Hi everyone, thank you for reading and supporting this fic, it means a lot!

So sorry for the delay! Finally, here's chapter 4. Things can't possibly get any worse for Sam and Dean, can they? Uh, well... enjoy :)

Dean was alive. That was a goddamn miracle.

Sam's near-incapacitating twinge of panic had decreased to some degree. With the immediate threat gone (Chupacabra: dead, Dean: alive), his own aches and pains made themselves noticeable again. The pulsing behind his eyes was killing him. Still, he had little time to complain about a headache or at the very least bask in his overwhelming relief that he'd found Dean. Even though his brother played it down as per usual, Sam knew that he was hurt badly, and they were both still in danger.

It wasn't looking good. With one knife, one gun, and not much else between them, the boys started their long, long trek back to where they came from. It was going to be an awful however many hours, but this was far better than splitting up. They needed to stick together – even Dad would agree, of that Sam was sure. He was glad that Dean had caved. And for the first time in a while, Sam found himself being grateful for the bordering-on-paranoid survivalist training Dad had forced on them. Not only did both brothers know how to patch each other up, they were also able to orient themselves in unknown terrain, more or less. Sam remembered that they had parked the Impala north of where they were now, had then walked an estimated seven miles into the heart of the desert, and when Dean had been taken, Sam had followed another hour or so, which made the distance back to their car about… way too freaking long. The eerie hum of the desert was their only companion. A silent death threat. He groaned and hefted Dean closer.

"You okay?" Sam asked unnecessarily. Dean clearly wasn't okay.

"Peachy," Dean said predictably, even while leaning heavily on his brother so he wouldn't crash to the ground. Sam noted with worry that Dean was dragging his injured leg and didn't put any weight on it at all. Obviously, Dean tried hard to hide his pain, but his face was pinched and the fingers holding on to Sam's shoulder dug deep into his flesh. The fact that Dean didn't protest using Sam as a crutch at all was not a good sign.

"You need a break?"

Dean snorted. "Nah. Need to get back."

That, Sam knew, was true. By now, the sun kissed the horizon in the far west, an orange fireball slowly dipping below the dark line that marked the endless desert. The sky was a magnificent pink, fading evermore into a deep blue. No clouds veiled the first white specks dotting the dark canvas, the North Star bright and big above their heads. They just needed to follow it. Navigating by the stars had come in handy several times over the years, and now more than ever, Sam once again found an ounce of gratefulness in him for Dad's lessons.

But they were still way too far out. It crossed Sam's mind that they might not even be in the US anymore. Out here, it was hard to tell whether the Chupacabra had set up its lair south or north of the Mexican border. There were no checkpoints around here, the heat and vastness enough of a life-hostile environment to serve as a natural barrier. Then again, heat wasn't a problem at night. At first, the significant temperature drop had been welcomed. Sam figured that they both suffered from sunstroke, or heatstroke, or however you'd call boiling alive in the desert sun for an entire day. Their skin was blistered in places, their lips chapped, and both their heads thrummed with dizziness. All in all, cooling off was nice. However, after hours of enduring three-figure temperatures, the contrast was hard on their bodies. Even with the air perfectly still, what was probably the high sixties felt more like walking through a freezer. Their sweat-damp, dirty clothes stretched uncomfortably over chafed, clammy skin. Sam himself was sore to his bones and had a hard time hiding the occasional shiver, but at least he still had his long-sleeved shirt. Dean, on the other hand, was very obviously trembling in his tank top.

Sam cast another worried glance to the side. "Let's sit for a minute," he suggested.

Dean panted but kept his legs, or the one at least, moving. "It's fine."

"Dean," Sam said and drew a card he knew his brother would never ignore. "I need a break, please."

As expected, Dean immediately backed off and agreed to sit down for a moment. Lord knew he'd never admit to needing rest for himself, but as soon as his little brother needed literally anything, Dean would move mountains to make it happen. It was this whole big-brother-thing, Sam knew and wondered if Dean would ever grow out of it. Probably not. And Sam was grateful for it, for every moment of his big brother taking care of him, even when Sam was almost an adult now (had been for a while in every way except age). But sometimes, Sam needed to trick Dean so he could finally return the favor. And he didn't feel a speck of guilt over it.

