Dean had been left to sit quietly in the Impala, his palms diced from the shattered remains of the mirror he'd found himself in the middle of as things went dark. The afternoon sun was sinking behind the car, casting hazy golden light along the street. Birds whistled now and again; people walked their dogs a block or two down, clearly never intending to walk this far down the road, where there was only a creepy old house and overgrown brush in surrounding lots. Overall, it was really boring to simply sit still and watch small amounts of blood pool up from glass shards embedded in his skin. It felt like being a kid all over again, waiting for his Dad to finish the hunt and remember he'd left his son to stew in the car angrily, having been scolded for doing his best on a hunt a couple hours prior. And when Dad inevitably showed up, Dean was always faithfully pissed off in the passenger seat. He'd learned to do what the old man said, or it would come back to bite him at some time or another.

This was entirely not the case, however, with his brother. Or at least, it never used to be. He had the feeling that it wasn't so clear where he stood in comparison to Sam anymore. They used to mess with each other all the time. Small lies, pranks, and snickers floated between them easily when they were younger. As far as either of them had been concerned, they were on equal footing. Then they both got a bit older. Sam grew more lonesome as time went by, and Dean would return pumped from a hunt, perhaps a bit overeager to get in the face of anyone who messed with his little brother. He grinned to himself in the Impala, remembering how annoyed Sam would get sometimes when he thought Dean was being too protective or controlling.

But it stung a bit to turn his head left and spot the steering wheel, knowing that it wasn't just the condition of his hands that prevented him from driving anymore. The smile fled his face at the memories of his Dad, shouting for him to turn the wheel harder, or for God's sake, Dean, hit the breaks. It wasn't the driving instructions that soured his mood, though; quite the opposite. He loved the times spent cruising with his father's smile to his right. He loved holding the Impala keys, his Impala keys after his Dad got the new truck; he loved scaring Sam awake with the radio, and he loved driving alone once in a while to collect his thoughts. He loved when he was told that if anything happened, he was supposed to take the precious family car and drive him and Sam to Bobby's. It was his responsibility and freedom. Now, though, he supposed it was beginning to feel a bit more like just another mode of transport he no longer had control over—a thing he was told to get into, to wait in until more capable hands came back. The music, at least, was something he seemed able to adjust to his own liking. Sam wasn't arguing with him about it so far.

Speaking of which, Sam certainly seemed to be taking his sweet time bringing back their gear. He really didn't want to try opening the door with his hands in as much pain as they were, and the more time that dragged by, the more likely it was that his brother had nearly made it back. So he sat doing a balancing act with his hands, trying not to let the blood smear his clothes or drip anywhere near the Impala's furnishings. A portion had already began to dry, which was both good and bad; and he really hoped Sam would hurry the fuck up, because the more that dried, the worse it would be to wipe off and take out the glass. And his head—it hurt, that much he could say. Nothing else stood out except the residual pain and feeling of disorientation.

It suddenly occurred to him that he might have gotten a concussion from hitting the mirror. But he couldn't be absolutely sure about it, and before he had even quite realized it, he'd made a hasty resolution: he couldn't tell Sam. He couldn't tell him anything. One wrong slip of the tongue about something that only might have happened, and he was sure Sam would do everything in his power to prevent him from hunting again. Dean didn't want to be pushed away from the hunting life like an idiot kid; he would be left with nothing else to do, and there was certainly not a goddamn thing he was better at, even when reduced in age. Especially when reduced in age. What did Sam expect him to do without a case right now when he wasn't even able to drive himself anywhere?

Lost in his pissy attitude, Dean didn't hear his brother's approach until the driver's side door opened and Sam swung himself in, seeming to feel right at home as his foot drifted towards the gas and he twisted the keys. Sam's gaze flitted to Dean a few times, but they both kept silent while the scenery of an old neighborhood transitioned into a small town.

He'd had a feeling Sam wouldn't be able to stay quiet for long. "Are you okay?" he asked, with enough decency to ask in a normal, not overly-worried tone.

"Yeah."

"What—what happened?" God, his brother was terrible at taking social cues when he wanted his way.

Dean sighed. There was no getting out of this one, was there? "By the time you ducked out of the way, she disappeared, and then she threw me backwards. I didn't get the chance to shoot her again."

This time, Sam made eye contact with him. His gaze was nothing if not filled with… shame, maybe pity. As if Dean shouldn't be expected to handle such things anyway, and it was clearly his brother's fault instead. His fists clenched unconsciously, and he twitched with the glass cutting through the soft tissue. Sam's words were almost lost over the anger beginning to boil up. "Usually you pull me out of the way—I guess, I just… expected that. I…" Dean watched Sam's jaw clench, and wondered what the hell he had to be awkward about. "Sorry."

He took a deep breath in, knowing that the emotions washing over him shouldn't normally be so heavy. "It would've happened no matter what." Here was to hoping that Sam would get the picture. "I'm fine, anyways. Do you know how many times I've been thrown into shit when you move your ass?" he joked, hoping that'd be the end of it.

