Chapter 3.

The snow glows in the darkness, making travel a little easier for Sam who is stumbling under Dean's weight through the loose powder. A consistent snow fall is adding to the two feet already present, it's blurring the air into a swimming mess of white, Sam is scrunching his face up with a squint trying to see. The temperature is dropping, Sam can nearly feel it. Or at least his nose can, the tip is cold to the hurting point, except until about now when it's numb. He's aware of the way the snow under him is getting firmer, freezing.

They're going to be stuck at the cabin if this keeps up all night.

Dean on his shoulders behind him, is silent. Doesn't move, makes no sound, not even a soft moan. Sam doesn't feel even a wince, though he occasionally sights blood dripping from his left boot. He doesn't want to think about how much he's missed falling. Sam's body is overheating, sweat dripping down his face and neck, exposed skin getting wind chapped, snow flakes landing against it melt away immediately.

When the dark silhouette of the cabin comes into view Sam sighs deep with relief and shifts Dean on his shoulders.

"Really puts distance in perspective when you're hauling a full grown man on your back," he mumbles. He hears Dean's breath catch, a soft exhale accompanied with low moan.

"Hold up Dean," he says, starting towards the small house, "We're almost there, gonna getcha' set up in minute."

Dean gives him no response. But then he is hanging upside down, passed out over Sam's back, so Sam pats him reassuringly where his hand grips his thigh and begins the last leg of the journey to the cabin. As always with the object of all his work in sight it seems harder. Sam pants his way up the small hill the cabin is built on and breathes raggedly as he leans against the door jam and fishes the keys out of Dean's jacket pocket. Which, by the way, he should get a medal for. That was hard shit.

He unlocks the door and stumbles into the dark, bare room. Swinging the door shut behind him, he slowly goes to his knees beside the cold fireplace and slowly lowers Dean from his shoulders. He lets his brother rest against his chest as he grabs one of their sleeping bags, he's honestly not sure whose and both old, dirty pillows. He thinks randomly they really need to get new ones.

He manages to unroll the sleeping bag one handed and spread it out. As gently as he can he shifts Dean onto it, watching grimaces chase themselves over his brother's face. He places the pillows under Dean's head and straightens his crooked limbs, being SO careful with his left leg.

Rising from beside him, Sam gathers a handful of wood from the pile stacked beside the fireplace and stacks it inside the hearth. Grabbing a piece of notebook paper from among his research which is by the fire from their going over it the night before. He uses it for kindling and nurses the flames into a warm fire. That done he pushes Dean and the sleeping bag closer to the warmth and spreads one of their extra blankets over him.

Opening the door he takes the keys from the lock feeling a little foolish for leaving them there. He shuts the door behind him, heading for the impala. Outside the world has changed into one of swirling white. Sam thanks any entity that may be listening that it seems they got back to the cabin just in time. He fights his way through the angry wind and snow towards the impala that is covered in a layer of snow.

Wouldn't Dean be thrilled.

Sam uses his arms to guard his face against the blistering wind and cold. He unlocks the trunk and quickly grabs their first aide kit, which is in the favorite green weapons bag, and stuffs some water bottles and snacks into it too. He grabs their radio, hoping to jump onto a wave and hear something helpful about the weather. Getting a hurt Dean down the mountain was nearly out of the question. Not to mention the impala wasn't exactly an all terrain car. Sure Dean could make her do just about anything, but Sam was not his brother. Nor did he have such blind faith in a machine. Just in Dean.

Making sure to lock his brother's "baby" back up, Sam heads back inside, shaking the snow from his hair as he closes the door behind him. Going over to the crude table and two chairs sitting in the middle of the room he sets down the duffle and drags out the first aide kit and water. The water bottles are frozen solid, so he sits them close to the fire to thaw out. Next he quickly lays out the contents of the first aide kit, wanting to be prepared for nearly everything.

Dean has turned his head towards the warmth of the fire, the orange flames reflecting off his sweat slick face. Sam runs fingers through his hair, getting the wetness from melted snow on his hands. Gingerly as he can he dries his brother's hair and turns his head to face the fireplace all the way so his right cheek rests against the pillow.

