Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Dust and dry leaves mixed into a whirling cloud when the car dashed trough the lonely road, twin beams of light drawing two white lines in the thick darkness.

Sam was driving, his foot on the gas pedal, the purr of the engine drifting quickly into a strong, continuous roaring. His brother's blood stained his partially torn shirt and dried slowly in his hands, closing on the steering wheel in a tight, almost mad grip. Dean didn't like his dear Impala being forced like that, and Sam knew he would give him a good telling-off as soon as he could. He could almost see him caressing the dashboard, while whispering to the car tender words as to a lover -did Sammy hurt you? Bad, bad Sammy-, scawling at him out of the corner of his eye.

If he makes it.

No. Shut up.

Of course he was going to make it. They had emerged unscathed from worst situations; that was the usual thing when your life was devoted to hunting monsters. Each scar told a story, each injury and wound were part of the business. That was just one more coming.

“S'mmy...”

“No, don't talk, Dean, don't talk... Keep pressure, don't stop”

Dean was too woozy to do it correctly, but Sam was driving, so he had to rely in his older brother. He was laying on one side all along the back seats, his face completely drained of color, half-wrapped in a blanket and holding feebly a thick pad of cloth between his thighs. There was so much blood that the color of the fabric was impossible to discern; to the dim light inside the car, it looked black.

The creature had pierced his left thigh. If Dean hadn't moved in time and Sam hadn't shot straight to the monster's head, making it dissapear in a spray of rock salt, it'd had probably sectioned his femoral artery and killed him instantly. Nevertheless it bleed profussely, and the torniquet Sam had made out from his belt, or the tight bandage improvised with his own shirt, hand towels and some duct tape, won't hold the bleeding much longer.

“We're almost there, Dean. Hang on. You can shout at me later for driving like this.”

If he makes it.

Of course he was going to make it, dammit. It was needed something more that a wound to finish a Winchester.

The creatures had taken them by surprise when they had to stop the car due to a puncture -they slash the wheels, Sam recalled; they slash the wheels with their sharp teeth, so you are forced to stop, or they simply make you crash-. They heard the growling and baying when Dean was done with the rear wheel. One of the dark specters made them split up, the other attacked the older brother before Sam blasted it away with a rock salt pellet, but it was already too late.

Sam first spotted the blood, bright crimson at the dim beam of the flashlight. Then, he saw his brother leaning back, breathing heavily, clutching at his left leg.His heart sank.

No, no... he ran a hand through his hair and rushed towards Dean. Panic pulled at Sam's throat when he realized there was much more blood coming out, squirting slowly between his brother's fingers. No... it can't be possible, it hadn't tore it, or he would be dead already. He kneeled beside him; Dean was cursing between gasps.

“Son of a bitch!" he puffed. "It nearly bit my nuts off!--”

“It's okay, Dean, it's okay, let me see.”

When he took a closer look, Sam was unable to hold back a sigh of relief. It wasn't the femoral artery. Anyway, he had to make an effort to not wince in front of his brother.

“Doesn't look too bad- I think” he said, trying not to increase even more his brother's distress.

It was not exactly true. The wound looked smaller than he expected, but blood, bright red, kept oozing in a pulsing fashion which didn't seem like it would stop at any moment. Very likely, Dean had a peripherical artery sectioned. Without a second to lose, Sam pulled his hunt knife out and tore part of his own shirt, folding it quickly into a thick pad to cover the wound. There was a sick, wet sound; Sam's stomach did a painful flip when he felt the cloth rapidly getting hot and wet under his fingers. Dean jerked back his head with a groan.

“It's okay, Dean, hold on”. Sam felt a heavy lump on his throat and swallowing wasn't of any use. “It's done, it'll be okay...”

Dad had taught them the basics of First Aid when they started haunting with him -taking care of your own injuries was a pretty normal thing when you were a hunter-, and Sam had learnt some more in his time at “Normal-Life Land”. If there were something the paramedic giving that First Aid course at Stanford repeated once and once again, it was that arterial bleeding was way more serious, a threat that had to be managed properly and quickly. There was also some kind of motto: A focused mind saves lives, losing oneself means losing everthing. “That sounds easy when you're trying to save somebody you don't know...” Jess had muttered; his Jess, sitting beside him, her eyes attentively on the screen showing images on injuries and procedures. And she was right. With his brother's blood throbbing beneath his hands and soaking the ground at his feet, trying to stay cool and focused wasn't exactly easy. Sam took a deep breath, procedures coming to his head as quickly as he wiped away Jess' memory and focused on his brother. Keep the pressure. Always the same pressure, at least for ten minutes. And stay calm. Specially stay calm, you've already done this a hundred times.

The worst damage was caused when Dean jerked back, skin torn like a shirtsleeve caught in a nail, but precisely that prevented teeth from digging deeper in the flesh. His brother was bleeding like a stuck pig, but he had been lucky, after all. Nevertheless, if the moment came, he wouln't dare to stitch him up; it wasn't a bullet, neither a piece of broken glass buried in the skin, or a knife cut in the forearm; it was a damn bite, a few inches away from the femoral artery. A slight slip of the needle, and his brother will be dead in a few heartbeats. A very accurate expression in this case, his brain sentenced helplessly.

