Wow, I love all you reviewers! Such nice people! Well, here's the next chapter—I hope it meets expectations, because I totally know where I'm going with this now. It was one of those epiphanies when my muse went "Oh, I get it!". And I was happy.

-grin-

Okay, so all the disclaimers and stuff still apply, and if you don't like violence, I don't know if you'll have a problem with this chapter or not, because I don't think I wrote in toooooo much gory details. But you gotta love hurt!Dean and hurt!Sam, so yeah. Here ya go!

Please leave a review on the way out! Thanks!

Love from the fairytalemanipulator

Chapter Five: Weapons and Jackets

Previously, in Chapter Four…

He barely thought about it, before standing up from his position and running full speed back in the direction the brothers came, his stomach churning in fear of what he might find.

He never even saw the werewolf move to the edge of the trees behind him, before latching its claws into Dean's back in a horrifyingly graceful jump.

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The first thing Dean felt was the pain. A searing, sharp pain that felt like frostbite and fire at the same time. Yet, he knew that feeling all too well.

Claws.

Sammy's yells were still fresh in his mind as he shouted back. "I'm coming, Sam!" But he was pinned, fighting the creature that was snarling on his back. So heavy. It took all of his strength to ignore the blood pouring down the sides of his body, as he rolled over, trying to dislodge the enormous, heavy creature.

"Oh, shit," Dean groaned, feeling his flesh ripping. He could tell the werewolf was losing its patience. He didn't need to see it to know that he was in trouble if he didn't figure out a way to stop it.

A sudden thought dawned on him. The knife. In his back pocket. The gun, he had lost somewhere back near the rocks. But the knife… his mind was moving amazingly slow, as he contemplated the position in which he could thrust the knife. He was growing numb and cold, which could not be a good sign. So he hatched a plan, that he prayed would work.

He twisted on the ground, managing to grasp the hilt of the dagger in his right hand before he felt claws ripping away at the hand. Not even feeling the pain, he thrust the knife upward, blood from his hand mingling with the blood coming out of the creature from the stab wound. Its howl clearly meant the dagger had found its mark, as Dean was quickly released from the grasp of death.

Weird, Dean thought hazily, struggling to stay conscious. That was just…weird.

The teen barely had a second to think before he stumbled to his feet, scanning his surroundings for the monster. For the moment, it seemed to have retreated. Never a good sign. If it's hurt, it's only more pissed off now. Dean couldn't help but think what the werewolf had wanted. If it wanted to kill me, it could have done so. But it was biding it's time. What the hell?

Suddenly, his mind flashed. Sammy. And Dean broke into a painful gallop, running towards the direction he remembered parking the car. The cries were silenced now, and he heard nothing once again. What the fuck is going on? He was having a hard time staying upright, and stumbled more than once. The only thing keeping him going was the thought of his family in danger. Dean groaned as he fell on the hard-packed earth forest floor, feeling the injuries on his back stretch. The dried blood from the back of his shirt was making him stiff and causing even more discomfort than he had felt before.

Sammy.

"Sam?" Dean's voice was hoarse, and he licked his lips before trying again. He had somehow managed to keep a hold on the knife, and now held it aloft, as if a beacon to lead him to his brother.

"Sammy!" Dean shouted once more, hoping to hear an answering yell. What he heard next made his blood chill.

A soft howl came from out of the woods, a low, guttural sound that made the teenager swallow his breath in a gulp. Dean was in no shape to fight off any more wolves. Shit. He remembered now that his gun with the silver bullets was still where he had dropped it near the boulders. Stupid! His mind was clearing quickly as his body grew number, preparing for battle. He knew that he could withstand the pain…if only he could find his brother. Not to mention Dad.

"Dean…" Dean heard a soft whisper carry in the sudden breeze.

"Sammy?" Dean rounded the edge of the trees, skirting the bushes in haste. He saw the car, and spotted the open trunk in the back. Seeing the keys on the ground next to the vehicle, Dean approached carefully.