He cleans the blood from Dean's hair and scalp as best he can, using their flashlight to light his work since the light from the fire is hardly enough. Dean's had worse head wounds, and the blood has come from more a scratch than a cut caused by the bark of the tree. The bleeding as since stopped and Sam is satisfied that his brother's head is the least of his worries.

He turns his attention to Dean's leg next. His heart beating a little heavier, Dean has never reacted to any sort of wound like that before, even though Sam knows the severe concussion may have had something to do with it too. He can't imagine the kind of pain from a leg wound and then having to walk on it to the point of passing out.

He really, really hates their life sometimes. That Dean knows that feeling know, has endured, knows he can endure it. It's so wrong, it's so unjust to his brother, who has never done anything to deserve this, has only every done good to those around him. Looking back he can't help but be proud at the way Dean handled himself, slightly in awe by how long his brother lasted out there.

He hates seeing his brother go through pain. And the last hour and a half has been nothing but that. And now he has to start it all over again. He can't help but feel it's so unjust and ugly, Dean must hurt, Sam must hurt him more in order to help him.

Shitty life.

He sighs, barely shaking fingers going to Dean's pant leg. He opens his pocketknife and rips up the seam. He pulls the jean up to his brother's knee and heaves a big, uneven sigh. The two lower, smaller wounds are deep claw marks running downwards, but the top deepest wound is like a bloody well.

This is what the scream and the losing consciousness had been about. Sam stuffs the back of his hand in his mouth as he gags. The wound in his brother's leg is just a seeping hole. There is no skin or flesh to be stitched back together. He gags agains as he thinks it looks more like the flesh was scooped out then clawed.

Sam looks away for a moment and breathes in through his nose, forcing a level of calmness on himself. He has no idea how to deal with this sort of wound, it's just an open pit of bleeding flesh in HIS BROTHER'S leg. Remembering Dean's agonized scream he can only imagine the pain of having his flesh being ripped out in chunks as the werewolf was jerked away from him when Sam stabbed him.

"Oh Dean," he says to the silent room, hands hovering for a second. First things first; deal with what he can actually deal with first. He can't help but feel like he failed his brother somehow as he cleans the smaller wounds and the skin around. If he just could have wrestled the wolf off him sooner or, if they had been paying attention and not being such cocky sons of bitches they'd have nailed the wolf before he had a chance at them.

Sam threads up a needle that he waved through the flames first and sprays Dean's raw flesh and skin with numbing solution. As gentle and as professionally as he can he begins to sew up the two gashes. As he is finishing up the higher of the two gashes closer to the largest wound Dean tosses his head to the side towards Sam and away from the fire.

Sam watches his hands shape into fists and then relax as Dean sighs, he can tell though, his brother is still unconscious and not just simply asleep. He hopes, praying and crossing his fingers that Dean will stay out until he's done all the touching and poking he needs to do to dress the wounds.

Stitches done he wipes away the clotting drops of blood under his neat white sewing job, and wraps white gauze around them tight enough to help stop the bleeding. Next he raises his flash light and leans over his brother to get a good look at the massive open wound. Sam would have to say he'd seldom seen anything more gruesome. He'd liken the wound after the way demon's eyes looked when the Angels smoked them just without all the charred black blood.

Speaking of which, Sam feels sick just thinking of the deep, open wound getting infected, the only way of fixing that would be antibiotics, which he doesn't have, or cauterizing it. In that case they would get the charred black blood look. He shivers nearly gagging again and looks over the wound carefully searching for any dirt particles or sign of dirt or unholy infections from the were's claws.

Sam is feeling sick just knowing what he has to do next. He unscrews the lid on his flask of holy water. He chews on his lip worriedly for a moment watching the drops of sweat already welling up on his brother's forehead. God, this going it hurt, like out of this world. Even if there is no infection from the werewolf's claws, regular water still burns like a bitch on any wound. Let alone this is probably the messiest, gruesomest wound Sam's even seen on his brother.

