So, definitely not a two-shot!

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Dean was usually proud of his laser focus. Whether it was inherited from his dad or a drilled into him from a young age, Dean was completely driven by the task in hand. Especially during a hunt.

This focus was shaken only by one thing – Sam.

The seed of doubt planted by the failed signal; the lack of sights Dean had on his kid brother; and the niggling feeling that something was just not right had stormed his usually quiet mind.

He fought desperately against the instinct to run to find Sam, or climb a tree to get a better sight of him on the ridge. He knew if he took off now, a whole section of the forest would be left blind, his father and Bobby left to pick up the slack.

But it's just a reconnaissance scope, right? Does it matter if I just take off?

Dean gritted his teeth. He knew his dad was right – that Sam probably just forgot to finish the signal. Or dropped the torch in the boggy grass and had smashed the glass, or destroyed the battery. Or Dean had just blinked and missed the last few flashes. Right?

The next rendezvous was at sunup, when the four hunters would meet back at the farmhouse, several miles west of the pocket of woods. Dean checked his watch – it was barely 11pm.

He's fine. He's fine. He's fine…

Another cool breeze filtered through the trees, and Dean shuddered.

Against protocol – and his better judgement – he flashed his light for the third time at the ridge, hoping to express how rather impatient and pissed off he was getting at Sam's failure to report back. Or is it Sam's inability to report back?

In the distraction of his spinning mind, he hadn't noticed the creature slipping through the trees behind him, scurrying past his peripheral vision. He failed to see another enter the woods through the fields in his view, even the large shadow cast by the light of the moon.

What Dean did notice, however, was the cold, shrill howl that echoed across the farmland. It iced his spine, and his mind wandered beyond all hunting reason, all trained reason, all common reason.

Without a moment of hesitation, Dean deserted his position and bolted from the woods, eyes glued to the ridge.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Sam lay groggily in his strange, soggy, muddy bed. His head was still pounding, his vision blurred by black spots and intermittent white flashes of light. He wanted desperately to stand up, but the thought alone had the bile creeping back up his throat.

Through narrowed eyes, he saw a flash of light from the forest below. Dean again, no doubt.

Sam could have cried with relief, as well as wonder at how his brother just knew when something wasn't right. As much as he hated to show vulnerability, and craved his independence, he couldn't deny the current benefit of his brother tracking his every move.

He wriggled himself lower into the mud, still searching for the flashlight. The movement caused a wave of nausea to wash over him, and he froze, awaiting the storm to settle for a moment.

A second, piercing howl.

Was it one of the werewolves? Had they got the date of the full moon wrong?

That was impossible. All four of us can't have missed that, Sam thought to himself over and over. He wanted desperately for his mind to race, to come up with a plan to get help, or get out. But all the could hear was the pounding of his own blood in his ears, his heavy, slow pulse reverberating through his body.

Slowly, Sam pushed himself up onto his elbows, squeezing his eyes closed again as the sickness tempted him back to the boggy ground. He was soaked in mud and cow shit.

Another howl, closer this time, rang over the empty ridge.

Sam's hand ghosted over the back of his head, heat radiating from the wound now.

Blood.

Had the smell of fresh blood triggered a premature change in the pack of werewolves?

Sam wracked his tired, sore head for any memory of such lore but he drew a blank.

Had the wolves already changed their location for transforming, and now baiting the hunters? Had the Winchesters become the hunted?

Sam felt his heart sink in his stomach. This was the reward for a rushed operation.

"Stupid," he slurred to himself, pushing himself further up to a sitting position. "Stupid, stupid, stupid."

Sam groggily checked his surroundings. Had his family heard the howling too? He had to warn them that something was not right. He quickly scanned the contents of his pack, cursing himself for bringing so little.

Recon, my ass.

Flare gun? Too much attention. He didn't need Dean and the whole pack chasing him up the ridge. Second flashlight? He could probably tap out an SOS or a warning to his family in the trees – but would they see it? They weren't expecting any more contact from Sam until the rendezvous. He knew Dean was expecting a response and would be looking for his flashlight beam, but he didn't want to draw Dean out alone and into the open, closer to the howling werewolves.

Sam swallowed, his situation feeling more dire by the second. Another howl, closer again, sailed through the valley on the breeze.

Sam needed to move. Now.