"Sammy!" The young boy was lying in a pool of his own blood, behind the trunk. The duffel bag was open beside him, and Dean couldn't see any silver bullets or weapons. Oh shit, Sammy…

Dean kneeled next to his brother, grunting in his own pain as he looked into Sam's glazed eyes. "Oh, Sammy," Dean murmured, pushing the hair out of his eyes. "What did they do to you…"

" 'M a'right, don't worry," came the pained reply. Dean ran his eyes down his brother's body, as Sam turned his head away from Dean, wincing.

"Sammy, I'm gonna have to turn you over, check for wounds, okay? It's gonna hurt," Dean's pain was forgotten as he took care of his brother. That's a lot of blood he lost. "Do you remember what happened?" During this conversation, Dean was keeping an eye on his surroundings, watching warily for any werewolves that might try to surprise them again.

"There were two of 'em," came Sam's distant reply. Dean pushed gently on Sam's shoulder, making him turn his body around. He inhaled sharply as Sam cried out in pain, seeing the cuts and deep marks on his brother's back which were very similar to his own, except more severe.

"Here, Sammy," Dean took his knife and cut away the back of Sam's shirt, trying to get a closer look at his injuries. Jesus Christ. They would all need stitches. Oh my God. He had never seen wounds this severe on his brother before, and it was hurting him to the core. He turned his head to that Sam wouldn't see the sudden tears in his eyes. I shouldn't have let him go.

"Dean," Sam turned slightly, seeing his brother with his fist in his mouth. "Dean, it's not your fault,"

Dean didn't respond. He took his already ripped to shreds jacket and wiped away the blood from Sam's back, trying not to make it hurt worse than it already was.

"Do you know how long you were out for?"

"No, but I'm okay…"

Dean was wearing two layers, and he took off the outer shirt and handed it to Sam.

"Put this on, and we'll stitch you up later, okay?" His voice was gruff, and Sam knew how worried he actually was. Sam tried not to let on how painful it was to shrug on the oversize shirt, which dangled loosely around the arms.

"Can you stand?"

"Yeah…" Dean extended a hand to his brother, and Sam couldn't ignore the look of pain that crossed Dean's face as he stood himself. It was then that Sam noticed the crusted blood on the shirt he wore.

"Dean, what happened to you?"

"From the look of things, the same thing that happened to you. Only mine was a little nicer, and I only had one bad boy,"

Sam ignored the humor that Dean was trying to infuse in the situation. "Dean, they took the weapons,"

"What about…"

"No, I mean they took all of them. The bullets, the guns, everything," Sam's eyes were large as he waited for his brother's reaction. Dean groaned and rubbed his face with his uninjured hand.

"What are we gonna do, Dean?"

Dean thought for a moment. "Okay, they obviously don't want us here. But they could have killed us, and they didn't. And I don't get that. But I still have my gun and the knife, and I have a spare gun in the glove compartment," Dean crossed over to the passenger side of the car and opened the door, leaning in to get the gun. Sam got a full view of Dean's mutilated back, and had to lean against the car until his nausea passed.

"Okay, this doesn't have silver bullets, but it'll still hurt 'em," Dean slammed the door, pushing the gun into his brother's hand as he strode over. "You said there were two of them?"

"Yeah. They were huge. I never saw pictures of werewolves that big. One of them just took our gear and ran off, and I was getting ready to chase after it when the other one jumped on me,"

"You were getting ready to chase after it? What are you, James Bond without an arsenal?"

Sam ignored his brother. "Where the heck is Dad?"

Dean stared for a second. Crap, I totally forgot. "How are we supposed to save his ass if this is all we got?"

Sam was surprised that Dean, for once, was treating him as an equal. Not a little brother. But someone capable.

Dean didn't wait for an answer to his question. He started off, back towards the boulders in the clearing. Sam supposed he was heading back to retrieve the dropped gun, and he watched as his brother slowed down to wait for him. Catching up to Dean, Sam panted from the slight exertion. They were both jumpy, nervous—they knew they couldn't afford any more mistakes.

Stopping at a particularly pointy rock, Dean bend to grab the silver weapon he had previously dropped with a grunt. He checked the clip, and picked up the extra one that had been lying beside it. Tucking it into his pants, he let out a low whistle.

