21. Harsh Climate

The sun was merciless. Dean had never hated it so much in his life. He hated it as much as the skinwalker he had pissed off so much that it had dragged him away and left him out here. All he wanted was a cloud. And if he was really lucky, some rain.

They'd been hunting the bastard—a skinwalker—out in Arizona and Dean had gotten jumped after they had split up to check out leads. The skinwalker had knocked him out and the next thing he knew, he was waking up while the son of a bitch was staking him down, bare-chested and spread-eagled in the middle of the desert.

"I could eat your heart," the skinwalker told him, digging a clawed hand into the skin above Dean's heart. "But I think I'll let the desert kill you instead. And if it doesn't, then the coyotes will."

And then he had proceeded to make cuts down Dean's bare chest and arms, blood pooling from the wounds and dripping down his sides to soak into the dirt. Then the skinwalker stood, licking the knife clean and sneered. "Goodbye, Dean Winchester." And then he shifted into a coyote and trotted off into the distance.

Dean had spent hours tugging at his ropes as the sun rose higher in the sky, beating down on him more and more mercilessly as the day progressed. His head ached from the heat and the blow he had taken and his cuts scabbed and stung with the sweat that dripped from him. Eventually he could feel his skin burning, his eyes dry and aching from the heat and harsh light. At first the flies had constantly tried to seek moisture from his eyes, but at least now they had stopped that, simply going for scabbed wounds across his chest and arms. Worse even than his eyes was that his mouth and throat were so dry, he nearly choked every time he drew breath. His lips had cracked and bled, and he couldn't even lick them to keep them moist anymore because his tongue was like sandpaper and only tore the tender skin further.

Eventually, all he could do was lay there under the burning, relentless sun, growing dizzier by the hour as his body lost every ounce of moisture it had, and knowing that night was only getting closer and then the coyotes and wolves and whatever the hell else was out there would come and tear him apart. A shudder went through him at that, memories of the hellhounds ripping him apart coming back. He didn't want to experience anything like that ever again.

Maybe if Sam and Cas could find the skinwalker, they would be able to find him too.

He just hoped they wouldn't get there too late.

Night drew on, and finally the setting sun gave Dean a little reprieve. But it also brought the chill of a desert night, and he found himself shivering now, his burned body overly sensitive to the cold. He probably had a fever from heatstroke too, though his body hurt so much he couldn't tell what had caused what.

And then the howls and yips of the nightlife could be heard. Things began to crawl from under the sand and the rocks. Dean could feel things crawling across his bare skin, he didn't want to think about what they were, but closed his eyes and mouth firmly, hoping they wouldn't crawl over his face, or up the leg of his jeans. It was certainly possible that things could get worse than they already were.

And of course they could get even worse than that. He heard the howls of the coyotes and they were close. They would smell the blood, and once they found him, helpless, vulnerable prey, they would have a nice supper.

Dean gave a useless jerk at his bonds again but it was no use. He'd already torn his wrists and ankles to bleeding earlier and it had only tightened the leather straps. He had no strength anymore anyway.

It wasn't long before the coyotes wandered up, curious. There was three of them, and maybe more were coming. Dean struggled as much as he was able; maybe showing them he could put up a fight would scare the damn scavengers off. He thought they usually ate dead things anyway. He tried to shout too, but a hoarse grunt was all that came out of his dry throat and it just made it ache.

One coyote came closer and snuffed cautiously at the blood crusting Dean's ribs. He let out a pitiful whimpering sob as he braced for the inevitable.

And then an unfamiliar engine sounded in the distance and lights flared too bright in the darkness. Dean cringed and flinched as a gunshot rang out, startling the coyotes away.

"Dean!" He could feel the footsteps pounding through the ground and suddenly Sam and Cas were hovering over him.

"S-S'mmy," Dean tried. "C-Cas…"

"Shh, Dean, don't talk," Sam hushed. "Oh god, you look awful."

Dean wanted to retort, but couldn't talk. His mouth and throat were too dry, and words felt like glass in his throat. He could feel someone tugging at his numb hands and realized Cas was cutting him free. Sam did the same with his feet and finally the straps were gone, but he couldn't move.

He made a pitiful sound of protest as Cas simply heaved him over his shoulder and carried him toward the jeep he and Sam had driven out there.

"Sam he's in terrible condition, we need to get him back now."

Dean remembered little about the ride back into town, just Sam driving very fast and Cas checking him over. Then the next thing he knew he was lying on a soft surface and there was warm, electric light and someone was replacing his jeans with sweatpants. Dean murmured a protest but he suddenly didn't care as a hand slipped under his head and raised it slightly, pressing something hard to his bleeding lips.

"Drink, Dean," Cas told him. "Just a little."

Dean didn't need coaxing. He parted his lips and allowed Cas to spill a little water into his mouth. It took him several tries to swallow and when he did he almost choked, but after a few more sips he could feel the water soothing his throat and wetting his mouth. He felt it trickling down inside of him, a cool, soothing wetness that took away some of the glass shard feeling of his insides.

"God, he's a mess," Sam commented, rejoining them and pressing a wet towel to Dean's chest, cleaning the blood and sand and sweat from him as gently as possible. Dean moaned, just wanting more water, but they seemed adamant about cleaning him off first. The cleaned his upper body and his face and hair, which caused the critical sunburns he had gotten to sting and make his skin feel on fire.

"Hurts," he moaned. "Sammy."

"Hold on, Dean," Sam said softly and a few seconds later they apparently finished. Dean heard rustling and then cracked his bloodshot eyes open to watch Sam retrieve a bottle of something, which he squeezed into his hands and then began gently spreading over Dean's chest and stomach. The coolness instantly soothed the ache and Dean sighed, relaxing back onto the pillows more.

"The aloe vera will help," Sam assured him. He put some on Dean's face too, and though it made some of his cuts sting, it took the majority of the tight pain associated with the sunburn away.

"Thanks," Dean murmured.

"More water?" Cas asked and he nodded and eagerly took a few more sips.

"Skinwalker?" he whispered after getting his breath back.

"Dead," Sam assured him. "But not before we made him tell us where to find you."

"He was very sorry," Cas said simply.

"Glad you did," Dean whispered, his eyes sliding shut again.

He felt someone pull a light sheet over him. "Rest, Dean," Sam told him.

He didn't need anymore coaxing. Now that he was finally safe with his family, Dean allowed himself to fall asleep.