Disclaimer/Spoilers/Authors: See Chapter 1

a/n: Thanks so much for reading and reviewing!

Nose to the wind
Feeling I have been
All senses clean
Back to the meaning, back to the meaning of wolf and man…

www

Earth's gift

The window behind Sam's braced form shattered, shards of glass raining down as he whirled to meet the attack. He caught a flash of teeth and claws, yellow eyes filled with purposeful rage as the massive werewolf hurtled into the bedroom, shredding the wooden frame. Before Sam could take a shot, the creature's weight thundered into him, plowing him onto the floor. Both guns flew from his hands as he landed, hard, on his back, his breath rushing from him on impact. Sound, image, feeling all faded and Sam was sinking… sinking…

"SAM!"

Dean's voice hammered through his fog and he gasped for air as the world pulled together, rolling quickly to his left to avoid the set of claws determined to flay him. He pulled his elbow back, fast, catching the wolf across the muzzle and causing it to stagger and growl.

"Watch the damn teeth, Sammy!" Dean bellowed.

Dean gripped the handle of the Bowie knife, his eyes pinned to his brother's struggling form. He saw his .45 laying several agonizing feet away and gritted his teeth. Get the gun… gotta get the gun… Panic frayed the edges of his consciousness. His eyes never left Sam, something telling him that if he looked away, even for an instant, it would be over. Come on, move your ass, Winchester.

The werewolf seemed to pause as he stood over Sam. As he reached back blindly, struggling to grasp a weapon—any weapon—Sam could smell the beast's fetid breath, could see the threads of deadly saliva that dripped from his jagged fangs. As if it had all the time in the world, the creature reared and opened its mouth in a cruel sneer. Sam had the impression the beast was smiling, its gaze mocking and hate-filled.

Dean panted, cursing his uncooperative muscles. He tried to will himself forward, tried to summon some vestige of strength that might propel him toward the gun. Watching in horror, he saw the beast rear back, saw the murderous glint in its eyes, and in that moment he knew it meant to finish Sam… get him out of the way before focusing on Dean… before turning him.

I won't let you get us… Reacting instinctively, Dean gripped the only weapon at his disposal: the silver blade. With a haunted, guttural yell he drew back his arm and hurled the knife directly at the werewolf's chest. The silver found its mark and the creature screamed in pain, stumbling backwards. Utterly spent, Dean collapsed, his body finally reaching its breaking point.

Taking swift advantage of the distraction, Sam clambered onto his side and snatched up the Glock. Nine rounds… His hunter's instincts triggered that reminder and as the beast reeled from Dean's blade, Sam fired directly at the beast's chest, again and again, his lips curling into a snarl. Four, five, six… Sam sat up as the creature retreated, keeping his gun trained on the beast's chest. Round after round of silver caught the werewolf and it staggered backward with a roar of pain and rage, tipping and careening out of the open space that had once been a window.

The monster landed on its back on the wide, sloped roof, flailing wildly and trying in vain to gain a claw hold. Eight, nine… Sam fired until the hammer hit on an empty chamber, and watched as the werewolf slipped and gave a surprised yelp before plummeting to the ground below.

Dropping the empty Glock and scooping up Dean's .45, Sam stood and trained the weapon on the opening, taking a few hesitant steps toward the window. His breath coming in harsh bursts, he braced himself against the wall and leaned out over the roof, noting the deep gouges on the sloped surface and peered down at the crumpled body below. Sam stared for a full minute, not trusting gravity to have done its part to destroy such evil.

As he watched with a mixture of horror and amazement, the figure on the ground began to change from wolf to man. Will Randall now lay below him in a twisted tangle of limbs, Dean's knife protruding from his chest. Finally satisfied by the grotesque angle of Will's head in relation to his body, Sam lowered his shoulders, dropping the .45, and turned his focus towards Dean.

"It's over, Dean. He's dead."

Dean tipped his head forward in response and a ghost of a smile flitted across his pale features before his eyes rolled back and his head slumped to the side. Sam was across the room and kneeling next to his brother in an instant, worry creasing his brow.

"Dean? Answer me, man. Come on, Dean, wake up." Sam cupped Dean's head in his hands. Dammit, Dean. Stay with me.

Dean remained unresponsive, freckles standing out against the ivory of his skin like warning signs, smudges of purple lining his eyes. As he rested the palm of his hand against Dean's warm cheek, flashes of memory assaulted Sam. A hospital… a ouiji board… just starting to be brothers again… you said a Reaper was after me… how did I beat it? Once again Dean was cheating death.How many times could Dean teeter on the brink without falling over the edge?

Sam forced himself out of his reverie and into the moment at hand. Will might be dead but they still needed to get the hell out of Dodge. Dean needed medical attention, and fast.

Wiping the back of his hand across his mouth, Sam went over to the bedroom door, his boots crunching on the shattered glass that covered the floor. He shoved the sewing machine away from the door with a grunt of effort, and using his legs when his arms started to tremble, he moved the dresser just enough away from the door that he could open it. He peered out into the demolished hallway; the door was lacerated with claw marks, the floor gouged deep with the same. Broken pieces of the stairway banister were strewn across the hall and down the stairs.

