TWENTY-SEVEN
Dean continued on, following the blood trail and keeping watch for the skinny figure on the ridgeline. Snow continued to fall, now reaching above his knees. Every few minutes he checked his map and compass, looking backward to familiarize himself with how the trail would look when he turned back. But even with his map, he wasn't exactly sure where he was. With the ground covered in snow, it was almost impossible to see when he crossed actual marked trails that appeared on the map. Though a couple of times he had spotted trail markers in the trees and been able to pinpoint his location.
It had now been more than half an hour since he was positive where he was. He consoled himself with the thought that, if necessary, he could just walk directly backward in a straight line, keeping track of his own old depressions in the snow. The blood continued to be visible, but just barely. The red sank far down into the snow layers, which gave Dean hope that the source was warm and still alive.
He walked for twenty more minutes, slogging through the deep, exhausting snow, his feet getting ever colder. Soon he couldn't feel the toes on his left foot at all, though underneath his rain parka, coat, and pants he was dry, which kept him reasonably warm as long as he kept moving.
Dean crested a small rise, almost slipping on an ice-covered section of granite. The wind kicked up, blowing the snow perpendicular to the ground. For a second he couldn't see and had to stop, closing his eyes against the gale. It buffeted his back, forcing him off the rock. He struggled to remain standing as snow spiraled blindingly around him. The wind shoved him back a step, and he turned away from it, letting it hit him in the back instead of the face. He could hear a great rushing sound from another blast of wind in the trees. When it hit him, he stumbled forward a step. His parka hood flapped and fluttered around his head. Then the wind eased off.
Dean backtracked to the rock where he'd stepped off, and saw that the blood trail had been completely obliterated. The snow had buried the red trace, and the depressions of footprints had been swallowed by more powder. He walked straight forward, trying to remember exactly where he had stepped off the rock so he could continue in a straight line. He was pretty sure he found the place and started walking again, staggering in the deepening snow.
After a while he began to doubt if he was still on the right path after all. He strained to pick up any strange sounds, but could only hear the roar of the wind. Feeling tired and hungry, he retrieved a pack of jerky from his pack, which he chewed as he resumed walking.
He wondered how Bobby and Sam were doing, if they were on their way back yet. By now they would know something was wrong with Dean. He was overdue to check in by more than fifteen hours. But he couldn't just leave Jason. He decided his best bet was to try to pick up the trail again, find out if Jason was still alive.
Dean headed on in as straight a line as he could manage. The snow continued to cascade down-it hadn't stopped since he'd woken up. The clouds hung so thickly that the light had a dim, grey cast to it, making it darker than it should be. A chill had settled into Dean's bones, and now he kept moving in order to get warm. He stumbled along, finding his water bottle in the pack and drinking without pausing.
Half an hour later, he had to admit to himself that the trail was gone. The snowstorm had obliterated it, laying a pristine, sparkling layer of white over everything.
Dean was exhausted from pushing through the deep snow. He decided that he had to return to his car, recharge his phone, try to get warm. Get Bobby and Sam to pick up some snowshoes on their way in.
His stomach churning with frustration, Dean paused to get his bearings before starting back.
As he looked around, he saw a column of smoke rising up through a clump of trees in the distance. He could smell it on the wind, the scent of a campfire.
Dean started off in the direction of the smoke. If it was a forest fire, it could mean signs of a struggle, maybe a Molotov mishap. Jason might be nearby. If it was a cabin, Dean relished the thought of getting warm.
He pressed close to the trees, approaching cautiously. He could really smell the smoke now, a scent that reminded him of days in front of the fireplace when he was little.
As he got nearer, he saw that it was a little cabin. Tiny, with space for only a couple of rooms, the structure sported a wooden frame and a fireplace pieced together with small granite stones. Dean continued slowly.
He was thirty feet away from the front door when he noticed the blood smear above the door handle. The door stood slightly ajar.
