Probably a two-shot.
Sometimes, even in the best laid plans and schemes of the Winchesters, Sam was vulnerable.
And Dean would allow all hell to break loose to focus on this fact.
Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Dean would never describe himself as a control freak.
In fact, he was quite the opposite. He relished the unknown in the challenge of a poker game; adored the chase of a gorgeous, often married, woman at the bar; and loved the rush of a successful hunt.
He even loved the twists and turns of a plan gone wrong, and to come out the other end - mostly - unharmed, and - always - chivalrous.
Dean's father, with a quick mind and a faster mover, taught his sons well the beauty of thinking in the moment; adrenaline-induced decision making; and a willingness to avert to plans B, C and beyond.
What John had been unable to teach Dean however, was the ability to allow such flexibility in the case of Dean's Achilles' heel - his younger brother Sam.
And when it came to Sam, Dean had to be the most precise, aware and vigilant, no matter the cost.
Dean had to know precisely where Sam was. It was no longer just observation. It was done instinctively.
He would choose a chair where he could keep a peripheral eye on the teen. He would watch the clock for Sam's return from school, or any extra-curricular nonsense the boy got involved with.
In a hunt where the youngest had a role, he could almost draw X's in the dirt so he could predict precisely where Sam would be and when. In any training exercise, Dean would walk or run no further than an arm's length from his brother.
Sam didn't seem to notice - Hell, it had been this way so long that none of the Winchesters even blinked at this behavior.
Dean knew - as his dad reminded him often - that this left Dean wide open when it came to his brother. Because John knew that as soon as Sam was compromised, Dean's razor sharp hunting skills; his focus; his ability to adapt, to tale risks; and his nerve; were all equally compromised.
This was infuriated John, and made his relationship with his youngest even more tense. Whenever Sam was involved in a hunt, John knew that Dean was only 99% present in the moment. His eldest was an unreliable factor as soon as the youngest stepped close to the action. It was the most powerful and most dangerous connection two soldiers could have.
So this strange, learned relationship - which the Winchesters knew was a product of their lifestyle - left Sam mostly completely safe.
However, just sometimes, even in the best laid plans and schemes of the Winchesters, Sam was vulnerable.
And Dean would allow all hell to break loose to alter this fact.
Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Sam trudged through the soaking wet field - knee-deep in puddles, mud and -
"Cow shit," he cursed, desperately pulling his left foot out of a stinking cow pat. He felt cool water seep into his boot, his socks browning. "Fucking great."
Sam had spent the last two nights in these same fields. The expansive farm, placed over rolling hills, was shouldered by a pocket of trees in the valley below and Sam sat himself on the ridge above, waiting for any sign of werewolf activity.
The farmer's stock was being plagued by a pack of werewolves, who were paying monthly visits to the woodland for their transformation and then feasting on the animals. The full moon was fast approaching and the farmer was not willing to loose any more cattle. He had contacted John looking for a quick solution, even offering his family silver to melt for bullets for the task.
On hearing the amount of work that went into managing a problem such as this had been less welcome news. The landowner had offered an alternative solution - waiting for the full moon, and rallying the townsfolk with pitchforks and kitchen knives to the forest.
The idea of a forest full of angry civilians chasing supernatural creatures was enough to convince John Winchester to take the job.
It also helped that he was willing to pay John a hefty amount for his assistance in culling the problem.
Their research had been hasty, and Bobby had been called across several states to help with the weight of the job.
A pack of 4 wolves, five max, who travelled across county lines for their transformation. They appeared to use a location for several months before moving on to the next area. There were no human victims recorded in the area, however that could very quickly change if the locals decided to take matters into their own hands.
The hunters had been visiting the area nightly, scoping for any activity beyond the movement of cattle around the land. They watched for any signs of preparation for the pack, things they had come to expect - storing clothes, scoping the area for entry and exit points, erecting shelters.
So far there had been little to report. This pack was well practiced and ritualistic in their changes, having used the area several times already. Dean and Bobby covered the wooded area, well camouflaged in the bracken and mossy forest floor. John surveyed entry and exit points of the forest, waiting for approaching vehicles.
Their work was silent and stealthy, always aware they were in the red zone for potential activity.
It also meant the men spent several hours crawling on a wet forest floor, reacting to every crack of a twig or rustle of branches. Dean found himself constantly watching for communication from the group, especially through the border of the forest, where he knew Sam was perched on the hilltop above them.
. . .
Sam's job, was decidedly easier. Climb the ridge, watch the woods for anyone coming and going in the lead up to the full moon, make a note, report back. Easy. Away from the action, just as his family liked it.
He was to communicate any sightings by flashing Morse code with a flashlight to his family in the forest. He wouldn't even have to get close to the woods this way.