He looked back over at Dean. His brother's eyes were closed, and other than his rapid breathing, he was utterly still. Sam knew he was going to have to carry him out of there.

"At least it's down the stairs and not up 'em," he muttered as he braced himself to pick up Dean's limp body.

For what felt like the millionth time that day, Sam cursed the cast that made any physical activity more difficult. His body ached from his encounters with the werewolf, his shoulder throbbed from where he'd thrown himself repeatedly against the basement door. He shoved the empty Glock into Dean's jacket pocket and the .45 into the back of his waistband.

Grunting with exertion, he lifted Dean into a slumped sitting position, then tucked his shoulder into Dean's middle. Grasping Dean's left wrist once more he groaned aloud as he shifted the dead weight of his brother over his shoulder, muscles rebelling against their burden. Knowing there was no other way, Sam summoned the last reserves of his will and made his way out of the bedroom, stepping over the broken banister, and walked slowly down the stairs, pausing every few steps to catch his breath and gather his strength.

When he reached the foot of the stairs, the permeating stench of decay and death assaulted his nose and he glanced instinctively to his right at the basement door. It stood wide open. Shit! I can't believe I missed that one, Sam thought, cursing his oversight. Will must have gotten back into the house to attack them through the basement. But… how the hell did Will get into the basement?

Easing Dean down from his shoulder to lay on the ground at the base of the stairs, Sam grabbed the hammer he'd discarded in the corner of the room earlier and went to work pulling the protective planks of wood from the front door. Grunting with exertion, he pried the wood away, glancing every few seconds over to Dean's too-still form. Dean still was just… wrong. He was always moving, talking, singing, eating… he was energy. He was life.

Sam panted with exhaustion as the last board remained stubbornly in place. He rested his forearm against the doorframe, then dropped his sweaty forehead onto his arm. Voices echoed in his head like forgotten pieces of a vision. Look, maybe you're imagining a hunt where there isn't one so you don't have to think about Mom or Dad… I was right about the zombie. I'm right about this… You bastard… you can't just…say that… you can't… Dad, don't… don't… I don't want to hear it… You think we gotta do our jobs… no matter what?

Swallowing a sudden rush of nausea from the violent swirl of unanswered questions, Sam pushed himself away from the doorway and attacked the last stubborn board with vengeance. It came free and he threw it behind him with a growl. Turning back to Dean, he shifted his brother forward, wrapping his arms around Dean's middle and dragged him outside, propping him carefully against the house.

He looked over to the crumpled, naked form of Will Randall. Under circumstances that passed for normal in the Winchesters' world, Sam would've immediately burned the body. This time, however, his brother was hurt. And that took precedence over a werewolf corpse. He jogged quickly over to the body, grimacing as he wrapped his fingers around the hilt of Dean's Bowie knife and pulled it free from Will's chest with a sick-sounding wet pop. As he stood, he caught sight of the cellar door.

The double doors leading to the cellar lay on the ground, ripped clean from their hinges. The heavy beam that had been across the doors, bracing them shut, was several feet across the yard, away from the house. Sam shook his head in wonder. That bastard just wouldn't give up. He let his eyes trail up the marks and gouges in the wood along an ivy-covered latticework trellis. The marks led from the destroyed cellar door to the sloped roof just under the shattered window.

"He told you that you wouldn't get him," Sam whispered, sparing a final glance as the body of Will Randall.

Wiping the blade of the knife clean on the side of his jeans, Sam ran back to the house. Now what? How the hell am I supposed to get Dean to town? Sam recalled Will's mention of a barn. He mopped sweat from his brow with his forearm and glanced down at Dean. It's worth a try…

Sliding the knife into his back pocket, he bent down and retrieved the flashlight from Dean's jacket pocket, briefly touched his brother's face, then sprinted around the back of the house to the large, red structure. He didn't know what he hoped to find there. A tractor? Tires? A stretch limo with a driver waiting to take them to the nearest hospital?

He slid to a stop in front of the barn doors. He looked back toward the house, remembering Dean's slumped form. Turning his attention back at the barn, he swallowed, shooting a helpless prayer skyward. Come on, give me something here. He gave the door handle a jerk and tugged until it slid open. He flicked the flashlight on, its weak beam barely penetrating the murkiness of the interior.

Taking a moment to allow his eyes to adjust to the dimly lit barn, Sam stepped backwards as a horrific stench reached his nostrils. What the…? He covered his nose with the back of his right hand and reached back to his waistband to grip the gun with his left.

He moved forward, his steps cautious and measured. Gagging, he almost regretted the fact that his eyes had adjusted to the gloom as the source of the smell became obvious. Animals in various stages of decay were pinned to the walls of the barn, strewn across the floor, slung over sawhorses. It was a veritable carnivorous smorgasbord. Guess ole Will did try to fight his urges… at least for awhile.

For a moment Sam was so distracted by the gore that surrounded him, he failed to notice the rusting baby blue pick-up truck hulking in the corner of the barn. When he did, his eyes widened in shock.

"Son of a bitch!" He cried out, hearing his brother in his voice.