"Sorry Dean," he mumbles gripping his brother's wrist as he pours the water over the open hole.

The reaction is immediate, his brother Jack knife's off the sleeping bag, hand flying clumsily to grab Sam's hand that holds the holy water and jerk it away from the wound. He pants, wild eyes staring up at his brother, eyes dilated to nearly all black. Sam gives him a comforting smile even though his heart is hammering out of his chest.

"It's okay Dean," he says shakily, his hand going up to cup the side of his neck pushing him back down to the pillows. "It's okay, I gotcha', just bandaging your leg."

Dean falls back on his elbows and heaves some big breathes, sparkling, glazed over eyes still looking confused and a little panicked. Sam screws the lid back on the holy water and sets it aside. He pulls out some gauze pads and more long, white strips of bandages.

"It's okay Dean," he soothes, wiping the excess of water off his brother's skin, drying it for wrapping. "Almost done. Werewolf hunt remember?" He asks, to distract Dean, "Got you in the leg."

Dean lays the rest of the way back down, "Don't really 'member." He mumbles.

Sam nods, disorientation is expected after a hit on the head like that. "You'll be okay, just sleep it off, big brother."

Dean watches him, flinching and fidgeting as Sam presses two gauze pads over the wound and then wraps it snugly. Sam does the best he can, but the wound dressing is taking eternity with Dean flinching away from his fingers and hissing through his teeth with every touch of Sam's fingers our the bandages.

"Dean, hold still for me, buddy," he says as tenderly as he can, biting his lip trying to give the finishing touch...

"H'rts S'm," Dean whines pulling out from under his fingers and rolling a little towards the fireplace. Sam presses a hand to the left side of his chest, pushing him down to the sleeping bag, smiling at him calmly.

"I know it does man, I can't even imagine. But I'm not gonna stop until I'm done, so just hold still for me." Dean watches him with bright eyes but lays still as Sam splits the end of the white bandage and ties it firmly.

"There we go, see all done." Dean visibly relaxes on the sleeping bag and actually allows his head to rest completely on the pillow, all muscles lax. He watches Sam from under heavy lids, cheeks flushed against his still pale skin. Sam puts away their first aide supplies and watches his brother float amongst his own thoughts. It's unusual for Dean to be so quiet, even hurt. He hopes the torture of walking on his hurt leg hasn't resulted in any one of his severe coping methods. He's pretty sure Dean doesn't even realize he does it, but his brother copes about the unhealthiest, creepiest ways.

The worst of which is the silence, Sam can't do the silence, and with Dean so hurt, Dean can't risk that either. There's no drink up here, at least that Sam knows of, and his brother is too concussed to be angry and too weak for violence, so Sam kind of figures his mind might react with the whole strong silent option. He's determined to draw his brother out.

He can hear the wind whipping around the four walls of the cabin, the dirty windows are completely covered with icy, white snow. Sam can feel the cold creeping all around them, the warmth on his front a major contrast with the iciness climbing up his spine. His fingers wrap around his brother's feeling for coldness. He knows Dean's body isn't at his strongest right now.

"You cold, Dean?" He asks.

Dean kind of hms at him, head turned, staring at the flickering flames. The light dances in his glassy eyes.

"Weather's getting worse, don't ya think?" He asks his brother, carefully looking him in the eye, making sure Dean knows he's talking to him.

Dean gives somewhat of an answer, actually moving his head and looking at his little brother, eyes flickering to the door, he seemed to listen to the howling wind before turning back to the fire. Sam watches as Dean leans up on his elbow and yawns as he scratches at the white bandage on his leg.

Sam swats his hand away, "Dean, don't do that, your just gonna make it worse."

Dean turns wet looking eyes up to his little brother, "But it itches S'm," he nearly wails, as he tries to scratch again and Sam pushes his hand back towards his stomach.

"Don't be a baby," Sam accuses affectionately, he grabs one of the now thawed out water bottles. "Here, have some water, we need to keep you dehydrated."

