October 31st, 2042
He didn't sleep with a gun under his pillow; he wasn't fucking paranoid. But when pounding on the back door woke him from a dead sleep at ass o'clock in the morning, he was grateful for the loaded Springfield nestled in the drawer of his bedside table. The banging paused as he rolled out of bed and crept quietly down the hall, trying to catch a glimpse of his visitor through the textured half glass without giving away his position. He didn't jump when it started up again, but it was a near thing.
"DJ! Don't be an idjit; I can fucking smell you! Open the goddamn door!"
The gun found a home in his waistband at the small of his back; he carefully undid the locks—steel deadbolt, iron chain, silver slide—and obliterated the chalk-drawn wards keeping the back door sealed against all manner of evil. He'd barely gotten the door open when the Fitzgerald twins all but fell across his threshold, looking considerably worse for wear.
"What the hell, dude," he complained, reaching over to flip on the lights.
"Don't!" Cass seemed to be the only reason Sam was even upright, but he lunged for DJ's arm anyway. "They might have followed us."
"Jesus Christ," DJ muttered, fumbling instead for the chalk he needed to redraw the sigils. "Is he okay?"
"Gunshot wound," Cass said roughly, unhooking his brother's arm from around his shoulders to prop him up against the wall.
"Fucking hunters," Sam groaned, head lolling. "I told you, Cass; I told you."
"Yeah, I know. I know. Shut up; keep pressure," Cass grumbled, holding a wadded up flannel shirt to his brother's abdomen. "A little help, here!?" He snarled in DJ's general direction.
Finished with the sigils at last, DJ scrubbed his chalky fingers clean on his sweats and snagged his med kit out of the hall bathroom.
"All right; let's see what we're dealing with," he said briskly, pushing Cass' hands aside and ignoring his warning growl.
He let the ragged flannel drop and peeled Sam's t-shirt up and away from the wound, wincing when the other man hissed and clenched his teeth. It was slowly oozing blood, which could be good news or bad news, depending. He fumbled around Sam's back under his clothes, seeking but not finding.
"No exit wound; we're gonna have to go in for the bullet before I can close this up," he told Cass quietly. "Help me get him on his back."
They laid him out right there on the floor in the hallway; no point in moving him any farther than was absolutely necessary. He sent Cass for the flashlight under his kitchen sink while he rucked Sam's t-shirt up under his armpits and swabbed his belly with iodine.
"This is gonna sting like a son of a bitch," he warned the injured man; Sam just bared his teeth and gave him a thumb's up. "Keep that light steady," he commanded Cass, and went to work with a pair of forceps.
He expected squirming, shouting, and swearing—likely from both brothers. What he did not expect was the sizzle, followed by Sam's sharp yelp and sustained howl as his entire body arched up off the floor in agony.
"Damn it," he ground out, snatching the flashlight from Cass and pinning it between his head and shoulder. "Hold him, Cass, help me hold him!"
No sooner had Cass borne down with murmured apologies to his sibling than DJ was digging again for the bullet, grimly determined. He was sweating and panting by the time he managed to extract it and hold it up to the light.
"Easy; it's okay. Shh. It's okay; it's out. Look, it's out. It's all over," Cass was soothing Sam, packing gauze over the freely-bleeding wound with steady hands.
"It's burning; god, it burns," Sam gasped hoarsely, still writhing. "It's not out, Cass, it's not. I can feel it."
DJ stared at the fragment glinting between the jaws of his forceps with mounting trepidation.
"Cass," he said urgently. "This is silver. It's silver and I only got a piece of it."
The other man went pale at the news, blue eyes flashing gold. Sam whined long and low, trembling under his brother's hands.
"Sammy I'm sorry; I'm sorry, I should've listened," Cass' voice cracked. "Can't trust 'em, no matter what they say."
"S'okay, Cass," Sam slurred, streaking Cass' face with blood as he patted it sloppily.
His eyes were rolling back in his head; even if they could stop the bleeding, the silver was going to kill him. DJ shoved himself up off his knees to reach the coat rack, unhooking several jackets to toss them over Sam and stave off shock.
"Fix him," Cass pleaded softly. "DJ, please."
"I can't," he answered, a bit desperately, shoving his hands into his hair. "He needs a hospital."
"We can't go to a hospital!" Cass snarled, extending teeth and claws. "If he wolfs out, it's all over."
DJ's brain skipped and stuttered over that statement like a needle over scratched vinyl, turning round and round without gaining any traction. Then, suddenly:
"Wolfsbane," he said quietly to himself, straining to recall measurements, other ingredients.
"What? That's poisonous," the other man said uneasily.
"Yeah, I know; my dad's a fucking witch," he snapped, trying to not lose his train of thought.
He abandoned the twins abruptly, ignoring Cass' protests. He ran to his room to grab his phone, then ran back towards the kitchen, tossing it to the other man as he passed.
