouble, just hit it a few times. We also got landlines, but I'll warn you, they don't often work well, full of static and such.”

“Ok,” Sam nodded after glancing at Dean. “Thanks.”

They stepped outside and back into the humid, sticky air. Dean glanced askance at his brother whose lips were pursed in thought. “You know, I think you're right about this place. 'Cause that was pretty creepy back there.”

Sam let out a snicker, and smiled at Dean. “Yeah, real bizarre.”

“Let's try not to do that again. Ever,” Dean said as he slipped on his sunglasses. “Let's go find our cabin.”

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It didn't come the first night, or even the second. It wasn't until the third night that it came.

It had been two days of bumming around the little town of Coleraine. It had your basic amenities—post office, two grocery stores, obligatory McDonald's, dentist, a few diners and bars, about eight churches—but not much beyond that. There certainly was no mall, though much of what you wanted could be found downtown amidst the bait and hunting shops. There were two apartment buildings in town, and some houses, but most of them lay on the outskirts of the town, spread pretty far apart.

They'd met tons of people; those who lived in town they asked about the weirdness, but most either didn't want to talk or thought it all a 'bunch of hogwash' or 'crap', and too pointless to waste their time on. Their main business came from tourists who passed through the town on their way to one of the many surrounding lakes, Grand Rapids, or Chippewa National Forest to the north. The one thing they did find out was that Abraham Olsen lived in his run-down house about five miles outside of Coleraine, in an extension of the forest.

A couple of people claimed to see some weird flying creature, but he and Sam both assumed it was one of the many birds that inhabited the mountains. Like a crane or something.

The whole time, their identities were never questioned. Dean figured Minnesota nice must actually come from the northern area because when they'd stopped outside Minneapolis, damn those drivers sure needed a lesson in manners and road rage. His baby had nearly gotten scratched driving down I94 at rush hour. But there in Coleraine, people either left you alone or were very chatty. Dean had gotten on the good side of the owner of the Iron Ore Diner, a lady named Liz. She was a cheerful woman in her fifties whose specialty was cherry pie—and Dean couldn't get enough. He was quite sure that Sam even might leave him for Liz because she was willing to make up his girly coffee drinks.

That night they made it back to their cabin with no real leads on anything. No one had seen the demon in town, and the few people who'd experienced poltergeist activities were now chalking it up to dreams or forgetfulness. Really, no one seemed to see any weirdness—no one but Abraham and that had been the summer before.

As Dean stripped off his tee, wiping his sweaty brow with it before tossing it on the other clothes that needed washing he said, “You know, maybe the demon is gone now. Or maybe this guy is just nuts.”

Sam looked up from his book. “I still think we should go and talk to him. One more night won't hurt. Right?”

Dean shrugged. “I guess the card can make it another day or two. But I really don't think anything's here.”

Sam sat up, cross-legged, elbows resting on his knees. “I don't know, Dean. I just...I feel like some thing's here. I can't explain it. It's like...we're missing something.”

Dean glanced up through his eyelashes as he stripped the jeans off, too. “Getting some kind of premonition there, Spooky?”

“No, no, that's the problem. There hasn't been a single vision. And while my head's liking the no-vision thing cause it means no headaches, something just feels off. Because I feel like there is something here. There's this gut feeling...but I have nothing to prove it.”

Dean shrugged as he grabbed a towel from the rack before stepping into the bathroom, noting his voice suddenly sounded hollow. “Like I said, we can stay another day, maybe two, but after that, I think we call it a dud and try to find something else.”

“'K,” floated through the doorway. Dean shut it and stripped his boxers off, stepping into the tub/shower combo.

A moment later, over the noise of the water, he heard Sam knock on the door. “Hey, Dean?”

“Yeah!” he yelled.

“I'm suddenly really craving some ice cream. I think I'll go see if Liz has any she can put into a container. You want some?”

“Yeah, chocolate. Oh, and dude, get me another piece of cherry pie.”

