Supernatural Fresh Meat

FIFTY-FIVE




Sam looked back at Bobby, who now trailed him. “We need to rest,” he said.

His friend waved him on. Blood from Bobby’s head wound soaked the parka. They had tried to stop the bleeding by applying pressure, but it kept opening up again with Bobby’s exertions.

Sam bit his lip. He knew Bobby was going to hate him for this. “Why don’t we put up your tent? I’ll set you up in there, all warm, and come back and get you after I reach the resort.”

Bobby stopped, staring at him with narrowed eyes. “What are you, some kind of idjit?” He gestured dismissively at his head. “You think I haven’t had worse than this? Son, I’ve been near death so many times it would astound you. Now shut your trap and keep hiking. I’m fine, god damn it.”

Yeah. Bobby hated that.

Sam turned around and kept walking, stopping every half-hour to double check the map. They’d had precious few glimpses of the cliffs around them, but were fairly certain they were headed in the right direction. But now the light was starting to fade, and with both of them injured, he knew that the plummeting temperature would be brutal.

Still, they had at least an hour of daylight left, and were determined to make it count. They hiked through the forest, the snow drifts many feet deep in places. Sam listened to the rhythmic pace of his snowshoes as they moved through the powder.

Bobby shivered and muttered to himself, and Sam started to worry about hypothermia. They had laid out in the snow all night. Their only water was what Sam had in his water bottle, and that was almost gone. Dehydration and blood loss were taking their toll.

Sam felt colder than he ever had before. Sometimes Lucifer walked beside him, whispering of the fires of Hell, of the warmth there. Lucifer told him to lie down in the snow and sleep.

Shaking his head, Sam pushed away the images.

He’d stopped the bleeding on his forehead and washed most of the dried blood from his face with snow, but he felt it sticking in his hair and woolen hat. His battered fingers stung in the cold despite the gloves. Still, none of his injuries were as bad as Bobby’s. That blow to the head was a nasty one, and he definitely had a concussion. His wrist may not be broken, but it was badly swollen.

As he trudged, Sam’s thoughts wandered to the Donner Party. He imagined the Forlorn Hope slogging through the snow like this with makeshift snowshoes. Sam’s stomach rumbled. He and Bobby had split the last of the jerky more than an hour ago. He couldn’t imagine being out here and not having eaten for a week. Mired in during a blizzard, the Forlorn Hope had been reduced to eating the oxhide laces of their snowshoes. The desperation of eating the very mode of conveyance that could deliver you to safety was a bleak act.

His thoughts turned to Dean. His brother had always been there for him, defending him no matter what, always looking out for him. There was no way he was going to let Dean down. No way.

He glanced back at Bobby, who was still grumbling.

Bobby tore off his warm cap and threw it down in the snow, then kept walking.

“Bobby.”

Bobby tore off his gloves and started to unzip his jacket.

“What are you doing?”

“It’s too damn hot. I’m burning up in all these layers.”

Sam rushed back to him. “Bobby. It’s not hot. It’s freezing.”

“Maybe you’re freezing. I’m burning up.” He shucked off his jacket, casting it aside. “It ain’t enough that we can’t get the floors clean. Now we have to deal with this.”

“Floors?” Bobby shoved past him, leaving his warm clothes behind. Sam picked them up. “Bobby, put these back on.”

He waved at Sam dismissively. “Hell if I will.”

The anger, the illusion of warmth… Sam stopped. This was advanced hypothermia. They had to stop now and build a fire, or Bobby would be dead within a few hours.