He heard Dean coming toward the bathroom and managed to get his sleeve rolled down over the bandage before his brother opened the door.
"What's the hold up?"
"No hold up. I'm ready." Sam pushed past him. He picked up his already-packed duffel off the bed, strode to the door and out to the car.
On the road they didn't talk much, both still exhausted from their last hunt. Skinwalkers were a son-of-a-bitch to hunt under any circumstances. Two of them, in the middle of a Michigan winter, was indescribable.
Sam slept through the morning and when they switched places toward mid-afternoon, Dean crashed until they stopped in early evening in a small town neither of them could name.
When they stumbled into their chilly motel room, Sam laid out the usual salt lines at the window and door. Dean used the bathroom and then fell into bed and asleep almost immediately.
Once Dean was snoring, Sam went into the bathroom, locked the door and unwrapped his arm.
The bite was deep, and ugly. He'd cleaned it well before wrapping it and it didn't look infected, which was good, but he'd have to be careful, keep it hidden until it healed.
Hell, he'd have to keep it hidden even after it healed. Having to field questions from Dean about what the hell had bitten him - it wouldn't be good.
He'd screwed up. Screwed up good. When a skinwalker bit you, that was it. Instant new skinwalker.
He'd turn. When, he didn't know. Lore was a little light on that. But he'd turn. At the thought, a wave of fear swept over him. What the hell am I going to do?
Remembering the eyes and the teeth on the thing that had bitten him, he felt a clammy sweat break out on his forehead and leaned over the sink, splashing cold water on his face and neck. He looked into the mirror. His face was white and strained; hazel eyes exhausted.
"Sleep," he said to his reflection. "Sleep would be good."
He smeared some more antibiotic and aloe on the bite, wrapped it up again.
Hiding it was bullshit. At some point, he was going to have to tell Dean. No matter what he told himself about hiding the bite, figuring a way out - there was no way out. Not out of changing, and not out of telling his brother.
He'd almost rather die than tell Dean. His brother already carried so much crap around, most of it from Sam. Damn it, why had this happened? Why had he allowed this to happen? Wasn't it bad enough he carried demon blood? Bad enough he'd opened the gate to Hell? Wasn't it enough he'd started the freaking apocalypse?
It was all over now. He was going to become what he most feared; what Dean had always feared he would become. A monster.
Strength suddenly gone, Sam slid to the floor. He curled up on his side, face pressed into the cold tiles, and wept, trying not to wake his sleeping brother.
The sound of a cell phone dragged Dean out of the best sleep he'd had in days. The room was dark, but he could see the beginnings of dawn through the curtained window.
Sam's voice rumbled low in the bathroom. After a minute, he came out, cell in hand.
"Dean?"
"Yeah," he answered groggily. "What's up?"
"Bobby called. We gotta go back." Sam's voice was tired.
Confused, Dean raised himself up on his elbows. "Back? Back where?"
"Rawlings," Sam answered tersely. "Bobby just got word of another killing. A jogger, stomach ripped open, partially eaten. Left on a jogging trail. After we killed the other two."
"Damn!"
"We missed one."
"Damn it!"
Sam stared at his brother. He should tell him, tell him now. His arm throbbed in time with his heartbeat. Tell him, just tell him!
Cursing bitterly, Dean climbed off the bed, stomped into the bathroom, slammed the door behind him.
Sam shut his eyes, drew in a deep breath. Keep it together.
They had to go back, take care of whatever was back there still killing people. When that was done, then he'd tell Dean. They'd figure out what to do.
At the click of the bathroom door opening, he crossed quickly to his bed, which he'd never used, and picked up his duffel, which he'd never unpacked. "I'll be in the car." He was out the door before Dean could respond.
Eyes narrowed, Dean stared after his brother. Something was wrong. He'd seen him through too many crises to miss the signs. And it was something more than the screw-up in Rawlings.
Rubbing a hand over his stubbled chin, Dean sighed. It was like pulling teeth to get anything out of the kid and right now, they simply didn't have the time. They had to backtrack, find the monster before it killed anyone else.
Christ, he hated skinwalkers. Sneaky freaking bastards.
The Impala's horn blasted and Dean picked up his bag and walked outside, sliding into the driver's seat with a grin.
"Keep your pants on, Sammy," he said, determinedly ignoring the dark circles carved under his brother's eyes. "All right! Let's go kill us some monster!"
"This must be it," Sam held a shotgun, loaded with silver shot, ready to fire.
