After Sam yells, the light we'd been using disappears like a snuffed-out candle. The moon's up, so it helps, just not enough to get my heart out of my throat. Dean's up front, but he snaps around so fast, it's like he felt whatever grabbed the other man. "Sam? Sam!"

I hear the sounds of a struggle, but I can't tell where it's coming from. It's like I can't breathe - fear so tight in my chest I know my heart's going to burst. We're near some kind of break in the forest, because once the light goes out, my eyes begin to adjust. Soft light sprinkles the forest floor, brightening the shadows around us. When moonlight reflects off the handle of the darkened flashlight, I run over, pick it up.

I flick it on and freeze, because there's Sam, struggling and furious, with an arm like steel wrapped tight around his throat.

He's arched backwards and crouched, half-kneeling, head held at an awkward angle away from the claws digging into the artery beating in his neck. His breathing puffs in uneven beats, harsh and strained, one hand pressed against his side. He jerks, sharp and angry and wanting free. But the arm around his neck shifts and his breath hitches, a wince passing quickly over his face. The glow of the flashlight glints off a thickening line of blood, trickling to run down the chord of his neck.

I hear a sound of anger next to me and the ratchet of metal on metal, clicking. I look over. Dean has the gun cocked, raised …. and has it trained, hard and unflinching on the creature holding Sam. The look in his eyes makes my blood run cold.

His voice is a low growl. "Let him go."

The arm holding Sam belongs to Mr. Naked-man, not so naked now. He must be their leader? And by the way he looks, it seems he can change forms at will – not entirely wolf or human now, he's transformed just enough to show claw-tipped fingers and a hint of fangs (that has to make speaking hard). There's fur sticking out around the edges of his clothing, that at a party might seem costume-ish, almost laughable ... tufting at his collar, sleeves. Here, there's nothing funny about it. Not in the way he looks, his voice, or the smell of blood in the air. "Yeeeaah, no," he slurs. Almost casually, he yanks back, hard enough to cut off Sam's air. Mouth dropping open, both of Sam's hands jerk up, straining against the unforgiving arm of the wolf. "Drop the gun, or he's dead." Chuckling, the monster-man eases up, but not before one more vicious press that stretches the kneeling man back. Sam's shirt drags up enough to show a strip of skin over one hip, that anywhere else (and in different company) might have been sexy. But when he's pulled back, his eyes go wide, expression twisting, letting one hand go from where he's trying to get air, to press, urgent, against his ribs.

My breath hiccups at the pain on his face and I can't help my frantic step forward, but Dean throws an arm out to stop me. My eyes flick between the two young men, the one being held and the one holding the gun, its flat-gray metal reflecting moonlight. If I thought Dean was upset when the wolves came after me, there's a whole world of difference now, in the shadows lining his face and the glitter of his eyes. Dean's voice, when he speaks, sends a chill up my spine. "Let him go," he says again, "and you get to live."

The wolf-man opens his mouth, but someone else responds. "Temper, temper." It's a new voice. Smooth, amused. Female.

Eyes darting over to a patch of darkness out of reach of the flashlight, Dean smiles. It's just as cold as his eyes, and it makes me think of a predator that's found its prey. "What, couldn't stay away from your pets?"

A low laugh and I hear footsteps now. I still can't see who belongs to the voice. "Why, whatever do you mean?"

"Drop the bullshit, lady." The comment is almost casual, bored, but the hand holding the gun hasn't wavered. "What you got here? It ain't real." He snorts. "You think this little spell you're running's gonna last?" Shaking his head, he continues, "These poor saps, don't even know what hit them, do they? They think it's the real deal." He gestures with the gun, a small movement, but enough to draw my eye to the cold steel. "You're all the confirmation I need. I don't even need silver to take care of these guys."

"Shut up," she snaps. "It is the real deal," she draws out the last two words, voice snide and biting. "Lycaon's curse." I hear the smile when she gloats, "Zeus … you know, the god? He used this himself." The voice turns flippant. "For me, it's easy to cast. Easier to keep going. I just need a little fuel."

"The girls," Dean mutters, knowing and horrible. My mind stumbles, still too stuck on spells and curses to really understand what that implies. "So, this is just a power trip for you?"