Slowly, he stumbled to his feet. His head spun in a whirlwind as he slowly adjusted to the height. He could almost feel his blood pressure drop with the motion, and instantly shoot back with the adrenaline rush. Black spots danced in his vision, and it trickled back, painfully slow and still blurred. He grabbed the backpack and and stuffed in whatever he could reach of his tiny supply stack. He found his flashlight in the ground and smeared off the mud obscuring the glass. He started to flash it into the trees –

When he heard a bark, frighteningly close to him now.

He looked up quickly, his vision blurring again, and saw two large, dark shapes edging along the ridge towards him.

They had caught his scent.

Sam had no time to lose.

Caked in mud, he started down the slippery field, moving as quickly as he dared. He could hear the chattering and yipping of wolves behind him, feel their anticipation for a hunt in the air. How many were there again? How many had they anticipated from their research? How –

His feet slipped beneath him and he rolled down the field a few yards. When he came to a stop, he glanced at his muddied hands and coated his remaining clean patches of skin and clothing in mud and –

"Cow shit," he gagged. It was all he could do to mask his scent – and that would only work if they hadn't already seen him flailing clumsily down the ridge.

He cursed as he saw his torch was still on, furious at his own clumsiness. He was basically a walking flare in himself now. Should he just use it?

Another howl. Closer again.

This one was coming from the woods.

Sam had missed the one thing he was there to recon – anyone or anything, entering or leaving the forest.

And now, wolves the size of bears, were lurching towards him.

Sam sank to his knees. His options were vanishing quickly. There were at least two wolves stalking him from the ridge, and one from the forest.

Had it already found his family?

He reached back into his backpack, his remaining tools now slim pickings. Flare gun. Three bullets loaded in a gun. A silver knife.

The walls were caving in around him. Sam, unable to turn his head to see, could sense the two wolves on the ridge descending towards him in the middle of the field. This enormous monster in front of him had seen him now, definitely – a boy, prepared for a long night beneath the moon, now swaddled in mud and his own blood.

Sam grabbed the flare gun and shot it straight into the sky.

The flare bloomed like a white sunflower in the inky sky. The closest thing he had to a panic button. The last call for rescue, because if any of the Winchesters saw the flare go, so did the monster they were hunting.

The flare lit the field in brilliance for a second, illuminating the options in front of the young hunter. Three bullets. Three wolves – so far.

He grabbed the gun, a heavy and cumbersome thing. He braced himself on his knees, not able to trust his balance on his feet. Turning with his shoulders to his right, he could see now the two ridge wolves, now running down the hill towards him, closer and closer.

Slowly, Sam raised his gun, his arms trembling. How the night has changed so quickly, Sam wasn't sure – was he moving slower or was the his whole life flashing before his eyes?

His hands shook as he aimed at the first wolf.

He squeezed the trigger –

And nothing happened.

Again.

Nothing.

The gun was jammed, likely from when he had dumped the contents of his bag onto the grass.

Without thinking, Sam opened the chamber and quickly wiped what he could reach with his muddy sleeve. The panic rose, his head pounding with competing pain and terror.

He could hear the footsteps of the three wolves were now, their heavy breathing as they charged, feel their weight on the ground as they gained towards him. Sam, his heart, head, body, eyes pounding, fumbled the bullets back into the chamber.

They were almost equidistant from him now, and Sam found himself spinning between oncoming threats.

He took aim again as the ridge wolves cantered closer, covering yards of ground with single strides, he could almost see the whites of their eyes –

Bang.

The first wolf went down.

The second instantly slowed, screeching and barking at its fallen friend.

Sam spun himself around, the wolf emerging from the forest even closer now, sprinting towards him, it's purpose renewed.

Sam took aim again – and missed. His hands trembled badly. Taking a breath and holding it, he fired his final bullet.

The wolf knocked back, yelping and screaming as it writhed on the ground.

Sam went to turn back to the second ridge wolf, to see if it had stayed with its fallen friend.

But he hesitated as he saw a familiar figure pounding up the field. Sam squinted into the darkness, the light of the flare faded behind the figure of his furious older brother.

"Sam!"

He heard Dean screaming up the field. Sam allowed the empty gun to drop to his side, his knife forgotten as he relaxed at the sight of his brother –

"Sammy!"

When a huge, crushing weight slammed into his right side.

Xxxxxxxxxxxx