His brother took it more as an argument. "That's not my point."

"Then…" Huh? "What's your point?"

Sam scoffed and turned his attention elsewhere, in his classic if-you're-playing-obtuse-then-I-give-up moodiness. Dean might have backpedaled on his own position to get Sam to talk, but by this point, he was glad the conversation was over.

Of course, he expected his brother to wait a minute and then launch a couple complaints about his arrogance, hair flipping this way and that all the while. And it might have turned out that way if Sam wasn't already lost in his own worries. His biggest concern was getting Dean back to normal—but he couldn't exactly muse about it out loud. He was sure that he understood where Dean was coming from, choosing the "lesser of two evils", but he didn't see why they couldn't combat both problems. There had to be a way; there was always a way. He could only envision the situation they were in right now going terribly wrong. After all, it'd only been one milk run and Dean was already scratched up and pissy. At some point Dean was going to admit that they had to fix it, and the brothers would finally be in agreement again. Things would work themselves out from there.

In the meantime? Sam went through a mental list of people he could get a hold of, as he steered the Impala towards the motel on the outskirts of town.


Over the years, the brothers had grown used to doing the work of a hospital on each other with only the most minimal supplies. They'd received cuts, welts, and a host of other afflictions supernatural beings could cause; and they got used to it, because it was part of the job.

But it'd been a long, long time since Sam last worked with such a small form. He had trouble aiming the tweezers between Dean's miniaturized fingers, and his brother let him know it, both with ridicules and the way he clenched his teeth in obvious discomfort. There were dozens of little shards, each which took a whole minute to remove. And those were just in his hands. His hair, arms, and back had to be littered with glass as well despite his quick attempts in the house to get most of it off, and eventually Dean became as resigned as Sam to another long evening of patching up.

He was halfway done the second hand—although he knew he'd need to do another last sweep of both palms before putting the med kit away—when Dean pulled back softly. "Could you move on to something else?" he murmured, his voice sounding strained. Sam got the que and glanced up the length of his arms, where there'd been a few more dices across his now much more fair skin, ones that needed disinfecting. Dean wanted a break from his hands getting pulled apart and drenched in alcohol for a few minutes because it got too uncomfortable to bear. From where he sat kneeling on the floor, Sam looked up to Dean, who was sitting on the bed, and their eyes met for only a second. He'd wanted to apologize. But, needless to say, Dean doesn't listen to apologies, and Sam only had a brief second to catch the red rimming his brother's eyes before Dean had tilted his head away. He wasn't sure why Dean hadn't said something earlier—but then again, that was just his brother, and Sam set to work cleaning up his arms in silence.

As he finished up, Dean seemed to have regained his composure and spoke with a clearer tone. "Did you find our next case?"

He kept his gaze trained downwards, hoping it hid his expression. "Not yet."

There was a spot of silence. "No possible leads, no demonic omens?"

"I'll have to look into it more later." He waited to shrug until after placing another bit of glass in a tissue, which he'd throw out—along with Dean's shirt—in a minute. He began stuffing things back into small boxes and bags, which would get thrown in the trunk when he left to grab them food. The sun had practically completed its course through the sky by the time Dean walked past him to shower off any remaining particles. While Dean grabbed his bag, newly packed with the clothes he'd bought the other day, Sam glanced up. "Be careful?" He only asked it because they'd both made the mistake of letting things dig in further. Sam could still quite clearly remember coming home from one hunt when they were young, only to have an overlooked thorn embed itself deep into the crook of his elbow. It'd been a bitch to get out.

Dean just rolled his eyes and reminded him about the better pizza place down the street.

Deep into the evening, his brother had insisted they continue to surf for more cases. The problem was that he'd already found a couple. He was still on the fence about what kind of hunts they could manage very well, though, and instead of bringing them up, he said he'd continue looking while Dean got some sleep. He was pleasantly surprised when Dean handed him the laptop and fell unconscious atop the bed's covers out of boredom. He wouldn't be opposed if it had something to do with a teenager's jacked circadian rhythm, too.

The articles he dug into didn't look very promising at the moment. After another while of failing to find very much, he checked that Dean was still passed out and left the room for a minute.

Cas picked up on one of the first rings. "Sam?"

"Cas, hey," he greeted, keeping his voice low but not wanting to walk too far away from the motel room. The call was due to take quite a while. He ended up explaining the whole situation about the witch's spell affecting Dean, and how he worried about fixing the curse without a way to get rid of the Mark as well. The angel was silent for most of it and didn't seem able to offer a solution.

"You had someone going after a book, correct?"

"Charlie hasn't been in contact for a while. I'm sure we'll hear from her at some point, but…"

"How is Dean taking things?"

He closed his eyes for a second, not liking the idea of dodging the truth, while he already had to be cautious about what he let slip with Dean. "He—he isn't sure about a cure for the Mark."

