Standing back to back with his brother, silver slugs exploded from Dean's shotgun. Then another, and the two closest werewolves hit the ground like sacks of dirty laundry. With no time to reload, he was pulling out his Colt with one hand and tossing the shotgun with the other. Aiming right, a snapping snarl came from his left. He fired right and Sam fired left.

Dean felt the recoil from Sam's shotgun against his back and his peripheral caught a large grey mass crashing to the ground. Another was almost on them from the same direction and Dean squeezed off two rounds. He didn't have time to see if it dropped because he was already swinging his aim around to his 10 o'clock to fire on two more.

Sam's handgun was going off in rapid secession. His brother was firing fast, but he had a method and nearly every shot was evoking a roar of pain or howl of death. Considering Sam grew up wanting nothing to do with the life, it's ironic how he ended up being a natural. They worked seamlessly together, their style was fluid, and Dean was grateful he had his back—literally.

He got off three more shots and then Sam shouted, "Break!"

The pressure against his back vanished and Dean was on the move. Whipping around to check his six, Dean caught a quick glance of Sam booking it for the trees. He had to pull his eyes away from his brother and focus on the werewolf almost on top of him.

Jumping to the side, Dean shot off three rounds. They went wide and missed the heart, but the monster still jerked back from the impact. They weren't kill-shots, but it was enough to slow it down. It bought him a few seconds and Dean didn't look to see where it was, he just ran for the darkness behind the trees.

Pushing away branches and leaping over a felled tree limb Dean ran a zigzag pattern through the trees. Off in the distance, he heard three quick pops as Sam fired a cluster shot. Ducking to clear a woody vine, Dean refocused again to his own situation.

It wasn't that difficult, considering all the crashing and growling coming from behind him. The sounds were impossible to miss as the werewolf he lamed was closing the gap, and Dean turned on the juice. Sprinting at top speed, his eyes skipped around at the murky surroundings. His breaths were fast and controlled. He knew he'd never outrun it. And, that's okay, because he wasn't trying to.

Drawing it in, Dean waited until he could practically feel the moist heat of the monster's breath on his neck. Spinning around, he dropped to the ground. The move was unexpected and the werewolf leaped over top of him. Lying on his back, Dean aimed straight up as the monster sailed past and fired a tight group straight into its heart. It dropped face first into the ground and flopped head over tail before coming to a stop in a boneless heap. It didn't move, and it didn't breathe.

Lying on the ground, catching his breath, Dean arched back and watched the werewolf. Unmoving and quiet, there was something about the way the tongue hung from its mouth that told him it wouldn't be getting back up.

Pushing himself off the ground, clouds of vapor puffed from his lips as he scanned the area. Where was the other one? Taking a few deep breaths, he ignored the wind as whirled around him and looked over his shoulder. There should be another one. Back, when he was in the clearing, he saw one turn his way as he was running for the tree line. He was sure it had followed after the one he'd injured. Turning, Dean squinted through the night into the forest beyond. From what he could see, and from what his senses were telling him, he was alone.

Sam's gun went off and Dean spun around toward the sound of it. Gauging the direction of the shots, he bolted forward to find his brother. He was ducking under the same woody vine when more shots rang out.

Dean didn't like what he was hearing. How many of the werewolves ended up going Sam's way? Is that where his errant werewolf went? How many was Sam putting down and many rounds did he have left? Anxiety over the unknown pushed him forward, giving him a stab of urgency straight to the gut.

He was coming up on the little clearing where it all started. Ten more meters, that's how far he had to go to get to the edge of the treeline. And, that's when Sam screamed freaking bloody murder. The sound of it, loud and cruel, caused Dean's steps to falter. He stumbled to a stop as the thundering clap of Sam's Taurus discharged five or six rapid-fire shots. The sound of it punched a hole through the night and left a heavy silence in its wake.

"SAM!" Dean bellowed out on reflex and then broke into a sprint. His brother's holler was a wretched sound, full of pain and anguish, and it ripped through Dean like a serrated blade. It scared him. There wasn't much in the world that had the power to scare him, but that did.

His breathing was harsh and ragged, and not at all controlled like it had been ten minutes ago when he had been running for his life. Legs burning with a searing heat, he pushed sloppily past low branches and tore through patches of briars, barely noticing the thorns as they caught on his jeans and sliced into him like tiny razors.

