"How the hell did we get into this mess Dean?"

"Dean!"

Sam turned to look at his brother in the passenger seat of the Impala. Dean was out cold and slumped against the side window. A hastily tied bandage was wrapped around his right thigh but the blood was already seeping through the material.

"Great! I'm the one with concussion and you're unconscious!" Sam fumed as he floored the accelerator, ignoring the speed limit. He too, was bleeding. In his case, from a gash on the side of his head where a bullet had grazed him. A fraction of an inch was all that had come between life and death and right now, with his head pounding mercilessly, he almost wished it had hit its target.

They had narrowly escaped a run-in with the FBI. Thank God Bobby had turned up when he had and distracted them long enough for Sam and Dean to get away. The whole thing had been a disaster and from now on they would have to be ultra careful about the jobs they took on. And we're supposed to be the good guys! he thought bitterly, shaking his head and then regretting it as a wave of dizziness overtook him. He slowed the car and pulled up at the side of the road. There was thick forest all around and it was pitch black. He opened the driver side door and promptly threw up, which served only to make the pain in his head even worse. He was on the verge of passing out but was fighting it, as they would be too vulnerable if they were both unconscious. They were in quite a bind. He didn't think he could drive any more, and even if Dean was conscious, he probably couldn't drive either with a bullet in his leg. Shining a flashlight into the densely packed trees he spotted a rough track, just wide enough for the Impala to pass along. He got back into the car and guided it carefully along the path, hoping to get far enough into the trees so as not to be visible from the road. Sam winced as thorns and branches scraped along the sides of the Impala. I'll be hearing about this for the next month!

Amazingly, the track led to a shack of some sort. Huh, maybe things are looking up! He got out and shone the flashlight through a window, into a very basic room with a table and chairs, a single sofa and a cot bed, with a sink in the far corner. The abundance of cobwebs and thick dust pointed towards a place long ago abandoned. Perfect!

With pain pulsing in his head, he didn't think before opening the passenger side door. Dean half fell out of the car and was jolted out of his stupor. "What the hell?" Sam instinctively bent to lend a hand, but the sudden movement sent a wave of dizziness over him and he fell onto his hands and knees. Dean pulled himself back upright in the car seat, hissing at the pain in his leg. It was so dark he couldn't see anything, but he fumbled open the glove compartment and felt around for a flashlight. Flicking it on, he played it over Sam's back. Sam was vomiting onto the ground, his long hair completely covering his face. Reaching into the back seat, Dean found a half bottle of water and nudged Sam with it. "Here – and don't get any of that on my car".

Sam took a swig of the warm water and sluiced it around his mouth before spitting it out. "Man, you're just all heart!" He fell back to a seated position and took a moment to try to quell the dizziness and nausea.

"In case you hadn't noticed, I'm the one who's been shot here Sam!" Sam looked up at his brother, complete disdain on his face. "Dude, we've both been shot!"

"Yeah, but you're not the one with a bullet still in you! All you got is a graze!"

"What I've got is probably a concussion Dean, so quit playing King of the Hill already! I found this shack and I think we should just stay here tonight and I'll see about getting that bullet out. No one will see the car from the road, so we should be okay for a few hours."

Dean shone the flashlight at the run-down shack.

"Well it beats camping I guess, but only just. C'mon on then." With that he gingerly lifted his injured leg out of the car, followed by his good leg. Grabbing the top of the door he pulled himself upright, putting most of his weight on the good leg. It was still agony but he was at least standing.

Sam very carefully got up off the ground and made his way slowly to the trunk of the Impala. He really didn't feel very well at all. Opening it, he gathered their bags and the first aid kit, and after shutting the trunk, he turned towards the shack.

"Hey! I could use a hand here Sam!" Dean shone the flashlight straight into Sam's face, blinding him. "Quit that Dean! I'll be back in a minute. Just let me dump this stuff first". He turned back to the door. Amazingly, it wasn't locked, not that it would have taken much to get it open, but he really didn't feel like he had the energy just now. Once inside, he felt along the wall for a light switch but found none. Okay, so no electricity. Not a great start, but they would manage. Dropping the bags on the floor, he went over to the filthy sink and turned on one of the taps. There was a shuddering, gurgling noise and murky red-brown water spurted erratically from it. However, it eventually cleared. This was more promising!

He heard Dean calling but he had spotted some half used candles around and some matches and decided to get some light in the place. He lit them and placed them around the room, casting flickering shadows on the rough, wooden walls. Finally he went back outside, to find Dean on the ground, holding his injured leg and breathing heavily. Sam went over to him and put his arms under Dean's shoulders and prepared to heave him up.

"Put your weight on your good leg."

"No shit Sherlock!" Dean ground out between gritted teeth as Sam pulled him up. Turning, he put his arm across the back of Sam's shoulders and they hobbled together to the shack. Sam helped his brother over to the cot bed and gently lowered him down so he was sitting on it. Dean grunted with the effort and the pain. The bullet had been in his leg for several hours now and although the bleeding had more or less stopped, the pain was intense. The fact that the bullet had not passed through and out the other side, meant it had hit his thigh bone and lodged there. It would have to come out and there was no way they could go to a hospital. They both knew Sam would have to dig it out and that it was going to hurt – a lot.

