Chapter 1: Gutted

The distinctive growl of the classic Impala gave Jody Mills a grand total of 30 seconds' warning that the Winchester boys planned to crash her and Claire's quiet week away in the woods. She marked the place in her book (Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets – she'd finally gotten around to reading the series based on her 'daughter's' recommendations), and stood to open the cabin's front door. The smile on her face died as the door was flung open, revealing the Winchesters. Both were covered in blood, and Sam was barely standing, his right arm draped across Dean's shoulders, his left gripped tightly across his abdomen. Sam's shirt hung in tatters, and blood liberally dripped from tears in the skin beneath, splattering to the cabin's wooden floor.

Dean saw Jody, but if the startled look on her face registered at all, it didn't seem to matter to the man. He grunted, "Good. You're here. Sammy needs help."

Thanks for stating the obvious.

Dean carried, more than assisted, his brother to the couch Jody had recently vacated. Harry Potter was knocked unceremoniously to the floor.

"What the Hell happened?" Jody asked. She closed the door as Claire emerged from deeper in the cabin.

"Manticore." Dean grated out between his teeth. He attempted to set his enormous brother down gently, but that proved impossible. Sam stifled a moan as he dropped to the couch cushions.

"Manticore?" Jody repeated. She would never get used to her friends – her family – using words like that as if they were real. Never get used to them being real, despite repeated examples. She fought the urge to reply with the purely logical "…aren't they mythical?" Of course manticores are mythical. That doesn't mean they aren't likely to try to gut a Winchester.

And "gutted" was an apt description. Dean carefully shifted his brother's arms away from where they gripped his stomach, and lifted the shreds of Sam's shirt. The action revealed four long, parallel tears in the man's flesh. They were deep and jagged as they wrapped around Sam's left side and across his abdomen. Sam's muscles glistened within the gashes, clearly visible despite a disturbing amount of dark blood. As the fabric pulled away from his wounds, a "Gah!" sound escaped Sam's lips, and he rolled to his right side on the couch, pulling his legs protectively toward his abdomen.

Dean held Sam to still him. His voice was low and firm, a practiced not-calm as he murmured "I know man, but I've gotta see." He pulled a folding knife from his pocket and sliced open the top of Sam's left jeans leg, revealing two puncture wounds. They weren't as wicked-looking as the four lacerations, but they trickled with blood and some sort of black goo glistened at the center. "Shit." Dean looked around quickly, sighting Claire. "You have holy water?" She nodded. "Get it."

Claire half moved to comply before turning back to the older hunter. "Shouldn't we call Castiel? He could help."

Dean didn't think before beginning to respond, "Cas is…"

Sam finished the thought between gasping breaths. "Cas can't help. He's got troubles of his own." He grunted again, his hands holding tightly to the couch below him to keep them from instinctively grabbing at the wounds across his stomach again. His eyes sought out Dean's in an attempt to center himself.

Dean looked back at his brother, now curled protectively on his side and now bleeding all over the cabin's soft, cozy sofa. Dean's eyes sparked with barely contained panic, but he forced a grin and a joking tone as he teased "He got you, didn't he? Fuzzy fugly bastard."

Sam huffed an equally fraudulent-sounding responding laugh as he (equally unsuccessfully) attempted to hide the pain in his own eyes. "He did." Grunt. "The bastard," gritted from between his teeth. Then his eyes widened and he took a deep breath as he saw Claire hand Dean a water bottle marked with a cross. His brother's mumbled "sorry man, gotta do it" barely registered before the holy water was poured over his leg and FIRE seemed to scorch every coherent thought away. Dean repeated the process twice – once more on the leg and once on his stomach – and each time the wounds bubbled and steamed. Sam writhed on the sofa as he fought to remain cognizant of the world around him, focusing upon his breathing as their father had taught him years before. Tears streamed from his eyes, mixing with the sweat which broke out across his face, and unintelligible words were torn from him in near-strangled gasps. His mind found and then clung to Dean's voice as it repeated, "I know man. I got you. I know. I'm sorry." When it was over, Sam lay gasping and trembling.

Dean surveyed the damage. He didn't even look up at Jody or Claire as he ordered, "If you got more I'm gonna need it. And the first aid kit. Front seat of the car." His voice gentled as he continued, talking with a tone he reserved for scared children and his baby brother, "I'm gonna sew you up. Good as new. I got you. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I got you now. I got you."

Sam nodded shortly, his battle to stay conscious taking most of his energy, and whispered "Not your fault" past his still-clenched teeth. Sam tilted his head to take his first close look at the evidence of the manticore's razor-sharp claws, and nearly passed out at the attempt. Willing himself to hold onto tenuous consciousness, Sam tried again to smile, succeeding only in forming a dimpled grimace. "Think it's 165?"

Jody rushed back into the room in time to hear the comment. As she handed Dean the brothers' well-stocked first aid kit, she flashed Dean a confused look. He explained to Jody, "Number of stiches. Record's a hundred 'n sixty four. Sammy thinks he's got a chance to beat it." Dean just forced out a guffaw. "Huh uh. No way man. Dad's got that record all tied up." He knew the comment had only been borne of his brother's false machismo, and only said for Dean's benefit, but appreciated Sam's effort.

"Your lives are weird," commented Claire in a bewildered and somewhat jealous tone, handing Dean another bottle of holy water. She pretended not to notice Jody's cocked eyebrow. OK, maybe our lives are weird.

Dean looked at his brother's face, trying to gauge Sam's current coping ability. The younger man squinted his eyes closed, took a breath, and grated out "Do it." He tried to remain stoic but it was a lost cause. He gave in and screamed as the blessed water once again cascaded over his wounds. After it was done, he lay again panting, spent.

In the quiet which remained behind for a moment, Jody asked in a low voice, "Why holy water?"

Dean replied, "Poison. Manticores have poison in their tail spines, and holy water counteracts most poison." He considered, looking first at Jody and then Claire and finally settling his eyes firmly on Jody's. "You think you can help me sew him up?"

Jody's eyebrows shot up, her eyes widening. "Sew him up? Like, stitches? Here? Don't you think we should get him to the hospital?"

"If I thought I could have gotten him to a hospital, I would have taken him there. Besides, they're not going to know how to deal with this. I didn't know you'd be here, but I knew I could get him here and find some real supplies. I knew I could get him sewed up at least." His eyes connected with hers, trapping her in place. "Can you do this?"

She swallowed, "Yeah."

"Good." He looked back down at his barely conscious brother, smoothing the hair out of Sam's eyes with a gentle hand. "Good. OK. Claire?" The young hunter started forward. "We need boiling water and as much dental floss as you've got. I won't have enough in my kit. And…"

"You need dental floss?"

"For stitches. None of the mint stuff."

Claire started toward the back of the cabin, but Jody stopped her with a hand. "I've got suture materials in the car. Get those instead." She looked back at Dean. "Advantages of being a first responder… I figured if I'm going to be responsible for Claire, I should get hold of some supplies."

"Thank you for that." Dean looked sincere.

"Yeah."

Dean guided Jody through her first few stitches, and then took up a needle of his own. Chuck knew that there was work enough here for two. While they sewed, Claire slowly dribbled holy water over the puncture wounds – two holes left behind where the manticore had thrown spikes from its tail. They continued to bubble, but not to spit and steam as they had during the first dosing. Sam tried to hold out – to breathe through the pain—but as his adrenaline crashed, so did his will. For several minutes he fell into a two-part harmony with Dean, short hissing breaths and grunts framing Dean's murmured reassurances that "I'm sorry. I've got you." But before long his vision narrowed and he slowly glided into unconsciousness.

Sam startled, opening his eyes to find himself in a blank, white world. The brightness of the space around him highlighted the half feline/half human features of the manticore. "Took you long enough," said the lithe monstrosity before him. "I don't know if I should be impressed or insulted."

"Huh?" Sam looked down, patting his body. Despite an echoing ache, his torso seemed whole and healthy, lacking the devastating wounds he knew it bore in the real world. "Where am I?"

"Where would you like to be?"

Sam raised an eyebrow, "Is that some kind of riddle?"

"A riddle. I like riddles." The manticore spoke smoothly, stretching its words as its body stretched. The thing's voice reminded Sam of that dragon from The Neverending Story movie he'd seen as a kid. Falcor. That was his name. The thing moved like Falcor too. Sinuous and flowing, the manticore wound its way around Sam, slinking and rubbing against him like a massive house cat. And the monster was massive, well longer than Sam was tall, its back higher than Sam's waist. As it circled Sam, the graceful creature continued talking, almost as if to itself. "Riddles. Yes. My cousin told me riddles. I like them."

"Your cousin?" Sam tried to back away from the thing.

A hissing sound came from its human lips. "Oh, Samuel. I thought you were better read than that." It writhed around the hunter again, pushing him with lazy strength, almost gently denying Sam's intended retreat. "Think now, boy. If we're going to play at riddles, you're going to have to think."

Sam took a breath. A manticore's cousin. Riddles. Of course. The manticore is native to Persia, but from a species standpoint it's closely related to—a 'first cousin' of—the Egyptian creature with a love of riddles and labyrinths. "The sphinx."

The beast purred PURRED his answer, "Betterrrr."