Chapter Text
The train hit another kink in the track, and the jolt of the carriage caused Dean Winchester to lose his grip on the magazine he’d been holding. He retrieved it from the dusty floor and straightened up, adjusting his ankle over his knee once more. Looking cautiously up at the other passengers, he saw they were uninterested in his magazine, and he lowered his eyes to the page.
I turned half-way round, and saw Dorian Gray for the first time. When our eyes met, I felt that I was growing pale. A curious instinct of terror came over me. I knew that I had come face to face with some one whose mere personality was so fascinating that, if I allowed it to do so, it would absorb my whole nature, my whole soul, my very art itself.
Dean had read that same passage a hundred times over these past few weeks. The magazine had grown dog-eared and thoroughly stained by the dirt in Dean’s bag, and he still wondered if he ought to do something to protect the thick collection of pages.
The publication was never one he’d intended to love, nor even appreciate the smallest amount. He’d picked it up at a train station, wanting something to pass the time while he journeyed from New York to wherever he had been going at the time. Once he read the magazine, however, he had found himself lost in its looking-glass view of the world and fallen into obsession. These pages reflected on things for Dean, about Dean, a number of which had never left the inside of his head. He adored this story with all the force and passion he usually put into his work – and with his work being what it was, it was all the more reason to keep his mouth shut and the magazine averted from everyone else’s view.
Today, his train was bound for the Black Hills of South Dakota, where he had been summoned for a job. By coincidence, he was headed for the same outpost in which he’d grown up, and there was a weighty anticipation in his gut which remained like a rock in a glass tank, still and sturdy, even after so many hours being tossed about by the absolute newness of the train tracks. He looked forward to visiting the place which had once been his home.
Dean was the only passenger left in his carriage compartment by the time the train pulled into the outpost. The clouded sun had become murky through the windows as the day neared its end, and Dean could already smell the oxen. He stowed his magazine in his bag, careful not to let his knives scratch the paper.
He shouldered his bag, and then his shotgun strap, as the gun was too long to fit in the bag. He stepped into the hallway just as the train came to a halt; the entire row of cars bumped together, and Dean stumbled, catching his weight against the glass window. He stood straight, chuckling at the handprint he had left on the glass. His vision skipped from the glass to the station outside, and his smile fell.
An important-looking man in a black bowler hat and tails stood on the station floor, both his pale hands clasped to the curve of a walking cane. Beside him was a native woman wearing a somewhat fashionable ankle-length grey dress, tight at the waist and tall at the shoulder. She had much the same expression of seriousness as the man. Nobody else waited at the station; they were both there for Dean.
Dean sighed and lugged his bag over his shoulder again, grunting when the weapons swung and hit his lower back. He trudged to the carriage door, but before he could open it, the train conductor did it for him.
“Black Hills Outpost,” the conductor announced blandly, sounding as tired as Dean felt.
“Thanks,” Dean said to him as he stepped down onto the platform.
“Have a good evening, sir,” the conductor said, tipping his flat hat, moustache twitching as he put on a smile.
“You too.” Dean wandered past, looking up at the stone-faced pair as they approached him.
“Mr. Winchester,” the man in a suit said, taking off his bowler hat and tucking it under his arm as he reached out a hand to greet Dean. “My name is Trevor Horace, vice-president of Black Hills... Trade.”
Dean let go of Mr. Horace’s hand before Horace was done shaking. “Ah,” Dean said, feeling his teeth try to clench. “I see your company renamed itself since I was here last. Smart move.”
Horace lifted his grey eyebrows, showing the wrinkles around his eyes. “Yes. We had some, shall I say, difficulty.”
“Well, I should think so,” Dean said, not doing much to conceal his ire. “Slavery’s been illegal for twenty-five years – practically my whole life. ‘Bout time you matched pace with the rest of the world.”
