A/N - Thank you for reading and please review!

Disclaimer - I don't own anything from the Supernatural universe.

Dean spun around, his gun already in his hand. It was a good thing their Dad taught them to shoot as good with their left hand as their right. The gun wouldn't do any significant damage to the creatures, but it was better than nothing. The other wendigo was shuffling over to the injured one, seemingly uninterested in him at the moment. He took the opportunity to dart to Sam's position, dropping down to his knees beside his brother, his eyes still fixed on the creatures across from him.

Sam was face down, his arms covering his head. Dean rolled him over carefully, relieved to see that Sam was already moving, his face scrunched up in pain. Dean noted a scraped bump on his forehead, but didn't see any other signs of injury. He checked back on the wendigo duo and saw that they had disappeared. What the hell? His eyes darted around the woods, searching for any movement or indication of where they may have gone. There were no signs of them and the normal sounds of night started to creep back in. He never appreciated the sounds of insects quite so much as he did right then. He didn't think they were out of the frying pan yet, but the heat may have been turned down for a bit.

"Sam? You all right man?" Dean asked urgently, his voice rougher than usual. His throat felt like sandpaper, the skin of his neck hot and throbbing. It was going to be an awesome bruise.

"Yeah," Sam replied with a groan as he struggled to sit up. His hand went to his forehead and his eyes squeezed shut. Dean quickly put his gun away and placed a supporting hand behind his back to help him. Sam's eyes opened in sudden panic, sweeping over the area. "Where is it?"

"I dunno. They took off," Dean replied distractedly, checking the bump on Sam's head. He lightened up his touch when Sam winced. Sam batted his hand away, which was enough to tell Dean that he was doing okay.

"They?" Sam asked, looking at Dean sharply.

Dean sat down heavily next to Sam, needing to take a moment. His wrist was throbbing, sharp waves of agony streaking up his arm and down into his fingers. He hated broken bones. It meant at least four weeks of light duty, which meant nothing but watching TV if Sam had any say in it. After he caught his breath, he would grab the first aid kit out of the duffel. Yeah, he needed the wrapping, but he wanted the flask of whiskey more right about now.

"There were two of them," Dean said flatly, not really believing it himself.

Sam's brow furrowed deeply in confusion. "Did you get bashed in the head or something?"

Dean smirked and shook his head. "Nope. There were two of them Sammy. Hard to believe, but I saw it. We finish this up, we'll get in the hunter's book of world records!"

"Dean, wendigos don't pair up!" Sam exclaimed.

"Next time I see them, I'll let them know." Dean's sarcasm was met by Sam's bitch face and he sighed deeply when the bitch face won yet again. "I don't know man, you got one of them with the flare gun, then there was another one that tossed you into the tree. It could have had me, but it went to the wounded one. Strangest damn thing I've ever saw and I spent a week in Tijuana, so that's saying something."

"Why would they take off?" Sam wondered, frowning in confusion.

"Maybe they left the stove on? I don't know, I'm not looking a gift cow in the ass or however it goes. I'm sure they'll be back at some point." Dean had been pondering the same thing. Even injured, that wendigo could have had them and the other one wasn't hurt at all. It almost seemed like it was concerned for the injured one...He shook the thought away. Too weird.

Dean got to his feet, his arm tucked firmly against his stomach to keep it still and headed toward the duffel bag that had been discarded by the fire. Sam got up to follow him, only slightly unsteady on his feet. Spying the flare gun he had dropped, he snatched it up and started to reload.

"Dean, what's going on with your arm?" he asked, not so occupied that he didn't notice his brother favoring the limb.

For once, Dean didn't play it off. "I think it's broken. It's no biggie, just need to get it wrapped up before those bastards come back." He sat down heavily on the log in front of the fire, resting his wrist on his thigh. He hooked the duffel back with his foot and started dragging it toward him.

Sam took a seat beside him, picking up the duffel when it bumped against their feet. He pulled out the first aid kit and turned worried eyes onto his brother. Dean knew he couldn't wrap it by himself, so he didn't argue when Sam took his damaged limb gently into his hands. Dean gritted his teeth together tightly to stop the pain noises from escaping as Sam examined his wrist. Broken bone rubbing against broken bone was pretty high on his list of "worst things ever".

"Well definitely broken," Sam said with a sigh. "I'll set it and get it wrapped up. Here, take a few swigs." He offered Dean the flask. His brother grabbed it gratefully and took a long swallow.

"It's going to be rough hunting two of these things with one arm," Dean grumbled, taking another pull on the flask.

Sam looked up sharply at Dean, lips tight. The bandage he had been unwrapping was clenched between his fists. Dean knew what was next. Sam explosion coming in 3..2..1…

Fire in the hole.

"Dean, it's not going to be rough, it's going to be impossible. Just to get one of these things is practically an act of God, but two? We can't go into this injured, Dean. We need to hike out of here, get some backup. You could seriously screw up your arm if you don't get it taken care of. How much hunting do you think you'll do with one arm?" Sam exclaimed heatedly, his tone uncompromising.

Dean looked over at his brother, meeting those exasperated eyes. He had known this was coming the second he knew the bone snapped. If it were Sammy, he would be dragging them out of there, even if he had to knock Sam out to do it, then would come back and finish up on his own. He was well aware that it was a dangerous hunt to start with, and knowing that they now had double the shit to shovel through to get it done, it was even worse, but they had a small window of opportunity.

