The boys are not mine. At least one more chapter coming.

Sam had woken up with a headache. Not a migraine or a hangover, but one of those pinches in your brain you become aware of before you had even opened your eyes, before you've separated out the nightmares from your grim reality. The kind of headache that makes you lose a step and lingers all day, maybe two, till the barometer crawls back up, or you hydrate enough, or you get a freaking grip on your stress and anxiety and push it back down as deep as you can.

I should really drink more water, Sam thought, as he watched the werewolf's claws slice through the air. He jerked to the right—the claws sliced into his arm, not his chest—but he couldn't regain his center of balance quite quickly enough. Friggin' headache. The werewolf slashed again, and this time Sam fell, avoiding the claws entirely, but managing to strike his head hard against the rock that was waiting for him.

Satisfied this one was down for the count, the werewolf slunk into the barn.

Dean hadn't noticed yet how wet and warm his back was, slick with the blood seeping into his shirt, his flannel, the lining of his jacket. He didn't yet feel the ripped flesh, the screaming nerves. But he could hear and see with perfect clarity and that was all he needed to finally get off the shot to sink the silver bullet right into the werewolf's chest and finish the game of cat and mouse he and Sam had been losing for the last three nights.

Sam. Where had he last seen Sam? They'd been running all over this abandoned farm for at least twenty minutes. Or two? Dean suddenly wasn't sure.

"Sam!?"

Nothing. What had happened to Sam?

Dean shouted his brother's name again. Silence. A familiar panic started to claw at Dean's brain, but he pushed it aside. Don't feel anything that isn't useful. His Dad's voice. It was always his Dad's voice in his head at times like this.

Phone. He could call Sam, listen for the ring. Dean pulled his phone out of his pocket, grateful it hadn't smashed when the werewolf had jumped him. Dean was halfway through dialing Sam's number before he realized he didn't have any service. He swore. The barn tilted. Or the world tilted? And his back—NO.

Get a grip. Find Sammy. Dean reined himself back in. Dean was excellent at reining himself in.

Dean had gone in the barn, so Sam had gone around. To prevent a surprise attack. The surprise attack that had happened. So Sam must be— Dean bolted out of the barn, ignoring the screams of the ripped flesh brushing against his clothing.

Sam was unconscious, on the ground near the west side of the building and bleeding from a nasty gash in his left arm. Which was good, Dean reminded himself. Dead men don't bleed.

Dean squatted next to his brother, and gritted his teeth at the white hot flash of pain that caused. Sam first. Sam always first.

"Hey Sammy, I'm here. I'm here." Dean started running his hands over his brother, checking for injuries. His arm wasn't too bad. Sam stirred. "Hey kid, you with me?" Nothing felt broken.

Sam blinked, eyes not quite focused.

"There you are." Thank god. "You okay man?" Which was a stupid question.

"Youok? Immm okay," Sam slurred, before turning and puking into the dirt beside him. Concussion then. And bleeding. Not insurmountable. Sam slumped against the barn. "Wherre we?"

The middle of freaking nowhere, with no cell service. Dean thought.

"Wha'? Werre we?" Sam blinked at him. So Dean had said it out loud.

Control. Get control.

Dean tried not to notice the blood running down is back.

"Hunt went sideways. It's okay." It wasn't okay. Neither of them were really okay.

Breathe. Take stock. Jesus. He felt like he had been flayed. Maybe he had been.

Dean couldn't call an ambulance and the nearest hospital was at least thirty minutes away. Too long for Dean to both drive and bleed. He was getting dizzy.

"Any chance you can drive, Sammy?" Sam blinked. If Dean was asking Sam to drive, something was wrong. Dean looked pale. Why did Dean look pale? Sam tried to clear his head. What had Dean asked? Can you drive. Sam never got the chance to drive. Sam loved to drive!

"Imacan drive." Sam pushed himself off the ground, too fast, and everything swirled. He leaned heavily against the barn, and saliva pooled in his mouth. "Pukefirstmaybe."

So no. Sam could not drive.

As usual, every option sucked.

"Sam?" Sam looked up at Dean, trying to concentrate on his words.

This was not going to be pretty.

"I need you to get the first aid kit from the car. And a sleeping bag. And the whiskey. Okay?"