Horace shuffled backwards, and his tone turned from informative to reproachful. “Mr. Winchester, ever since the end of the gold rush, Black Hills never kept up with societal fashion. I believe that was part of the reason you left, was it not? You youngsters, you want the latest and greatest, and Black Hills has never been anything of the sort.”
Dean’s cold smile stayed fixed in place as his eyes moved off Horace and towards the woman who remained in the background, saying nothing, not moving at all, hands clasped neatly in front of her waist. Her eyes locked to Dean’s as he looked at her. She seemed to be the same age as him.
Dean gave her a smile.
His eyes then darted back to Horace, and he brushed past him with a dismissive pat to his arm. “I’ll have you know, Mr. Horace, I’m not as drawn to the latest and greatest as you might imagine.” He walked alongside the woman now; she left the small platform and led Dean down the stairs at the side. “But I do take pride in knowing I never thought putting an end to slavery was... ha! – how did you put it? Societal fashion. Then again... I’m not part of your generation, Mr. Horace. I hear you older folks have a harder time keeping your moral sensibilities clear-cut black and white.” Dean lifted his eyes, tilting his head. “So to speak.”
The woman gestured towards a horse and cart that was waiting for them behind the station, its driver standing in the gritty road. Dean sighed, and waited for the woman to approach the cart first. He longed for the day automobiles would drive alongside horse-drawn carts. All the inventors in the world were inventing far too slowly for his liking.
Dean offered the woman a hand to help her balance. She didn’t smile in thanks, but accepted his hand and lifted the corner of her dress so she wouldn’t trip as she climbed up. Dean stood back again and offered the second space in the cart to Horace, smirking at him. “You too, sir. But the helping hand is just for the ladies.”
Horace strode past and lifted himself into the cart with the grunt of an old, angry man. Dean saw the irritation in the man’s eyes and felt rather pleased with himself. He then threw his bag over the side of the cart, and followed it up with a jaunty swing of his weight. He landed in the leather seat and shut the cart’s small door behind him, grinning at the woman. She stared at him with understandable interest, but the moment Dean winked at her, she gave a harrumph of distaste and looked away.
While the driver readied the horse, Dean took a deep breath and peered at his surroundings, slouching back against the cartside with his arms spread. The town was the same as Dean had left it; caravans of oxen were being batted from one end of the long road to the other, dust hung above the ground the way morning mist ghosted over a river, and the smell of manure mixed obtrusively with the smoky tang of burning pine. Sound carried in the cooling air: Dean heard the echoing tink-tink-tink of a blacksmith doing his work, and the distant clatter of outside conversation.
Dean shut his eyes, and yes... he could hear the forest, its whispers. Even deaf men heard those whispers.
He opened his eyes, and smiled when the first thing he saw was the woman’s curious gaze set on him. She didn’t look away this time, so Dean leant forward over his thighs and asked her gently, “What do they call you?”
The woman’s eyes darted to Horace, but Horace had gone sour and stared pointedly away from both Dean and their companion. The woman returned her gaze to Dean’s, and in that well-practiced Lakota accent Dean was used to hearing, she said, “Elsie.”
“What’s the rest?” Dean urged, nodding once, twice. “What do they call you when you’re not Miss Elsie? Elsie Swimming Fish? Elsie Shining Star?”
Miss Elsie burst out laughing, then covered her mouth shyly with her hand, eyes now wide and shocked. Dean kept on grinning at her, waiting for her to speak.
Miss Elsie lowered her eyes, then her hand, then raised her eyes once more. “Calling Goat,” she said. “Elsie Calling Goat.”
Dean smiled. “That’s beautiful.”
Elsie Calling Goat smiled ever so slightly, looking away again before Dean could flatter her too much. Her hand swept down her black plait, stroking it against her shoulder.
Dean leaned back again, shifting in his seat as the cart finally began to move, trundling forward. Dean was travelling with his back to their destination. They bumped and tumbled along the road, no doubt rolling through plenty of manure but not much solid ground.