Exploding through the trees, Dean tumbled out into the clearing. Lungs heaving tight, rough breaths, he searched the area for Sam. Off to his right lay a dead werewolf that he didn't remember seeing earlier. About ten feet from that, he found the one he thought had followed him. And then he found Sam, on the ground, thirty yards away.

Holding himself up on an elbow, Sam's gun hand trembled as he held his weapon straight out in front of him. It was aimed at a different werewolf that was snarling and working on picking itself up off the ground. Hunched forward, the monster was blocking a clear shot to its heart. Sam wasn't firing, and that told Dean he must have been down to his last few rounds. It made a move toward his brother and, pushing himself forward again, Dean roared, "HEY!"

The werewolf stopped and turned his way, and Dean saw just how big it was. Blood flowed from an empty eye socket and from about four other areas on its body—not a doubt some of the shots he heard Sam take after being attacked.

Running at it full-tilt, Dean was coming up behind his brother, and because he did have a couple to waste, he fired off two rounds. One bullet tore through fur and muscle, hitting the beast in the throat, the other sunk deep into its shoulder. Furious, it barked a wild growl at him and finally got up, but still. it stayed on all fours.

Skidding to a stop, Dean dropped to a knee right behind Sam. Bringing up his gun, his aim paralleled directly above his brother's. Using a two-hand grip, Dean held his Colt out in front of him and locked his arms. The werewolf was a good seven yards away but it could cover the distance in seconds. They needed to shoot it in the heart and to do that they needed to see its underside. One quick glance was all they needed to put it down. Taking in a deep, steadying breath, Dean relaxed his shoulders and waited to see what it would do.

Beneath his aim, Sam leaned on the elbow holding him off the ground as his firing arm continued to shake. His breathing was tight and fast, and there was a part of Dean that was afraid to find out how bad his injuries were. It seemed to be taking everything Sam had to keep himself from falling to the ground, but his aim never faltered, and he never backed down. It would have made their dad proud.

Looking between him and Sam, the werewolf's one eye kept flicking down at Sam. It was hurt, and Sam was the one that did the hurting. Even so, its wounds weren't bad enough to be fatal and Dean had the feeling it was sizing them up, trying to figure the odds if it chose to attack.

The eye skipped back down at Sam and the animal raised its thin lips as it growled at him. Showing off its fangs, saliva ran from the long snout as the growl turned deeper and got louder. The werewolf took a step at Sam, snapping with a piercing bark as it tried staring him down. Sam refused to yield and it threw back its head, pointing its nose at the moon, and released a long, haunting cry. Clouds of white billowed from its mouth as the long howl resonated in Dean's ears and sent a chill down his back.

Ending the cry, it looked at them again. Leaning back on its haunches the beast's muscles became tight and coiled. It sprang at them and they opened fire with quick, synchronized shots. Sam's gun released three rounds before the slide locked open—Dean's got off an extra two.

The werewolf crashed to the ground with one last dying bay, and then Sam was collapsing back into him. "Sammy..." Dean spoke as he caught his brother in his arms. Eyes screwed shut, Sam's gun dropped from his hand as he arched back with a gasp.

"Easy, easy... I got you," Dean murmured while depositing his brother on the ground in front of him.

"God—" Sam choked out as he writhed and Dean didn't have to look to know that he was in some serious trouble.

Trying to calm his brother, Dean's blood pressure went on the rise as he looked at the wounds. Sam had two obvious injuries: his right side and his upper right thigh. The leg wound was bad and bleeding heavily, but before Dean could get it patched up, he needed to look at his side and make sure it wasn't worse.

Yanking a couple of large gauze pads from his coat, Dean tore them open and applied firm pressure to the leg as he moved to check out Sam's side. "I know, man," he soothed when Sam moaned long and harsh from the pressure he was applying. "Hang in there—going as fast as I can."

Sticking his mini flashlight between his teeth, he kept pressure on the leg while tugging down on the zipper to Sam's coat. Speaking around the flashlight, Dean ordered, "Sam, look at me."

It took him a minute, but by the time Dean pulled back the right side of the jacket, Sam was still panting and squirming on the ground, but he had eyes on Dean. "Good," Dean nodded and spoke to him in a calm voice. "Hey, you're gonna be okay. I'm getting you out of here."

