Dean held his arms rigid as the werewolf attacked.

He wanted to shut his eyes, but he didn't, he stared hard at the monstrous jaws as they bore down on him. But he underestimated the ferocity; the spear was knocked sideways and he had to abandon it and roll away. The thing crashed headlong into the brush as Dean scrambled to grasp the stick again. He found it and whipped around, anticipating the next lunge, planting the spear end into the ground in readiness. But the ring...it was no longer on the point. It must have slipped off in the impact.

He scrambled on his hands and knees, desperately raking his fingers through the dusty dry weeds, cursing and praying simultaneously. He was forced to abandon the search as the thing crashed against him again. He felt the crushing pressure of the teeth clamp on his shoulder, he howled and swung at the head with the stick and it released him. The thick, strong leather of his father's hand-me-down coat kept the teeth from puncturing his skin. He scrambled away again as it lunged forward, the wicked curve of the front claws finding flesh again, tearing through the thin cotton of his shirt, and the skin and muscle of his chest as he rolled desperately.

He got back to his knees, and aiming wildly, he pumped his remaining bullets point blank into its hide. It shrieked and retreated into the brush. Dean fell back down to resume his frantic search for the ring. -C'mon, c'mon-!- He caught it up in his bloody, dust-caked hands just as the wolf returned to launch another furious attack. He jammed the ring hard onto the point, rammed the opposite end into the packed dirt, and spun to face it with a fraction of a second to spare.

The impact threw them both violently to the ground. Dean felt the stake snap under the creature's bulk, where his hand gripped it. -Christ-! He'd have yelled but the thrashing beast was crushing the breath out of him, flailing it's limbs and throwing it's head wildly. As he struggled to keep those deadly teeth away, the heavy, misshapen skull connected with his own, filling his sight with whirling sparkles, and he blacked out. His last thoughts lamented his failure as he lost consciousness.

He came to, after a few moments, still pinned under the beast, with his ears ringing. It wasn't moving anymore. It took Dean a second or two to realize the significance, he barely believed it. He shoved the lifeless thing off him and crawled away from it, terrified it would rise up again as he worked to slow his hyperventilating. "Sonofabitch! he thought...and that little phrase encompassed a world of emotion at that moment. He sat back and leaned against another group of thin trunks, coaxing his heart and lungs to settle down. Relief washed over him, but the comfort was short lived as he started to feel the results of his battle.

His shoulder was bruised from the unsuccessful bite of the creature, but that was nothing. The torn places in his side and chest were a different matter. He pushed the sodden, shredded material out of the way, shuddering. All of them bled freely, although those on his chest were slowing already. But the other two in his side, the lower one in particular, were far deeper, and streaming heavily.

He let the shirt drop, resting his head against the trunks. He was already starting to feel light-headed, and he realized he'd better bind them fast. His arms felt like lead, sluggish in compliance with his brain's demands. As the light of dawn strengthened, he shrugged off his jacket and pulled the ruined remains of his shirt over his head, resting afterward. He wrung it out a little, and tore the rest of it into long strips, tying them together and wrapping them as tightly as he could around his middle.

It would have to do. He had no energy left. He slid sideways and drifted into blackness again.

Sam had a very enlightening morning. He went to two galleries and an awesome rare book store. He even went through an antique china and crystal shop, not because he cared to see the contents—he didn't, particularly, but simply because he could. He grabbed a satisfyingly spicy lunch at a little Thai place, and as he enjoyed it, he toyed absent-mindedly with his phone. —wonder what, or who, Dean's doing at the moment- he thought. He pushed the phone aside, chiding himself for even thinking about it. He opened a magazine he'd picked up and perused it, while finishing the last of his tea.

He still had a few hours to kill before he gave Esther a call. He thought he should take her out to dinner, as a thank-you for showing him around the town…and other things. He abandoned the magazine in favour of the paper, looking through to decide what else was worth seeing. A movie...that'd do. One that Dean would run screaming from. Sam checked what was available, and the times. Something appropriately deep caught his attention, and it started in fifteen minutes. Best of all, it would have no car chases, gun battles, explosions or idiotic post-carnage one-liners. He wasn't as picky about the addition of the occasional bimbo, but he guessed this film didn't have those either. He laughed out loud, thinking of Dean 's reaction if he'd been forced to watch it with him. The whining would have been endless.

He got there just in time to grab some popcorn and see the trailers. It felt like such a guilty pleasure, seeing an afternoon show by himself. He made himself as comfortable as he could, those small theatre seats were never designed to accommodate someone with his big frame, and lost himself in the film. Theatre sound systems are so loud. He never even heard his phone when it rang.

Dean awoke slowly.

The sun was higher, much hotter than he remembered. He rolled onto his back, spitting out the grit that he'd licked off his dry lips. He tried to dust the sand from the side of his face, it was getting into his eyes, but his motions were out of sync somehow, clumsy, and he swiped roughly at it instead, sending more grains onto his eyelashes. He squinted at the sky. -too damned bright- He was so thirsty, it was all he could think about. He was confused by the painful and constricted feeling of his chest, raising his head with effort to see what the hell the problem was. -wrapped, right.- He remembered now. He glanced fearfully over to where the werewolf had lain. It was still there, still dead, thank god. -good- He pulled himself up to a semi-seated position, a tight grimace distorting his features. He nearly blacked out again, but he sat still and the feeling passed.