Sam stared at the old truck, his fury building. The whole time. The whole time there had been a way out. A way for Dean to get to help. Sam gripped the cold metal handle of the cab door, standing amidst the gory tableau of the barn, and stared. Simply stared at the pale blue interior, the hard metal steering wheel, the AM radio, the floor stick shift… and the wires hanging down from under the steering column.

Dean's broken plea echoed in his ears. We can't leave this. I-if it's not me… it's gonna be someone else… h-he's gonna try to turn someone else… Will wanted Dean for his own the minute they'd knocked on his door. The minute he'd seen his son standing there and not Dean. Sam felt sick. He'd gotten them into this mess. Sure, Dean had been willing, had seen the hunt the same time he had… Doesn't matter, I pushed him, this is my fault…

He'd gotten them into this mess, and he was damn sure gonna get them out. He stared at the wires hanging beneath the dash.

"Okay, so… no keys… but maybe I could…"

Sam leaned in, separating the four wires in his fingers. Resting the flashlight on the seat and pulling the wires further from beneath the steering column, Sam grabbed Dean's knife from his back pocket and stripped the plastic sheath from the wires. He snapped them together, hoping for a spark. Nothing.

"Too many damn wires," he grumbled. "How old is this freakin' truck?"

Who am I kidding… He knew how to hotwire some cars, but this… this was beyond him. He needed Dean.

Sam sprinted back to the house, crouching in front of Dean's slumped, inert form.

"Hey," he said softly, tapping Dean's cheek. Dean's dark lashes fluttered once, but he didn't wake. "Hey, Dean… open your eyes, man."

Dean frowned but didn't open his eyes.

"Dean, I just need you to hang in there a little longer… open your eyes…" Sam rubbed the top of Dean's head lightly, then turned Dean's face toward him.

Sam blinked his eyes, wiping at the sweat that ran into his eyes. Pulling the jacket away from Dean's shoulder, Sam winced at the blood that soaked through the bandages and into the material. Several stitches must have pulled.

"Dean," Sam called again. "C'mon, I need your help, man."

At that Dean managed to force his eyes open. Sam watched him work to focus, work to be present.

"'s it?" Dean mumbled, pulling his dry lips in, and reaching up a clumsy hand to grip Sam's left arm.

"I found a truck, Dean," Sam started.

"Body?"

"Will's body?"

Dean blinked slowly and nodded. Sam felt a stab of worry slice through him at the weakness evident in that nod.

"It's over there. We'll worry about that later."

"Gotta burn it, Sam," Dean said, his fingers digging in harder on Sam's arm.

"I know, but we'll worry about that later," Sam said again, gently clasping the side of Dean's face, his thumb on Dean's cheek. "Listen to me. Are you listening?"

"Yeah."

"I found a truck, but there aren't any keys."

"Hot wire."

"Yeah, I know. I tried, but I need your help."

"Dad'd be so pissed at you," Dean muttered, his eyes sliding closed.

"No no no, Dean, hey," Sam tapped him lightly on the cheek until Dean's eyes opened again. "Don't close your eyes, okay? Keep them open. You keep them open."

"'K."

"I'm gonna get you up now, you ready?"

"Yeah."

Sam took a breath. This was not going to be fun. Sam tucked his hand under Dean's left shoulder; Dean gripped Sam's right arm above the cast. With a heave and a low cry of pain, Dean was on his feet. Sam leaned him back against the house so that he could maneuver his left arm across his shoulders. As they moved slowly from the house to the barn, Dean leaning heavily on Sam, the disappearing sun cast long shadows across the empty lot.

"Sam," Dean whispered.

"Almost there, man," Sam reassured, feeling the muscles melded next to his body tremble with fatigue and pain. "I think Will was trying to… control the craving or something. The barn is, well… let's just say Wes Craven would have a field day here."

"Nice," Dean tried to grin. "Way to p-pull in the pop c-culture reference."

They reached the barn and Sam noticed that although he still held as much of his weight as he could, Dean's eyes were closed. He led him to the passenger side of the truck, swung the door open and eased him inside. Dean's lips were pressed together, his breath coming in short bursts, his right arm held tight to his chest as he used the lap belts inside the truck to help pull himself in. He rolled his head on the back of the seat toward Sam, nodding weakly once he was in.

Sam shut the door, then hurried around to the driver's side and tucked himself in under the steering panel. Gotta get him outta here… gotta get him outta here… The words rolled through his head like a chant, a mantra, a reason to ignore the various aches and pains that battling a werewolf had inflicted on his body. He tucked the flashlight under his chin, shining it on the wires beneath the steering column.

"Okay, Dean," Sam lifted his eyes. "Hey. HEY. Open your eyes."

Dean blinked, rolling his head slowly toward Sam.

"I'm here, man, now what."

"F-find the line that goes to the b-battery," Dean said, blinking slowly.

"How the hell—"

"Probably red."

"Oh."

"Then the one that's connected to the ignition."

"Blue?"

"Or white."

"I got both."

"Well, it's not gonna blow up, Sam," Dean opened one eye. "Try both."

Sam nodded. He had already tried twisting the white and blue wires together, so he stripped the red wire and then snapped the white and red wires together. Nothing. He twisted the white wire back together and grabbed the blue, snapping it against the red and breathing a silent sigh of relief when it sparked and he heard the engine catch. Ronnie Milsap's Smokey Mountain Rain crackled through the ancient speakers.