Two more wolf-men appear out of the dark. "Hardly. But I do like having my own pack of … wolves." She exhales slowly, and it's uncomfortably like a moan. My stomach turns over. "And, well, why collect pets, if you don't want them close by?"

There's a curl of disgust in Dean's voice when he responds. "Lady, you need help."

She laughs. "I think you have it backwards." One of her wolves jump forward, grabbing me, wrenching my arms back. The burn in my shoulder comes back, shooting through me as sharp-edged as broken glass. Then the other goes for Dean and it looks to me like Dean's done talking, but the woman says sharply, "No, leave him. He won't do anything inadvisable, as long as we have his friends." A pause and I hear Sam take a harsh breath, at the same time the wolf holding me yanks on my arms. I can't help the cry of pain. And then, her voice, smooth like silk. "Will you?"

I've dropped the flashlight, but the moon decides to come out full-force, burning past the sparse leaves around us and lighting up the area in soft yellow. The adrenaline rush and fear draws everything into sharp focus. Still, I can barely hear what she says over the pounding of my heart. "I'd lower the gun, handsome. One of them will be dead before you can get to both of my wolves."

The words are fading in the air, when a woman steps out of the gloom. She's small. Petite, even. Straight blonde hair that falls past her shoulders. Jeans and a soft flowing blouse that looks expensive, even in the meager light. I don't recognize her. One side of her mouth turns up and I've never been violent, but I suddenly want (more than anything) to punch her in her pretty face.

"You don't look stupid," Dean lowers the gun, his jaw clenched so hard it looks like it hurts. "I don't get it," he tells her. "You had to know that someone'd see what you're doing here." I don't know if he's stalling, or if he really wants to know. I do know he's furious. There's no way to miss that.

She laughs scornfully, pretty mouth twisting ugly. "By who, the town cops? Don't make me laugh. Or … hunters?" She tilts her head, assessing him. "They're running scared. Lillith has a corner market on horror and hunters are today's special. Half-off." She laughs.

Dean's voice is flat, but I see unease flutter behind his eyes. "That so? Some of us aren't afraid of her, dearie." He continues, almost conversationally, "Where'd a petty, small-time witch like you, hear about Lilith?"

Her eyes flash at the slight, but then she smiles. "Oh. I have my sources," she says coyly. "There might have been a ritual or two involved." Reaching up, she pulls a necklace from her blouse. The faint clack of whatever is on it reaches me. White and rounded on the edges, the beads on it almost look like bones. "I was trying for something else, but when you're tugging at universal powers, it tends to open the senses." She chuckles. "You hear all kinds of things when you really listen."

"Really," and Sam's voice is a hoarse rasp, off to my right. "Like what?"

"Like, the angels are losing a war." She's enjoying her gloat, eyes flitting between the two men and me. "And people like me will be able to do whatever we want, soon. There is no one who can stop it from happening, except –"

"Do whatever you want? Like hexing up make-pretend were-wolves? Killing girls to power your spells? How many have you -"

"Killed?" She asks innocently. "I'm not really sure." Lifting the necklace, she makes a show of counting the bones, they're definitely bones, and shrugs. "I don't really care."

Dean's face moves unwillingly from fury to disbelief. Finally, he says, "You're it, lady."

Her grin falters. "What?" He's silent for long enough that she gives in and asks again, irritation bleeding into her voice. "I'm what?"

"You. Things like you. Are the reason I hunt." Dean snarls the words, and the wolf's hold on me tightens. Claws dig dangerously into the tender skin inside my arms. I hardly feel it past the rage in Dean's voice. Even without knowing him well, I can see how close he is to doing something inadvisable.

I'm not the only one. "Dean," Sam says, low and urgent. "Dean. Don't."

"Shut up, Sam."

"Dean."

The woman hesitates. "Dean?" She blinks. "Sam?" Her gaze moves from Sam to Dean and back again. Almost under her breath, she mutters, "There's no one who can stop Lillith. No one who can stop the new reign. Except –" Her eyes widen. She looks between the two men again, her tongue flicking out to lick her lips. "The Winchester brothers." Her voice sharp, she snaps, "Kill them."

I hear a shout from Sam, cold spiking through me at the memory of claws at his throat. The wolf behind me wrenches at my arm, the same damn one as before. He pulls it past where my mind says it can logically go and something pops, fire lighting up my brain so bright I can't take the breath in to scream. It almost eclipses the pain the claws across my stomach make - and as I drag in a desperate breath to make good on that scream - Dean swings his arm up, sights along gunmetal gray and … puts a bullet in the woman's brain.