He forgot what he was about to do. His mind felt so weirdly distant, so fuzzy. He glanced down, and remembered. He needed to check on the scratches. Scratches didn't really fit, but it was what came to mind. He found the end of the wrapping and slowly unwound it. It was soaked through. The gashes in his chest stayed closed, no bleeding. They wouldn't be a worry. But the moment the pressure was released from his side, blood welled up again and trailed down to his already stained waistband.

-F~~ck, that hurts- he thought, his eyes watering. He re-wrapped the side, tighter this time, and lay back again. He didn't want to think about it, and maybe it would stop in a little while. Logic and experience told him that wasn't likely, but he ignored his own sound advice and chose to wait and see. The alternative was too ugly to face at the moment..

He glanced around. Nothing but dry bushes and dust. No point in hunting for anything drinkable, he wasn't gonna find it here. He reached over and snagged his coat, going through the pockets. A stick of gum...better than nothing. He squinted at it, trying to focus on the suddenly complex task of unwrapping the damn thing. –how many freaking paper layers were on this?- He dropped it, swore, and picked it out of the dirt. He stuck it between his teeth. It helped a little. At least now the cotton in his mouth was cool, minty cotton. He thought that was enough of an accomplishment for now, and he lay back down in the shade. Just for a little while. He wished he hadn't stupidly left his phone in the car. He figured this qualified as a bona-fide emergency, no court in the country would make him hand over that fifty bucks.

Sam had really enjoyed that. It was nearly five now. He thought he'd try his luck with Esther. He left the darkness of the theatre and stepped out into the bright sun of the street, fishing in his pocket for his cell. It was only then that he saw the missed call. -Ha!- he thought triumphantly. Dean didn't even make it through the second day. He checked the message, but there was none. Couldn't have been too important, then. He wondered if Dean would try to claim that it didn't count because he changed his mind before Sam answered. He probably would.

He dialed Esther's number, hoping that it would be her rather than the somewhat dour older one. She had just got in the door, and was delighted to hear from him. And oh yeah-, did she have plans. Sam convinced her to let him spring for dinner, if she chose the place. She told him to meet her at an Indian restaurant, giving him directions. The evening was shaping up.

This time the sun was heading down towards the horizon. Dean spat out his bit of gum, it was gritty with sand, and tried to sit up. That didn't work as well as he'd envisioned. The second try got him pulled up against the trees a little higher. He sighed and looked down at the bandage, then up to the blue of the evening sky. God, he was thirsty. He looked down and saw the ants, busily criss-crossing over his bloody wrappings, taking away their little bits of nourishment. -ok...that's gross- .he thought, absent-mindedly. He flicked them away lazily. He sighed again, realizing he wasn't thinking straight. Normally he'd have freaked at bugs crawling all over his middle. He rubbed a sticky hand over his face, rising out of his stupor a little. -better check- He unwrapped his bandage again, fervently hoping. But the minute he loosened it, the blood started again. He pressed his hand against it. He cursed and looked away for a moment, drawing in a ragged breath. He knew he'd already waited too long. He had to do it.

He needed three things. A bullet. His knife. And a match.

Four, actually. He needed a fresh branch, a short piece of one, anyway., one that wouldn't crack and splinter, and choke him. He really didn't want to do this. He'd have given anything to avoid it. But he scolded himself. -just get it over with, you pansy-

Sam met Esther at the Jasmine Restaurant. He gave her a bit of a guilt-trip over his awkward morning and she hooted with laughter at his expense. The food was incredible, so different. Esther assured him it was as authentic as Indian food could get in Houston. She asked about his day and he asked about the nursing. They spent the meal talking and drinking. At the end of it, Sam asked what was on the agenda. She rhymed off an exhaustive list of very cool activities, he let her take the lead again and she once again showed him where the real places to be were.

He was truly having a good time—, but off and on, she thought he seemed a bit distracted.

"Don't tell me you're bored!" she scolded.

"What? You're kidding, right? Trust me, it's nothing...I'm just a little worried about my brother. He called earlier, but he didn't leave a message."

"And?" she snorted. "What, were you two conjoined before the successful surgery? No message means not important. God, no wonder you two drive each other nuts!"

When she put it that way, he felt a little stupid. Dean was a big boy...he'd call again if he needed to. But maybe he'd give him a call later anyway.

Dean snapped off a stick from a bush behind him. He carefully stripped off the little sharp branchlets and any remaining leaves, then laid it beside him. It was a simple little action that took way too much energy. He was developing a pounding headache and he knew he was getting dangerously dehydrated.

-right…one down-

Next, he searched his coat and found his knife again, laying it beside the stick.

-that's two-

He dug his spare clip from his back pocket, shaking a bullet out into his palm. He closed his hand over it, drifting for a minute. His Dad had taught him this little trick.

-three…ok-

He blinked his eyes clear and focused on his task, prying with the edge of the knife until the slug popped out of the top of the bullet. He carefully placed the open casing upright in the sand beside the stick, and dropped his heavy arm to his side again. All these stupid little things were exhausting him. After a moment, he retrieved his matchbook from his coat breast pocket.

-and four-

Steeling his nerve, he unwrapped the offending wound, pressing it to squeeze out excess blood, and sluicing it away. He picked up the casing, tipped it and carefully poured out the gunpowder all around in the opening. He jerked as the acrid stuff touched the exposed flesh.

-gotta hurry-

He isolated a match from the rest and held it ready. He clamped the stick between his teeth.

He lit the match. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. And he dropped his hand and touched it to the powder.

A brief flare...and a smell of burned sulphur. His scream scattered the birds from the brush in all directions.