Sam pulled his head up from under the dash and looked at Dean. His face was pale, shiny with sweat, his eyes closed and the lashes sticking together in triangles.

"Dean?"

He saw his brother's eyes roll under his closed lids as he forced his eyes open to look at the radio with a pained expression. "You tryin' to kill me?" Dean whispered.

"What do you want from me," Sam grumbled, reaching over and punching the buttons on the dash. "It's an AM radio for God's sake." He stopped when he heard Styx's Too Much Time On My Hands. "Happy?"

He looked over at his brother. Dean's face was pulled into a frown. Setting his jaw, Sam pulled himself into the cab and quickly shifted into reverse.

"Well I'm so tired of losing- I got nothing to do and all day to do it. I go out cruisin' but I've no place to go and all night to get there…"

"Dad woulda…" Dean swallowed, his rough, pain-saturated voice startling Sam. "Woulda been so pissed…"

"Hey, I paid attention… this is like the oldest freakin' truck in the world."

"D-didn't pay close enough—errg…" Dean gripped his wounded arm with his left. "Man, this sucks out loud," he said on an exhale.

"I saw a hospital on the way in to town," Sam said, throwing his arm across the seat and looking over his shoulder to back out of the barn. "Just hang in there."

Silence.

"Dean?"

Sam felt his heart hit the roof of his mouth when Dean simply slid bonelessly sideways in the seat.

"Aw, shit, Dean," Sam reached over and carefully gripped his brother until Dean's head was resting on his shoulder, Sam's hand hovering over the gear shift.

"Too much time on my hands, it's ticking away with my sanity. I've got too much time on my hands, it's hard to believe such a calamity. I've got too much time on my hands and it's ticking away from me…"

"Freakin' hard to change gears with this damn cast," Sam growled as he floored the accelerator, shifting up into fourth gear.

The heat from Dean's head seeped through Sam's T-shirt. Sam dropped his fingers from the gear shift to Dean's knee, feeling his brother's weak trembling through the denim. After a few minutes, they passed the Impala sitting alone and silent like a wounded warrior on the edge of a battlefield. The old truck's headlights glinted off of her hood, and Sam shot his eyes to the rearview mirror, wincing at the sight of her listing to the side on her ruined tires.

As the radio crackled through Buffalo Springfield's Pay the Price, Sam's mind rewound the last several hours, ending the moment he grabbed the newspaper. If he hadn't pushed at Dean to take this hunt… if he hadn't wanted to do something, anything that even resembled a hunt… just to keep Dad close, just to keep their lives real… would his brother be laying in this truck, burning up, shivering, bleeding to death?

"And I see another man in your eyes. Listen you're old enough to know you can live twice…"

"I don't know what to do, Dean," Sam whispered, downshifting to third to take a curve around one of the bending mountain roads. "I don't know if we should be hunting more or what. I can't even decide if hunting that yellow-eyed demon will get us what we want… I mean, it took Mom… it took Jess… Dad… well, who knows, but I think… I think you might be right about Dad. I could never tell you that, but I think you might be right."

Dean moved slightly as they took another curve and Sam shifted back up into fourth.

"If you are right… if Dad… made some kind of a deal… I-I'm glad. I'm glad, Dean. Dad said he would look under every rock to save you… to bring you back. He said that he needed that Colt for you… I didn't understand at the time… but, Dad did. He knew… he knew I couldn't have handled it if I lost you."

"I can't lose you – do you get me?" Sam glanced over at the pale, sweaty profile. "Do you get me, Dean?"

Silence.

Sam pressed his lips together, his eyes searching the sides of the road for the blue hospital sign he'd seen on the way into town. He felt the burn of tears at the backs of his eyes.

"You keep trying to leave me, Dean."

Sam swallowed, glancing over at Dean, then back to the road. "You fight me… you close me out… you beat the hell out of your car… and then you tell me… what's dead should stay dead, but… you didn't die, man. You didn't. And whatever Dad did…"

Sam reached up with his left hand, balancing the wheel with his knee. He wiped at the tears that fell without permission, clearing the emotion from his face.

"I'm sorry I couldn't make it alright for you, Dean," he whispered. "I'm sorry I didn't know what to say. But I'm here for you, okay? I'm not going to let you down, I swear. I swear to you, Dean. So you just hang on, okay? You just hang in there."

The hospital sign appeared like a beacon of light from the darkness beyond the headlights of the old truck. Sam grabbed the exit with two wheels, holding Dean in place with his elbow. He knew that the possibility of someone working at the hospital recognizing Randall's truck was high, but he also knew he couldn't carry Dean up to the ER doors. He pulled up, laying on the horn. In minutes a woman in a teal-green nurse's uniform came out and opened the passenger-side door of the truck.

Sam didn't have to say a word. She took one look at the blood covering Sam's shirt and Dean, unconscious, against his shoulder and turned back to the building, calling for help. Moments later, three men were wheeling out a stretcher, and pulling Dean from the cab of the truck. Sam felt his heart lurch as Dean remained unresponsive.

