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One more chapter to go after this one :)

Excuse the drama. I always seem to make John a bit of a prick. I do actually quite like him.

The door to the small cabin that the Winchesters had been using burst open.

Luckily, it was set apart from the main farmhouse. It was very basic, built for housing farmhands and their families, complete with outdoor toilet.

It had been largely unused for at least a decade, and the boys had spent a number of hours wiping down the thick layer of dust that had settled over the home.

Any untouched dust was suddenly thrown into the air by the ambush of bodies that fell into the building.

The door slammed shut as the room filled with panicked voices, cries of pain and stomping boots on the bare wooden floors.

John and Dean worked together to place Sam into one of the dining chairs, Dean moving quickly to catch Sam as he faltered from the exertion.

"Strip him off," barked John, disappearing into the smaller downstairs bedroom where he had stashed most of their equipment. "Bobby, get a fire started."

"Arms up, kiddo," started Dean, wincing for his brother as the movement pulled at the angry red wounds on his side. He wriggled off what remained of Sam's shirt and sweater, torn to pieces where the claws had struck his side.

Sam gritted his teeth and swore as the fabric swept over the wound. "How does it look?" he murmured, his eyes closed.

Dean looked at Bobby, who frowned deeply.

It looked terrible.

The wounds were four lines, parallel to each other, searing around Sam's waist from his back to his abdomen. They were still trickling blood, and old blood crusted beneath the newly forming red rivers. Lumps of mud and dirt speckled the wounds and the angry skin around them.

Dean avoided eye contact with his brother, who stared unblinking at him, monitoring his reaction. "It's not so bad," he lied.

Sam tried to turn his head to look at the damage, but hissed in pain and jolted his head back up.

"Whiplash," Bobby muttered, and started to investigate the wound on the back of Sam's head. "You got yourself a big one back here, Sam."

Dean added this to his mental checklist of things to be pissed about.

John marched back into the room, laden with their well used medical kit. Dean's rage flared again as his father started to rifle through the kit, avoiding further conflict about a visit to the ER.

"Dean, fill a basin with hot water. We need to get him cleaned down," John demanded, pulling up a chair in front of his youngest son.

"I got it," said Bobby, rising to the kitchen area.

Dean stayed put, moving slightly to allow his father access to Sam.

"They've gouged down to the fat layer," Dean said pointedly, a slight shake in his hand as he gestured to the yellow layer protruding from Sam's wound.

John grunted, waving Dean aside and assessing the damage himself.

Sam opened one eye, squinting as if looking directly at the sun. "Y'calling me fat?" he mumbled.

Dean snorted. "Any thinner and I could pick my teeth with you."

Sam shut his eyes again but gave a half-smile. This immediately changed to a grimace as his dad poked the wound again.

Dean glowered at John. "Is that necessary?"

John gave him his famous watch yourself, son, look before turning his attention back to his youngest. "You're gonna be okay, Sammy." He stood quickly, and turned to Bobby in the kitchen, now carrying a bowl of warm water. "Dean, clean him down. There's a bottle of iodine in the bag, get those wounds sorted. Use it on the gash on his head, cut some of his hair if you need to. I gotta talk to Bobby real quick."

Dean raised his eyebrows but said nothing. Damn anyone who tried to cut Sammy's hair. Even his father.

Bobby handed the bowl over with a miraculously clean rag. He offered Dean a reassuring smile that came across as a pained grimace. The older men stepped outside.

The room felt peaceful without John present. Sam seemed to respond positively to the reduction in chaos and movement, the quiet without barked orders. He cracked open his eyes again, watching Dean carefully.

"Are you gonna bedbath me now, Dean?" He asked. "Can I just shower instead?"

Dean thought about it, then shook his head. "I don't trust you to make it up the stairs, even with me doing the hauling. This will do for now. Once we've been to the ER - "

"Dad is not going to send me there," Sam interrupted, his head rocking slightly.

Dean wet the cloth in the warm water. "Dad doesn't get to decide what happens to you, kid. That's my job."

Crouching next to his brother, he gently dabbed at the wound with the clean cloth, glancing up apologetically as Sam hissed through his teeth.

"I'll do whatever gets me morphine faster," Sam uttered.

"Ain't getting no morphine with that head wound."

"Oh bite me, doctor Dean."

"Shut up."

Dean was pleased there was some reaction from Sam with the irritation, but unconvinced that Sam's condition was stable. He had lost a lot of blood, and it was still streaming from the graze marks. Even if they were able to stem the bleeding, the site was already red and hot, indicating early onset of infection - they would need antibiotics beyond the scope of the Winchester medical bag. The head wound had caused bruising to Sam's face, the impact damaging blood vessels across his head. God only knew how long he had been unconscious when he first went down, or the extent of damage from the impact.

Dean moved on to washing the much off of Sam's face and limbs. He stripped of the jeans, noting some additional bruising from - well, from the werewolf attack, probably - and covered Sam's lower body with a dusty blanket from the back of the couch.

"Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"Can I get some water?"

Dean was in the kitchen before he could finish the sentence. As he filled a glass from the tap, he looked out at his father and Bobby.