“I'm going to the car” Sam announced. He took hold of his brother's bloodstained hands to put them over the wound, trying not to move the piece of cloth. “Dean, listen. Don't move, hold this tight, as much as you can. Don't loose pressure, not even for a second. Deep breaths, Dean. Okay?”

Dean nodded, actually more pissed off than scared.

“I know, genius, not my first cut” he grunted, his forehead already soaked with sweat. Sam tapped his shoulder before he left.

“Well, this is a lil' more serious than a cut, but I'll take your word.”

He took less than half a minute to get back from the Impala's trunk. He had hope to find a good amount of bandages and gauze pads in their father's old med kit, but there was only a package- and already opened. It wasn't the best moment to tell Dean they needed to improve their supplies ASAP, so he fumbled frantically inside Dean's duffel bag and found some clean hand towels, cheesy motel names embroided on them.“Stop taking them, Dean. Would you like to go into a motel and don't find a towel because somebody else took it?” And then Dean would just shrug and smile. Bless you, Dean, Sam thought. Sometimes “taking stuff we've technically already paid for” was not a bad thing, after all.

“Thanks for not listening to me” Sam murmured when he came back to his brother.

Ignoring Dean's confused frown, he took a towel and folded it until he got a thick pad and applied it over the already soaked piece of cloth; he couldn't remove it or blood will keep squirting, and that was what had to be avoided at any cost. He handed his brother the flashlight, making sure his grip was firm. He noticed Dean's hand was cold and trembling, and he hold it tight for a second, as trying to reassure him.

“Dean? Light me here, I need both hands.”

Dean propped his elbow behind him to light properly and take a look; he grimaced instantly, actually more annoyed than worried.

“What a frigging bloody mess--” he grunted “Better make it stop before we get into the car, blood stains are impossible to remove.”

Sam couldn't hold back a sad laugh. His brother always played funny as some sort of self-defence when he was in a life-threating situation... or when he was too scared. And he was scared, Sam was sure, noticing the way his chest was heaving up and down, and how the flashlight trembled in his hand.

“Dean, you have to calm down.” Sam said; it seemed somehow stupid to ask his brother to do that when he also was terrified; the towel was soaking up so fast he soon would have to take a new one. It felt like going against the clock.

“I'm calm” Dean replied, breathless, maybe too loud to be credible.

“You aren't. Your heart is beating way too fast. Lay down and try to take deep, slow breaths. You slow down your heart rate, you slow down the bleeding.”

Dean rolled his eyes.

“Yeah, Sammy, sure, try to calm down when you almost had ripped off your--!”

"Deeeean...”

Grumpy, his older brother started to take deep breaths, in through his nose and out his mouth, so affectedly that it seemed he was mocking at a yoga instructor. It would work, anyway, as oxygen would still surge through his system, soothing his racing pulse.

“I'm counting to ten” Sam said. “Do it with me, focus on that, it will help you. One- two- three-”

Counting silently, eyes shut, Dean's breathing was even and slow when they hit forty. As Sam had expected, his brother was too focused breathing to notice they had way past ten... but it didn't take long before he complained.

“Goddamit, Sam! It won't stop bleeding--”

Sam took a deep breath and shook his head to push a strand of hair away, his forehead drenched in sweat. Fifty one, fifty two- He didn't loose pressure, not even for a second, though his neck and shoulders already felt sore and his arms were starting to have painful cramps. He felt stupid there, counting, but the bleeding had to be totally stopped before they got to the car or Dean will lose even more blood. Sam's clothes were stuck to his skin, slick with sweat, and when the cold breeze hit him, he shivered. There is too much blood, that's not good, it should have stopped by now...

“Just one more minute. Keep breathing, Dean, deep breaths.”

“To be sincere, I think I'm gonna throw up.” Dean groaned.

One more minute, and Sam was still applying pressure, so tight he could feel his own pulse mixing with his brother's, both racing. His right wrist, which had been broken and in a cast only some days ago, started begging at him. His brother's breathing was starting to hitch again. Sam saw his face was pale, brow damp with perspiration, like if he could pass out at any moment.

How much blood could a person lose before it was life-threatening? Twenty percent? Thirty? He vaguely recalled that, from forty on, there were no chances of survival outside an intensive care environment, because organs started to shut down; he couldn't tell how much his brother had lost already, but it was enough to send a cold surge of fear through his spinal cord.

A pressure point could help, even if the indicated one in that case wasn't in the easiest of places. Dean jerked when Sam unzipped his pants and sank the heel of one hand on his left groin.

“Hey! Wound is some inches down, Sam, what the heck are you doing?”

“Just shut up, Dean. Towels alone aren't working. A pressure point helps to stop the bleeding.”

Dean blinked slowly.

“What are you frigging talking about, Sam? You didn't got an online medicine degree, did you?”

“Advanced First Aid course, back in the uni. Not that I like touching that place of your body either, but I'm trying to save your life.”

“What about a simple torniquet?”

“Last resource. Unless you want your leg cut off.”

“I don't. I like my leg.”

Sam maintained the pressure just for some seconds, until he felt the pulsing of blood trough the towel become slow and weak. Then, he pulled out from his jacket a roll of duct tape and started wrapping the wound tightly, blood in his hands staining everything. This should make it until we get to a safe place, he thought. It has stopped bleeding, this should work. Dean clenched his teeth in pain and let out a bad word.

“Just hold on, we're almost there– Don't be a baby now.” Sam said. To play it down was something they have learnt when they were kids, and sometimes it was as important as knowing which were the monster's weak points.

Dean giggled raspily, letting his head fall back a little. His face was already damped with sweating.

“Jo said the same. When that blonde son of a bitch called Meg rented a room for free at Sam's motel, and you shot me-- well, it wasn't you, but still... Jo yanked the bullet out... and she said-- she said--”

Light flickered, and Dean didn't keep on talking. The flashlight fell from his hand.

“Hey hey hey-- Dean! Stay with me, don't pass out.”

Sam slapped him, maybe too violently; Dean let out another rude word and shook his head.

“I'm okay, I'm okay. I'm here” he grunted.

Maybe he was there, but he wasn't okay. His eyes were lousy, and instead of looking at him, they seemed to be trying to focus him.

“Okay, you're done, and we have to go” Sam said, taking back his flashlight and shotgun from the wet dirt. Don't look at the blood, don't look, he said to himself while he helped Dean yank to his feet. “They may come back at any moment and you're not exactly in your best shape now to fight them.”

“I've noticed, thanks...”

Dean groaned; the effort of standing upright seemed too much for him. He had lost too much damn blood, and they both knew it.

Even if it was near them, helping his brother to get into the car wasn't exactly easy, and Sam's considerable height made it even harder for Dean. “Sam, you're too fucking tall”, Dean mumbled while he tried to walk, arm over his younger brother's shoulders, a weak moan of pain escaping from his throat with every step they took. For Sam, on the other hand, it was like moving a mannequin made of flesh and bones; Dean could barely use his wounded leg, and he was so weak his weight seemed to double up.

They finally reached the car. Sam would have liked Dean to be on the passenger seat to keep an eye on him, but he knew laying flat was safer in his state, so he helped him lay in the back seats. Lift his legs some inches above his heart would help circulation, but Sam feared the wound would open again and he simply let him lie there, head slightly tilted to one side in case his stomach would give out and he needed to throw up.

With the adrenaline rush fading, the younger brother started to be conscious of the silence which surrounded them -besides Dean's ragged breathing- . A forest would never be that quiet, especially with darkness falling, when owls and all sort of noctural creatures started their franctic activity.

“You feel it, too?” Dean asked in a low voice, almost like if he had read his mind.

“Silence? Yeah. Creepy.”

Before climbing to the driver's seat, Sam took a moment to dry his own forehead with his hand, absently tacking himself with his brother's blood. He had really hoped the worst part was over, but in the dim light, Sam realized even Dean's lips were drained of any color. His skin was slick with sweat, and to the touch it felt cold and clammy. He winced when he noticed a warm wetness seeping through his own jeans. The wound was bleeding again. Fuck- no no no, please no- Sam shoved down the wrapped wound with both hands, taking out a long, dull groan from Dean.

“Shhh- it's okay, it's okay, try not to move--”

Dean remained still, and Sam didn't know if it was because his order or because he was absolutely drained of any energies. How long had it been bleeding since they reached to the car? Sam started to think he shouldn't had moved his brother so quickly, but they were not safe out there, where he could feel red eyes shining among the trees, watching them...

He was going to risk it and do that torniquet which seemed not a good idea at first, but that now was the only option if he didn't want his brother bleed to death. Sam expected to gain more time while they got out of the woods. They only needed that. Just a little more time.

Sam removed his own belt and tied it tightly around his brother's left thigh, where the femoral artery should be. Dean groaned again, arching his back in pain.

“Damn it Sammy- it hurts like a son of a bitch-”

“You'll be fine, Dean, it's okay...” Sam reassured.

Dean's eyes fluttered and rolled, and he seemed to drift once again toward uncounsciousness. God, he looks so pale. Sam craddled his head between his hands, calling his name, forcing him to come to, but Dean only muttered something he couldn't understand. Of course, he was alive; Sam could feel his chest swaying with his breathing underneath him, but when he searched for a pulse in his neck, he only could feel the anxious pounding of his own blood.

Sam realized Dean was going into shock, and fear sprung up in his stomach like acid, turning into cold panic in his chest. In dozens of hunts they had splitted their own blood other dozens of times -even in purpose if the situation called for that- but Dean had lost too much, too rapidly, in too little time. His system was shutting down, quickly deprived of circulating blood.

“Dean, you hear me, you with me? Come on...” he searched again for a pulse, digging with his fingers near the collarbone, moving them around anxiously; if there was something, he couldn't feel it “Come on... Don't you dare...”

Calm down, Sam. It's the shock, his pulse is so weak you can't find it, that's normal. Don't panic. He slipped a hand under Dean's shirt, down to his chest, where the heart was closer to the surface, and immediately felt a heartbeat, fast and somehow too weak. Sam knew it was trying to compensate the sudden fall in blood pressure by pumping faster.

“Stop fondling me, creep...” Dean suddenly muttered.

Sam sighed shakily.

“Listen, I'm going to get help-- You'll be okay.”

He couldn't be sure if he was talking to Dean or to himself. Sam pulled out the cell phone from his pocket, trying to take deep breaths to control his trembling hands and slow down his pounding heart. They were not going to fix this with a good nap and some greasy take-away junk food, giving the body some time to build the blood supply back up. No. His brother needed medical help, right now.

The most reasonable thing he could do was take him to a hospital and get him a blood transfusion, but they were among the FBI's most wanted after a hunt who had gone really wrong, tracked in several states by an obnoxious federal agent named Henrikssen. They probably would keep Dean hospitalized and under observation for some days, and then they would reunite in prison. It was that, or waiting for the doctors and agents to lose track of them for a second, remove wires and tubes from his brother's weakened body and run away through the ambulance's entrance-- probably bushing one, too. What difference would it make? Just another bunch of crimes to add to a long list, featured by the gruesome “tomb desecrations” -they were to be blamed for that, after all-, a “bank robbery” and finally, at the top of the list, the “harsh murder” of some civilians. Damn, they had been practically condemned before, only saved thanks to an agent who had witnessed their “freak stuff” and by a lawyer who firmly believed they weren't any kind of psycho. No chances they would be that lucky a second time.

I have to do something. Quick. Think, Sam. He pressed his cell phone against his nose, shutting his eyes tightly, rocking back and forth. Think. He could feel on his skin the sticky warmth of his brother's blood where it had damped his own jeans. He's dying-- He's going to die-- Think, Sam. He noticed Dean moving, and absently put his cell phone away to lean over his brother. He was getting worse, breathing too fast, every new intake coming out in short puffs.

“Samm'my I'm so damn thirsty...”

“You can't drink, Dean, you are... Wait, wait, hold on.”

He pulled out of his pocket the silver flask which contained the holy water and let some drops fall into his brother's dry lips. Dean licked them clumsily. When Sam was about rolling him to side in a recovery position, he noticed he was shivering, his breath hitching.

It's the shock. Warm, I have to keep him warm, he thought.

Blaming himself for not remembering it before, Sam leaned towards the passenger seat and took a blanket hidden behind it. They had it here in case they had to sleep in the car and outside it was so cold they couldn't maintain the heat, even with the windows closed. He finished placing his brother to recovery position and covered him with the blanket, rubbing firmly but carefully his hands -Damn, they are so cold-. Sam knew he had to make him comfortable, trying to prevent confussion and anxiety caused by shock from straining his body even more. He rubbed his back, trying to sooth the shivers. Dean let out a shaky sigh and finally remained still, but awake, his wandering eyes fixed on him and at the same time nowhere.

Sam knew Dean normally won't let anybody take care of him, becuse he hated to look weak -especially in front of his younger brother- but now he wasn't especially lucid to protest. Sam recalled once when they were kids and his father went out on a hunt, leaving them alone in a motel so cheap it even lacked central heating. Sam woke up next morning with an extra blanket and found Dean in the other bed, still asleep and covered with the sheets only. Sam didn't say a thing. He knew his brother only would tell him to shut up and eat his breakfast. They have always looked for each other. Always. But this time, Sam feared, the problem was way more serious that spending a cold night in a cheap bed. His brother's life depended on him.

He couldn't fail him. He wasn't going to fail him.

Sam rushed forward between the front seats and started searching frantically inside the dashboard. In the mess of papers and cassette tapes, his hands found the old, black leathered book.

His father's journal.

As a kid, he had seen his father come to that book when he needed “somebody who owed him a favor”. So Sam's hazel eyes now flew among the scribbled pages, ignoring dates, cases, and any data on the lore. He was shaking, seized by panic. If he didn't find anything, he would call an ambulance; his brother's life would be saved, and they would find a way to escape from prison later. They always did. Fuck that Henrikssen, fuck the FBI. Like Dean used to say, “we'll cross that bridge when we get to it”.

He was ready to close the journal and dial 911 when he saw it, quickly scrabbled in red ink at the bottom of the page about the Black Dogs of Tennesse.

C. Morris— Medical help.

For Dad, medical help didn't necesarily mean physician, but C. Morris seemed to be the only solution so far. If Sam had learnt something, it was that in John Winchester's journal even the most insignificant note or scribble had a purpose. That meant they could rely on somebody willing to help without asking too many questions.

There was also an address. Red Boiling Springs was just some miles away from there. If he hit the gas like mad, they could be there in ten minutes.

Sam shook Dean carefully by his shoulder, and his brother lifted his eyes to him; they were still out of focus, but Sam could see a glimpse of lucidity coming back for a second.

“I found help, some dude on Dad's diary, near here. I'm taking you there. Try to keep your eyes open. Don't close them, or you may fall asleep, and you can't fall asleep, Dean, okay?”

“Is that--” Dean had to swallow drily; his voice came out raspy “Is that some doctor?”

“Uh-- Technically, it is.” Sam said, climbing to the driver's seat.

“Whadoes that mean...”

“Just leave it to me, okay?”

“Like if I had a choice...”

Sam had driven since then, talking to his brother to prevent him from falling asleep. Every two minutes he looked through the mirror, controlling his breathing.Still steady, a bit fast, but steady, please just keep it like that. Road was long, so damn long, like if it had no end; ten minutes seemed ten hours to him. On the dark, dawn-orange horizon, there were only thick, black clouds, a storm waiting its moment to blow.

Dean's voice was dull, monotone, pulling Sam away from his thoughts.

“Tired-- S'm- so dam tired-”

“Don't fall asleep, brother, we're almost there. God, Dean, don't you dare to fall asleep--”

Through the rear mirror, Sam saw his brother was trying hard to maintain his eyes open, and he knew he won't hang on much longer.

Sam hit the gas harder.

Chapter Text

The first lighting crossed the sky when Sam started to reduce speed as he reached Witcher Hollow Road. He tossed in his seat, anxious. Rain. Great. That's just what they needed, though not a single raindrop had appeared in the Impala's windshield... at least not yet.

Also, Witcher Hollow was a very appropiate name, circumstances given. Sam forced himself to a ironic smile.

In the dim light, the road looked like a chocked-up lot of old houses and farms, but he didn't take long to find the place. Adrenaline not only made him cold-sweat as profusely as his brother, it also made his brain and senses work faster. His eyes found the house number like if they were meant to do it.

There was light in the porch and the little yard looked healthy and well-cared; it meant that, whatever that medical help was, still lived there- or Sam hoped so. He didn't know when his father had noted up that adress; his friend -if it wasn't just a number he found somewhere- could well had moved years ago and they could find a tiny old lady who would start screaming as she saw them knocking at her door, drenched in sweat and with the cuff of his jeans stained in mud and blood.

Sam stopped the car. Don't be dead, Dean. Please. God, don't let him be dead- the thought stroke him suddenly and fast like the lighting he had seen earlier, fading away like a bad dream when he saw through the rear mirror that his brother was still breathing.

The younger of the Winchesters stepped down from the Impala. At the outskirts of Red Boling Springs, the air was cold and wet, turning his breath into steamy clouds. The atmosphere smelt like wet grass and ozone: there was no doubt a storm was coming. As he rushed to the back door, he felt the hair at the back on his neck staying on edge, like if he sensed someone was watching them. Adrenaline started stinging again in every muscle in his body. The black dogs may have followed them, or call in others. Who knows how many of them are roaming down here?, he thought. They had to hurry up. Dean wasn't able to fight, and Sam wasn't going to leave him on his own while he finished off those four-legged specters.

Sam checked on his brother before getting him out the car. He wanted to loose a little the torniquet to prevent tissue or nerve damage, but he was afraid the wound would start bleeding again, so he thought it was better to leave it. Dean was even more pale, dark circles forming around his eyes, but he raised his head to look, aware of his brother's presence despite his eyes being slightly unfocused. Sam took a deep breath of relief; Dean hasn't lost consciousness yet, and that was a good thing.

“Dean, we made it. Just a final push. Should I tell that dude to come and help us get there, or bring a stretcher?”

Dean took a moment to answer, eyelids struggling to not close.

“I can make it, bro” he said, grumpy, putting away Sam's hand. “If I can breathe, I can walk--”

He dropped the blanket and tried to sit up, wincing in pain. Sam had to hold him so Dean didn't collapse as soon he took a step out the car. He didn't complain in the sligthest when his brother gripped his shoulders to keep him upright. The first time he just had helped him walk, but now Sam was practically dragging him. His brother's energy was waning fast, and Sam felt panic growing inside him.

When they were closer to the entrance, Sam read the sign at the fence. Dean probably managed to read it too, because he made a noise Sam couldn't tell it was surprise or anoyance.

C. Morris

Veterinary Surgeon

“You must be friggin' kidding me, Sam. A vet? Do I look like a friggin' poodle, or something?”

“Well-- uh-- a flesh wound is a flesh wound, Dean, all of them can be friggin' stitched up” Sam replied, trying to hide his puzzlement. He thought Morris would be some retired hunter with medical skills, or an old friend from the Marines- but after all it was in his father's journal, and that meant they could rely on him. “We don't have a better place to go right now, anyway.”

Sam saw light under the door and perceived the muffled sound of a TV. That was a good thing; there was somebody there. He knocked at the door. Dean's breathing was getting even more laboured and a faint moan escaped from his throat. His head fell to his chest, and Sam felt him growing heavier. He feared he could pass out before the door even opened and he knocked again, anxiously.

“It's closed, I'm sorry.” a muffled voice said from the inside “Come back tomorrow, unless it's an emergency...”

“Doctor Morris?” Sam interrupted him, knocking again “Please, we need your help.”

Several seconds passed until a man slightly older than their father opened the door. Sam saw he was wearing a dressing gown over his clothes -just a ragged undone cardigan over a plain white shirt and corduroy pants-. Sam supossed he had been relaxing in front of TV after a long day of work, maybe watching some light comedy show at cable. He had a mug in his hands and the steamy content -possibly tea- blurried slightly his glasses, pending at the end of his nose despite the string which hold them to the neck. Two big, greyish-blue eyes looked at them with concern. He scowled, confused, when he realized there wasn't any wounded animal, and especially when he saw Dean.

“May I help you, boys?”

“Doctor Morris... My brother, he's seriously injured. He's lost a lot of blood, I think he's going into shock --”

“Hold on, boy, hold on-- I'm sorry, but I don't treat people. I can call an ambulance. Macon General Hospital is not far from here, in Lafayette, just come and wait insid--”

“Listen, Dr. Morris. My name is Sam Winchester, he is Dean. We are John Winchester's sons.”

The man's face went pale. Sam saw something which could be awareness in his eyes, and the younger Winchester felt relief when he understood mentioning his father's name had worked. After a very brief moment of hesitation, the veterinarian left the mug in a little table next to the door and let them in with a nod of his head.

“Wait, let me help you...”

Carried by both men, Dean was staggering forward, agitated and confused, like if he were awakening very slowly from a nightmare without succeding. They took him to a room placed at the right of the central corridor, in front of the room where TV was. It was arranged like a small clinic, just a treatment and surgery area stocked with the usual equipment, cupboards, a large wooden counter and a sink. A few old animal anatomy posters and signs were pinned in the wall. It looked like that room had remained the same for decades; fortunately -especially for Dean- the equipment seemed to be much more modern. There was a exam metal table located in the center, and its shape and tools told Sam it was also used as an operating table.

“Help me lay him on the table” the doctor panted out. “Wait, wait-- let me do this first...”

He rushed to get some sheets and towels from a cupboard; a pair of sheets to cover the cold table, another pair at the header, folded like a pillow. They both settled Dean carefully over the improvised bed, placing his wounded leg over a bunch of clean towels. Dean was breathing heavily now, and his body was shivering again, damped in a cold sweat. He opened his eyes when Sam touched his pale forehead; they were lost and glassy, and Sam knew his brother was miles away. His eyelids fluttered and his eyes didn't take long to shut close again.

“Please, hum-- Sam, you said?” the doctor asked. “Close all doors and windows. If somebody tells my patient hasn't his body covered in fur, I can get into a serious mess.”

Sam did what he was told while the doctor started examining Dean. He touched his forehead and his hands, examined his eyes, palpated his neck, and studied his features thoroughly. A worried expression appeared in his face.

“Severe hypothermia... How much blood he'd lost?”

“A lot, I'm afraid.” Sam said, breath puffing; he passed both hands through his sweaty hair “His pulse is so weak I couldn't feel it, and he... he hasn's stopped bleeding, I think I slowed it down, but--”

Morris shook his head absently, letting him know he had understood.

“First, we have to warm him up.”

From the cupboard, he took a warming blanket and rushed to cover Dean.

“Hey, doc-- would you give me a cookie if I'm a good boy?” he muttered weakly.

The doctor gave a warm laugh, switching the blanket up to a near wall socket.

“Of course, though I think you'll prefer something more tasty. I can recommend you a diner when you recover”

He adjusted the temperature control and then stared at Sam from above his glasses, like a teacher who was going to tell off a specially naughty student.

“Look at those hands... You better wash them, son, I don't want you to ruin my instruments.”

Sam blinked slowly, the remark had caught him by surprise. Not without a certain embarassment, Sam rushed to the sink and washed his hands quickly -his brother's blood was dark and still slick in his fingers, and he preferred not to think about it. When he turned to them again, the doctor had a stethoscope in his hands and was leaning over his brother. He put the earpieces on and quickly slipped the chestpiece under the shirt collar; Dean winced at the unwelcome cold. The veterinary listened carefully, unaware of his glasses sliding down his nose again. He didn't take long to remove the earpieces from his ears, taking a deep breath. Sam was even afraid to ask, his own heart blowing like a hammer in his ears, and he couldn't help but wonder how weak his brother's would sound in comparison.

“How-- how is he?”

Morris' expression barely changed as he left the stethoscope hanging in his neck, but to Sam it seemed he'd started doing things twice as fast.

“Well-- he is in shock.” he said. “He has lost a lot of blood, his heart is doing the best it can. We've got to stabilize him. You washed your hands? Great, great-- Take that trolley here, boy, the one with the monitor at the top. That one, thanks. Also, that IV stand there? Okay. We're going to run a line. Help me, roll his sleeve up and hold his arm, I don't want to hurt him if he moves. The less he needs now is a broken vein.”

Sam did as he was told. Dean jerked his head when he felt his brother's touch and mumbled his name, searching for him. Sam squeezed his shoulder with his free hand in a reassuring gesture. He realized Dean's shivering was less intense now, though his skin was still clammy and cold, a big difference to the dry heat coming from the warming blanket.

After he had washed his hands and put on sterile gloves, the doctor settled up the intravenous set, hanging a bag of transparent fluid to the pole. “His body needs fluids after the blood loss, this is to fight dehydration and shock.” he explained to Sam. He gently touched and handled Dean's arm in the crook of the elbow area, looking for a visible vein -not an easy task in his condition. After swabbing the skin with disinfectant, he introduced a double IV line. Dean groaned and muttered something about hating needles and where doctors could shove them.

“Well, at least this patient won't bite me- I hope” the doctor joked, squeezing carefully the IV bag and adjusting the roller clamp until fluid came into the chamber in a slow, steady dripping. Next, he injected the content of a small ampoule into the injection port.

“Epinephrine. Will help his heart pump- by the moment. Hand it to me, that clip-like thing, with a wire on it. Thank you. Know what?” he shifted nonchallantly, switching on the monitor in the trolley. “I was in the Army. Humanitarian missions. Sometimes, the only available doctor was the one in charge of the horses and rescue dogs. Me! Of course, big bosses never knew about it, it could have mean the end of my career, but I saved a soldier's life here and there. I was good at it, you can trust me! Though this is my first human being like in, decades? I hope I remember where he has the guts and all that” he winked an eye to Sam, maybe expecting to play it down. “Well, we're not very different from animals, to be honest. We're just hairless, got slightly different metabolisms- and we complain an awful lot more.”

He clipped Dean's index finger and the monitor alarm started beeping at his pulse's pace, insanely fast. Sam lifted his eyes to the screen to see a single thready, confusing line, the ones above blank and silent with not any other vital signs to register. He supossed the lowest number it displayed were his oxygen levels; Sam didn't know for sure where they should be situated in normal conditions, though he vaguely recalled around the high nineties, but Doctor Morris' brief wince let him know they weren't good.

“Some years and two wars later, I decided to quit the army to bring little cute calves and lambs to this world” the veterinarian went on, fumbling in the oxygen trolley among tubes and weird-shaped masks “I also help some hunters with his dogs. Deer hunters, I mean. The normal kind. Hmmm- I'll have to use a small mask.” he mumbled, bringing back Dean's state to conversation again “Still as unstable as big ones, but should suffice. Help me put this to his face.”

Dog masks used to be long and funnel-shaped due to the animals' snout, but the one the doctor had taken from the trolley was slightly rounded, maybe made for cats or other smaller animals. The doctor connected it to the oxygen tanks and fitted it the best he could onto Dean's face, asking Sam to hold it tightly while he adjusted the flow of air. Maybe Dean was too confused to understand what was happening, because he started tossing and moving, unsettled. Sam shoved him down firmly, but carefully, making sure the mask properly covered nose and mouth.

“Hey- hey, it's okay, it's okay... just breathe, Dean...” his brother opened his eyes for a second, eyeslids fluttering to remain open “Listen to me. It's Sam. Just breathe.” Sam tightly hold the mask onto place, his thumb caressing his brother's forehead. Shortly after, Dean's breathing became slightly deeper, though the beeping rate from the monitor hadn't changed in the slightest. Sam could feel the plastic getting warmer and damp under his hand with the air coming out his lungs. It made him think of the warm sensation of his brother's blood soaking his hands and he shut his eyes close, his stomach painfully tight.

“O-levels are still too low” the doctor said after some seconds, gazing at the monitor. “He isn't going to make it without a blood transfusion. Your brother needs you, boy. I hope you don't hate needdles too.”

Sam sniffed sharply, uncomfortable. Blame crawled up from his sinking stomach to his throat and stayed there in a tight knot. He had to look away from his brother to be able to speak. Dean had his eyes closed again.

“We're not – our blood types are not compatible” Sam lied.

The true problem was far much more complex, but he wasn't going to expose it to the doctor. The situation was weird enough already, with his almost comatose brother bitten by a freakin' ghost dog: Sam wasn't going to add into the mixture that he was immune to a demonic virus -just one in a million weird, freaky stuff going on with him last year, according to Dean-, and therefore, maybe his blood was too dangerous to be donated. What if his blood was harmful to his brother? Avoid him even more suffering was a good excuse... but he felt miserable. Useless. He was a freak, a “special child” with dream premonitions and visions. A monster. The monster he feared he will become someday.

“Dad told me I might have to kill you, Sammy--”

He shivered, his free hand closing on the blood-stained fabric if his jeans.

“Okay, uh- well, what's his blood type?” Morris asked, confused.

Sam told him and the doctor laughed, to the boy's perplexity.

“Now that's a curious turn of fate. I can give him my blood.”

“You- you would do that?”

“Of course. I owe a favor to your father, somehow- Also, I don't need a guilty conscience. Half a litre, or so, what's that? I can fully recover in a few hours, a good meal, rich in protein, and I'm done. Your brother needs it more, or he --”

Sam was thankful the doctor omited what he was going to say; it was clear enough. He made a pause before he changed to a less alarming, hopeful tone.

“Listen, Sam... I don't know if I'm able to help him. I specialized in four-legged furry creatures and your brother's situation is quite delicate, but I promise I will do the best I can. Anything.” he sighed, putting his glasses away to clean them “What have you two put into, that you have to run away from hospitals?”

Sam looked down.

“Long story.”

“Okay, no questions, that was something I learnt from your father. But if we can't stabilize him, we call an ambulance.”

“Yeah. Okay.” Sam nodded, nervously.

“I do have an important question, though. If I'm going to give him my blood, I deserve at least to know what happened to him, don't you think?” he winked and eye, putting his glasses on again.

Sam's voice sounded flat, even though he was smiling sadly.

“You won't believe me.”

“I may, boy, I may. I know about the Winchesters' family business.”