After Sam had carefully lowered his brother to the ground, he plunked himself down right next to him, groaning.

"Sammy, you okay?" Dean offered, a warm hand settling on Sam's shoulder. Genuinely concerned eyes searched Sam's.

Smiling a little to himself in the silvery glow of dusk, Sam hummed an affirmative. "Yeah. How's your leg?"

Dean huffed. "Still attached." And after a long sigh, "The bleeding's stopped, I think."

Sam could still make out the shiny dark stains on Dean's makeshift bandage in the fading light. His leg was shaking slightly, as was the rest of him. Without explaining himself, Sam tugged at his long sleeved shirt and pulled it over his head, which, admittedly, hurt a lot, what with his upper body being a mass of bruises and scrapes.

"Dude, what are you doing?"

Sam finally managed to pull the dusty shirt off and tossed it at his brother. "What's it look like?"

"Like you're a moron who pulls off his shirt when he's already freezing," Dean replied dryly.

"Nope, I'm warm," Sam lied. "Still got this." He tugged at the hem of his gray t-shirt he'd been wearing underneath the navy one.

Dean shifted on the ground, suppressing a groan. "You're kidding me."

"Am not." Sam sensed the frustration radiating off his brother, who felt entirely entitled to pushing back his own needs in favor of his kid brother's. Not this time. Dean was cold, and Sam could do something about it. "Just put it on, jerk."

Dean grumbled some more, a certain curse word clear among the others, and finally relented. With minimal groaning and moaning, he pulled on Sam's shirt.

"It fits you," Sam remarked, smiling.

"You mean it's too big on you," Dean snarked. "And of course it fits me, it's mine."

Was it? With how much the brothers traveled and with how often they needed to replace bloodied, ripped shirts with new(ish) ones from thrift stores, Sam could sometimes hardly tell which shirt belonged to whom. Fine, maybe this one belonged to both of them.

"Whatever," he said, then perked his ears. The sounds of the desert were slightly different at night but no less threatening. Silence, mostly. Every tiny rustling and chirp boded ill. "Let's move."

This, Dean didn't protest.

Continuing their walk after their small reprieve was arguably hard. Weakness and thirst were getting to Sam too, shivers running through his frame every now and then, but he put on a brave face and held up his brother. He could do this, for Dean. Sam needed to remind himself more than once that it wasn't actually cold enough to freeze out here. Not in the middle of summer. There were, however, plenty of other reasons why they might not make it out of here alive. The Chupacabra was dead, yeah, but if they didn't make it to the car soon, they'd succumb to exhaustion. To thirst. Dean needed a doctor, and soon. Surviving another day out here was not exactly an option. Besides, visibility by night was poor. Despite keeping his eyelids peeled for dangers, the probability of falling into another sinkhole or stumbling across venomous scorpions and sidewinder rattlesnakes (that were nocturnal in the warmer months, Sam's brain unhelpfully supplied) might be a real problem. He didn't utter any of this out loud, though. Dean was spooked enough by creepy-crawlies and bats as it was. Sam didn't want to further worry him.

And yet, he couldn't shake the bad feeling in his gut.

The moon was high in the black night sky, and the brothers still shuffled along, following the North Star. But everything looked the same, and they couldn't make out anything other than the vast landscape. Their flyspeck of a town was almost as dead as the desert, so they couldn't even see any lights in the distance.

At some point, Sam started to struggle to keep his eyes open. Dean wasn't looking any better and was getting heavier and heavier. But even drowsy and exhausted, Sam kept observing their surroundings warily. Dad had taught him to, and he wasn't about to rebel now, of all times. All his senses were on high alert. And that might have been the only reason why Sam registered the hairs on the back of his neck fractionally raise moments before it happened.

