Well, it's time for another update. Thanks again to everyone who's reviewed!
Not only was the werewolf not as allergic to silver as each of its counterparts that the boys had faced, it was fast. They ran through the warehouse, the wolf at their heels, trying desperately to come up with a Plan B.
"Any bright ideas?" Sam asked as they ran, the pads of the werewolf's feet horribly close behind them, "because I'm all out."
"Don't look at me," Dean replied, "unless you think you can pump it full of silver before it bites one of us, I'm as clueless as you."
But he wasn't, because there was a large gas tank in the corner of the warehouse, gleaming sliver in the light thrown by the full moon. Dean looked at the gun in is hands, and then at the tank. If he shot it, there would be a fiery explosion, and he and his brother might not make it out. If he didn't shoot it, the wolf would wear them out and they were toast for sure. It was worth a try, wasn't it?
Oh, yes, the silky smooth, evil voice said, it's worth it. Blow the bitch sky high, and maybe you'll kill the wolf, too.
It only took the hunter a moment to decide that he had no other choice. He would just have to push his brother out of the way, maybe use his own body as a shield. Death was beginning to look good as opposed to spending the rest of his life trying to referee his mental war.
Turning as he ran, he aimed the gun. Sam barely glanced at him as he fired, hitting the gas tank with the bullet without a problem.
"Duck!" Dean shouted, grabbing his brother's arm and pulling him down, realizing that it would be more than easy to shoot him dead at this distance. As the thought passed, the tank exploded, engulfing the room in angry fire with a bellowing roar. He hit the floor as the heat pushed him over, feeling like he would lose his lunch, even though he hadn't eaten that day.
Something deep in his gut tugged, pulling painfully away, disconnecting as the fire roared overhead. The last thing Dean was aware of was landing on Sam and hoping that the younger man wasn't hurt. If he was, it would be bad. He never wanted to hurt his little brother. Then, peaceful darkness.
Sam was the first to wake up, as he had been in the last explosion his brother had saved him from. That had been almost a month ago, and Dean still hadn't seemed to have fully recovered. He was quiet, restless, and suffered frequent mood swings.
Currently, though, none of that mattered, as he was passed out on top of his little brother. With a grunt, Sam pushed the older man off and looked around the warehouse. Whatever had possessed Dean to shoot the gas tank, he was glad it had. The wolf lay in a pool of blood near the remnants of the tank, no longer breathing. The hunt was over.
Sighing, Sammy picked himself up off the floor and brushed off some of the dust that had settled on his skin and clothing. On the ground, Dean stirred, moving his head and mumbling something the younger man couldn't quite understand.
"Come on, Dean," he smiled, helping his brother up and wrapping one arm around the older man to get him out of the warehouse, "fire department will be here any minute."
Dean looked at his brother, confusion in his eyes. "It's gone," he mumbled softly, "the voice. I can look…" He trailed off, his head dropping onto his chest and Sam carried his from the wreckage.
The brothers walked into the dirt lot where they'd left the Impala parked to find that it was no longer there. "What the hell?" Sam muttered as Dean moaned and moved a little.
"Sorry," he muttered.
"For what?" Sam asked, still scanning the lot for their car, which seemed to have magically disappeared.
"Explosion. You could have been hurt. Bad."
"Hey, you killed the wolf. Besides, I'm fine."
"You sure?" Dean asked weakly, his head beginning to droop again, "because I couldn't stand it if something happened to you because of me."
"I'm fine," Sam reiterated, abandoning his search for the car and deciding to walk back to the room, which, luckily, wasn't too far from the warehouse. They could look for the Impala after the sun came up. "I think someone took your car," he muttered, though he was pretty sure Dean was out of it again.
The older man shook his head slowly. "I took it," he muttered, his speech slightly slurred as he hovered on the brink of unconsciousness, "had to have been me."
"Whatever, man," Sammy whispered, adjusting his brother's weight and heading for the room.
The wind rushed through the open window, the radio blared the classics, and the driver couldn't have been happier. He was free, and that was all that mattered to him. Free of his past, free of his future, and free of his better half. He could finally do what he'd always wanted to.
He knew for a fact that he couldn't go after Sam as long as the younger man had his bodyguard. Shoot the good one, and the bad one dies, too. The only catch of the split. But he had another plan, a better one.
He would find their father, which wouldn't be hard. All he had to do was pull out his cell and call the man with disturbing news about poor Sammy, who had, what, maybe broken his neck? Yeah, that would work.
John would come running, and when he got to the motel room, he would find his oldest son, neglected and abused, waiting for him with a coil of rope. After that, he would finally be able to speak his mind. His father didn't need him, and Dean didn't need his father. One of them had to go, and it would undoubtedly be Johnny.
Dean smirked. The old man didn't stand a chance against his perfect little soldier.