“So,” Dean said, to either Horace or Miss Elsie, whichever of them cared to listen, “where are we going?”
“The town hall,” Miss Elsie said. Her eyes darted to Horace as she spoke. His mouth was open: he’d been about to answer too. Miss Elsie realised she’d cut him off, and her eyes turned down in shame while Horace puffed himself up like an adder.
When Horace spoke, it was without interest, eyes rising aversively. “It has recently come to our attention that there are... certain... myths, arising amongst the townfolk―”
“They are not myths!” Miss Elsie cried. Dean’s eyes widened as he saw her fearsome expression, a sharp glare and flared nostrils. She had swivelled on her seat to look Horace in the eye; Horace was as startled as Dean to see her snap. “The stories are true, the monster took my sister!”
“Sister!” Horace spat with unwholesome relish. “That child was just as much a blight on this town’s history as you, Miss Calling Goat. And I only hope that ‘monster’ takes you as well! At least then we would have proof these aren’t more of those fanciful redskin tales you’re so insistent on telling the children!”
“Whoa,” Dean said, raising his open hands in Horace’s direction, shaking his head, making them both quiet down before Miss Elsie could bite the old man’s head off. “Let’s keep this civilised, shall we? None of those – words, all right?” Dean looked directly at Horace, hoping he knew exactly which word he meant, and Dean wouldn’t have to repeat it. “Whatever it is that’s going on, it’s probably got the whole town on edge. Am I right?” Dean looked to Miss Elsie for his answer, not Horace.
Miss Elsie nodded after a moment. “The children at the school won’t go outside to play any more.”
Dean lowered his hands to his knees, swallowing. He looked out beyond the cart, watching more of those wooden saloon buildings go past, a few inside lights starting to come on now that the daylight was almost absent. “It’s nothing I can’t handle,” Dean said, almost without thought. “I chase away shadows for a living, Miss Elsie.” He turned his head and gave her a smile. “I’ll do everything I can to find your sister and bring her home.”
Miss Elsie shut her eyes and nodded once, deeply relieved.
The cart pulled up against a white stone building, the only stone building in the entire town. Dean hopped out first, heavy bag and his shotgun over his shoulder. He held his hand out for Miss Elsie, helping her down. He then escorted her to the front of the town hall, not bothering to look back at Mr. Horace.
“Is there going to be a lot of waiting around?” Dean asked, as a jowly butler opened the front door, which clunked open with a humongous echo bouncing back across the marble interior. Dean licked his lips and swallowed, stepping inside the town hall for only the second time in his life. “I really hope this won’t take long. Because I haven’t eaten since breakfast.”
“No, it won’t take long,” Miss Elsie said. She didn’t look over at Dean, but she offered her arm for him to take, and take it he did. She led him to a second big door, where a second butler prepared to let them inside. “Everyone is already here.”
The door opened, and Dean’s mouth dropped open. A congregation of perhaps a hundred people waited in the hall, chattering loudly, most of them seated on wooden chairs lined up in two sections, either side of a central aisle. The sound of their voices echoed from marble pillar to marble pillar, and the tobacco smoke above their heads drifted suddenly, moving in the current of the open door. Dean tried to turn back – he saw Mr. Horace stepping into the hall, red in the face and quite tense – but then the door creaked to a close, and Dean felt the thump of it through the soles of his shoes as it trapped him inside.
A pair of hands began to clap slowly at the front of the hall: another grey-haired white man stood up on a semi-permanent stage. The clapping brought the hall to attention, and the chatter died down. A chair or two screeched against the floor as people readied themselves to listen.
The man at the front nodded in greeting to everyone present, and wasted no time at all before raising a hand, and gesturing broadly to the crowd. “The citizens of Black Hills Outpost would like to welcome you, sir.”
Dean blinked, but it was only when Elsie’s arm slipped out from his own, and he looked at her and saw she was looking at him, that he realised everyone else was looking at him too.
Dean swallowed hard and tried to speak. “Uh― Hello. Citizens.”