He listened to Sam's chuckle through the door. “You know, I think if we do stay here much longer, I'm going to have to hire a crane to get you back in the car after all the pie you've eaten.”

“Hey!” he shouted but could already hear the outside door slamming and the car start up.

Dean looked down at himself and idly patted a hand over his belly. Damn. Maybe he was going soft. He'd started slacking on the thousand sit-ups he used to do a day. While his arms and chest were still strong, sitting in a car day in and out while eating perhaps not the healthiest food ever could lend itself to gut-formation. He sucked in and flexed. Oh, yeah, there that six pack was. God, Sam was right. He was getting old. Thirty was doom.

He shrugged and quickly washed himself, very tempted to jerk-off, but decided it could wait for another day. Or the morning, at least. Not like he had anyone he could fantasize about anymore. He hadn't had real sex for awhile and late night local TV did not lend to modern hotties of the day. The only person he hung out with daily was Sam. And he was not going there.

Stepping out, he ran the towel through his hair before tying it around his waist. He stared into the mirror and realized his sideburns were getting a little too long. Fetching the scissor, he proceeded to trim them.

At one point, he glanced up and in one of the three-fold mirrors, saw Sam outside the bathroom door, staring at him.

“Hey, Sammy. I didn't hear you come in. Did you get the--?”

He nearly stabbed his eye out the next moment when the image of Sam flashed to a black shape with red eyes that burned to his soul and then was gone.

“Holy shit!” He turned around and no one was there. Trying to calm his breathing, he cautiously stepped out of the bathroom, scissors held like a knife, ready to stab anything that looked like that thing.

“Sam?” He walked out further. Nothing. “Sammy?” Still nothing.

He checked around the room, under the beds, behind the bureau, and found more nothing. Just as he was about to sigh in relief, the sound of the Impala's return startled him and he jumped.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, returning to the bathroom. He had just finished trimming his sideburns and walked out when Sam opened the door.

“Got the ice cream and your pie.” Dean caught Sam staring and realized he hadn't put another shirt on yet, and maybe the towels weren't quite as long as the ones offered in most motels. He shrugged it off. No rule said he couldn't be half-naked around his own family. Not like he was hanging out or something.

He ignored that the look gave him goosebumps and caused his nipples to harden. It was just leftover from his cold shower.

Sam laughed, sounding almost nervous. “I might have been wrong when I mentioned the crane. I think you'll be just fine.”

He set down the bucket of ice cream and plastic-wrapped piece of pie and shrugged out of his own clothes until he was just in his boxers. Then he leapt onto his bed, grabbing the pail of ice cream and two spoons. “Get your ass over here. I told Liz it was ok, that we didn't need two containers, just the two spoons.”

Dean nodded and grabbed a clean pair of underwear, stepping back inside the bathroom's doorway and switching them for the towel. He glanced in the mirror and the goosebumps seemed to get worse for a minute before he decided it was nothing but his overactive imagination, as was bound to happen in their line of work.

He grabbed the remote control and jumped up next to Sam on the plaid wool blanket, swiping his spoon. “Dickwad, don't eat all my half. You're a fucking Hoover.”

Sam stuck out his tongue. “Just turn on the damned TV. See if there's anything interesting.”

There wasn't, of course. They settled on A Fish Called Wanda after arguing over a Discovery program on killer bees or Law and Order: SVU.

“Dude. It's killer bees,” Dean prompted.

“Dude,” Sam mocked, “it's crime. I'd think you'd want to watch people with guns walk around.”

“I do it for a living, Sam. And the court stuff bores me. That's your area of interest. I'd rather watch people swell up like balloons.”

“You're so much like a kid, Dean. Someday, when you have your own kids, I really pity the woman. She won't know what to do with so many juveniles in her house.”

After Dean's laugh attack, they'd decided they deal with a funny movie and proceeded to eat all the ice cream, rubbing shoulders on occasion, clinking spoons. To a chorus of 'jerk' and 'bitch', they both tried to get the very last bite, Sam eventually winning.

