Struggling under the weight of his unknown attacker, Sam managed to kick up and catch his assailant in the stomach, throwing it off him. There were the sound of shots being fired and a yelp.
An extended hand entered Sam's peripheral. "You okay, Sam?" John demanded.
Sam looked up to see his father standing with his gun drawn. Behind him, a factory building loomed in the moonlight.
"Uh, yeah," Sam took John's hand and hoisted himself to his feet.
"Dad, Wolfman's on the lam," Dean gasped, sprinting up to them. This Dean was even younger than Flagstaff Dean, only seventeen or eighteen years old. "I'm going to head him off."
"Double around the back of the building and make sure he doesn't escape. Sam and I'll cover this exit and we can close in from there," John said. Dean saluted with his gun and darted off.
Factory. Wolfman. Teenaged brother. This was the werewolf hunt in '97. The one he'd written about in high school and gotten an 'A' on. "Don't let Dean go by himself," he said quickly, remembering the course of events. "He's going to get hurt."
"He'll be fine," John said brusquely, not seeming to acknowledge the fact that Sam was ten years older than he should have been. "Now get on your game, boy, we'll need every weapon we've got to take this son of a bitch down. Follow me. And don't trip over your own feet."
Sam followed his Dad around the side of the factory. They weren't more than halfway around when the sound of a struggle broke out, echoing through the otherwise still night with the sound of garbage cans clattering to the ground.
"Dean!" John called, breaking into a run with Sam close behind.
The alley was wide and cluttered. The werewolf, a huge man with black hair and a thick beard, was crouching on top of a dumpster, claws digging into the metal side and fanged teeth bared. It's shoulder was bloody with a gunshot wound went wide. At the two hunters' approach, it glanced up at them, its slitted eyes refracting the moonlight and making them glitter evilly. It snarled.
"Sam, go find your brother," John ordered, aiming his gun at the monster. Sam hurried forward even as the gunfire began ricocheting off the alley walls. He knew exactly where Dean would be. He remembered this.
His brother was sprawled in a pile of garbage bags. He appeared to be unconscious, his head lolling to the side and a steady stream of thick, congealing blood dribbling from a cut on his temple. As Sam approached, Dean started and whipped out his gun.
"Don't shoot! It's me!" Sam said quickly, raising his hands in a sign of harmlessness. "It's just me."
Dean laughed, but it sounded a little dazed. He lowered the gun. "So – I guess Lassie over there was a little stronger than I thought."
"Lycanthropy is known to produce an increase in adrenaline," Sam offered. It was freakish, talking to a Dean who was younger than him.
"Thank you for the biology lesson," Dean grimaced, raising his sleeve to dab at the wound on his head. "My leg itches."
Sam looked down. Sure enough, Dean's entire pant leg had been torn off from the knee down, and claw marks had raked grooves all the way through to the bone. His femur was clearly visible. "Damn, that looks worse than I remembered," Sam winced. "You might not want to look at this."
"Look at what?" Dean promptly looked down, his face going slightly green. "Oh God, I wasn't bit, was I?"
"No," Sam said quickly, stripping off his jacket and carefully wrapping Dean's leg in it. "You're fine."
"How the hell can you tell, you didn't even look closely at it?"
"I just know," Sam said. "Keep pressure on that, you'll be fine. I've got to go."
"Go? Wait, Sam . . ."
Sam darted down the alley, looking for a door. Any door. He caught sight of a chain-link gate at the other end of the alley. It was ajar. Hopefully it would do. He stepped through it.
"Finally. You're late," said a sleazy, nasal voice.