The speaker at the front tipped his face forwards, looking at Dean over his spectacles. “I am Mayor Donald Bradley; I’m in charge here. Please, come up to the front! How would you prefer we address you, sir?”
Dean gaped for a moment, then adjusted the weight of his bag and stepped into the central aisle, walking forwards. “Dean. Dean Winchester.”
“And, for those of us who don’t already know, what do you do for a living, Mr. Winchester?”
Dean’s throat had gone dry, all the heat of his body was in his face, and his hands were numb. “I h― I hunt monsters.”
So many eyes. So many eyes watched him walk up on that stage, put down his bag and gun on the floor, then reach out his grubby hand to the mayor. The mayor took his hand and shook it, touching his left palm to the top of Dean’s hand, still shaking warmly. Dean was trembling.
“How long have you been hunting monsters, son?”
Dean let out a breath all at once as their hands separated. He looked into the mayor’s eyes and saw a genuine desire to know. “Uh, about... about ten years. Yeah. Ten years. Since I was sixteen.”
A rumble of conversation passed through the assembly, and Dean’s eyes flicked over them. What were they talking about? Did they think he was too young to do this?
“I knew your father,” the mayor said. Dean’s attention fixed on the mayor and nothing else mattered. “He would pass by here, on his way from job to job.”
Dean nodded once. “Yeah. Yeah, he would come see us.” Dean looked to the crowd, speaking up for their benefit. “Me and my brother were raised here. Looked after by a woman― Actually, she might be here this evening. Ms. Moseley?”
A general reply came from several points in the crowd – friendly faces he hadn’t seen for years – and Dean smiled as he learned that even though Ms. Missouri Moseley was not present tonight, she still lived in the town. Dean nodded to himself, feeling braver.
“Good, excellent,” the mayor said, shaking his head and wandering away, patting his hands on the belly of his silk waistcoat. “Now, to business, I think.” He turned back after a moment, eyes boring into Dean. “Mr. Winchester, the problem is thus:... We have a monster on the loose.”
The crowd erupted in a mixture of hysterical titters and wails of fear. The mayor quieted everyone down with a wave, and when only murmurs remained, he spoke: “People have been taken, that is the fact of it! We don’t know what is stealing away our family, our friends, but it is... something. We can no longer ignore what is happening!”
The crowd burst into a cacophony of vocal additions once again, and Dean quickly observed their collected faces, recognising a handful of people. He saw both men and women of varying ethnicities: black, white, native. Young and old. He had never known the town to be so diverse when converging their efforts on any single issue, and it led him to realise that whatever was abducting the people of this town, it had no obvious preference for its victims. It was not human, therefore. In Dean’s experience there was nobody in the world who truly had no preference for the colour of a person’s skin – even himself; if someone of every shade was taken, then the creature was either blind, or desired only what existed inside the soft casing. Flesh. Souls. A beating heart. It could be anything.
“Please, please!” The mayor waved his hands down, battling the crowd back into their seats by sheer force of will. “Silence! There can be no helping your families if the hunter doesn’t know what to look for!”
“A deer!” came a bold shout from the back. “It looks like a deer!”
Clamours of agreement came from other seats, people standing up and bellowing their own thoughts, only for their words to be lost to the acoustics of the room and the cries of other people.
Dean supposed it could be a shapeshifter. He hadn’t known one to choose animal form before, but it was certainly possible...
The crowd was forced silent again, and the mayor turned to Dean once again, sweat beading on his pale forehead. “We have a great dilemma here, you see. More than a tenth of our population has been taken – and we are not a large town, Mr. Winchester. Our woodsmen, our children, they are no longer with us. We rely on this forest for life, sir. Business in trade is all well and good, but I humble myself when I say: all our livelihoods here depend on the wood our men harvest. And as you well know... winter is at our doorsteps. Already the days grow shorter, the nights get darker and colder by each turn of the sun. We will freeze without firewood, and we will grow poor if we must buy our wood from elsewhere. What a shame it is, what can we ever tell outsiders? We cannot harvest our own forest, as our forest is – haunted. We are living in shame. Our choices dwindle to nothing, like our hearths. Do we stay and mourn those who may already be lost, or do we leave this town behind, and never know what happened to them? We desire more than answers, Mr. Winchester. We want our forest back. We want our home back. And most dearly... we want our people back.” He looked pleadingly at Dean, and asked, “Can you help us?”