He parked the truck in a far spot, then walked slowly back to the ER entrance. Now that Dean was with someone who knew what to do, someone who could stitch him up, bring his fever down, someone that could do more than Sam's field-medicine training and casted hand could do, Sam found himself starting to shut down. He was tired, sore, and hurting. Stepping through the doors, he looked around blearily for the nurse's station. The same woman who'd come out to the truck stepped up to him.

"They took your friend to curtain five," she said, taking his arm and scrutinizing his head with a practiced eye. "You need to go to three."

"Three what?" Sam asked, confused. Her voice sounded muffled, and there were halos around the lights in the ER.

"Mark!" The woman yelled. A man with a pepper-gray beard and mustache appeared at her elbow. "Take him to three before he keels over right here."

"My brother—" Sam started.

"They'll let you know," the woman replied as Mark took Sam's arm, leading him away.

The next few hours were a blur. Sam applied all of his energy into staying awake, nodding at the right moments, doing what he was told while they cleaned him up. They'd encouraged him to lie back, to relax as they applied ice to his bruising, checked him over for broken bones or any missed cuts, but he knew Dean was two curtains down. He needed to see him. He hadn't heard his brother's voice yet and the longer that lasted, the more worried Sam became. He should have heard a sarcastic comment or a flirtatious remark by now…

"Hey, kid." Mark, the male nurse who had helped Sam to curtain three, surprised him by sweeping aside the pastel-colored curtains and stepping into the small cubicle where Sam sat, quiet and still, waiting. "You think you can answer some questions?"

"Depends on what they are," Sam replied tiredly.

Mark grinned, his beard folding and rippling with the motion. "Fair enough," he said, kicking a rolling stool over and swinging a leg across it. "Think you can tell me what attacked your brother?"

"Think it was a cougar or something."

"Helluva cougar," Mark lifted a brow. "A couple of those lacerations are about eight inches long, and some were an inch deep in places."

Sam winced. "Yeah, well, I didn't actually see him get… hit."

"Where were you?"

"Woods around Highway 193. Think we ran over something in the road… our, uh, tires blew."

"All of them?"

"Two of them," Sam said, meeting Mark's eyes squarely. "Scared the hell outta us. We're on our way to Gatlinburg."

"Where you boys from?"

"Uh, Kansas, sir," Sam replied.

"Just… what, road tripping?"

"Yep."

"So your tires blew…" Mark wrote a couple of things down on a clipboard.

"Nurses workin' for the police department now, that it?" Sam asked.

Mark grinned. "No. I'm just damn curious. Not everyday we get wounds like those where the patient is still alive."

"How is my brother?"

Mark glanced toward the curtain. "He'll be okay in a bit – who stitched him up?"

"I did."

"Did a decent job – few of them pulled, but they were clean stitches. Don't show signs of infection."

"He lost a lot of blood," Sam said.

"Yeah, well, you knowing his blood type helped us in that department."

"He had a fever."

Mark nodded. "Giving him antibiotics. Fever's down considerably from when you boys came in."

"When can I see him?"

"Now," Mark stood. "You don't have any broken bones or lacerations, and you aren't showing any signs of latent—"

"I'm fine," Sam said, standing next to the smaller man.

"Yeah, well, that's what I was getting at."

"Thanks," Sam stuck his hand out, shook Mark's, then moved to the curtain.

"Five is thataway," Mark tipped his chin to Sam's right.

Sam nodded his thanks, then moved down to the curtain. He took a breath, then pulled the curtain back, his eyes falling to Dean's recumbent form immediately. Dean's chest was bare except for the thick white bandages that wrapped around his upper torso and right shoulder. An IV was attached to the back of his left hand. His boots, jeans, and Sam's coat were stuffed into a bag under the bed. Sam noticed almost immediately that the gold amulet that Dean always wore was missing, but his silver ring was still on the hand draped across his chest.

"Dean?" Sam whispered.

Dean jerked slightly at the sound of his voice, opening his eyes slightly. Sam saw a flash of green before his eyes closed again, but then Dean tipped the corner of his mouth into a small grin.

"Hey," he rasped.

"Hey," Sam replied. "How you feeling?"

"Lucky," Dean said, licking his lips and shifting on the bed. "Time is it?"

"No idea," Sam said glancing around. "Still dark."

"New moon tonight," Dean said, opening his eyes. "World is safe for awhile."

Sam grinned. "'Cept for those bastards that don't care about the moon."

"Oh, right," Dean tipped his chin up. "Those."

"You look like crap, Dean," Sam ran his eyes over his brother's pale face, the purple shadows under his eyes, the hollows of his cheeks. "They said you're gonna be okay, though."

"I'm always okay, Sam," Dean tried to push himself higher in the bed, wincing slightly.

"Just stay still," Sam lifted a hand. "You're probably gonna be here awhile."

Dean shook his head. "No."

"Man, you can't just get attacked by a—"

"Boys," interrupted a deep voice as hands suddenly parted the curtain and halted Sam's protest.

Sam turned to see the white coat and stethoscope, then lifted his eyebrows as he had to raise his head slightly to look at the man's face. Dark brown, almost black eyes snapped with keen interest as the man looked from Sam to Dean.