"Man, we could have really fucked up there,"

Great observation, Sam thought sourly. His back was itching and throbbing—an altogether unpleasant feeling. "I don't think we should do this tonight, Dean. Maybe we should just find Dad and get out, because without any weapons…"

"We have weapons," was Dean's blunt reply. "Two guns and a knife. And Dad'll have more. We can't just wait for them to hurt more people, Sam,"

"But that's the thing, Dean," Sam puzzled, drawing his eyebrows together in thought. "If the werewolves already killed like seven people, then why didn't they kill us? Unless they only feed out of necessity or something like that—"

"Which I find very hard to believe, dude. I think something weird's going on here, and the sooner we kill the sons of bitches, the sooner the entire thing's over, okay?" Leaving no room for argument, Dean stared his brother down. Sam sighed and looked away. Sometimes there's just no reasoning with him. He's like…he's like Dad.

"So what's the plan now, jerk?" Sam questioned, the gun feeling heavy in his hand. I hate guns.

"I dunno, bitch, why don't you give me three seconds to think?"

"Didn't know that was possible," Sam muttered, catching a dirty look but nothing else from Dean. They both unconsciously leaned forward against the boulders, still alert but relaxing in the moment.

"I can practically smell the burning from your brain, Dean,"

There was no response, and Sam looked over to see Dean staring at something that the young Winchester wasn't seeing.

"Sammy?" breathed Dean, barely moving his lips. Sam immediately got in closer to his brother, trying to see what he was looking at in the trees and brush.

"What is it?"

"What color is Dad's jacket?"

What kind of a question is that? "Dark green, right? Why?"

The silence was broken by a rustle as Dean straightened his back and quickly strode into the trees, gun held in front of him.

"Dean!" Sam moved forward automatically, only to be given a warning look from his older brother.

"Stay right there, Sammy, I'll be right back," and Dean was swallowed up into the dark, leaving a very shallow-breathing Sam behind. Sam could see the faint beam from the tiny flashlight that Dean carried in his jeans at all times. It was bobbing through the mouth of the forest at a slower pace than Sam would have expected. Combination of injury plus tiny flashlight, which isn't that great for dark forests with evil lurking in the underbrush. Not a good grouping there.

The sound of boots tramping through dead leaves stopped, and Sam shivered in the unexpected cold breeze that raised goose pimples on his skin. His body ached from the gashes across his back, and he knew that neither he nor Dean could fight off a pack of werewolves at this moment. Where is Dean? The sounds of the forest had gone completely silent once again—it was as if the woods had swallowed the older brother whole.

"Dean?" Sam's hesitant whisper echoed in the gloomy clearing. He dared to take a step around the boulders, peering with his not-so-good night vision into the deep recesses of the forest. He heard a noise and swallowed quickly. He raised the gun up to the level of his face, hoping it wasn't what he thought it was…

As the figure grew clear, Sam relaxed and loosened his hold on the weapon. Dean approached the rocks, his steps slower than before. He was walking without making noise, a character trait that Sam had yet to develop. Dean had clicked off his flashlight in hopes of saving the battery, which he knew they would need at some point tonight.

"What is that?" Sam peered at the object Dean was holding in his bloody, clawed hand. It looked like…oh God.

"It's Dad's jacket," Dean's voice was monotonous as he held the material aloft. Neither brother spoke for a minute. Then Sam broke the silence, his voice wobbling.

"Do you think," he asked with a quaver in his tone. "That he left it behind on purpose? Maybe for us to track?"

Mutely, Dean held the jacket up higher so it caught the scant moonlight that happened to be hidden behind layers of clouds tonight.

Sam let out an audible gasp that ended in a choked sob. The jacket was mutilated the same way that the boys' backs were—except, the only whole entity to the clothing was the right arm. The rest of it was shredded, and in the light, Sam could see glistening, crusted blood on the jacket.

"I think…" Dean whispered, his voice not carrying far. "I think that Dad knows what's going on here more than we do. And the werewolves didn't like it very much,"

As if on cue, the low cry of a werewolf on the prowl reached the ears of the Winchester brothers. Sam swallowed his tears, leaving a large lump in his throat, while Dean kept his face out of the light so Sam wouldn't see the turbulent emotions written all over him.

"What…whaddya we do now?" Sam queried his older brother, needing reassurance.

But there was none to be given. Because Dean was as lost as his brother.

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