They were standing far apart from each other, both of them gesturing violently. They were arguing.

Dean shifted uncomfortably. He didn't like where this was going.

He stood beside Sam as he sipped the water. His hand shook slightly as he held the glass, and it looked like he was fiercely concentrating on the action of moving the glass towards his face.

Both boys turned towards the door as voices raised outside. Dean closed his eyes and tried to listen to what each man said, and words started to form as the voices raised louder...

"Uh, Dean?"

He swung back round to face his kid brother, who was clutching at his side once again.

Blood was pouring consistently now from the deepest wound, forming a puddle at the chair leg. Dean, alarmed, kneeled beside Sam and pressed the blanket covering him against the wound, hard. "Shit Sam, sorry dude. You feeling okay?"

"It's really sore," Sam admitted, "My head really hurts." His voice seemed to shrink the more he spoke.

Dean felt the tug of the ER. He had the Impala out front, what was stopping him from just taking Sam there?

He knew it was the right thing to do. But the thought of battling it out with his father, the prospect of half a pack of wolves on their tail, either in their animal or human form...

But how would they know what condition Sam was actually in?

Dean considered the potential impacts... Infection... Sepsis... the list went on. They had stitched each other up plenty over the years, but this? This seemed well beyond their ability to manage. The blood loss, the concussion, the deep gouges in Sam's side...

"Dean," Sam's small voice broke through his train of thought, "He's not going to let you take me there. It's not worth fighting about."

"This is what you relent on? All the stupid arguements you start with Dad, this is where you agree with him?"

His final words were lost as the door swung open. Bobby stormed in, crimson with rage.

"Dean, you gotta get Sam outta here," he fumed, spittle flying from his lips. "Your dad wants to fucking cauterize the wounds."

Dean's blood ran cold. He glanced at Sam, who looked back in horror, his bruised eyes wide and terrified.

"We can't do that," he said desperately, looking between Bobby and Sam, "How the fuck would he do that?"

John's frame filled the doorway, glowering at Bobby. "Singer, you have no right to get involved in this -"

"The Hell I don't!" Yelled Bobby, fists clenched as he turned to face John, "Sam is a God damn child, he's been through enough. What experience do you have of this, huh? Have you ever been burned, a wound that size, without-"

"Look at him, Bobby! He won't survive a fucking car ride in this state -"

"He won't survive you, Winchester -"

Dean gripped Sam's wrist, feeling the panic rise in his chest. The words pierced like daggers. Burned... Cauterized... Wound that size... Won't survive...

Slowly, Dean stood up, keeping hold of Sammy's wrist. He hid the kid from view - and, Damn, that hurt doing that with his Dad - and slowly shook his head.

"Dad, we can't do that," he said desperately, trying to keep his cool. "We can't do that here. We have no pain relief, we can't clean anything properly..."

The words went mostly unheard as the older men screamed at each other, volume rising.

Dean could feel Sam tugging at the hold he had on his wrist, but he could hear none of the words the boy spoke.

Burned... Cauterized... Won't survive...

Dean yelled out, causing the room to quiet. "Dad, I said no. You can't do this. I won't..." He looked his father dead in the eye, and fought the words out of his mouth, "I won't let it happen."

John shook his head violently, and Bobby started to argue -

When a thin, tired voice piped up from behind Dean; "Just do it, Dad."

Dean turned on his heel to stare at his brother, silenced.

Sam looked up at him, clutching the blanket to his side to stem the bleeding, pale and shivering. His bruised face was an abstract of blue, purple and red, his eyes puffy and swollen shut. He squinted at Dean, pleading. "Just let him do it."

"Sam, you can't," Dean reasoned, bile creeping up his throat. Their dad started to move around them. "Don't you understand what you're saying?"

"John, come on man," started Bobby.

"I can take you now, to the hospital," Dean pleaded, kneeling now in front of his brother, "I can get you fixed up, I promise. Please Sammy, listen to yourself -"

The scene descended into chaos.

John stoked the fire, the coal burning hot.

Dean begged his brother to see sense, gripping harshly into his forearms.

Bobby followed John around the room, moving between reasoning statements and raging accusations. John pushed a machete into the burning coal, the hilt sticking out into the living room.

"There has to be another way," Dean's voice was growing now, the control falling away from him as his brother and father continued in silence.

Tears grew in Sam's swollen eyes. "I just want this to stop," he whispered desperately to his brother.

Dean wanted to revive every single werewolf and kill them all over again.

John hovered over Sam's shoulder now, looking down at his sons.

"Have you cleaned these wounds, Dean?" The words were cold and hard.

Dean lost it.

"Do you fucking hear yourself?" He bellowed, reaching his full height, "This is your son! You want to fry him, while he's wide awake, just to avoid going to the hospital?"

John stood tall over his son. Both men squared to each other over the head of the youngest, who bleated unheard protestations beneath them.

"Don't fucking talk to me like that, boy. You may be an adult but you are still my child, and you will obey my orders."

Bobby started to place himself between them, but father and son were unaware of the intrusion. Their eyes were locked. "Over my dead body," Dean seethed, as Sam pawed at his shirt.

Then, John did something that none of them expected.

