TWENTY-FIVE
Dean started awake, unable to breathe. He panicked, opening his eyes wide, but seeing only white. Jerking upright, he flailed in his sleeping bag. Wet seeped through him. He twisted his arms and legs free and realized he was completely buried under a thick layer of snow. Wiping it from his face, he got his bearings. He was in the clearing where they'd made camp, and a serious storm had moved in. A fresh blanket of powdery snow covered everything. The dim glow of dawn illuminated the east.
Dean looked around for Jason, but didn't see him. He got up, walking to where Jason's bag had been. He felt around underneath the snow. A lump at the base of a tree proved to be Jason's backpack.
Dean retrieved the concoction from his sleeping bag and walked around the clearing, looking for tracks. He didn't find any. Wherever Jason had gone, he'd done it a while ago.
He searched in a widening spiral, finding the tracks of a deer and a rabbit, but no shoe prints.
"Jason!" he shouted.
He listened to the ensuing silence.
Snow continued to fall, and it was cold now. Dean's breath frosted in the air, which felt like it was in the mid-twenties. He moved around in greater and greater circles, radiating outward from their camp. There was no sign of Jason.
Finally he stopped, listening to the heavy silence. The snow-laden forest was eerily still. Not a bird. Not even the wind. Dean waited, but didn't hear anything. Jason had either walked away earlier in the night, or something had taken him.
Dean was beginning to feel really cold. He was grateful for his rain gear, which at least kept him dry. He unpacked his thicker coat and put it on under his rain parka. The snow kept falling, getting deeper and deeper, and his feet were starting to go numb. He'd waited in the clearing, making sure that Jason hadn't just gone off to do some reconnaissance, but he hadn't come back. Dean noticed that his food, water bottle, map, and compass were still in his pack.
How could Dean have slept through Jason being taken? He knew the thing was fast and quiet, but he felt wide open, thinking the aswang had been in the camp, seizing someone only feet away from him.
Dean decided to do a wider patrol, and donned his pack, rolling up his bedding and covering it with a rainproof bag.
He headed out, keeping the bottle with the spice concoction close at hand. He'd hiked about a mile, moving in greater and greater circles, when he found a trail of blood in the snow. It led deeper into the forest, away from the trails. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the cell phone. He'd check in with Bobby and Sam and then follow the trail, try to get Jason back.
He pressed the power button, but his phone wouldn't turn on. He tried again and again, but it was dead. The cold had sucked the juice right out of the battery. Dean dug a pair of gloves out of his pack and a woolly hat and donned them.
He had his phone charger, but the nearest place he could think of that had juice was his car, and he couldn't go back there now. He had to find Jason. If there was a chance the hunter was still alive, Dean had to take it.
He followed the trail of blood in the snow. Indistinct impressions ran alongside the blood, prints filled in by the fresh snow. Dean couldn't tell if they were Jason's boot prints or not. Not enough detail remained. The bleeding grew thicker and penetrated deeper. Jason-if it was Jason and not another hiker-was losing a lot of blood. As Dean walked on, the snow continued to fall. Soon he was stepping in snow up to mid-calf. His feet were even colder now. White was starting to cover the blood trail, and Dean picked up his pace, trying to catch up before the trail vanished altogether. He walked on, sinking deeper and deeper. The snow fell on and on, soon laying down two feet on the ground. Dean sank up to his knees. The slogging was exhausting. At times he lost the blood trail, having to walk fifty feet or more before he found it again.