Sam couldn't help but feel relieved on this occasion. At 16 years old he was expected to play a larger role in the hunting than he had in previous years. Ghosts and ghouls he could handle and these jobs John left to his boys now that Dean was almost 21. They had decided however werewolves were a little more meat than Sam could swallow just now.
Dean was happy to involve Sam as little as possible, his role as a distant observer close enough to keep and eye, but far enough to keep out of trouble.
Dean was quick to excuse Sam from a large part of the more dangerous and uncontrollable creatures they dealt with. For now at least, until John pulled rank and decided that Sam was skilled enough to jump into the thick of it.
Sam enjoyed this part of hunting - the culmination of research, rumor and reason. The follow through of a vague plan. All of their assumptions and guesses alluding to a violent conclusion. For the last few nights the family had simply been observing any activity - any gathering, any movements, any new footprints. The wooded area had this far been quiet however as the full moon approached.
This particular hunt had Sam feeling slightly less confident. Despite their rigorous research and surveillance, their action felt hasty.
Sam had stood away from the conversation as they discussed the plan with the landowner, who had chased them for months to attend the problem.
"The full moon is in 6 days," John had growled at the farmer as they discussed the job at hand. "We need months to establish the pattern and routine of the beasts, if it's even werewolves causing the damage."
"This has been going on long enough. We've lost tens of cattle in just 6 months. If you had come sooner, I wouldn't have to be so insistent," the farmer responded calmly. "If you don't want the job, don't take it. We can pay you a consulting fee to discuss what tools we need, and we can take them on ourselves. The pay will be significantly less for you if you choose this route."
Sam stifled a smirk.
John shared a look with Dean. The sum that the farmer had offered enough to keep the family for a month, two if they were careful. As a rule the Winchesters never took payment for jobs. However it was an admittable relief to have hard cash on the table.
A silent agreement took place between them.
"
"He could have thrown in a free ride through this bog at least," muttered Sam to himself as he sank another boot into thick mud.
He battled up the last few strides to the highest point of the ridge. The moon was high in the cloudless sky, the night an an inky blue hue. He pulled his jacket tight around him as the peak of the ridge offered a freezing wind. In the daylight, this point would have offered a beautiful view of rolling hills and snaking rivers.
Maybe I'll come back to see it before we move on, he thought to himself. His feet squelched in his soaked boots, as they had done every night on his jounrey up the hill. Actually, maybe not.
Sam found the flat rock he had placed himself on for the last two nights and placed the contents of his back on the damp grass beside it. A flask, extra set of clothes (sadly excluding dry boots), a spare flashlight, a gun with three silver rounds - the most the hunters on the front line could spare - a flare gun and a silver knife. He sat the empty bag on the rock and made himself as comfortable as possible - given the circumstances.
He looked for the lights from the party in the treeline - an initial check that all were in position. John at the northernmost section of the forest would flash to Bobby in the east; Bobby to Sam, and Sam to Dean back into the western side of the woodland.
They used Morse code to signal OK - three long flashes followed by a long-short-long sequence. For these evenings of observing, it was the only contact they would have.
Unless, of course, any trouble unfolded, and guns were fired, or a flare gun went off, or screaming was heard.
Every scenario possible had a plan - anticipating any deviation of the creature from their expected behavior, in the event of injury to a civilian or one of their own, even as far as environmental factors
What these plans very occasionally did not cover was human error.
As Sam saw Bobby's flashlight flicker in the distant trees, he took a long sip of coffee from his flask and began to respond. Three long flashes. He stood up and backed one foot onto his rock as if to stand on it -
However, just as he began to flash the second sequence, his soaked and worn boot offered little grip on the wet rock, and the breath left his lungs as he lost his footing. His body thudded to the ground and his head whipped back with force and cracked on the hard stone. He felt a flash of pain, and all went black.
Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Dean waited. He was crouched on the edge of the forest, half concealed in a nest of bracken.
He watched the ridge, waiting for the second part of the OK. long-short-long.
Nothing came.
The hair on Deans neck stood up. He felt himself rising slowly from his hiding spot, heart beating a little quicker.
He knew the plan but his mind raced several miles on different directions.
Why hadn't Sam finished his sign?
Had his flashlight broken? He had a spare packed. Had they both broken? Surely not.
Dean broke protocol, repeating the signal back at the ridge and awaited a response.
Nothing but the light of the moon and the long shadows it cast.
Dean felt his body start to tense as reason fought instinct.
'I missed the signal,' he thought, although he knew it wasn't true. He wouldn't have missed it if his life depended on it.
Dean could feel the blood pounding in his ears and his eyes going dry as he stared desperately into the distance, searching for any sign of life up he side of the valley.