"Dean," he whispered. "There's something—"

Out there never made it past his lips. Sam whirled around with Dean in tow, a horrible foreboding sensation flooding his entire body at once, liquid dread filling his veins and spreading to his limbs. He was instantly awake. Dean tensed beside him too, hunter mode kicking in.

There was something in the dark, watching them.

They listened to the sounds of the night, the chirping and an occasional howl in the distance. And the scratching that didn't quite belong. That was when an obscure shape rose into view, outlined against the dark-gray landscape, and began moving closer to them. The moon hung over them, its silvery light pouring down on the shadow and revealing bits and pieces of its form. Sam and Dean pressed into each other, back-to-back, their eyes following whatever was circling them. The scraping against sand came closer.

Then red flashed in the darkness, and they knew they were screwed.

"I'll be damned," Dean hissed, slowly pulling his gun from the back of his jeans. "You said no one's ever seen a pack, huh?"

Sam instinctively gripped Dean's arm that wasn't holding the gun, his heart pounding in his chest. His free hand curled around the hilt of his knife that would be absolutely useless in a fight with this thing. "Until now, I guess."

"Crap."

Crap indeed. Because right now, Sam and Dean found themselves face to face with the gigantic jaws of what could only be a second Chupacabra. If the darkness wasn't deceiving them, it was a much, much larger specimen than the first, and from its furious growling and baring its pointed teeth, one horrible conclusion shot through Sam's mind: They must've just killed none other than this one's partner – or its kid.

Well, why be ripped to shreds by Bambi if you could get yourself eaten by Bambi's mother?

It came out of nowhere.

In hindsight, Dean probably should have remembered Dad's warnings. Always check for mates. Always. Most supernatural creatures they'd encountered over the years hunted alone, but not all of them. Apparently, the Chupacabra whose head he'd cracked open had a lover. Or a mother. And what a beast it was, standing at seven or eight feet tall. And it was gunning for them.

Forgetting his pain for a moment, Dean braced himself for the fight. Summoning all his strength, he narrowed his eyes and willed them to adjust a little more to the darkness. There. The beast was right there, big and ugly and wild. It was only a few feet away when—

Bang!

His gunshot echoed off against the far mesas. The creature yelped, a loud, anguished sound, before it toppled over. The boys didn't lose a second. Dean aimed again. He released another gunshot, and he smiled in satisfaction when the Chupacabra writhed on the ground. Sam and Dean were still pressed to one another, clinging to each other like their lives depended on it.

"You got it, just one more!" Sam encouraged, raising his knife in defense.

It could have been so easy. But when was it ever easy for the Winchesters?

After two glorious bullseye shots, Dean's luck ran out.

The creature hopped up so fast that his next shot missed entirely. Loud and ominous was the roaring that came closer at an incredible speed. And this time, his battered body didn't allow him to jump out of the way. The last thing his eyes registered was a flutter of black and—

With an oomph, Dean was knocked to the ground, a cry of pain pushed from his raw throat when his banged-up leg hit the sand. At once, all the air left his lungs, and he found himself yelping for breath. All sound was drowned out, only a tinny ringing in his ears. His slitted eyes were directed upwards, the countless stars overhead blurring to the point that his vision was filled with a white veil. And amidst all that pain and longing for the lights to go out, Dean wondered why the Chupacabra wasn't chewing on him by now.

A deafening scream right next to him made all of Dean's senses return at once. The numbness was instantly replaced by fear gripping him so tightly his heart was about to pound right out of his chest.

"Sammy!" he yelled before he'd even gotten to his feet (foot) again.

And there he was. His little brother lay in a heap next to him, the gigantic creature looming over him with its fangs…

Buried in Sam's neck.

Dean's heart missed a beat. Or maybe three. When it started thrumming again with a jolt, Dean blindly crashed towards the scene, but he didn't get a word past his lips, he only wanted to shoot the bastard that was hurting his brother. But, at this moment, he realized with dismay that his gun was no longer in his hands. A flash of silver glinted in the moonlight, and out of the corner of his eye he saw Sam move.