Sam was weak and drained and felt like collapsing on the sofa and sleeping for a week. But first there was that bullet to get out of Dean's leg. He picked up the first aid kit and, opening it, he took out a roll of bandage, tape, scissors, surgical spirit and a pair of surgical tweezers. He put them all on the table and dragged it over to the side of the bed then pulled a chair over too. Sitting on the chair, he looked at Dean in the soft light from the candles. He looked flushed and sweaty.

"Okay, you wanna lose the jeans or do you want me to cut off the leg?" Dean was momentarily thrown. "Cut off my leg? Dude what are you talking about?" Then he realised and started awkwardly shrugging off the jeans – they were his second favourite pair and while a bullet hole was unfortunate, they would still be wearable. Finally they were off and he shivered a little in the night air. Remembering his hip flask, he retrieved it from the inside pocket of his jacket and, unscrewing the top, took a hefty slug of the whiskey. The familiar heat burnt its way down his throat and into his chest, warming him slightly. He didn't offer any to Sam.

"Okay, let's get this done Sammy boy."

Sam keeled over sideways off the chair, and landed in an ungainly heap on the floor.

"What the ..? Oh great, just fucking great!" After his initial irritation, Dean thought maybe he should try to get Sam off the floor and over to the sofa. And then of course he realised there was absolutely no way he could do it with his injured leg. He settled for wedging a lumpy pillow under Sam's head and throwing a mangy, moth-eaten blanket over him. With a strong pang of guilt, he fell back on the now pillowless bed and pulled the remaining ancient blanket over himself. Moments later he was asleep.

When morning came, only the slightest amount of sunlight filtered through the dense forest canopy, but it was enough to wake Dean. The first thing he was aware of was the pain in his leg. The second was the musty, dry smell of the shack – he hadn't noticed it the previous evening. Sitting up on his elbows he looked down at his still sleeping brother on the floor. Sam had clearly been tossing and turning in his sleep and had pushed aside the blanket and was now curled in an almost foetal position on the dusty floor. He looked very pale and vulnerable and Dean suddenly felt remorseful at the way he had been treating him since the ambush.

"Sam, you awake?" Getting no response, he sat up properly, and, throwing the blanket off of his legs, used both hands to help swing his right leg out and onto the floor, followed by his left. Leaning down, he tapped Sam on the shoulder. "Sam?"

Sam felt Dean's hand on his shoulder and heard him calling but had no wish to open his eyes. The pounding in his skull was no better and he felt weak and light-headed. Which, considering he had thrown up any food that had been in his stomach, wasn't entirely surprising. Then he remembered he was supposed to be extracting a bullet from his brother's leg. Groaning, he opened his eyes and found even the dappled daylight, blindingly bright. Clamping them shut again, he pushed himself up and then opened just one eye this time. He let it adjust before opening the other. Finally he dragged himself up onto the chair he had fallen off the previous night. Again, he felt dizzy and sat breathing deeply and swallowing, in a bid not to dry heave, since there was nothing left in his stomach anyway.

"Man, you look like shit!" Dean didn't really mean it to sound so harsh, but he was pretty shocked at Sam's appearance. His face had a kind of greenish tint and he was visibly shaking. Congealed blood matted his hair along the line of the gash at the side of his head, and the rest of his hair stuck out at odd angles.

"Is that any way to be talking to someone who is about to go digging in your leg with a sharp implement Dean?" Sam attempted a grin, but the result was more of a grimace.

Dean had made a decision.

"Sam, the state you're in, there's no way you're coming anywhere near me. I'm gonna do this myself."

"What? No Dean, it's okay, I can do it!" Sam was slumped in the chair and looked like he might fall off again at any moment.

"Sam, I know you can, but I think you need to get some more rest. How about you lie down on the bed for a while and when you wake up, we'll see, okay bud?"

"Okay then, that sounds fine.. mm, just rest for a bit…" Sam fell face-forward onto the bed beside him and Dean manhandled the rest of his gangly frame onto the bed, covering him with both the blankets. With his leg on fire and Sam out cold, he had to face the fact that he would have to get that bullet out of his own leg. Reaching for the hipflask he took a hefty slug of whiskey. He managed to shift himself onto the chair, and from there wondered if he could make it over to the sofa. Another slug of whiskey and he decided he could. Grabbing the stuff from the table, he threw it over onto the sofa, before lowering himself onto the floor and dragging himself the short distance across the room. He used his arms and good leg to lever himself up onto the sofa.

If anyone had been there to ask how he felt, Dean would have put on his "game face" and said he was fine to do this, but truthfully, he was shit scared. He opened the bottle of surgical spirit and poured some onto the wound, gasping as it stung and burned, but trying to stay quiet so as not to wake Sam, though he doubted that was possible right now. He took another swig from the flask and decided there was no time like the present and he might as well get it over with. Taking the long nosed surgical tweezers, he pushed them as carefully as he could, into the inflamed bullet hole in his thigh. For a split second he was startled by the guttural, animal noise he heard. Christ he had expected it to hurt but Jesus! He glanced over to the bed and was relieved to see that Sam was asleep and completely oblivious. The pain had made everything else stop. His whole world was focussed on the exquisite agony radiating from his thigh. The tweezers were in direct contact with the bullet. All he had to do was let the tips open and grab and pull.. and it was done.. he didn't hear the small, dull thud as the blood covered tweezers and bullet dropped to the floor.