"So… he doesn't want the spell revoked?"

"Cas, Dean's going to get himself seriously hurt." He stopped himself from getting too heated. "I—I don't want to worry him, but… we have to fix this. All of this. If we can find a way to get rid of the Mark, I know he'll start to listen to us."

The angel's voice dropped a few tones. "What do you suggest?"

Sam dwelled on all of the ways he could excuse such a crazy idea, of all the ways he could phrase it nicely—but at the heart of it, it was just the name. "Metatron."


Dean hadn't slept at all last night. He knew Sam thought he'd fallen asleep, and he also knew that Sam had stepped outside for half an hour doing God-knows-what. Though they removed all the glass, there was still a sense of disorientation in the back of his mind, and his back burned from the blow it received yesterday. He felt Sam's eyes on him as he took a few more pills to ward things off. The coffee had his leg bouncing whenever he stopped moving. And to top it off, his brother hadn't mentioned anything about another case. He could tell this morning was going to be just great.

Sam was hogging the computer as he sat down to finish off the leftovers from last night. No, leftovers were not normal when they ordered pizza, and no, neither of them mentioned it. Aware of the food particles flying from his mouth as he talked—and how much Sam hated it—he piped up with, "Find anything?"

"Uhhh, some nature conservatives using a kid's story to shut down a personally-owned park. Everything else has been a bust so far."

He grinned. "You know, I got something."

Sam finally met his eyes. His brother's mouth stretched into an unamused line, and he could have sworn his hands curled around the laptop protectively. "Oh yeah?"

"North Dakota," he nodded. "A family of campers went missing in the woods. Someone reported seeing their tents and gear ripped to shreds—all electronics absolutely obliterated. The only explanation anyone could come up with was a bear because of the way things were crushed, but one of the investigators went missing while checking out the campsite, too."

Sam's eyebrows quirked in admission. "That does sound weird. Couldn't you have picked anything closer?"

"You haven't found anything else." He gave Sam his best glare, but it didn't seem to take well. "C'mon, I didn't do all that research for nothing."

Sam eyed his leg and overall jitteriness with some skepticism. "You sure the caffeine isn't getting to you?"

It wasn't the easiest to get the Impala aimed towards the Canadian border, but Sam couldn't refuse to drive there without admitting that he was being much too cautious concerning what hunts they went on. It took a good portion of the day to get there. They paid for only two nights at a motel, where Sam seemed to actually be doing true research this time around, and Dean did his part in grabbing as many sugary snacks as possible. They were officially hikers the next morning.

Almost every tree stretched far into the sky, their leaves and pine needles ridiculously past reach. In certain areas it was possible to get glimpses of the deep blue sky. They were far removed from any air pollution and there didn't seem to be a cloud in sight, allowing streams of sunlight to filter down without pause and give things a mystical air. Levels of branches were highlighted with gold, and the wind that whistled by the tips of the trees sounded so distant. Wildlife was fairly—though not extremely—active, and overall the forest gave the brothers a sense of drowsy peace while they trekked non-stop through the early afternoon.

Dean continued finding himself lagging behind Sam, and had just about given up keeping pace with Sasquatch when movement to his left caught his eye. Then, as all odd things seem to do when deep in a forest, it was gone. Dean sighed and wondered if it would be a good idea to tell Sam about how hard it seems he'd hit his head, but stayed quiet when he realized that his brother was a lot farther ahead than he expected. He quickened his pace along the trail, which was overgrown with weeds and probably only existed because a couple of campers went the same way each year. So far as they'd seen, the park went largely undisturbed by people, excluding the pretty large parking lot many miles back. There were no paved trails, no picnic areas, and a surprisingly low amount of markers. The families that had gone missing were reported to be heavy-duty hikers.

While he was still catching up to Sam, Dean swore he saw a flicker of movement again, but it didn't end up making a difference. Something flashed right in front him. It was a weird, dark form, and it disappeared by the time Dean felt himself falling. He caught himself on his hands and knees and got a face full of long grasses. There was a fiery pain shooting from his knee, but he was sure he hadn't hit the ground very hard. He pushed the stupid reeds out of his mouth and eyes at the same time that he heard something stirring to his right.

Shit, shit.

He flipped himself onto his back to face the noises, but his view was obstructed by grasses almost five feet tall, left to grow naturally. The only thing he had on him was a pistol which sat awkwardly on his hip. Dean really doubted he was able to aim fast enough to hit whatever it was, though. It would've been easy to think he hadn't seen anything, save for the way his pants had been ripped in a very claw-like fashion. He grabbed at the pistol, hoping to have at least something to slow it down—if it was even weak to silver bullets in the first place. The gun hadn't come loose from its new and poorly-placed holster by the time something grabbed his shoulders from behind.


A/N:

Thank you Kathy, Secretwrittenword, and Shazza19 for your awesome reviews! They might have enough money this time around, but there's plenty of challenges to come. ;)