"Call my dad; I need his help with the spell."
"Spell!?" Cass shouted in alarm.
"Now, Cass!" he barked.
The cupboards were a wreck; he should have alphabetized them the way his dad was always hounding him to do. He got out his amber mortar and pestle and then climbed up on the counter to sort through the little jars with shaking hands.
"Wolfsbane… wolfsbane…" he muttered. "Ah! Aconite!"
"DJ!" Cass' voice at his elbow startled him, and he nearly dropped it. "It's your dad."
"Put him on speaker; I'm still looking."
"Dean?"
"Dad," DJ sighed, annoyed, but didn't bother with his customary correction. "I need your help. Werewolf Transmutation; I need to reverse it."
"Hemlock will do in a pinch," Dad said warily.
"I'd like to keep Sam alive, dad," he bit out. "I have wolfsbane."
"Just the flowers," Dad reminded him.
"Yeah, I know; I don't want to kill him. He's been shot; silver bullet. I think if we can make him less... wolfy, I can get the fragments out before—before—" he choked, unable to finish the sentence.
"Okay, let's do this in parts, then. Pulverize some of the flowers with holy water and put that directly on the wound-you know what, throw in some galanga; can't hurt."
DJ snapped his fingers to get Cass' attention.
"I've got a Super Soaker full of holy water behind the front door; go!"
Cass ran; DJ refocused on his father's voice.
"You'll only need a little; put the rest of it on to boil for an infusion."
"Yes sir," he panted, still fumbling in the cupboard. "I can't find my Lady's Mantle."
"Use yucca; it will be better for this anyway. Do you have licorice root for the catalyst?"
"Plenty."
"Good. Since you'll be doing surgery, you'll want to add thistle or juniper to the infusion, and roll some thyme into a smudge stick."
Cass was back; DJ scrambled down from his perch and let his armful of ingredients spill onto the countertop in front of him. He grabbed the Super Soaker from Cass and upended his electric kettle into the sink before dumping the contents of the water gun into its reservoir. He poured a small amount from the kettle into the mortar before settling the kettle back on it's base to boil. He added a few dried flowers and a pinch of the root to the mortar and set to work, muscle memory taking over even as his mind was spiraling.
"Dad, I don't know if I can do this," he said desperately, glancing at Cass out of the corner of his eye. "I'll be going in blind; I have no idea how many fragments there are, or where they are; what if I can't get them all?"
"Shit," Dad muttered. "Let me think."
The poultice was ready and the kettle was heating; DJ caught Cass' eye and jerked his head toward the hallway.
"Let's bring him in here; it'll be easier."
Moving Sam was much harder when he was dead weight; his pulse was thready, and his face had lost color. Hurriedly, DJ removed the gauze, ignoring a fresh gush of blood, and daubed the wolfsbane paste over the open wound. Cass looked like he was going to throw up.
"Hey!" DJ snapped his fingers again; Cass couldn't freak out, too. Somebody had to keep a cool head. "I need you to apply pressure; we still have to worry about him bleeding out."
As Cass fished fresh rolls of gauze out of the med kit, DJ returned his attention to the countertop, grabbing a ceramic bowl for the infusion.
"Dad, I need that formula now."
"Eight parts wolfsbane to four parts yucca to one part licorice root, two parts each thistle and juniper." His dad rattled off the agreed-upon ingredients calmly; it was almost soothing.
Steam billowed up out of the bowl as he poured the boiling water over the ingredients.
"Now what?" he demanded, swiping his forearm across his sweaty face.
"You'll need to let that infuse until it's cool enough to drink. Go ahead and light up the thyme. And Dean? Add honeysuckle to that smudge stick."
"Honeysuckle? What the hell, dad; the last time I used that I was hustling pool."
Dad let out an exasperated sigh, and DJ rolled his eyes. He could practically see the disapproving bitchface.
"Honeysuckle is for success and prosperity. Prosperity, Dean. Silver is a precious metal; it's money."
The pieces clicked into place like tumblers in a well-picked lock.
"Dad, you're a fucking genius," he breathed, thunderstruck.
Dad chuckled quietly. "I try."
DJ rolled the herbs into a bundle and tied it off with a piece of cotton string. He propped the smudge up in an empty mug and started patting down his pockets for his Zippo before remembering that he was still dressed for bed.
"Here; use mine," Cass said unexpectedly, tossing it to him. "Hurry up."
He lit the smudge and tested the temperature of the infusion; cool enough. He ladled out a cupful and knelt next to Sam, pressing up under his jaw to see if he could still swallow. Satisfied by the response, he opened the other man's mouth and tipped the liquid in as slowly as he dared. He used the rest of the infusion to quickly wash his hands, as well as his scalpel and forceps.
"Dad," he said quietly when he was done, "I think we're ready."
"I'll recite the Latin," Dad answered, all business. "Good luck, son."
Cover icon via talesmaniac89.