Empty blackness.
"Dean," came a hiss from his left side, barely penetrating Dean's concentration. "Son, are you okay?"
Dean turned momentarily to look in his fathers direction, averting his gaze back to the ridgeline.
"I've lost eyes on Sammy," he replied softly, looking straight back at the hill. The wind had picked up slightly, the tree branches blurring the view of where the young man's flashlight had faded to darkness.
"What do you mean?"
Dean ignored him, unwilling to break his gaze from the ridge.
"Dean, when you are in position, you flash the signal to your -"
"Something's not right -"
A harsh hand grabbed Dean's shoulder and turned him roughly around. Dean jumped, having not heard his father approach from behind, and tried instinctually to shake him off.
John's furious face forced eye contact, and Dean felt a flinch of childish fear run through him in reaction to his fathers cold stare.
" I need you to concentrate and tell me what you mean. Is your brother in position?"
Dean swallowed. "Yessir. But he never completed the-"
"You've a confirmed visual of Sam at his position?"
"Yes, but it wasn't a full -"
John was really pissed now. He squeezed Dean's shoulder tight, unrelenting.
"Dean, the full moon is tomorrow night. We do not have time to be pissing about and wasting time out here. Tomorrow, these woods will be full of civilians with pitchforks hunting out a pack of full grown werewolves who won't know the difference between a cow and a child," even John's whisper sounded enraged. "We have to get an understanding of these bastards' route in and out of the woods, where they change and where we can catch them at their most vulnerable. Your brother is out the way, out of sight and making no contact with anyone but his own damn flashlight button, which apparently he can't even do that right. We do not have time for you to lose focus, you hear me?"
"I'm not losing focus, Dad, I -"
"God damn it Dean, enough," John hissed again, his temper fraying beyond his usual, military cool. "We have a plan in place for a reason - to keep us all safe. You stick to the plan, son and nobody gets hurt. Your brother has enough weaponry up that hill to destroy a pack of wolves on his own - we need you here. Focussed. Understand?"
Dean's head pounded, but he grit his teeth and nodded sharply.
"Good." John squeezed Dean's shoulder and let it go. "I'll chew your brother out later. Now stay put, son."
John turned back into the foliage and left Dean to his thoughts…
Which only grew more dire as his father soundlessly disappeared into the brush.
Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Sam's eyes flickered open, and quickly closed again with the searing pain behind them.
He groaned, moved his head slightly and winced at the pain in his head as he did so.
A breeze passed over, highlighting the cold around his hairline and neck. Why am I wet? A shiver wracked through him.
He forced himself to triage his situation. His head pounding.
Sam chastised himself as he remembered slipping from the rock, a stupid mistake only he could make.
Sam pushed himself up to sitting, feeling a wave of nausea wash over him. He swallowed back the bile, and added concussion to his growing list of problems. He was shivering and sweating at the same time, his entire form now caked in thick wet mud from the fall.
Fall, he snorted, the noise ringing loud in his ears. That was embarrassing, Winchester.
He could hear his father now, the surveillance team halved as Dean would be distracted in helping him off the ridge.
He raised a shaky hand to the back of his head, and felt an egg-shaped lump forming, warm and damp with blood.
Sam placed gentle pressure on the wound to stave the bleeding, and immediately screwed his eyes shut again as a second wave of sickness washed over him.
The rest of his top to toe assessment came up with nothing - thank God - but Sam knew he needed help to get off the ridge. The dizziness attacked again, and he dropped back onto his elbows as his head throbbed.
What could he do?
The idea of trying to get himself off the hill was not an inviting one. Sam wasn't sure if he could even get himself upright, let alone trudge back down the hillside.
Worst of all, he had no idea where in the forest his family were - they would be concealed among the trees, completely camouflaged.
And if the soon-to-change-werewolves saw that there was a teenager walking aimlessly around, they would know they had been caught out, and move their hunting grounds onward.
And, God, Dad and Dean would be so mad, Sam thought to himself, unwilling to put himself into a situation where his Dad could be pissed at him, again...
Sam took a moment for self-pity, quickly followed by a moment of self-loathing. He could hear Dean now. Only you, Sam, he'd say, shaking his head, annoyed at the interference of the plan, but quietly making his own assessment of Sam's condition.
The thought of his brother had him upright again, and he grappled the spare shirt from his bag to hold against the back of his bleeding head wound.
The pain caught his breath, and his vision faltered for a few seconds. He knew he wasn't getting out of this alone.
Sam grappled blindly for his flashlight with one hand, the other still treating the wound on his scalp. He stretched his fingers for the heavy metal lamp, trying desperately to remember the SOS signal -
When, in the distance, he heard a long, sharp howl of a wolf echo through the valley.
Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx