AHHHH here goes. This will be just a fairly simple h/c type of story, unless I can pull together a more complex idea I have for it.

WARNING: I know this usually doesn't go over very well (I have issues with it too!) but there is rather mild self-insertion into this story. Basically, I've taken all of my "cool" and given it to this character. So she's really not me, just... basedoff of me. :) I chose the last name for her because it's a fairly common name in the area this story is supposed to take place.

So... disclaimers I guess?

Supernatural and everything having to do with it belongs to Kripke, etc. etc. I take no credit, except for the weaving of this story!

Also! I know I have read a story with a very similar creature-feature (although mine is SEVERELY underdeveloped) and I just want to make sure no one thinks I am copying it, because I can't remember what story it even was (although it was brilliant) and if I could I would refer you to it! Cheers!

*I^I*

"Dean! Dean, hang in there man!" Sam's own frantic voice rang in his buzzing ears as he spared a glance across the Impala to where his brother was curled in the passenger side. It seemed he had stopped hyperventilating, which actually worried Sam a little, and he was now reduced to uncontrollable tremors that made Sam think of a seizure. The thought caused him to only press his foot harder on the gas pedal, despite his clouded vision.

The pale April light was fading fast, the sun quickly sinking behind the pine crowded mountains that rose above the winding road he was following. They were in podunk north Idaho, with the intention of hunting something so obscure that Sam's currently muddled brain couldn't even remember the name of it. They had ganked the bastard, that's for sure, but whatever it was had done its fair share of damage too, mostly in the form of short, poison filled quills, much like those of a porcupine. Sam could feel several still lodged in the back of his neck, just under his hairline, and he knew there were a couple more peppered down his side. Despite the fact that he could distinctly feel the poison slowly working its way into his system, his concern for himself was by far outweighed by his concern for Dean. His brother had taken some rough hits, and it wasn't until the threat had passed –or, been hacked to pieces roughly the size of individual steaks, as the case were- and they faced each other, panting and flushed from adrenaline, that Sam had noticed the dozens of spines lodged in Dean's stomach and chest. He had pointed wordlessly, still gasping, his face horrified, and Dean had looked down at himself, just having time to splutter, "Sonuvabitch," before his knees gave out on him and he hit the ground hard, twitching and writhing. Sam had dropped to his knees beside him, just in time to see his eyes roll back in his head as his spine arched, bucking his chest upwards. That, coupled with his rapidly quickening breath, had finally clued Sam in that his brother was going into shock.

Sparing his attention from the road for another moment to check on Dean, Sam cursed himself again for not moving faster. It had been no easy task maneuvering Dean's still bucking form into the Impala, which had been parked mercifully close at the time, and despite the very small voice in his head that assured him he'd done the best he could, he still felt at least partially responsible for Dean's current state. He should have fought harder, faster. He should have done enough damn research, so they would have known how dangerous those spines were. He should have at least made sure they had a motel room set up to go back to, whether things went to hell or not. He should have-

"Oh god…" his racing thoughts got the better of him and it came out in a strangled moan as he shoved the gas pedal to the floor and squinted his eyes against the spots of darkness clouding his vision. They didn't even have a place to go to so Sam could fix Dean up, and he had no idea where the nearest motel (or hell, even town) was. He looked over at Dean again, whose breathing was starting to quicken again, and allowed himself to consider a hospital for about four seconds before shaking his head adamantly, the movement whipping a lock of brunette hair across his forehead. No hospital. The only thing they would be able to chalk Dean's injuries up to would be a freaking porcupine from hell or something. Sam could practically hear Dean saying that, in his comical, sarcastic way, and he almost choked on a sob as Dean started bucking and kicking again, his feet skidding against the floorboards of the car. They were still in the relative middle of nowhere, and with nothing but what might have been a farmhouse in the near distance, Sam slammed on the brakes, put the Impala in park, and reached to try and restrain Dean, knowing that movement only made the poison spread faster.

"Hey, hey, hey," He said, raising his voice over Dean's ragged breathing. "Calm down, man. Come on…" Despite the shaking in his own limbs, Sam held his brother's shoulders back, and practically crawling onto the seat next to him, he grabbed his head and cradled it firmly to his chest. The last thing Dean needed was whiplash added to his list of injuries. As he sat there, waiting for his brother's fit to subside, panic washed over Sam again. He looked out the windows, trying to make sense in the dim light, and realized they had left the mountains and were in a relatively flat area, almost prairie-like. And, oh yeah, there was nothing. Absolutely nothing. Except… Sam squinted and blinked. He had noticed it moments before, but not given it much thought. There was a farmhouse a ways away, maybe if he could reach that…

The sudden sound of someone (or something) rapping on the Impala window wrenched Sam from his thoughts, nearly giving him a heart attack. Dean had stopped kicking and was reduced to just tremors again, so Sam carefully laid him back on the seat, and stayed leaning over him protectively while he craned his neck around to see who (or what) was at the window. He almost cried with relief when, in the gloom, he saw not a police officer (or worse), but instead a young woman wearing a concerned expression. Sliding back into the driver seat, he fumbled with the window a moment before cranking it down and looking at her almost in disbelief.

"You guys okay?" She asked over the Impala's growl, her eyes shifting to Dean's trembling form.
"No," Sam gasped automatically, blinking rapidly again, and then swiftly corrected himself. "Yes, I mean. Yeah, we're fine. I'm fine, he's fine, and it's all good. All fine. Good and fine."

"You were fishtailing all over the road, pal," she told him a little flatly, interrupting his rambling with her rapid-fire words. "And going about fifty over… clearly you ain't in no state to drive, I'm guessing you got nowhere to go, and don't even bother trying to convince yourself that I can't see all those spines in your friend over there. Did you kill it?"

Sam's already fuzzy brain was even more so now, and he looked at Dean, then back to the woman, bewildered. "Kill… Kill what?"

"Oh, come on…" she groaned long-sufferingly, tilting her head back and gripping the edge of the door with smallish, capable looking hands. "Look man, I don't know who you are, but I know what you guys are. I always say it takes one to know one, right?"

Sam just looked at her, his confusion registering in his forehead.

"You're hunters," she said simply. "So am I. Now, did you kill it?"

Sam looked up into her earnest face, reminded himself that Ruby's knife was still tucked into his belt, and said, "Yes."

"Good!" She answered, and smacked the edge of the door with her palm. "Now that I know you're not followed." He looked at her questioningly again, and she continued. "Look, unless you want to try and find someplace safe by yourself, I strongly suggest you budge your undoubtedly sweet ass over, hang onto your friend, and let me drive you to my place so we can take care of him."

Sam looked to where she was pointing and nodded vaguely as the farmhouse came into view. "Okay…" he said, still unsure.

"Come on, man! You really don't have that much time!" She told him when he was silent for a few moments. "It's gonna be bad enough already, but the longer those quills stay in him…" She trailed off as Sam dropped his head into his hands and let out a poorly suppressed groan. She watched him dig the heels of his hands into his eyes for a moment before speaking up with a snap of her fingers. "Holy water, do you have any?"

Even in his muddled state, Sam could see the logic instantly, and leaning over to Dean he carefully extracted the flask from the inner pocket of his brother's jacket. He passed it out to the woman, who swiftly uncapped it and took a quick pull before calmly handing it back. "There," she said, and then quirked her mouth. "Was there also whiskey in that?"

Sam didn't bother answering as he slid across the bench seat to make room for her and carefully put a long arm around Dean's shoulders, pressing his brother's head against his chest again. "Hang in there, man," he said again, keeping his voice soft as the woman plopped her small frame into the driver seat, slammed the door, and shifted back into drive. "It's gonna be alright, I got you…"

As she lurched the Impala back onto the road with a speed to rival Sam's, the woman glanced over at them with a concerned look. "He's your brother, isn't he?" She asked, returning her attention to the road.

Sam gave her a strange look. "Yeah," he said carefully. "How-?"

She shrugged and gave a small smile. "When you're as close to your siblings as you and I clearly are, you can usually recognize that special bond right away…"

Sam just looked at her, not loosening his grip on Dean for a second, and she glanced up at him again. "I have two older sisters," she explained, and with a confident spin of the steering wheel she turned the car into her driveway and ground to a stop outside a small farmhouse that, even in the fading light, Sam could tell was painted butter yellow.

"Home sweet home," she said, pulling the keys from the ignition and stepping out of the car. "Tell me what you need from the trunk and I'll get it. You get your brother."

Sam's vision blacked out completely for the first time right after he opened the passenger door and was crouching down to pull Dean from the car. He lurched in shock, his breath suddenly stolen from him as he allowed his head to fall against his comatose brother's side. The leather squeaked gently under his fingertips as he grasped a handful of Dean's jacket and inhaled sharply through his nose, the reassuring scent of big-brother-right-here-everything-will-be-okay flooding his senses for a moment. The slamming of the trunk grounded him then, and he straightened up, shaking his head slightly as his vision cleared again. God, that was awful. Swallowing the familiar, bitter taste of fear in the back of his throat, Sam carefully gathered Dean into his arms again, and slowly stood, his limbs shaking under the weight of his normally very formidable brother. The girl was waiting on the front porch of her small house; their duffel bags slung over one shoulder, her fingers deftly unlocking the door as she intently watched Sam's progress. She didn't bother with talking, just swung the door open and reached inside to flip the switch that turned several glowing lamps on in the front room. Sam shifted Dean in his arms, his brother's head bumping his chin softly, and followed the girl inside, not even noticing his surroundings as she led him through the house and into a small, simple bedroom. She dropped their bags on the floor at the foot of the bed and gestured to the bed itself as she stripped her flannel over-shirt off and shoved her t-shirt sleeves up past her elbows.

"Put him there," she ordered, not unkindly. "Don't worry about blood; I've dealt with it plenty."

"There actually isn't much- yet," Sam told her, carefully laying Dean onto the bed. His head lolled to the side, and Sam could only detect the spasms when he pressed his hand to his chest. "I suspect there might be when we take those out…" he angled a slightly shaking finger at the blunt ends of the spines protruding from Dean's chest.

She didn't answer, but just turned and left the room with a brisk, swinging gait that Sam knew Dean would have appreciated quite a lot. He quirked his mouth a little and looked down at his brother's still face. "You're corrupting me, man."

Working Dean's heavy jacket off of his dead-weight form was no easy task, but it was one that Sam had accomplished countless times, and thus didn't present much of a problem. His shirts underneath, however, were a different story, considering the dozens of spines that were pinning them to his torso. "Sorry, dude," Sam told him as he got what he imagined Dean would consider 'definitely too up close and personal' with his brother, manhandling his flannel shirt off, and then carefully sliding his t-shirt up his sweat-slicked torso and over the quills. "I just know how much you love being felt up by your own brother…" He finally managed to pull the torn, blood-soaked fabric over Dean's head, and as he tossed it on the floor with Dean's other clothes, his vision blacked out again, the suddenness almost knocking the breath out of him. A slight tremor ran through him as he closed his eyes tightly, and his legs gave out, sending him to his knees beside the bed. God, he felt so scared. He couldn't shake the feeling. It was cutting off his air supply, constricting his throat, and the only thing he could think to do was get close enough to his brother to feel him, to be able to smell him, because dammit that wasn't creepy at all. When he opened his eyes for a moment and still could only see the cloistering blackness, he decided he didn't give a damn and half threw himself onto the bed, pressing his face into Dean's ribs. He could feel his brother trembling, muscles twitching uncontrollably in random spasms, and for a moment it only added to Sam's panic before he regained control of his senses. Forsaking the thought of actually breathing through his mouth, he managed to draw a few deep breaths in through his nose, the mixture of scents that made Dean flooding over him again. Adrenaline spiked sweat, strong enough to make Sam gag a little, but then it was tempered with the spicy tang of gunpowder, a tiny trace of Old Spice, and an unexpected soft smell that Sam realized was usually overpowered by leather or canvas. Focusing on that, he could only place it as either laundry soap, or just… Dean. Either way, he was grounded almost immediately, and he stilled then, waiting for the darkness to pass.

By the time the girl returned, carrying several towels, a bottle of rubbing alcohol, and a steaming kettle, he had mostly recovered and had forced himself to pull away from Dean and sit back up, although he had accidentally let out a tiny noise somewhere between a giggle and a sob when his hair had stuck to the sweat coating his brother's skin. He looked up at her, across the bed, and was able to actually take her in for the first time. She was small-framed, willowy but strong, and had ash blond hair cut into a style that Sam could only really call punk. Or maybe hipster, he thought, barely able to suppress a slightly hysterical snort. It was short, almost shaved, around the sides and back, and longer on top, falling gracefully over boldly arched brows and pale green eyes. Pale green eyes that, he quickly noticed, were firmly trained on Dean. Taking special note, no doubt, of his half-clothed state and undeniably supple frame. She still didn't speak, and Sam took her prolonged moment of silence to only slightly unabashedly take in the delicate, rune-like tattoos lining her partially exposed collarbone, and the way her well-fitting clothes hugged her subtle curves pleasantly. Seeing as Dean can't at the moment…

She spoke then, breaking the moment and making Sam suddenly feel a little embarrassed at his boldness, however sly it had been.

"What?" He asked, his forehead wrinkling a little as slight heat crept along the back of his neck.

"What's your name?" She repeated as she turned her gaze to him now, her eyes roaming over him in a way that made him hyper-aware rather than uncomfortable.

"Sam," he said simply, and flicked his glance back to Dean, who was starting to put out a little more movement than before. "This ass-hole is Dean." There was little to no malice in his voice, however, and it was with unmistakable gentleness that he reached to lay a large hand on Dean's uninjured shoulder, holding him steady as his limbs began to thrash a little.

That seemed to snap the girl out of her thoughtful reverie, and she moved quickly, setting the things she held aside and gently taking Dean's head in her small hands, turning it on its side again to keep his airways clear. "Nice to meet you Sam," she said in her quiet, slightly lower voice. She tilted her head sideways then to look at Dean's sweaty, mud-streaked face. "You too, ass-hole. I'm Mandy, by the way," she added, turning back to Sam and offering a simple smile. "Mandy Renner."

Sam was unable to keep a small smile from creeping onto his face as well, especially after how she had addressed Dean, but he managed to swallow the foolish grin that would no doubt make him look like a heartless psychopath at the side of his mortally wounded brother. "Okay," he breathed, focusing on Dean again. "I guess, we need to…."

"Get the quills out," Mandy finished for him, pulling a small pair of wire-cutters out of the back pocket of her jeans. "Which I just so happen to have experience with."

Thank god. "Really," Sam stated, raising his eyebrows just a little. "You know someone who's had a go at that spiked bastard?"

She looked down at the pliers in her hand and stuck her lower lip out in a contrived pout. "We get lots of porcupines around here…" she muttered. "Neighbors have freakishly idiotic dogs and someone got it into their head that I wasn't squeamish about things like that and therefore was the only person to turn to." She flashed another quick smile at the end of her explanation. "I reckon most quills are the same."

"Let me guess," Sam said, wrestling himself out of his jacket and being painfully reminded of the several quills still stuck in his own body. "Cut off the tip, and it releases the barb holding them in?"

"That's the idea," she mused, kneeling by the bed to get a closer look at the damage. "Although… if you pinch the quills at all it will only forcefully inject all of the poison. At this point he's only getting a small dose… steady though, like a morphine drip."

Sam let out a soft snort. "Yeah, if he was awake right now he'd probably sell me out for some morphine." He watched the shuddering motion of Dean's limbs slow once more, and only when they were completely still did he force himself to painfully rise from his position on the floor. "Alright," he said, letting out a slightly pent-up breath as he pushed his sleeves up. "Let's do this, then."

Mandy had fallen silent, and as he joined her on the left side of the bed he realized that she was unmoving, just staring at Dean's chest with an almost stricken look on her face. "Mandy?" He tentatively crouched next to her, apparently not seeing what had her so stunned. "Talk to me," he demanded, trying to keep his impatience out of his voice and failing a little.

"It- it's the poison," she fumbled, snapping out of it, and turning large eyes to Sam. "It's all been drained out of the spines. All of them. It's-"

"In Dean," Sam finished bleakly.

TBC

*I^I*

Gosh, well there's that... if I get even so much as ONE review or favorite, I will post a second chapter within two days. AND THAT'S A PROMISE.