A look of surprise crosses the witch's face, and she drops without another sound.

The wolf pulls back, to, I don't know, finish killing me, but shrieks instead, dropping to his hands and knees. He's writhing and screaming and it looks like his skin's melting. I cringe back, my stomach threatening to toss up everything I'd eaten today. His fur drops in weird, clumpy tufts, littering the forest floor and finally, he seems to pass out. And then there's naked guy on the ground. I look around. Make that three. Ta-da.

Swaying slightly, I take it all in. I want to ask Dean for the recap, because I really didn't follow that whole thing, but dizziness hits me hard and the ground is a lot closer than it was a second ago. Oh. I'm on my knees, now. "Uh …" There's agony where my stomach used to be. I press my good hand against the wet warmth I find there. I'd use both hands, but I can't seem to lift my right arm.

And then Sam's there, shallow scratches across the front of his neck, bloodied, but not dead. He's breathing hard, his eyes are wide and worried, and he puts an arm around me. Steadies me. "Oh, god. Dean, get over here!"

I glance over and see Dean, hurriedly checking the other men. He doesn't go over to the woman. A small part of my brain observes, she won't be needing any first aid. And. The girls Dean talked about. She killed them.

Sam lifts my shirt, hissing in sympathy. "Hold on Kelsey," he says. He looks up again. "Dean!"

"Shit, yeah, Sam! I just gotta make sure."

Sam nods tightly and looks down at me again. "You're going to be okay."

"My arm, I can't move it."

"I know, I'm sorry. It's dislocated."

"Oh." I feel pretty woozy, all of a sudden, and I'm seriously more worried about throwing up than anything else. I breathe breaths and then say, "This is what happened to her, too."

"Her who, Kelsey?" Sam asks. His fingers are gentle, pushing my hand away and running over my belly, sending goosebumps chasing up my arms. I finally get a good look at his eyes. They're hazel, I guess. They look almost gold in this light.

"You have kind eyes."

He smiles, a little sad and still not meeting my gaze. "Her who, Kelsey?" He asks again, half-distracted as he finishes checking the wound. I gasp at the press of his fingers when he finds the edge of it.

"Sally. She died, last year. Her boyfriend killed her, though, not a … a wolfy-man-thing." I close my eyes and the picture flashes through my mind again. Finding her (and the knife, that horrible, gleaming knife), seeing the back of her boyfriend (and what a laugh that was, to call him her friend) as he ran away, footsteps fading in the alley behind the bar.

Sam's eyes soften, that sadness still there and deeper, now. He can't know the story. He's a stranger, just passing through. He hasn't been around long enough to know about the murder that rocked the community. That I'd had to dodge the press for weeks, just to keep from going mad reliving it.

He can't know the story.

Absurdly, I feel like he does. "No, Kelsey. This isn't like what happened to Sally. You're going to be okay."

I shake my head. "You can't trust people. Not really. Can't trust strange men, or even the ones you think you know."

He blinks quickly, the edges of his mouth thinning, his voice going soft. "Kelsey, no. You can trust people. Most of them, anyway. You can trust us." He looks up again. "Dean, hurry up!"

Dean scrambles over, cursing, eyebrows creased and mouth turned down. He sees what Sam's worried about and strips off his shirt, wadding it up, as Sam is putting one arm under my shoulders and one under my knees. I've seen a lot of naked men in the last couple of hours. You wouldn't think Dean shirtless would be so breathtaking. But, well, I'd be okay if he just stayed like that for a while.

I (almost) forget about the view a moment later. Because, even though he's gentle and it seems like no strain for him at all, when Sam picks me up my shoulder protests - a sharply-bright, deep stab of pain that makes my head spin. I gasp and Dean puts one hand on my cheek, turning my face so I'll look at him.

"Kelsey," Dean says, all urgent and concerned green eyes. God, his eyes are green. "You're going into shock." He lifts my hand, walking backward in front of us while Sam is turning, picking a direction. I pull my hand away, ridiculously worried suddenly, that I'll get blood on him. "Stop, Kelsey," and he's got my fingers again, tight, in a warm and callused grip. "Take this." He lays the shirt on the wound and presses hard. "Hold it here."