In hindsight, Dean would say it was the loudest sound he'd ever heard in his life. The gunshot vibrations rattled deep inside his chest, booming and reverberating against his ribs like an echo in a cave.

A single bullet through the heart made the Chupacabra screech one last time before its enormous body unceremoniously dropped to the ground. Right on top of Sam. Only the arm that had fired the gun peeked out from under the mountain of monster, the silvery weapon gliding from an unmoving hand. And that was what made Dean finally break out of his stupor.

"Nooo!" Dean screamed at the top of his lungs, crashing to the ground where the Chupacabra's dead weight was trapping his little brother underneath its gigantic body. He was still riding an adrenaline high that made him block out his own throbbing calf entirely, his mind zoning in on one task – saving Sam. "You fugly bitch, get off of my brother!"

Like a mother lifting a car to save her baby (and no, in hindsight he would never refer to the act as such), Dean braced himself against the hairless carcass, willing his mind to move 400 pounds. Grunting and straining and cursing out loud, Dean finally managed to push the huge, dead creature an inch off Sam, noticing with dread that his brother wasn't helping any. When, finally, after three more pushes and many more curse words the creature rolled to the side and Sam was freed, Dean realized why.

"Sammy?"

No reaction. From what Dean could tell in the dark, Sam lay motionless on the ground, his right arm outstretched and the gun lying uselessly next to his lax hand. His eyes were closed, pale lips slightly opened as if in surprise. And even with only the moon to illuminate the scene, Dean watched in horror as dark splotches appeared on the remnants of his brother's shredded shirt where his left collarbone was supposed to be. The black stains were growing by the minute.

Crap.

Dean crouched by Sam's side, overwhelmed by the sight. He carefully reached out to shake his brother by the shoulders, wincing when his hands brushed the slick, wet warmth seeping from the gaping wound between his neck and shoulder. Blood pooled in huge bite marks, several triangular holes. Gentle fingertips grazed the destroyed skin. Dean almost gagged when he brushed not only torn flesh but something solid, something crunchy, too. Dammit, the fangs had not only gotten a taste of his little brother's blood, but they'd also crushed his collarbone to pieces as if it was a freaking twig. Half a second later, half an inch to the left… and the Chupacabra might have gotten a chunk out of his carotid artery instead. Dean swallowed thickly.

"Sam, you hear me? Sa-Sammy," he tried again, shaking hands hovering over his brother.

When there was no reaction, Dean spluttered a few more choice words. He needed to see those damn puppy-dog-eyes and those stupid dimples and that smug smile and listen to some wise-ass comment about Aztec culture or some other sophisticated crap. Right. Freaking. Now. Nothing. The only reassurance he had was the steady rise and fall of Sam's chest under his fingertips and a heartbeat he knew as well as his own. The whole situation made Dean stir crazy. And it was all his fault. Dean was the one who so desperately wanted to do something to quell his boredom, who had leaped at the first chance to hunt an unknown creature, even when he knew with absolute certainty that Sam wasn't as enthusiastic about hunting as he was. And it was Dean who was, at least between the two of them, the expert on Chupacabras. He should have known they hunted in pairs, sometimes. He should have prepared better. He should have called Dad, like Sammy wanted.

Dean should have done a lot of things.

Though, with the wisdom of hindsight (he was having a lot of that lately, but you know... 20/20), he figured sending Sam out there alone would have been much, much worse. If the kid had gotten attacked alone, without anyone there to help him, without Dean even knowing it had happened… Dean gulped down the nausea boiling in his stomach. Infinitely grateful that Sam had insisted on them going together, Dean found himself wiping his eyes. No, he wasn't crying, he really wasn't. Still. Sam was hurt bad.

"I never should've…" he mumbled into the dark, cupping his brother's face with both hands and leaning down. Ever so carefully, Dean pressed his forehead against Sam's, squeezing his eyes shut. "I never should've let you come. I'm sorry, Sammy, I'm so sorry."

Even that heartfelt apology, the only one Dean remembered giving in a long time, didn't elicit a response. His mouth tasted like ash, or maybe it was sand. His eyes stung. But not all hope was lost, not yet.