"How you feeling? Drugs working okay?"

Dean nodded, silent, but Sam noticed his eyes were alert.

"Gotta say," the man continued, looking back over at Sam. "I'm impressed you boys tangled with that creature and are here to tell the tale."

Sam shot his eyes over to Dean. His brother's face remained impassive, but there was a subtle shift of his hand, a curling of his fingers that signaled to Sam that they had to be careful. Sam cleared his throat.

"We, uh, don't know exactly what—"

"Save it," the man, turned to Sam and he could see the name Dr. Landis stitched in blue on the left side of the white lab coat. "You think this is the first set of claw marks I've sewn up since I came to this town?"

"I wouldn't know," Sam replied, meeting the man's dark eyes squarely.

"You were out by the Randall place, weren't you?" Dr. Landis looked over at Dean.

Dean tilted his head back, regarding the man for a moment, then seemed to come to a decision. "Yeah," he said. "Yeah, we were."

"Find anything?"

"Some things."

"Everybody make it out?"

Dean shook his head.

"Was afraid of that," Dr. Landis sighed. "I knew Henry didn't just up and leave that old man."

"Henry wasn't there," Dean said. He flashed his eyes up to Sam briefly. "Not really."

"Huh." Landis ran a hand over his mouth. "So all this time… it was Will after all…"

Dean simply looked back at the doctor.

"I don't get it," Sam said. "If you knew, then why—"

Dr. Landis looked over at Sam, his eyes flashing a quick, unnaturally dark expression that sent a rolling chill down Sam's back. "There are some things that you don't discuss in the shadow of the sun," the man said. "Some things you deal with, survive, and move on."

Sam was silent. He looked back at Dean who was staring at the doctor.

Landis stepped up to Dean, wordlessly taking his blood pressure, pulse, and temperature then checking the stitches under his bandaging.

"You've got a while before you're gonna feel like wrestling any more werewolves," he said in a low, careful voice, "but you're gonna be okay. No danger of… altering your personality anytime soon."

Dean nodded, his eyes shadowed, uncertain. He didn't look at Sam. Landis wrote out a couple of prescriptions and handed them to Sam.

"Make sure he takes these—all of them," Landis looked at Dean. "Tylenol for that fever. It should go down in a day or so. If it doesn't, I suspect you know to get to a hospital."

"Yessir," Sam said softly, staring at his brother.

"I should make you stay here," Landis handed Sam an AMA form. "But I won't. I think maybe you've stayed in this town one night too long… there are those that tend to… discourage escape."

"Thanks," Dean said, lifting his right arm slowly, reaching out to shake the doctor's hand. Landis' eyes hit the silver of Dean's ring. Sam noticed then that Dean had used his wounded arm on purpose; the hard glint in his brother's eyes was reassuring.

Landis stepped back from Dean's hand, nodding. "You'll want to keep that on you, if you're thinking about visiting Asheville again anytime soon."

Dean dropped his hand. "Hey, Doc?"

"Yeah."

"You know a good tire store 'round here?"

"Fifth and Claremont," Landis replied. "Oh, and, listen," he looked over at Sam. "Stay away from the Randall place."

"We, uh… borrowed his truck," Sam said.

"Leave it. Anywhere."

"Doc, we can't just leave his body—" Dean started.

"Yes." Landis slid his eyes to Dean's, silencing him. "You can."

Dean swallowed, then nodded.

"Take it easy," Landis tipped them a two-fingered salute. "Sun'll be up soon."

He left with a flip of the pale blue curtain. A few moments later, a nurse appeared and removed Dean's IV, collecting the AMA form with a frown. Dean was still shivering as Sam helped him pull on his jeans and boots, tying the amulet back in its place, wrapping his jacket around his brother's shoulders and zipping up the front, then helping him walk out to the truck. Sam leaned over and twisted the wires together, starting up the engine with a plume of dark smoke ejecting from the tail pipe.

Dean leaned his head back against the seat.

"You okay?"

"Tired."

"Been a long day," Sam shifted into drive as the morning sun warmed the horizon.

Dean blinked his eyes in the light. "You can say that again."

The radio snarled with static, faint strains of the Beatles sifting through the speakers. Sam cast a sidelong glance at Dean, expecting him to protest, but his brother was silent, staring out the front window with shaded eyes as the lyrics trickled through the rumble that filled the cab of the old truck.

"…some forever not for better, some have gone and some remain. All these places had their moments, with lovers and friends I still can recall. Some are dead and some are living. In my life I've loved them all…"

Sam headed to the tire store, listened carefully as Dean instructed exactly what to get, and hoped they were in stock. He didn't want to stay in this town any longer than was absolutely necessary. He ignored the stares at his bloody T-shirt and his dirty, bruised, disheveled appearance and tossed the new tires into the bed of the truck.

When he climbed back into the cab, he noticed that Dean had listed to the side, his forehead against the passenger window. He was breathing easily, his shivering easing in his sleep. Sam drove to the nearest drug store, filled the prescriptions, then went through a fast food drive-thru.

"Gimme a coffee," Dean said, his eyes still closed.

