Nighttime has long since bled black into the sky, obscuring the blue and the light that comes with it. Jensen Ackles squints in the dark, trying to keep his Jeep on the road while searching for his Uncle's cabin. The trees that line a road that might have been even 50 years ago blend together, knitting long limbs to create what feels like a blanket of nothingness around him.

"Fuck," he mutters to himself, not bothering to check the gps that sits on the seat next to him. It lost a signal about twenty miles back, and besides, he'd almost thrown it out the window when it tried to send him the wrong way down a one-way street. He and Sean (the rather mechanical Irish-voiced setting on the device) aren't exactly seeing eye-to-eye at the moment. So he just keeps going, peering through the woods, hoping that he won't have to sleep in his car. But as he resigns himself to the fact that he's probably going to have to curl up in the back seat and hope for better luck when it's light, he finds himself pulling into a clearing, and a second later spots a mailbox with the name 'Ackles' painted across the side. Finally, he thinks, relief flooding through him. As much as he screwed around in the outdoors growing up, this is an entirely different neck of the woods, and he has no interest in finding out just how big and confusing it really is.

The cabin looks just how he remembers it, though he'd only been once before as a brooding teen, cursing lame parents for pulling him away from friends and his summer vacation back in Texas. With a sigh, he parks the car and stretches, arching his back until it burns sweetly, rolling his shoulders to get some of the kinks and tension out. His suitcase and the few bags of groceries he's taken with him are carried easily enough in one load; on the door, taped to brittle, splitting wood, is a note, labeled simply 'Jensen.'

Jensen,

The key's under the plant, like always. Directions to the county store are on the counter in the kitchen. I hope you have fun, kid. It's nice to know someone other than the caretakers will enjoy themselves here. Call me if you have any problems.

-Dave.

The key, as promised, is indeed under a potted plant near the door. He lets himself into the house and breathes deep the scent of woods and clean air. And god, the silence. It's bone-deep, punctuated only by the surrounding nature and animals, which only make the seclusion more obvious. But it's welcome—needed, even. It's a place to think straight, to get away from all the stimuli of life and distraction. It's a place where he can stop, just for a second. A few revolutions of breath (in, out, calm) later, he decides it's time for a beer. The groceries are basic and put away quickly; his clothes he leaves in the suitcase, too lazy to do anything with for the time being. He turns the lights on as he goes through each room, revealing a little cabin that time forgot. Everything is exactly how it was, though he is much changed. But something about the simplicity of the remote vacation spot puts him at ease, makes his insides unclench, if just a bit.

He chooses to settle down in his old room. There's a television that wasn't there before, though it doesn't actually matter, since all it seems to pick up is the fuzz of electric snow. The sheets have been changed, the bed crisply made. His uncle's caretakers were good, whoever they were. Wherever. He sets his sweating beer down on the bedside table and lays back on the cool sheets, staring at the ceiling. He doesn't try to fall asleep, especially not in his clothes but the coils of unconsciousness unfurl within his mind, dragging him down and away. The taste of baked earth and salt is hot on his tongue and by that alone he realizes he's dreaming, but he's not in control anymore, can't regulate the situations that follow. He's running now, can feel the fingers of sweat leak down his face and back, a disgusting caress that only speeds him up, though his lungs burn and legs ache. He has to keep going, though, can't stop because the hisses and snaps that sound behind him aren't playing around. There's a house ahead, one made of stone and he thanks a God he doesn't believe in as he slides behind it, almost collapsing as he leans into it. He sighs, relief filling his veins, rushing through him alongside blood that's not doing its job—can't be, because fuck, he just needs air and he can't find it, can't get it in fast enough.

It's when he looks down, though, that he stops breathing completely. Because there's a woman there, one who can't be more than twenty-five, and she's holding something but blood obscures everything until she swipes a trembling hand across the bundle and he can see that it's a child, a child that's making wet gasping noises like cough-choking. He reaches, moves to help and then—

It's a sound that wakes Jensen up. He doesn't know at first, though, because he's too busy gripping his head, catching his breath as his heart pounds in his ears and the tips of his fingers, a pound that sounds like alive alive alive. Doesn't feel like it, though. And then there it is again, a sound, one that finally makes its way through his panic but only makes it flare up again because it sounds like a person, a howl, a cry for help.

Ice blooms in him, makes his chest tighten so he can't move, can barely think, but he fights at it, tries to push it away. Come on Jen , he urges, Get up. Go see what it is. He does, and the fear dissipates because this is his place and he can handle himself, isn't going to let the past that haunts his dreams start taking over his life. A quick look around produces a baseball bat that he grips steadily, the weight comforting in his hands. He flicks on the outside light before heading out onto the porch, where nothing seems to be out of his place.

But then—there it is again, lower now, quieter, a moan of pain, of pleading. With careful steps, Jensen heads toward the noise, one foot in front of the other, pupils opening up in the dark, seeking any light to guide him over uneven ground. He stumbles soon enough, though, over something that's not solid enough to be rock, that's too large to be a tree branch. He counterbalances, arms wheeling madly, and falls solidly on his ass.

"What the," he hisses, reaching out before reason can stop him, warn him that, hey, whatever he's just tripped over could be a bear or a bobcat or some other equally dangerous animal that would probably like nothing more than to rip his arm off. Sense doesn't show up, though, so his fingers continue forward until they connect with soft fabric and beneath that, the skin of a person.

"Shit, shit!" Jensen scrambles back a little, but the person in front of him doesn't move, doesn't try to get up and rob or beat him, so he inches forward again, holding his breath.

"Please," a voice whispers, and it's low, a guy's, but it's also faint and heavy with unmistakable pain. Instantly, Jensen's touching lightly, trying to find the guy's waist so he can be helped up, moved inside to be looked at. He slings his other arm around the man's torso.

"If you can walk, try to help me, ok?" He says, keeping his voice steady, trying to speak slowly, succinctly. Standing is a bit of an obstacle, even with the weak help from the guy, who seems to be at least four inches taller than Jensen himself. But he's strong and there's a rush of adrenaline in his veins that tells him he will get this person inside, he will help them, no matter what.

The path to the house stretches into infinity like the horizon, each step taking more out of him than the last, but then they're there, crossing over the threshold together. Jensen holds the man lightly as he reaches for a kitchen chair, though his grip tightens as he starts to sway. When the stranger is seated firmly, Jensen kneels before him, takes in strong, sharp features, long eyelashes and dark hair that curls around his ears. He's handsome in a way that looks carved, designed by artists, borne into perfection that's carefully cultivated, attention paid to every detail. He would be even more beautiful, Jensen knows, if he weren't covered in blood.