Pull yourself together, Winchester.

"We're gonna get outta here," Dean promised, voice shaky, as he took off his navy-blue overshirt. It was time for sharing clothing again, sort of. Not even registering the chill in just his tank top once again, he cut off the shirtsleeves with practiced moves and the help of Sam's hunting knife that lay a few feet away in the dust. Briefly, he found himself wondering if Sam would be mad about another destroyed item of clothing. Well, his little brother didn't have a say in the matter. Screw the shirt. Dean quickly wadded up the rest of the shirt and placed it across Sam's wound, ignoring how dark, shiny stains instantly blossomed on the fabric. A dirty shirt as a compression bandage wasn't ideal, but it was all he had.

"We'll laugh about this someday, huh?" Dean tried to reassure his unconscious brother, not at all feeling the joke right now. Dean hastily ripped the cut-off sleeves into strips. Using the knot techniques Dad had made him learn, he managed to produce a lengthy piece of cloth that resembled a rope. Uttering a quiet apology, he carefully lifted Sam's upper body – receiving no complaint – and slung the makeshift rope around his torso crossways. Gently setting Sam down again, he fastened it as tightly as it would go over the wadded-up shirt.

"There, that's not so bad."

Except, Sam not waking up and bleeding through the bandage was bad.

"C'mon," Dean nudged his brother. His blood-slick hand absentmindedly combed through Sam's hair, pushing the overlong, sweaty bangs out of his ashen face. "Sammy, time to wake up."

When there was still no response, Dean was barely able to gulp down the whimper threatening to fall from his lips. Dammit. What the hell was he supposed to do? Sam needed a doctor, fast. And if he was completely honest with himself, Dean needed medical help, too. He was hurting, bad. But they were still in the middle of nowhere, at least a few miles away from the car. It was pitch-black outside, and there might still be predators out there chasing them down. At this point, an entire family of Chupacabras was not out of the question, a thought that terrified Dean to the core. He'd fight tooth and nail till the end, but with Sam out of commission and Dean himself mostly incapacitated (not to mention they were low on ammo), Dean would never be able to defend himself and his brother against another enemy.

Dean vaguely wondered when this whole case had gone so spectacularly sideways. But blaming himself wouldn't get them out of here, so he clenched his teeth and got to his knees.

Carrying it was. He'd done it before. He'd do it again. He would get them home.

Unfortunately, the moment he made that decision and straightened himself, Dean's leg reminded him of the fact that Chupacabra number one had gotten a big, nasty bite out of him. Yelping, he sagged back to the ground, cradling his injured limb.

"Crap!" he yelled for the umpteenth time.

But this wasn't over.

With Winchester stubbornness fueling his every action, Dean pushed himself up again and again, until the pain in his calf was bearable enough for his feet to carry his weight. Wobbly and panting like an 80-year-old after a marathon, Dean stood. Flipping a finger heavenwards, Dean bared his teeth. A maniac suck this grin.

As it turned out, even Dean's mantra of doing everything, absolutely anything, for his family wasn't enough to keep him upright while tugging along approximately 150 pounds of little brother. Every time Dean attempted a fireman's carry, or even just hauling Sam across the ground by slipping his hands under his armpits, Dean lost his own balance and ended up next to his brother, groaning. Apparently, his busted leg meant he would be able to walk, hobble really, alone but not with a deadweight on his shoulders. Which meant that Dean had only one option, one they had fought about only hours before – well, in reverse. He would have to leave his brother here by himself, vulnerable to the night's horrors, while he set out to retrieve the car. Even then, in his condition it would take hours for Dean to reach the car and get back. Hours Sam might not have.

So, that was the opposite of an option. He couldn't leave Sam here. There had to be another way.

Dean slowly sank to the ground again, truly and utterly defeated. He twisted his hands in Sam's shirt, clenching them to fists. His eyes remained on his brother for a moment, wet and burning, then he canted his head towards the sky.

For the first time in his life, Dean prayed.

To be continued...