Sam's response to that was to squeeze his eyes shut again and groan while pressing his head against the ground. "Hang in there, man." Dean coaxed, grabbing the hem of Sam's shirt and started lifting it.

Sam grabbed his wrist, and Dean said, "C'mon, Sam. You know I have to look." Sam hesitated, then his grip slipped from Dean's wrist and landed on his knee, squeezing as he was pushing up his brother's shirt to look at the wound.

It wasn't pretty, and it looked painful, but it wasn't even close to being as bad as the leg, and that was a bit of good news. If Sam had a gushing belly wound—as deep into the forest as they were—with no cell reception? Well, Dean refused to think of how that might have turned out for them. Sam's leg was bad, but if it were down to a torn-up thigh, or a gushing abdominal wound, the leg is the one they wanted worse. Every time.

And, yeah, it was worse.

Fat, dark drops fell from the gauze, soaking into the grass, and mixed with the collection already on the ground. Dean gripped Sam's jeans where they were shredded and tore the material out of his way. He aimed his light on the wounds and ignored the sounds coming from his brother as he leaned in to take a look.

There were four long slash marks that ran deep and ragged along the top and side of Sam's thigh. There was also a fifth cut, but that one didn't cause him any alarm. It was the four deep ones that had Sam's leg pumping out blood. No arterial spray, though, so Dean was pretty sure Sam's arteries were intact—thank fuck for that.

Reapplying pressure to the wound, forced a clipped cry from Sam and his knee got squeezed again. "Talk to me, Sam," Dean coaxed as he tucked the butt of the flashlight under the edge of Sam's belt. He aimed it toward himself and started pulling out all the first-aid supplies he had on him. Tearing open four large gauze pads in one motion, he looked down at Sam, "Talk to me, Sammy. How are you doing?"

Sam's breathing was fast and shallow as he squirmed against the ground. The beam of the flashlight bounced as his hip started to lift, and then fell again, and he choked out, "You serious?"

"C'mon, Sam. You know talking distracts the pain," Dean replied, then added, "It'll clue me in if you start getting shocky." Widening the hole in Sam's jeans, he pressed all four pads against the wound.

A groan ripped from Sam's throat and the crushing grip he had on Dean's knee increased. His leg started jerking away and Dean grabbed the inside of his thigh, halting its movement. "Talk to me, Sam," Dean ordered, ducking down to look at the blood already starting to soak through. Shaking his head, he increased the pressure, and Sam responded accordingly.

Closing his eyes against his brother's pain, Dean took a deep breath and then used his free hand to rummage through the pockets of Sam's coat. Glancing at his face, Dean warned him, "Sam, if you don't talk to me, I'm going to start asking you some really boring questions."

Dean knew his brother wasn't listening very well because he was too busy trying to remember how to breathe. Dean knew how the pain can become obliterating. As in, it obliterates everything around you, leaving you nothing else to focus on, except the pain. But if he could get Sam to talk to him, it would redirect some of his focus from how his leg probably felt like it was going to fall off, to picking out words and putting them into sentences. It wouldn't be a cure-all, Sam would still be in a world of hurt, but it would help.

Sam's leg quivered and jerked under Dean's hand as he used his teeth to tear open the gauze pads he'd found on his brother. Placing them on Sam's stomach, Dean started stacking them on top of each other. Grabbing them, he said, "Sam, c'mon. Talk to me. What you want for Christmas this year?" Adding the new pads on top of the ones already soaked through, Dean rose to his knees and used both hands to put as much downward pressure on the wound as he could.

Sam cried out. His face fell into a hard grimace and his hand latched onto Dean's arm. Watching him, Dean ordered, "Sam, c'mon." But the only response he got was a loud groan as Sam pushed off the ground and shifted back.

Scowling at him, Dean snapped, "Sam, you answer my damn question or I'm going full Ben Stein on your ass!" He waited, watching Sam fight against the pain for another couple of seconds, then still applying as much pressure as he could, Dean grunted, "Okay, fine. But remember, you forced me: Buller…? Buller…? C'mon, Sammy—Buller…? Bueller—I can go all night, Sam—Bueller..."

Dean lost count how many more times he used Ferris Bueller's last name against his brother. Best he could guess, it was close to fourteen when Sam finally loosed some of his sufferings through an angry growl and then ground out, "God! I fucking hate you right now..."