John snarled and grabbed Dean by the collar of the shirt, twisting his grip tightly around the material and almost lifting Dean off his feet. Dean grabbed at the hands at his throat to little avail - he had been caught completely by surprise.

John, taking advantage of the delayed response, moved forward with a surge of power. Dean fought back, and Bobby tried his best to release the grip the father had on his son.

He pushed Dean backwards towards the door, his eyes glazed and dark. He threw open the door to the cabin, and before Dean could speak, he was turfed out down the steps and onto the dirt road, landing directly on his ass.

"Dad!" He hollered, but John had already turned into the house and slammed the door shut.

Dean heard the bolt slide shut, and he launched himself at the door, but it was too late. "Dad!" he screamed again, fists pounding the wooden panel. "Bobby, open up! You can't do this," Dean begged. He turned to his side and tried to drive his shoulder through the door.

He heard Bobby's voice inside the cabin. "You've fucking lost it, John. This is so fucked."

Dean didn't pause as the threw himself again at the door, his shoulder throbbing with pain now. "Bobby!" He shouted again.

He froze as he heard his Dad's growl. "Singer, you either help me do this right, or you get the Hell out."

Dean didn't hear a response. He breathed heavily as he waited for Bobby to slide the bolt open, to open the door and get Dean inside, to help him restrain his dad and get Sam bundled into a car and to the nearest hospital -

Nothing.

"Bobby!" Dean yelled, pounding the door again. "Let me in, God dammit!"

There was shuffling and movement from behind the door. Dean leaned over the banister of the steps, peering through the window.

A new level of fury soared through his bloodstream as he watch the scene.

Sam, lain on floorboards beside the fireplace, his chest heaving. His eyes were swollen to slits, but Dean could see the fear in them as Bobby knelt above his head. Bobby was speaking calmly to him, although Dean could see the terror in his face.

Dean's nostrils flared. He grabbed at the windowsill and launched himself over the banister -

Only to have the rotten wood fall off in his hands, and he collapsed again to the dirt floor.

He swore loudly, and searched around for a stone, a brick, anything to launch through the glass pane of the window.

He swept around the grounds outside the house. With two hands he picked up a stone, and like a caveman walked back to the window with it brandished above his head. With a grunt, Dean launched it through the window, heard it land on the floor inside the cabin. "Fuck!" he heard his dad shout.

He ran back up the steps to the house and peered in.

His Dad, moving quickly, was cleaning the wounds again with iodine. The liquid left a sunset stain over Sam's skin.

"Dad, please!" Dean shouted again.

Bobby looked up, his expression pained. "There's nothing we can do, Dean," he said, his voice cracking.

Dean couldn't ignore the sense of betrayal with Bobby's words.

Of course there were options.

If they had moved faster, if they hadn't wasted time when they got back to the cabin.

If they had called for help, called for an ambulance as soon as they'd found Sam in this terrible state.

If they had listened to Dean and not his asshole father.

But John would never have allowed Sam to go to the hospital, would never have facilitated help outside the family.

If...

Dean almost snarled as he watched the scene unfold. Uncaring of the consequences, he jumped over the banister and grabbed the hole in the smashed window, screaming as the broken glass sliced his hands open.

"Bite down hard, Sammy," he heard his Dad say. How dare he use that name for Sam, Dean raged. The kid's nickname. His family name. The name only their most trusted friends could use.

Dean, desperate now, ran to the Impala, cursing as the trunk failed to open. He leaned in to the open window and seatched for a weapon of any kind -

His heart tore in two when he heard his brother scream.

A scream he had never heard from his kid brother before.

It made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. It was child-like and hoarse at the same time. Sam's had no fight left in him - it wavered the longer it went on.

Dean ran back instinctively to the door, the only thing separating him from his kid.

He peered through the window and felt the rage ripple through him again.

Their Dad was pressing the side of a large blade against the first of the four puncture wounds on Sam's side. The skin was sizzling beneath the heat of the blade, hissing.

Dean gagged at the smell - like burning fat on a barbecue.

Sam was being held down by Bobby, who leaned over the boy and spoke as softly as he could while still being heard.

Dean could feel vomit rising in his throat as he glanced at his brother.

The boy was screaming through tears, his body jerking in reaction to the pain of the blade. When the voice left him, his mouth stayed open, his chest heaved, and he sobbed silently.

John carried on, regardless.

Dean roared as he kicked at the door, unaware when he broke his own big toe in desperation.

"Sammy!" He shouted through gritted teeth, although he couldn't hear his own voice for the ringing in his ears.

He was going to kill his father.

Finally, mercifully, Sam passed out from the pain, and the loudest noise was the searing of human flash under heat, and Dean's infuriating battering of the cabin door.

After what felt like an eternity, the door finally gave way, and Dean's leg went straight through the lower panel. He kicked again at the door, his toes throbbing now, and pulled with bleeding hands at the stubborn fragments. With shaking hands, he crouched and he pawed for the bolt -

When John opened the door above him, glowering down at his eldest son.

The hot knife was still in his hand, trembling slightly.

Dean looked at his father for a split second -

Before launching up at him, silently, blind with fury and fear.