Dean crouched down, studied the blood-soaked snow. "What is it, about five miles from the last kill?"
"About that, yeah." Sam kept his eyes on the surrounding trees. "Roommate said she jogged out here almost every morning."
"Easy target," Dean commented.
"They brought dogs in. Trail went dead after a couple of hours."
Dean's lip curled. "Probably when it shifted."
Sam nodded and looked around uneasily.
There was something wrong.
The panther watched them. He'd known they would return for him. Hunters. Murderers. The killers of his mate. His son.
He could smell them - the scent of human sweat and adrenaline. He would kill them. Drink their blood, strip the meat from their bones.
They would die in terror and agony. He would have his vengeance.
A sharp chill snaked up his spine. Sam racked the shotgun. "Dean."
Dean rose quickly, gun in hand. "What?"
Sam turned in a quick circle, scanning the trees, the bushes on the side of the trail. "Something's here."
Dean checked the silver blade in his belt, cocked his gun, ready. "Where?"
"I don't know. But it's here."
"Good enough for me." Dean raised his voice. "Here, kitty, kitty!"
The panther bared its fangs - three inches long. Sharp. Lethal. Yellow eyes burned with hatred as the humans circled the area below the tree where it lay hidden.
The big cat gathered itself.
Kill. Destroy.
Feed.
It happened fast.
Sam was a few feet away from Dean. He didn't know what made him turn. The creak of the branch as the cat leapt, the strong coppery smell of the blood staining its coat - the shifter's blood calling out to him.
But he turned, saw Dean, and the cat above him starting its leap.
"Dean!" He fired. The cat was blown back against the tree, its own blood now mingling with that of its last victim, mouth twisted with rage and pain. Sam stepped in close, stuck the shotgun's muzzle against the big cat's head and fired again. Its head disappeared, spattering him with a spray of blood, bone and fur.
At his brother's shout, Dean had twisted and rolled away. He came to stand beside him now, staring down at the shifter. "Nice reflexes, Sammy. Thanks."
Sam stared at him, eyes stretched wide. Thanks? He shook his head numbly. The cat's death, its hate and rage, raked across his soul. Was this what waited for him?
No!
Shaking, Sam let the shotgun fall, turned to Dean to finally, finally tell him - but nothing would come out. He felt his legs start to go.
"Sam!"
Cursing, Dean grabbed him, kept him from falling onto the bloody corpse. He got an arm around him, guided him away from the cat and over to the other side of the clearing, parking him beneath a huge oak. Which, after a quick glance back at the dead cat, he checked for lurking shifters.
Sam couldn't stop shaking. His big body quaked as chills swept over him; nausea rose hard and fast. Groaning, he leaned to the side, vomiting on the grass. Mouth tight, eyes worried, Dean said nothing, supported him through the worst of it.
When it ended, Dean helped his brother up, moved him away from the mess and parked him underneath another tree. He handed Sam a bottle of water, watched as he rinsed out his mouth and then drained the bottle.
The desolation in Sam's eyes scared the hell out of Dean. "What the hell is wrong?"
It's time. Past time. Sam held out his hand. Dean pulled him up. Once up, it was hard for Sam to look into his brother's face. Steeling himself, he said, "I'm sorry, Dean."
"For what?" Dean was getting more scared with each second. He tried a tentative, nervous grin. "Come on, Sammy, what could be worse than starting the apocalypse?"
"I'm sorry," Sam repeated. Sorry I'm such a screw-up. Sorry you're saddled with me for a brother. Sorry I was ever freaking born.
He slowly pulled off his jacket and then rolled up his shirt sleeve.
Dean stared at the bandage, not understanding.
Hands shaking so badly he could barely make them obey, Sam unwrapped the bandage.
Frowning, Dean stared at the bite. "Where the hell did you get -" He froze. Seeing the look on Dean's face, Sam closed his eyes, fighting hard to hold it together. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm so sorry."
Dean's eyes flicked to the dead shifter, then back to Sam. A sharp pain lanced his chest. He wondered in a detached sort of way whether he might be having a heart attack.
That might be a good thing, he thought calmly.
The pain eased after about a century. With no idea what to say about the bite, the shifter, about almost anything, Dean clung desperately to what he knew. He patted Sam awkwardly on the shoulder, re-wrapped the bandage and gestured to the corpse.
"We've gotta take care of this."
Sam swallowed, nodded.
The ground was too frozen to dig. The brothers covered the cat with relatively dry branches, salted it, watched it burn.
And tried not to think.