"There ya go!" Dean praised, sitting back on his heels. He took a look at the blood continuing to drip, saying, "Hate to say it, but you're about to hate me a whole lot more."

Sam actually looked at him. Puffing through a couple of breaths, he scowled, saying, "Why."

"Bleeding's not slowing," replied Dean while leaning forward to check the inside pocket of Sam's coat.

Sam knew what he was going for and Dean would swear that he turned a shade paler before asking, "Artery?"

Dean shook his head, "I really don't think so."

Sam huffed and winced. Swallowing hard he said, "Then just give it more time; see if it clots enough to use a pressure bandage."

Pulling the tourniquet from Sam's pocket, Dean stopped and looked at him, "I would if we had the time. But whatever the hell just happened here, it's not over. We gotta move and I'm out of options."

Screwing his eyes shut again, Sam surrendered with a pitiful moan.

When you aren't injured, getting fitted with a tourniquet was extremely uncomfortable—Dean knew. It's something their Dad had made them practice once a month. Cut an artery and a person can bleed out in seconds. With the blades and firearms they used on a daily basis, the things they fought against that could tear into you with a flick of a wrist, tourniquet drills had been a religious part of the old man's evac drills. Dean's pretty sure he's had one applied to almost every inch of his four limbs, and it sucked every time. Applying one when you were rocking a critical injury was flat-out excruciating. It stopped the blood flow, but it also forced a ton of pressure down on the wound, and that fucking hurts. He had firsthand knowledge on that.

Keeping a hand pressed against the wound, Dean held the end of the strap between his teeth and pulled back on it, separating the Velcro. Threading the strap under Sam's leg, he got the tourniquet situated a few inches above the wound. Looping the strap through the buckle twice, he took up the slack, saying, "Sam, I need you to look at me."

Hovering over his brother, Dean watched as Sam worked to focus on him. Nodding, he said, "Alright, Sammy. Time for the sucky, bad part. I'm going to tighten the tourniquet, and it's going to hurt like a mother fucker x 10. Your job is to take deep, slow, breaths. Okay? Deep, slow, breaths—ready?"

Sam closed his eyes again and gave him a shaky grin, saying, "No."

Dean gave his chest a couple pats, "You can do this." Winding the excess around his fist a few times, Dean gripped the strap firmly, saying, "Just hang on—here we go," and he pulled as hard as he could, forcing the nylon strap to synch down around Sam's thigh.

There was a choked gasp and then Sam roared out in agony, pushing off the ground with his good leg and twisting his hips. Moving with him, Dean forced the strap to rotate away from himself, and Sam cried out. "Deep, slow, breaths, Sam…" Dean coached and his brother started to sit up but then fell back to the ground with a garbled sob as Dean tugged on the strap again, cinching it down more and more, until he couldn't fit a finger between his brother's leg and the tourniquet. "Hang in there, Sammy! You're doing great; almost done!"

The windlass was a short black rod on the top of the tourniquet and each time you gave it a turn the nylon strap cinched a little tighter. Before you started turning the windlass, the tourniquet was already painfully tight. After you start turning it, the further constriction becomes agonizing. And Dean was trying hard not to think about how much more pain he was about to put Sam through as he gave the windlass three turns.

The tourniquet reduced by another couple of inches, increasing pressure on the wound to nearly unbearable levels, and Sam choked back a guttural cry as he pushed off the ground again.

"I know, man…" Dean tried soothing as he dropped the windlass into the clamp and secured it down. He shot a concerned look at Sam who had an arm draped over his eyes and was trembling and moaning through harsh breaths.

"Easy, Sammy. You did great." Dean soothed, rubbing his arm a few times and then took him by the wrist, doing a quick pulse check. "Slow breaths, Sam. Slow breaths."

"No hyperventilating tonight," Dean said as he moved down the length of his brother's leg. He made quick work of untying Sam's laces and spread the boot wide open. Slipping his fingers inside Sam's sock Dean held his ankle and checked for his distal pulse. There wasn't one, which is exactly what they wanted. But with the wound located on Sam's upper mid-thigh, Dean wasn't entirely surprised to see the bleeding hadn't completely stopped.

He'd give it another minute.