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Dean woke up to the static of the TV. He groaned and stretched, surprised when he heard a grunt above him.

“Oh, for Pete's sake,” he whispered to himself. He and Sam had fallen asleep together. He untangled Sam's arm from around his neck as his cheek had been resting on his brother's chest. “That is so gross...” referring more to the sound of his face peeling off his brother's skin than the actual sleeping arrangements. God, it was hotter than hell. He sat up, wondering what had woken him, beyond his brother's insane body heat in the thick air that couldn't be cooled down even with the air conditioner.

He glanced at the TV and flipped it off with the remote. He listened, in the sudden silence, to Sam's breathing, calm and relaxed. As he stood, he watched the wide chest rise up and down, seriously thinking about putting the blanket on top of Sam, just to piss him off when he woke up stifled under it, but decided to be nice for once. Dean was about to climb onto the other bed when he heard a scritch-scratch at the door.

He walked over to the door and peered outside. There was nothing to see. Then he heard the sound again. He opened the door, hoping against hope that doing so wouldn't let in too many of those damn mosquitoes.

“What the hell?!” He yipped, as a wet and cold nose banged into his knee. He glanced over at Sam hoping he hadn't wakened from his dreamless sleep, relived when Sam simply rolled over into the spot Dean had previously occupied.

He found the intruder was a golden-looking lab, coat gleaming in the moonlight. He crouched down. “Hey buddy, where'd you come from?” He scanned the dog for a collar. Finding one, he read Old Blue. “I bet you're a long way from home, aren't you?”

The dog whined in its throat and gently grabbed Dean's wrist with its mouth, tugging lightly.

“Yo, watch those teeth, old boy!” But really, the dog was being gentle. It tugged a little more insistently.

Dean sighed. “Ok, ok. Hang on a sec.”

He glanced back at Sam one more time. The moon was shining in the windows, pooling over Sam's face. It highlighted his wide yet subtle nose and the natural highlights he had in the dark brown hair. At least he was sleeping well.

The dog growled and Dean stood up, wriggling his feet into a pair of shoes. “Alright, keep your fur on.”

He followed the dog outside, noticing that at that time of night, Minnesota was a lot cooler. Or at least that part of the state was. Desert it might not be, but it had the temperament of one. Dean shivered slightly.

They walked for maybe five minutes, deeper into the woods, Dean listening to the sounds of his feet crunching sticks and leaves, the whining of bugs as they flew past his ears, and the dog's panting. If he didn't know better, he'd have thought he was dreaming—the dog seemed to vanish and then reappear another five feet forward, or ten, every so often. It was really too late—or early—to be wandering about the woods.

Old Blue abruptly stopped.

“What's here?” Dean asked the dog rhetorically, as he couldn't see a damn thing but more trees. He thought he could glimpse Trout Lake a little ways off but he couldn't be sure.

When he turned back to the dog, it was gone.

“What the--”

That was when it appeared.

A face suddenly loomed before him. It was angular, yet had no shape. And those eyes. Red, glowing orbs that swirled.

He looked away but there it was before him again. And this time he was able to make out some sort of body, tall and thin like a man—like Sam—but it had wings, wings like a bat, with a talon at each end.

Death.

Earthquake.

Disaster.

Ninety-three dead.

Seven dead.

Thousands dead.

Hurricane.

Horrorpainhurtwarning.

Dean gasped, trying to get air in lungs that didn't want to breathe. He shut his eyes and shuddered as the words invaded his mind. Everywhere he looked that thing was in his vision, as though taunting him, as though it was causing the barrage of thoughts. And maybe it was.

Dean backed up as it firmed into something solid, seeming to come at him. He whined in the back of his throat.

Reactor.

Bridge.

Avalanche.

Forty-six dead.

One hundred and five.

Dean backed up into a tree. He was so cold. That thing flickered in his sight and in his peripheral vision and he closed his eyes.

“Sam,” he moaned before tossing his head back and sliding down the tree to the ground.

One hundred and five.