Oh come on, Dean thought as he found himself flying through the air and into the dirty cement behind him, letting out a loud grunt and sliding to the floor, stunned. He was getting awfully tired of creatures with the ability to fling him around like a ragdoll with nothing but a wiggle of their fingers. His current opponent, a witch by the name of Endria, simply giggled sweetly and tossed her shimmering black locks over her dainty little shoulder. Dean caught himself staring at her hair…again. As much as he hated her, he had to admit she was easily the prettiest witch they had ever met. Maybe even the prettiest monster period. Still, he was glad Sam had warned Dean off of his advances. He was also glad he listened for once. If he hadn't, he probably would have been her next victim, another indiscernible bloodstain in some forgotten basement rendezvous.
He could see through the stars in his eyes that Sam had taken up a good position behind her, witch bullet aimed right at her chest. That is, if she would turn around. She still had her gaze pinned hungrily on Dean, the one she had declared was "more to her taste." Dean glanced at the smudges of red on the floor and shuddered. Gross. She slithered forward, hips swaying, long manicured nails reaching for Dean's jaw. Great, a chin grabber, he thought as he clambered back to his feet and stumbled away. I hate those. He shook his head in an effort to reorient himself. Sam tried to take a shot from the side and missed; the bullet shattered uselessly against the wall. Endria's head whipped around to face him, nostrils flared. It seemed she knew the smell of witch-killing brew and was none too happy to know they had it loaded into a gun. She waved her fingers and flung him forcefully against the far wall. The gun tumbled from his hands. She slammed him backward and used some of the sparse furniture to pin him. Dean could see the veins flexing in Sam's strong arms, but the two now enchanted chairs easily managed to hold him. Dean took the opportunity and dove for the gun but collided instead with a heavy cabinet she had sent his way. He felt his head hit the concrete with another sickening crunch and struggled to stay conscious. When his eyes finally regained their focus he found Endria crouched in front of his brother, both hands holding his head steady as she stared into his eyes. Sam couldn't break eye contact, caught now by the "snakecharm" spell she had used to get all of her victims down into this lair of hers. Fear, pain, and confusion clouded his expression.
"Sammy…" Dean managed a slurred shout. He pulled himself into a sitting position and began scanning the ground, his sense of urgency muffled by the new concussion he sported. "I'm comin', Sammy." The gleam of steel caught his eye under a nearby table; he scooped the weapon up and clumsily took aim. "Hey! Over here, bitch," he shouted, his senses slowly becoming clearer. She cast a sly glance in his direction before turning to Sam and sinking her teeth into his neck. Sam jolted and let out a hoarse scream, fruitlessly struggling with all his might to free himself.
And just like that, Dean had regained his feet. She bit even deeper and Sam's screams elevated before falling sickeningly silent, his head falling limply onto his shoulder. Dean's stomach, which had been churning from the concussion plummeted into his gut. Everything in his vision went white, then red, and before he knew it he had spun her around, shoved the barrel of the gun against her chest, and pulled the trigger. She gasped and let out a breathless laugh before uttering six unbearably ominous words: "Just leaving a going away present." That was all she managed before erupting into a swirling vortex of witchy defeat and collapsing into a small pile of ash.
Dean was already kneeling by Sam's side, flinging the chairs away from his bruised wrists and scooping his lolling head up in a tenderly protective grip. He turned Sam's head to the side to survey the damage. A complicated symbol sat freshly carved into his skin, blood still trickling down into the collar of his shirt. The cut didn't seem deep, but Dean had no clue what that symbol meant. Panic fluttered in his chest.
"Sam." He tried. Sam's body sagged lifelessly against him.
"Sammy." His voice cracked slightly. "Sammy, please…" Sam's skin was still warm, and when he checked there was a faint but steady pulse. But beyond that Sam showed few signs of being alive.
Dean thought he would choke on the fear. "Oh, Sam." He pulled his brother's head against his chest and hugged him close, sending out a silent prayer to whatever might be listening to let his brother wake up. After a few seconds of silence Sam stirred feebly against his chest and Dean pressed him tightly into his shoulder, thankful that this time his prayer had been answered.
"Dean…" Sam managed, voice raw with pain.
"Shh. I'm here, Sammy." Dean let out a shaky laugh, trying hard not to squeeze the life back out of his barely revived brother. "I'm here." Sam tried to turn his head and flinched, letting out a feeble groan. Dean finally let go and ripped his already torn sleeve the rest of the way off, pressing it over the fresh wounds on Sam's neck. It would have to do until they made it out of the warehouse and back to the first-aid kit in the Impala. Sam seemed to recover quickly and took over applying pressure. Relief made Dean woozy. Or maybe it was the concussion. Either way, it was a challenge to climb to his feet. Thankfully, Sam too was able to stand on his own, and even supported Dean as they made their way up the rickety wooden stairs and out of that godforsaken basement turned murder-den. Once they had reached the car, Dean insisted on providing first-aid for Sam's cuts. Sam eyed him doubtfully as he swayed in front of the trunk, but didn't argue. After watching his brother struggle for a few minutes, Sam took the gauze from him gently and finished the job in seconds. "Are you sure you're okay, Sam?" Dean inquired, glancing worriedly at the gauze that hid the unidentified mark on his little brother's neck.
Sam gave him a faintly sardonic smile. "I'm doing better than you are. Get in; I'll drive." Dean opened his mouth to argue, but quickly shut it as he noticed with irritation that the trunk kept moving just out of his reach. With a sigh he fished the keys out of his pocket and tossed them over the car to Sam. They landed three feet away in the dirt. Sam quickly bent over to snatch them up and hide the smirk on his lips.
"Shut up," Dean managed as he climbed awkwardly into the passenger seat. Sam was careful not to say a word.