"Sam, we can't leave. They've taken enough people now that they might go back underground again. Twenty three years, Sammy, twenty three years until we get another chance at them. I've hunted with way worse than just a broken wrist, this is nothing. Besides, they've got one wounded too, so that evens the odds, right? That makes it more like one and a half wendigos! Easy as a five dollar hooker!" Dean's best high watt smile was only slightly dimmed with pain. Yeah, he knew he was full of crap and so did Sam, but if you could keep it light, that was half the battle.

"If it was my wrist that was broken, would we be heading back right now?" Sam asked tightly, not ready to give it up.

Dean said nothing, just stared his brother down with a small smile. They both knew the answer, no need to voice it.

Sam sat there for a moment, lips pursed, silently seething. He held Dean's eyes and he could see the fight in his little brother as he weighed his options. Dean could almost hear what was going through his head. Sam knew Dean which meant he was well aware that Dean wasn't going anywhere until the hunt was finished one way or another. He knew he wouldn't let Sam go alone. The thought that there may have been options was just an illusion. There was only one way this was going to go.

Sam let out a deep sigh, dropped his eyes, and resumed unwrapping the bandage for Dean's wrist again.

"You really can make a person nuts, you know that?" Sam asked wearily, starting to position his wrist to set the bone, the wrapping resting on his thigh.

"Yeah, I know Sammy. Part of my charm," Dean replied, grimacing in pain at the slight movements of his wrist, letting the emotion flood his features since Sam wasn't looking. He knew he frustrated his brother because he didn't think he took care of himself, but the reality was that he couldn't handle knowing people might get hurt when he can save them. That pain was worse than just about anything. Especially when it was his family; his brother.

"Ready?" Sam asked, glancing up at Dean. Dean drew in a breath and braced himself. Then he nodded. With a small jerk and a slight twist, the bone was set. Dean groaned deep in his throat. For such a small movement, it caused a wave of agony to flood through Dean, the hostess pie he'd had earlier almost making another appearance. Dean squeezed his eyes shut as he rode it out, waiting for the burning bile in his throat to settle back down before he took another swig of the flask. God bless cheap whiskey.

Sam wrapped it quickly and tightly, checking his fingers to make sure the blood flow wasn't cut off. "This will do until we can get you to a hospital. I know it's not even worth my breath to say it, but try not to use it unless you have to, okay?" he asked, all earlier irritation and anger replaced by concern and a touch of fear. The puppy dog eyes were at full force, silently pleading for Dean to take it easy. Dean was far from immune from that gaze and Sam knew it. He would listen to him, but he wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of knowing it.

"You got it, Dr. Winchester. I'm not going to mess with my power hand, the Busty Asian Beauties must be worshipped properly," Dean replied with all seriousness. Sam actually smiled a bit, a definite win.

He flexed his fingers experimentally, glad that he still had some movement. Should be just enough to pull a trigger if necessary. It still hurt like a son of a bitch, but it was manageable. He wouldn't mind a few more swallows of the whiskey, but they still had two wendigos to track down, so he needed to stay sharp.

"You sure your head is good?" Dean asked gruffly. He had been watching Sam closely and didn't see any signs of concussion, but he wanted to be sure.

Sam nodded, grabbing some over the counter painkillers out of the kit. "Yeah, a few of these and I'll be fine."

Grabbing the flashlight out of the bag, Dean started sweeping the area for his lost flare gun. Sam starting repacking the first aid items into the duffel bag, his own flare gun still held ready in his hand. The dull glow of the fire faded as Sam kicked more dirt over it to put it out. Dean kept his wrapped hand against his body, letting it hang down made the throbbing worse. The woods around them were still buzzing with the typical night noise, but he scanned through the darkness every few seconds just to be sure as he pressed further into the trees. Those things had gotten the jump on them last time; he didn't want that to happen again.

The flare gun was found about fifteen yards from where it had been knocked away from Dean's hand, the distance highlighting the reason his wrist was broken. He picked it up, checking it over. It was dented on the side by the trigger, but the barrel looked straight. He counted himself incredibly lucky that he found it at all. Sam was a few feet behind him, his own flashlight highlighting a tree. Dean followed the stream of light to the smear of blood on the trunk. It was fresh.

"Looks like our friends went this way," Sam noted. The blood was high up on the trunk, around Sam's shoulder, so it was clearly from the wendigo they had injured. Sam moved the flashlight up the tree, checking for any movement in the branches, but aside from the glowing eyes of some small mammals, all was still. Dean was checking below, looking for broken branches, disturbed stones, blood on the leaves. He saw further signs that the creatures had come through there, a new fir knocked to the side, a scratch along another tree like it had needed to catch itself from falling quickly. All good news. It was injured enough that it wasn't taking to the trees and wasn't as stealthy as it would normally be.

"Let's keep following along here. Keep your eyes open," Dean shoved the flashlight into his wrapped hand, forcing his fingers to close around the barrel. The dull throb of his wrist spiked back up into sharp jabs of pain at the movement. His jaw clenched to keep the groan that filled his mouth in. He didn't want to worry Sammy any more than he already was. He rested it on top of his left hand that was holding the flare for support and also to highlight his way. It wasn't comfortable, in fact the pressure hurt like hell, but it would have to do.

"Let's get this shit show on the road," he grumbled, moving forward.

He was down to one good hand, Sam was worried for, and possibly pissed at, him, they had two wendigos to deal with, the whiskey was running low, and they were out of hostess pies. Shit show pretty much summed up the situation.

TBC...