Legs were notorious for being a bitch to tourniquet properly. The arteries in the upper thigh were large and ran deep. The need to reposition the tourniquet to shut them down completely wasn't an uncommon thing.

Time was up and Dean cursed to himself as he pulled the windlass back out of the clamp.

"You done?" Sam asked in a breathy half-whisper.

Dean shook his head. "Sorry, dude. It's still bleeding."

Knowing what that meant, Sam drove his fingers through his hair, moaning in desperate disbelief, "Oh, fuck me..."

Loosening the strap, Dean slid it closer to Sam's groin. He gave him a heads-up and then moved quickly to get it done and over. Going through the same motions of pulling, rotating, and pulling again. He tuned out his brother's misery and gave the windlass three turns and then fastened it back down. Securing the excess part of the strap, Dean grabbed his brother's hand as he bent down to watch the wound.

Sam's grip on his hand was borderline painful as Dean mentally dared the claw marks to keep bleeding. "C'mon, c'mon, c'mon..." Dean grumbled under his breath, as his thumb rubbed over Sam's knuckles. After watching the gashes for a few more seconds, Dean squeezed his brother's hand, saying, "We're good, Sam. All done."

Bleeding finally stopped, Dean looked at his watch and then grabbed a marker from the ammo bag. He was jotting down the time on the strap when he noticed Sam had gone quiet. Shooting a look at his face, Dean's insides did a little flip at the vacant look in his brother's eyes. Sam was seconds away from passing out and Dean lunged forward. Grabbing his head, he turned it to face himself. He called Sam and tried to get him to focus on him. When that didn't work, he started yelling.

Dean would have liked nothing more than to let the pain carry his brother away into oblivion where there was no more torment. And, under different circumstances he totally would have; encouraged it, even. But he was about to leave Sam alone in a puddle of his own blood. The stink of it could be picked up for miles. Never mind werewolves, they also had the natural creatures of the forest to worry about. Dean needed Sam aware enough to protect himself for the short time that he couldn't.

"Sam, HEY! Look at me—no, no, don't you drop off on me!" Dean ordered, patting his cheek a couple of times. "Look at me, Sam." His brother's eyes moved toward him, but then got droopy again and Dean gave his head a little jolt. "HEY!" Dean shouted in his face and Sam's eyes opened again. Holding his brother's head in his hands, Dean rubbed the temple with his thumb, "Sammy, look at me."

Sam's response time was sluggish, but following orders, Dean watched as his gaze found him. "There you are," Dean smiled at him. "I can't have you passing out just yet. I need you lucid and aware while I go and get the backpacks." Sam squeezed his eyes shut and then opened them wide, blinking a few times. Dean saw a few more of his lights come back on and rested his head back on the ground. Working on Sam's side woke him up the rest of the way.

Flinching back, Sam sucked in a breath and grunted. "Shit..."

Dean glanced up, saying, "I know, but this is the easy one. Almost done already."

Swallowing a couple of times, Sam took a breath and asked, "What time is it?" From the strained roughness in the tone of his voice, Dean could tell how much Sam was still hurting. Unfortunately, his current level of pain was about as good as it was going to get for a while.

"Just after 9 o'clock."

"… damn."

Dean looked at him and frowned, "What?"

Sam sucked in a shaky breath. His lips moved a bit before he forced the words out in a rough mumble, "We'll never make it to the coffee house before they close."

Zipping up Sam's coat again, Dean's chuckle came out breathy with relief. If Sam had enough blood in him to crack a joke about something he said on their hike out here... well, it was just a really good sign.

Slipping out of his coat, Dean laid it over his brother. He tucked it snugly around him and then swapped out the empty magazine in his Colt for a full one. He placed his gun in Sam's hand.

Looking confused, Sam asked, "What are you doing?"

"I have to go grab the packs really quick. You're out of rounds. I'm giving you mine, so you can protect yourself in case the smell of your yummy blood is too much for critters big and small to resist."

Sam's hand tightened around the grip, but he frowned, "What about you?" Dean held up one of the shotguns and Sam said, "But, that will only give you a few shots."

Grinning, Dean replied, "Then I'd better be quick, huh?" Then, leaning in close, making sure he had Sam's full attention, he said, "You stay awake. That's your only job. You hear me, Sammy? I won't be gone more than ten minutes. Stay. Awake."

TBC…