"I'm getting you food," Sam said. He couldn't remember the last meal they'd eaten—he knew it was at least over a day ago. And Dean needed the energy to fight back the fever, to heal up.

"Fine, as long as you get me a coffee, too."

"Drugs starting to wear off?" Sam looked sideways at his brother, noticing the lines of pain that were framing his eyes.

"It's okay."

Dean was a lot like their father when he was in pain. He would only say something when he was too weak to stop it, but the pain showed up like a beacon in and around his eyes. Sam remembered many nights when John was tired, or drunk, and the pain that his father kept as close to him as a lover echoed through his brown eyes like a confession. John would never say a word, but Sam saw, and Dean saw.

"We'll be home soon," Sam said softly and without thinking. He felt Dean shift next to him and glanced over, seeing his brother's half-grin. He realized he'd been thinking of the Impala. "Shut up, you know what I meant."

"Yeah," Dean reached out to take the bag of food from Sam. He sat up higher in the seat when Sam handed him a cup of coffee. He didn't bother with removing the lid; he sucked the smooth, caffeinated beverage from the hole of the take-out cup and sighed deeply. "Nice."

Sam shifted into second, heading back out on the highway. He tapped at the speaker in his door, irritated at the staccato sound. If Dean didn't need the music, he'd turn the damned thing off. But he knew music was his brother's balm. Even bad music is better than silence, he thought as CCR hiccupped along through Have You Ever Seen the Rain?

"Yesterday and days before, sun is cold and rain is hard, I know, been that way for all my time…"

"He didn't even ask us why." Sam wasn't sure where the question came from, but it burst out of him as if on a quest for answers.

Dean looked over at him. "What?"

"Landis," Sam clarified. "He knew we'd been out at the Randall place. He knew what had hurt you. He had to know we killed it… him. He didn't even ask us why."

"Maybe he didn't care."

"Maybe he was protecting his own hide," Sam said. "He wouldn't touch your ring."

"Yeah, I know," Dean sighed. "But we can't kill 'em all."

"He sure wanted us gone, though," Sam shifted up into fourth as he pressed down on the accelerator. "I mean, you should be in a hospital."

"I hate hospitals."

"So."

"We weren't a threat to him, Sam. The guy's obviously dealt with hunters before…" Dean sighed. "We weren't anything to him."

There was a note of resignation in Dean's voice, and Sam looked over at him. The weight that Sam could see bowing his brother hadn't eased in the week following his heartsick confession at the side of the road. If anything, it had only increased. There was something that John had said… something that was eating through Dean. And when his brother had been at his weakest, Sam could've sworn he'd been about to say something…

"There she is," Dean smiled, and Sam was again amazed at the transformation he saw there. Dean's face lost years when he smiled like that.

Sam pulled over to the side of the road, then stepped around to help Dean out of the truck. Dean's legs trembled, unable to hold his weight. Sam eased him to the ground, leaning him back against one of the truck tires. Dean was looking at the Impala, shaking his head.

"If he wasn't dead already, I'd freakin' kill that sonuvabitch for doing this to my baby," he muttered.

"You think Will did this?"

"Who else?" Dean looked at him, surprised.

"So… he got around us in the woods that night… slashed the tires, then wolfed out and circled back to attack?"

"I guess…" Dean sounded uncertain.

Sam frowned, thinking. He moved to the trunk of the car and pulled out a T-shirt and long-sleeved shirt for himself and Dean. Pulling off his dirty, bloody T-shirt and tossing it in the trunk, Sam turned to Dean.

"Landis made it sound like the town was… I don't know… infected with lycanthropy."

Dean tilted his head, watching as Sam pulled the clean T-shirt on and then shrugged into a long-sleeved shirt. "If you're saying what I think you're saying…"

Sam pushed his hair from his eyes, looking at the tires. "These aren't claw marks, Dean. Somebody cut them." He lifted his eyes to the woods. "Somebody wanted us to stick around… and they had to have known we'd be at the Randall place…"

Dean closed his eyes, rubbing at his forehead wearily. "Henry and his friend had been dead for awhile?"

"Oh yeah. They were… juicy." Sam shuddered, approaching Dean and helping him out of the blood-stained jacket. "You ready?"

Dean nodded, allowing Sam to help him ease the T-shirt over his wounded arm, hissing slightly as he slid into the red and black flannel shirt.

"Somebody else is out here, Dean."

"Well, I don't know about you," Dean used the side of the truck and slowly pushed himself to his feet. "But I'm not ready to be a statistic."

Sam nodded, grabbing the tire iron and jack from the trunk. Dean made a move to help and Sam stopped him with a look. Dean leaned back against the truck. By the time Sam had loosened the lug nuts on the rear tire, Dean had slid back down to sit on the ground against the truck tire once more.

Sam worked in silence, listening to his brother's breathing. He paused after he got the first tire on, tossing the ruined tire into the back of the truck. He grabbed the medicine Landis had prescribed and handed a dose to Dean, who nodded his thanks, dry-swallowed the pills, and closed his eyes wearily.

"Hey, Sam?"

"Yeah," Sam grunted as he twisted off the second set of lug nuts.

"You ever think…"

Sam stopped and looked over his shoulder. "What?"