"It hurts."

"I know it hurts, darlin', but keep it there. Press hard." I do as he says and I was right, it hurts. My hand is shaking. The cloth is soft and worn thin. I feel bad. He probably liked that shirt if he'd kept it so long. Dean's hand is still over mine, helping me press down. He peers into my face for a moment, searchingly, and his lips are tight with worry. "Sam, we gotta get her to the hospital."

"I know that, Dean." Sam bites off the words, sounding irritated and angry, but Dean doesn't seem bothered by his tone. I see Sam's eyes flick up, calculating. The taller man sighs, picking up his pace. The trees are sparse and the moon is even brighter here. He lowers his voice, pausing in his stride and turning his head toward Dean. (His brother? His brother. That's what the witch said.)

Dean moves up to listen. Sam's voice is a hissing whisper, all his tension and pressure captured in what he says next. "It's too far, Dean. She's lost … losing a lot of blood. Even after we get to the car, it'll take us twenty minutes, half an hour to get there. Too long."

"Shit. What about the kit? We get to Baby, stitch her up enough to get her to the ER."

The taller man grimaces. "It's, uh … it's in the motel."

"What?"

His calm finally shattering, Sam snaps, "What do you want me to say, Dean? It's at the motel. It needed restocking. I didn't expect you to stumble into a fucking witch's den and her homemade wolven on the way to the store!"

Dean huffs a breath and runs a hand over his mouth. I get the feeling it's something he does when he doesn't know what to do. "Yeah." He heaves a sigh. "Yeah. Sorry." Hesitates, then says, "I. I'll call Cas."

Sam laughs shortly. "You really think that's a good idea?"

"You got a better one?" Dean's silent, looking at his brother for a few moments. Apparently, he agrees with what he sees. Grudgingly, he says, "I know it's playing with fire."

"Yeah, Dean." The taller man's eyebrows are raised, incredulous, and I hear what he doesn't say, "That's an understatement." He says it like he can't believe they're even considering it. Like they have this kind of argument (about injuries and near-death and desperation) all the time. Sam's quiet a moment before he says, voice frustrated and echoing between the trees, "We're not even sure he's on our side."

"Damnit, Sam! He's on our side. If it weren't for him, I'd. I'd still be …" Dean shakes his head and stops talking. Turning his head away, jaw clenched. He closes his eyes and breathes out hard. "And yeah, it's not a good idea. I pissed him off pretty good, the last time I saw him." A breath and a sigh. "But it's my fault she's hurt."

Sam's mouth twists, as if the thought of this 'Cas' is actually painful, a puzzle he can't quite figure out.

Everything's fading in and out, between the throb of my shoulder and my side, but I have enough presence of mind to wonder what some guy's going to be able to do that getting to the hospital won't. Why do I get the feeling that these two men, that faced what we just faced without any hesitation, are afraid of this Cas person?

What I'm thinking doesn't matter, because then I hear, "Cas! Hey, Castiel. If you're out there, we could really use your help." I blink. Dean has his head bowed. He's … he's praying? "Uh. Pretty please? Tout suite, man, it's an emergency. Please."

A flutter of sound. The impression of wings and the feeling of empty air that's suddenly, not. "I'm here, Dean."

Dean starts, and he takes a rough breath. Sam's grip on me tightens. I follow their eyes and see a man. Just a man. One that wasn't there before, standing in the middle of an otherwise empty forest, in a trench coat.

Uh. What?

Dean steps up to him and I see they're about the same height. Or, actually, Dean's a little taller. "Yeah. Hey, Cas. Thanks for coming." Dean's voice has changed – deferential in a way I haven't heard in the short time I've known him. "We, uh. We could use your help."

The newcomer's hair is dark and there's a stillness about him that would probably make me nervous. Otherwise (if he hadn't just appeared out of nowhere), he could be my (handsome) banker, or anyone who might walk into the bar. The man's eyes flick over the three of us and his expression doesn't change. "What do you require?"

"Require?" Dean's expression moves quickly past disbelief, back to respectful. "Well, Kelsey here's been hurt. Can you help her? Please?"

Blue eyes flick over me again, dispassionately. I'd shiver, if I weren't already. He tilts his head to one side and his expression doesn't change, even a little.

"Why would I do that? It's her time."