Dean licked his lips and watched the crowd the crowd watching him, and he felt his throat tightening. “It... it depends. Look – how many people, how many have been taken?”
“People have been disappearing since mid-summer,” the mayor replied, with heavy defeat. “Anyone who goes into the forest doesn’t come back out.”
“How many?” Dean repeated.
“Twenty-eight lost souls.”
Dean’s eyes widened, taken aback, and he looked at the assembled masses to see if he’d simply misheard. But none of their faces showed disagreement, only sorrow. “Why has it taken you so long to find help?”
Uproar began once again – but, surprisingly, this time it came from those with darker skin, most of whom were not in seats, but standing around the edges of the room. Dean held up his hand for quiet, and the crowd obeyed, faster than they had for the mayor. Dean nodded once he had silence, and he gestured towards a black woman seated near the front of the room. She wore a yellow dress of the same florid style as the white women here, but her hair was left uncovered while the white women wore hats or veils. The woman looked behind herself, then realised she was the one meant to talk.
She stood on shaking legs, holding the hand of a black man beside her. He bowed his head as she took a breath to speak. “Our daughter was the third to be taken. Her name is Betty, she is thirteen years old―” The woman’s voice broke under the weight of emotion, and her hand reached to cover her face. She wailed out her next words, looking at Dean in desperation. “Nobody would listen! They believed us but they didn’t care!”
“Here,” came another voice, a native man with long black hair, wearing a black suit. “My brother, he was taken also. Edward Black Running Coyote. He is thirty-two years of age, he was gone in the first week of August. Only now do they listen. Only now, because―”
“Because his son was taken!” A shrill voice joined a number of others, and Dean caught a white woman’s words through the others. “Mayor Bradley’s son was taken and that’s all he cares about!”
Dean looked over at the mayor, who had fallen into a chair and was resting his pale face in his hands, spectacles perched upon his knee. Dean turned back to the crowd, and waved them quiet. It took them some time.
When the room was silent, Dean shut his eyes.
“I’m sorry,” he said, hearing his own voice echo back. “I’m sorry your loved ones were taken.” He swallowed hard, looking down at the floor. “From the sound of it, you could be looking at anything from a wendigo to a shapeshifter – but it could be something else, something I’ve never encountered before. I see new things two-a-month, at least. There’s a world of uncharted horrors out there. I’m guessing you know that, you’ve seen a fragment of that world yourselves.
“Listen,” he said, raising his eyes, his attention skipping from one brokenhearted face to another. “I can’t say I know exactly what I’m doing, because I don’t. But I sure do know what to look for, all right? I can’t promise to bring your families back. But I promise to search for them to the very best of my ability.” By chance, his eyes found Miss Elsie’s from across the smoky room. He gave her a courteous nod, holding her gaze. “I promise you. I will do my best. And I will not stop until I have results.”
Monday, the 14th of September, 1890.
Hey little brother!
I’m in Black Hills! It’s the outpost, not the actual main town – and nowhere exciting, like Deadwood, but it almost feels like home. I haven’t tracked Missouri down yet, I’m hoping I’ll see her before I start the job.