"You ever think… that being a statistic is better than being a ghost?"

"What are you talking about?" Sam turned on one knee, resting his hand on his other knee.

"We don't really exist," Dean said, his eyes still closed. "No one knows what happened to John Winchester. Elroy McGillicudy died in that hospital. No one knows what he did, what he meant. That name… that name doesn't mean anything to anyone outside of us and a handful of hunters."

Sam gripped the tire iron. "Dean—"

"Will was right," Dean lifted his head, looking blankly at the bumper of the Impala. "Nobody would miss us. I mean, Bobby, sure, he might wonder. But not for a while. We could disappear for any number of reasons and no one would know. No one would really even… think to care."

Sam shifted until he was kneeling, his back to the Impala, facing his brother. He searched frantically for something to say, something to stop this uncharacteristic hemorrhage of feeling, something to reassure Dean that he wasn't a ghost, that he mattered.

"We can be anyone we want, Sam," Dean slowly lifted his raw eyes to meet Sam's. "But… I just want to be Dean Winchester."

Sam nodded.

"And… I know it's stupid but," Dean shook his head, looking down. "Sometimes I want people to know what that means."

Sam swallowed. "I know what it means."

"What?" Dean lifted his head again.

Sam turned back to the tire, pulling off the ruined one. "I said I know what it means."

Dean was silent as Sam stood and threw the old tire into the back of the truck, picking up the new one. Pausing, he looked back at his brother. The look in Dean's eyes was the same half-devastated, half-empty stare that had gutted him back at Bobby's. I miss him, man… and I feel guilty as hell… and I'm not alright, not even close… but neither are you, that much I know...

Sam gripped the new tire, thought about his life, his time as a hunter, his time as Dean's younger brother, his time away from Dean, away from his father, and allowed honesty to punch through him.

"To me… Dean Winchester is the difference between life and death." He looked over his shoulder at Dean.

A look of indescribable pain—something deeper than just the physical that Sam could see—washed over Dean's face and Sam found himself stumbling forward slightly in the wake of that look. Dean pulled in his bottom lip, nodded, and then met Sam's eyes.

"I meant it, Sam," Dean said, swallowing. "I won't let anything bad happen to you."

Sam pulled his brows together. "I know."

Arms pulling him from a burning apartment… glass shattering as Bloody Mary made his eyes bleed… his neck released from a tightly-wrapped cord… Dean standing in front of him as a figure of fire approached… spirits blasted away by rock salt… a demon-possessed man stopped from beating him senseless… a zombie stopped with a slide and a spike… a hunter being beaten for cutting his arm… his name bellowed like a shield, like a warning…

"You've always been there," Sam said. Even when I wasn't there for you, you never left me…

Dean looked down, then shook his head slightly as if dismissing a thought. "You got that tire on yet, Francis?"

"Hey, you don't want to rush these things," Sam retorted, turning back to the tire.

They pulled their heads up in unison at a rustle deeper in the woods. Dean looked back at his brother.

"We do now."

Sam nodded. He wasn't worried that they were leaving a potential hunt. Not now. His father had taught them a lot about hunting—and one lesson had been to pick their battles. A town full of lycanthropes with a wounded brother was not a battle Sam was willing to fight. Besides… they could always come back.

"Five minutes," Sam said. He shoved the tire on and wrenched the lug nuts back in place.

"Sam," Dean's strained voice met his ears.

"Just another min—"

The cracking branches silenced him.

"And, we're done," he straightened up, tossed the tire iron and jack into the trunk and turned to Dean.

His brother had managed to push himself to his feet using the old truck as a brace. He was staring into the woods, his legs planted, his shoulders squared. He looks like he's preparing for a fight…

"Dean, let's go," Sam took his arm gently, tugging him toward the passenger door of the car. "We'll leave the truck here." I've gotta get you outta here… Before Dean stopped being able to see the line. Before he stopped being able to call the battles. Before he was fighting anything, everything, in an attempt to keep Sam safe.

"Who do you think it is, Sam?"

"I honestly don't give a rat's ass," Sam grumbled, looking into the woods. "I'm getting you out of here."

He opened the Impala's passenger door and Dean eased down inside, holding his right arm gingerly as Sam shut the door. He looked off into the woods as Sam climbed inside, starting the engine. Music blared from Dean's rebuilt speakers, causing Sam to flinch and Dean to sigh with pleasure.

"I feel a change back to a better day… hair stands on the back of my neck… in wildness is the preservation of the world…"

Sam shook his head, reaching for the volume control on the radio. As the Impala pulled away from the side of the road, they caught a glimpse of bleached blonde hair and a red shirt. Dean glanced at Sam, disbelief registering on his face.

"Dude… wasn't that… from the… diner?"

Sam's lips twitched in an incredulous grin and he shook his head slowly as he sat back and gripped the wheel.

"You're the one that wanted to stop for coffee."

www

Cookies to anyone who can identify the last song and artist.

At the close of this journey, we want to thank you for reading, for reviewing (even when ff[dotnet wasn't all that cooperative) and for sticking with us. These boys, these characters, this show has captivated so many and we hope that our vision of this adventure has entertained you.

Grin

GS and Freyja.