Dean grumbles under his breath, but, very uncharacteristically, let's Sam hold the water bottle to his mouth. Sam frowns and Dean wipes the excess water from his lips laying back down. He sighs and his eyes drift back to the fire.

Dean's eyes flicker back to Sam every few minutes, a confused expression on his face. Sam thinks laughingly it's the expression Dean wears the majority of the time, he'd know it anywhere. He notices his brother fidgeting a little more, his fingers twitching and wanting to move down towards his bandaged leg.

Sam grabs his hand and holds it reassuringly, "Dean, stop it, just don't think about it, it'll stop itching." Dean whines in the back of his throat and fights to free his hand. When a particularly loud gust of wind sweeps around the corner of the cabin and rams into the front door, Dean freezes.

Sam is surprised by the unadulterated fear that passes over his brother's face.

Dean Winchester's face.

"What is it Dean?" He asks, his hackles rising immediately with that look on his older brother's face.

"S'mmy," Dean whispers, swallowing and looking around the cabin nervously. "Wha' 'appened to th' other wolf?"

Sam frowns and holds his brother's hand tighter thumb rubbing soothing circles on the back of it, smoothing his other hand down Dean's leg. "We got him, Dean," he says smiling, "We got him, but not before he got you." His tone turns regrettable.

"N, no," Dean stutters through his slur, eyes glistening a little too brightly for Sam's liking, "Th' other one, one more...'S'mmy 'nother one."

Sam smooths a hand through his brother's tousled hair, "It's alright Dean," he soothes, "We got him, it's alright to sleep now, we got him." He pulls the blanket further up Dean, where it had fallen with Dean reaching to scratch. He rubs a hand over his brother's chest, feeling his breaths even out, watching his eyes coast open and closed, knowing sleep is coming soon, will chase away the cobwebs and shadows of passing out and the concussion.

Sam sits with him in silence, satisfied that his brother hasn't buried himself in himself. Sam's now coming down from his frantic high. Dean is alright more or less, not fainting away from blood loss or burning with infection. He's a little out of it, still really white, but their going to be fine, Sam's glad to say. Aren't they always? They always have to get back up and keep going.

He knows Dean's leg will take a long time to heal, will hurt even longer, but he's alive. That's the thing that means the most to Sam, the one thing he needs. The rest can be dealt with. He watches the expressions chase each other over Dean's face, his concussion leaving him like an open book. Fear, pain, comfort, when he glances Sam's way before surrendering to sleep, love. Sam smiles, wrapping his arms around himself to fend off some of the cold.

This hunt could have turned out a lot worse...

...

Present Day.

Sam drives on into the night, his eyes wide and barely burning. The adrenaline from the night not easily fading. He's been running on all empty for so long it'll take a while before his body is officially ready to shut down. The road races away under the impala, Sam only seeing enough to assure him he's heading home.

Beside him Dean sleeps, his dream still chases expressions over his face. Sam is glad Dean will sleep away the mild concussion and hopefully the heart ache. God, why was life so unfair to his brother? God knows Sam wished he had an answer, an answer to his life question. Why was this life so unfair to he and Dean? As many times before the night is going by while Sam Winchester tries to understand why what happens to him and his brother happens.

Dean makes him smile while he muses. He'll mumble under his breath, smack his lips, toss his head from side to side. Once Sam catches his name, slurred out fondly. His fingers seek out his left leg a few times, reaching for that scar, the scar of the wound Sam remembers all to well. On instinct he swats Dean's hand away from the still sensitive skin. He leans over and firmly pulls his pant leg over the scar and nearly dies of exasperation when Dean proceeds to loudly scratch the living daylights out of his jeans.

Watching mild grimaces and frowns dominate the expressions on Dean's face reminds of him of the happenings of that hunt. God, talk about another spectacular Winchester disaster. He doubts they could have screwed up the hunt so royally any other way. It wasn't their fault...it had been a bad hunt...a really, really bad hunt. It wasn't their fault at all it was probably the worst one ever.

tbc...

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