Oh! THE JOB. They want me to hunt a deer. I suppose it’s a very bloodthirsty deer, it’s taken 28 damn people since June or July, I’m not sure when. The mayor only started paying attention when his own son got taken. Just seeing the angwish anguish on the black women’s faces, and the natives too... it made me feel like I wanted to vomit (and that had nothing to do with the speech I had to give. I did a speech, Sammy!)
but You know how I freckle up and tan in the sun, and I can’t help it. If I’d been born with a tan like that I might’ve been one of them, losing you and crying about it because nobody would do anything to help me, and nobody would let me rescue you myself. I want to help all those people, I know when they smile it’s the same smile, like what Missouri always said, you remember? We all hurt and love the same. Skin is the paper wrap we came in when we were gifted to the world, and all that beautiful crap.
Anyway, that’s what I’m doing tomorrow. Hunting deer. Dad would be proud at least. Did I ever tell you about that? He took me out for hunting practice when I was 14, and handed me that shotgun (my favorite one these days! it has deer on it in gold, you stole it once to shoot a ghost) and he told me to shoot this deer, and I couldn’t because it wasn’t killing anyone and it didn’t deserve to die. Dad said “Where do you think your venison comes from?” but I still couldn’t. And he tried to take the gun off me and shoot the deer himself but I wouldn’t let him, I cried out and the deer ran away. Dad hit me with the gun and I was bleeding but that’s why I like the gun, it reminds me about what’s good and what’s bad. Don’t tell him if you see him, but I’m still glad Dad went to hunt on his own. I hated working with him I miss him
It’s better when you and me hunt together.
The room Miss Elsie put me in is this little wooden corner in the inn Missouri always said was full of bedbugs. So I’m sleeping on the floor tonight! There’s a balcony to outside, though – I’m sitting there now, having a quick cigarette while I write this. This oil lamp smells worse than they usually do, and the light is attracting about 3,000 moths. It’s tempting to set fire to them just to see what happens, but I can’t very well do that after telling you about that deer now, can I?
It’s cold here. The Mayor said if all the woodcutters keep getting kidnapped by this magical deer, the whole town is going to have to move away because they can’t heat their homes over winter. I can almost understand. It’s fucking freezing, my hands are shivering (that’s why my cursive is so ugly today). But I don’t understand why they would abandon their missing family in the woods and just leave. I could never do that to you, even if my hands turned to ice and fell off. (Leaving you at Stanford to go hunting is NOT THE SAME THING.)
I hope your studies are going fine. Are you bored yet? When you’re bored we can meet up, I want to go and see the Grand Canyon again. In summer this time, last time didn’t count.
Are you still pining after that girl Jess? Her picture is still really nice, it keeps me company by my bed when there’s nobody else.
(I’M JOKING. yours is the only picture keeping me company. The same way Jessica’s picture keeps YOU company...)
(I wish I could see your face. The look of horror... ha ha ha)
I’d better finish my letter, the paper’s almost full and I should keep spares for while I’m in the forest. I don’t know how long I’ll be in there, maybe a day, maybe a week. Everyone who goes in never comes out again. I know we’ve heard that before and lived to tell the tale, but having survived previous situations never stops me being scared every time we come up against something new. ...Hopefully I won’t die, that would be inconvenient. If I die, you get the gun and everything else in my possession. (And please don’t tell anyone about the story in my bag. I won’t tell you what it is, you’ll only find out if I die. Don’t go wishing bad things on me now, though.)
Wish me luck, Sammy! – Dean
The very next morning, Dean went down to the post office to post his letter. He pushed open the door, glancing up at the bell as it danced about, disturbed by Dean’s entry. Dean strode onto the worn carpet and let the door close behind him. The room he stood in was stacked along one side with square dividers, some of which had paper inside. On the left there was a big table, where a woman and two men bent at the waist to write.
“Hasn’t changed much, has it,” Dean muttered to himself, smiling as the woman glanced up from her writing.
He went to the front desk and paid the Postmistress fifteen cents for his letter to be sent. He watched it taken into the back room, and he smiled, hoping it would get to Sam safely.
The moment he left the post office, he ran into a large, warm figure. He stepped back in alarm with his hands raised in apology. Then he saw the face of the woman. She smiled at him, and tears filled Dean’s eyes. He darted forwards again to wrap his arms around Missouri’s low shoulders.
