Title: Corpse Fire
Summary: With the frigid wind whipping through the trees and an air temperature a few degrees below freezing, a little kid in a thinning coat and no gloves didn't stand a chance.
Spoilers: None. Pre-series.
Rating/Warning: T, rated mostly for language and children in danger.
Disclaimer: John, Dean, and Sam Winchester belong to Eric Kripke and the CW. I'm just playing with someone else's toys.
Author's Note: Allenstown, New Hampshire is real, the events are not. Wee!Chesters: Dean is 14, Sam is 10. Though it's being posted in pieces, the story is finished and my plan is to release a new chapter every Sunday. Feedback makes me happy!
We're chasing fireflies! Dean Winchester silently grumbled as he slammed the passenger side door of the Impala closed. We're going to freeze our asses off out here because of some freaking glow-in-the-dark insects
The source of Dean's unusual crankiness was the fact that he absolutely hated New England this close to winter. As if a week-long squat in a closed-for-the-season cabin at Lake Winnipesaukee wasn't bad enough. If it was the middle of July, sure. That would have been nice and rather refreshing. But in the middle of November? On the eve of a frigid New England winter, lakefront property in New Hampshire might as well have been an igloo in Alaska.
When the water wraith that had taken up residence in the lake--a particularly nasty son of a bitch--was finally taken care of, Dean had silently rejoiced. He had every intention of getting out of New Hampshire and making sure his dad didn't hear about anything else in the northeastern part of the country until, say, May? June? Somewhere around there. Unfortunately that plan was not meant to be, and Dean had only his own big mouth to blame.
He just had to remind his father that the snack stash was getting low. Actually, what he had said was, "We won't be able to shut Sam up with Doritos anymore because we don't have any." The comment had earned him a smack in the arm from his brother and a scowl from his father, but it also got the point across. John had stopped at a Cumberland Farms in Weirs Beach to refill the boys' junk food cache.
And it was between picking up a bag of gummy worms and a box of Milk Duds that John heard two teenagers talking excitedly but in hushed tones about ghost lights in a cemetery in a small town forty or so miles to the south. Ghost lights were interesting, sure, but it wasn't until he heard one kid tell the other that three hikers died from exposure after becoming lost in the woods abutting the graveyard that he started entertaining the notion of going to the cemetery to investigate.
Once back in the Impala, John announced the change of plans and Dean was suddenly wishing he'd waited until they were back on the interstate to mention the missing snacks.
Now out of the car, gloves on, all he needed was his backpack. He had dumped it unceremoniously in the back at his brother's feet for the sole purpose of crowding Sam and thereby driving him completely crazy. With a soft snicker at his own antics, he grasped the door handle and tugged.
He realized too late that his little brother had fallen asleep leaning against the door. The seatbelt was Sam's savior; the thin strap was the only thing that kept him from tumbling right out of the car. Dean snorted and had to bite his lower lip to keep from laughing out loud at the groggy confusion on his poor brother's face. "Sorry, Sammy."
Sam grunted in response as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes. "Where are we?"
"Welcome to glorious Allenstown, New Hampshire." Dean reached past Sam to grab his backpack from the floor of the car. "Home of … well, not much, but maybe some dangerous fireflies."
"Dean."
The single word spoken forcefully from behind the open trunk was enough to make Dean cringe. "Sorry, sir," he immediately replied. Crap. No mocking the ghosts while Dad is in earshot.
Sam gave his brother a puzzled frown. "Fireflies?" he whispered, casting a furtive glance over his shoulder at his father.
Dean shrugged, hooking one strap of his backpack over his shoulder. "Ghost lights."
"But … ghost lights are caused by swamp gas, aren't they?" Finally Sam climbed out of the car, stretching his arms and legs. He let out a large yawn but was soon wide awake as an icy gust of wind blew right through him. "Holy crap! It's like the North Pole out here!"
John heaved a sigh as he slammed the trunk closed. "Ghost lights can be caused by swamp gas, yes." He walked up to his boys and handed a small satchel and a flashlight to his youngest. "But in case you haven't noticed, New Hampshire isn't exactly swamp territory."
Sam turned and flashed a teasing grin at his brother. "So that's why we're chasing dangerous fireflies!" he said brightly.
Not funny. Dean narrowed his eyes at Sam and waited for John's back to be turned before reaching out and swiftly giving his little brother a thwack upside the head.
"Ow!" Sam cried, his hand flying to his head too late to protect it from Dean's assault. "What the hell was that for?"
"Nothing," Dean replied, snickering. "Wait 'til you do something."
Sam stood motionless, opening and closing his mouth as he attempted to come up with a proper retort. Dean was reminded of a few of the fish he'd seen at the aquarium in Boston.
The moment passed and unable to think of a good zinger, Sam just groaned and made a face at Dean before stomping off and sidling up beside John. When John looked down and rested a hand on Sam's head with a half-smile, Dean rolled his eyes. Sammy could be such a suck-up when he wanted to be.
Dean followed a few paces behind his father and brother and allowed his attention to wander. The flashlight in his hand illuminated the thin, crumbling Reconstruction-era grave markers and as he passed, he noted dates of birth and death and mentally figured the ages of the people buried below the slate stones. Most of them were relatively young, just a little bit older than his father.
Shivering in the cold wind, he paused just to the side of one headstone in particular, the dates making him stop in his tracks. Buried below the grass was a boy his own age: fourteen. With one eye on his brother and father, he lingered a moment longer and wondered what could have killed the boy so young.
The Winchesters traipsed through Evans Cemetery for a fruitless hour. Sam had grown tired and cranky and was now whining about how cold he was and how much his feet hurt. Dean again rolled his eyes. He was cold and his feet hurt, too, but he knew better than to gripe about it.
"Sam, knock it off," John snapped after a minute.
See? Dean thought. Complaining never got either of them anywhere.
"Come on, boys," John grumbled, heaving a frustrated and disappointed sigh. He turned around and began making his way back towards the car. "There's nothing here."
"Great," Dean muttered as he turned the collar of his coat up to cover the back of his neck. "Does that mean we can find something to hunt in, I don't know, maybe Florida?" Florida was sunshine and warm breezes, seventy-five-degree days, and sixty-degree nights. Absolute perfection.
If John heard Dean's muted mumbling, he didn't acknowledge it.
The Impala was just coming back into view when Sam abruptly stopped his own quiet grumbling and pointed towards an expanse of woods to their left. "Dad, wait!" he hissed, afraid of making too much noise. "Can you see it?"
It was so faint that Dean didn't see it at first. As he stared, it became clearer: a small white orb of white light that flickered in and out of view as if slowly moving in and among the trees. "Nice going, Sammy," he mumbled under his breath, both seriously and sarcastically.
"It's kind of pretty," Sam whispered. It was clear this time that he hadn't meant to be heard.
Dean had to agree with his brother on that point. As pretty and interesting as it was, though, he didn't think it looked like a real ghost light. Most likely some kids with a flashlight were playing pranks.
He flicked his eyes to his father and almost groaned aloud when he saw the small smirk on John's face. Dean knew that smirk. The slight curl of his father's lip meant that he could kiss his dreams of sunny Florida goodbye. A sudden gust of wind swirled through the cemetery and blew through his coat. Great, he thought with a deep shiver, it's too damn cold for this.