Supernatural Fresh Meat - By Alice Henderson Page 0,33

at the bottom.

“What was it?” Jason asked.

“I have no idea. Dude was gone.”

They hiked for another half an hour, moving through trees. In the distance they thought they heard human voices, a long way off. They started moving in that direction, wanting to turn away any new hikers.

A sudden flash of movement brought Dean’s attention to the remains of a massive rockslide that had swept down the mountain in antiquity. Huge granite boulders piled up to a small level area with few trees. Standing next to one of the pines was the same thin figure they’d seen earlier. It looked human, lean and tall. Dean stared harder. Shifting his rifle from his shoulder, he pointed its scope to the spot. Standing next to the tree was a rail-thin man, one hand on the trunk. He was too far away to make out any features. He darted away, dropping out of sight as soon as Dean focused on him.

“Jason! There’s someone up there. I think it’s the same person we saw before.”

Jason trained his scope on the ridge, too. “I don’t see anyone.”

“He’s fast.” Dean lowered his rifle. He scanned the ridge one more time for the strange figure, but didn’t see anyone. Dude was used to hiding, whoever or whatever he was.

They continued on, but now they couldn’t hear the voices. Sound had a strange way of carrying in the forest. Things that were far away sounded close—voices, waterfalls—as they bounced off the granite walls. Dean wondered if they were walking near another trail.

As he paused to check the map, he suddenly felt eyes burning into him. Pivoting, he saw the figure again, only this time he stood only a hundred feet away. He’d crept up on them, moving with no sound. A dark hood was pulled around his head, obscuring the face. Dean snapped up his rifle, ready to fire.

EIGHTEEN

As Bobby’s van rumbled over the rough road back to the main drag, its familiar scent surrounded Sam. The smell of Bobby’s cars, a mixture of oil and the comforting scent of sun-warmed flannel, instantly transported Sam back to his childhood. How many times had he driven around with Bobby while his dad was out on a case? A lot of the time Dean and his dad worked together, leaving Sam alone. It had created a distance between Sam and his father and brother. But Bobby had always been there. He had a way of making Sam feel at home.

They hit Highway 80 and drove west. Passing through Emigrant Gap, Sam watched the now-familiar edifices of smooth grey granite on both sides of the highway. In cracks in the granite, pine trees grew. Sam flipped the sun visor down as the afternoon wore on. The canyon of the Yuba River soon yawned before them, carving deep trenches in the granite. Fire scars marked the forest here and there, creating a swath of bare trees, many scorched black.

They descended, entering the foothills. Pine trees covered rounded slopes and the sun streamed through the branches. Soon the foothills leveled out, and they entered the Central Valley. In the distance, Sam could see the outline of Sacramento’s downtown cluster of buildings. The wide, flat plain of the American River stretched before them.

They drove past the skyscrapers and over the river. The sun dipped lower and Sam shifted in his seat, worried about Dean. He didn’t like leaving him out there. He knew that joining Bobby would make assembling the weapon go a hell of a lot faster, but he was still uneasy. Dean hadn’t been the same since Sam got his soul back. Sam had watched his brother wandering around only partly engaged. Disillusionment and weariness kept creeping closer to Dean.

“Bobby,” Sam said, squinting in the sun to face him. “I’m worried about Dean.”

Bobby regarded him out of the corner of his eye. “And he’s worried about you. Some things never change. You two spend more time worrying about each other than you do breathing in and out.”

“I’m serious. This feels different.”

Bobby sighed. “All right, how does it feel different?”

“It feels like Dean wants to give up.”

“Yeah, I’ve noticed that, too,” Bobby conceded reluctantly. “Not a safe way to be in this game. The last thing a hunter needs is to be distracted.”

“Or disillusioned.”

“Yeah.”

“Can you talk to him?”

“I will.”

As they drove across the Yolo Wildlife Area, Sam stared out at the birds gathering in the wetlands just off the highway. He thought about his brother, about the strange distance that had arisen between