“I’m so glad― Momma―”
“You been away too long, boy. Didn’t even write!”
“I know... Oh, I know, I’m sorry.” Dean squeezed her soft form, burying his face into the warmth of her brown shawl. He grinned as she petted his back, one hand grasping the back of his head.
“Get off me now, people will talk,” Missouri said brightly, her airy voice carrying over Dean’s shoulder as he straightened up.
The door to the post office opened, and Dean and Missouri sidestepped out of the way so another man could leave. He gave a tight, bland smile and left down the street, but he looked back over his shoulder more than once. Dean eyed him warily. A white boy like Dean raised by a black woman like Missouri wasn’t uncommon when the black woman was a maid or a nanny, but the people in this town would have heard about the Winchester boys – there had been gossip back then, and there would be gossip now. Missouri had raised Dean and Sam of her own volition, and had done a good job of it, too. Dean liked to think so, at least.
He turned back to Missouri with a huge smile on his face, trying to forget the rest of the world so he could focus on how pleased he was to see her again. Her soft hand caught his stubbled jaw, and Dean shut his eyes for a moment to let her remind herself of his face.
“You grew up too fast,” she said, shaking her head and letting her hand slide away. “You look more like your daddy now than you ever did.”
Dean swallowed and tried to smile, but ended up lowering his face, avoiding Missouri’s eye.
“Hey,” she whispered gently, taking Dean’s chin with her fingers, lifting it so she could see his face properly. “Baby, don’t you fret about your old man. He ain’t gonna bother you no more. You got enough of your mama in you to drive out his anger like she did.”
Dean looked Missouri in the eye and nodded silently, always grateful for her words. She was an expert on knowing how to ease a troubled soul.
Missouri sighed, tugging her shawl closer against her round shape. “How is Sam?”
Dean smiled. “Good. I got a letter from him I picked up while I was in Maine, he’s chasing one special girl and making himself too smart for his own good.”
Missouri made a pleased noise, crinkles appearing around her eyes.
“Me, though,” Dean said, putting his hands into his coat’s leather pockets, “I’m here on business. Hunting.”
Missouri’s expression darkened like storm clouds had just rolled across her inner moors. “That damn monster in our forest.”
“Yeah,” Dean nodded. “I think I’ll be okay, I can go in and deal with what’s there, but those missing people... I’m not optimistic. I can’t be. That many people go missing, the chances of them still being alive are―”
“Don’t you talk to me about it!” Missouri said, waving a quick hand in front of Dean. “You walking into that forest is suicide. I can’t― Baby, I can’t let you. Don’t do this.”
Dean shook his head and pulled Missouri’s hands away from his face when she tried to cradle his cheeks. “Momma, no. I’m not letting fear keep me away. If you lose me in there, at least you’ll know how I went. At least you’ll know you gotta move these people out of this town, lock this place down for good. I’m a good hunter. I have―” He bent his head and reached inside his shirt, pulling out a group of dangling amulets. “I have protection. And maybe the monster only takes Black Hills residents; I don’t live here.” He looked at Missouri sternly when she tried to interrupt. “I have to make this place safe. I was called here on a job and I’m damn well going to do my job.”
Missouri shut her mouth and sighed, her gaze resting fondly on Dean. “I’ve seen that look in your father’s eye too. There’s no stopping you.”
Dean swallowed, pushing the amulet necklaces back against his sternum. “As soon as I’ve got my bag and provisions, I’m going in.”
Missouri’s eyes closed like she didn’t want to deal with the words she’d just heard. When she opened her eyes again, she nodded. “All right,” she said, resting her hand on Dean’s heart. “I’ll pack you some lunch. Don’t you dare go anywhere until I’ve seen you off.”
Dean grinned. “Leave early and miss out on a bag of your sandwiches? I wouldn’t dream of it.”