Chapter Text

Sam was too exhausted, both physycally and emotionally, to retain every single anecdote the doctor told him while he was stabilizing Dean. He had been so concerned about his brother that Morris' words hadn't register with him at first, but after some seconds, his words came back to Sam's head clearly.

“Wait... you said... deer hunters, the normal kind...”

Doctor Morris smiled.

“Yes, I know there is another kind of hunters. Like your father.”

Sam swallowed, his brow arcing in surprise while the doctor went around the room, searching for material.

“I- I had supossed you met him in the Marines, or...” he started to say.

“I never was in the Marines, I was in the Army. I hate water, to be honest.” he said, preparing some things he took from a cupboard. Sam could see another IV set, this one slightly different: the bag had some kind of yellowish substance inside, and one of the tubes ended in a big spike. “Well, I think it's time to tell you how I met your father... Wait, that's not a TV show? Nah-- don't mind me.”

The doctor took a small towel from the cupboard and handed it to Sam.

“Take this, dry your brother's forehead. Where was I- oh yes. Years ago, your father entered here chasing a skinwalker” he continued. “That afternoon I'd found a dog, seriously injured and abandoned in the road. It's not uncommon for that assholes 'normal' hunters to abandon them if they can't hunt anymore, because they are old, or because they are disabled in some way. So I took it here.”

Sam observed how the doctor took a small needle and a microscope slide, removed the cap and managed to took a single blood drop from one of his brother's fingers, putting it in the slide. He continued talking, reaching for another needle.

“Where was I? Ah, yes-- while that big mutt was sleeping in that same table your brother is now, your father bursted in here, an enourmous shotgun in his hand, yelling at me to go away if I didn't wanted my neck chopped off. I turned around to see that the wounded dog was now a naked man, soaked in his own blood, with enormous teeth and sharp fangs in his mouth. And suddenly it turned to a dog again, in front of me. That day I almost quitted my job, boy!” he laughed. “Your father saved my life. He put a silver bullet in his head. If he hadn't come, that monster would have devoured me, for sure.”

“Well, huh- it would had turn you into one of them. In a skinwalker.” Sam explained, gently wiping sweat away from his brother's forehead, his other hand holding firmly the oxygen mask. “They transmit the infection, like werewolves do.”

Doctor Morris had finished to took a drop or his own blood and stared at him, puzzled, and then he couldn't help to laugh.

“That's even worse! Also... Werewolves! Phew! Well, boy, the thing is, I feel I'm in debt to your father since then, but I see fate is a tough lover and send me his sons instead”.

While he listened, Sam didn't take his eyes away from his brother. His chest was heaving with exhaustion, taking the fresh oxygen in quick, heavy gulps. Sam realized he had some dried blood under his chin and in his cheek, maybe done by his own bloodstained fingers when he was taking care of him in the car. --There was blood everywhere, so much blood--. It stood out hideously over his pale skin, making him look so fragile that Sam wondered, not for the first time in his life, if what they did was worth that much.

“Our father tried not to tell the people he helped about his real job” he said absently. “Your life changes forever once you've seen the stuff of nightmares. He wanted to save them from that, if he could. My brother and I try to do the same, but sometimes we just can't. We save people's lives, but at a high price, because we change those lives forever.”

“I know what you mean, boy. For months I feared any dog they brought me will turn into some naked guy.”

Sam smiled, amused.

“Your life...” the doctor said some moments later, preparing the slide for the microscope. “It must be something like a nightmare.”

“Sometimes it can't be distinguished from one” Sam confirmed.

“And quite a heavy one, those which make you wake up drenched in sweat, I bet.” he added, ready to observe the slide on the microscope lens.

“It was a black dog” Sam said finally. “Some kind of ghost dog. They attacked us by surprise, near here.”

Morris raised his head from the lens and arced his eyebrows in surprise.

“They exist, after all... I'm sure I'm not half an expert on those things as you are, but legends about those doggies are pretty popular here. It was that what brought you to this town?”

“Yeah, we read about those attacks by feral dogs, and we thought there was much to it, so we came to investigate. We were on the road when they attacked. A flat tyre made us stop and two of them made us enter the woods. One of them bit Dean.”

“They slash the wheels to make cars crash... Blimey, that local urban legend is true. Please, don't tell me all urban legends are true.”

“No, not all of them” Sam said with a half-smile.

Doctor Morris nodded, distracted by the microscope.

“I didn't believe either those attacks were by feral dogs, but I'd thought they would be flesh and bone dogs, at least... Oh, good news, blood cells haven't killed each other. We are ready.”

Morris approached the trolley where he had put all the new IV set material.

“450cc, around three quarters, enough for him and safe for me, at least for a couple of hours. I can give him more later, once we treat the wound.”

“Doctor Morris, I...”

“It's all right, boy” he said, anticipating what Sam was going to say. “I'll be fine, I know how to do it safely. I'm a doctor, no matter if I treat animals or humans, I do everything it takes to save someone's life. Especially if you have a debt. Something inside you tells you have to do it, it's not an obligation, it's something stronger.”

Sam lowered his gaze.

“Yeah. Know the feeling.”

The doctor took the bag and told Sam to put some gloves on, explaining the process to him. They had to collect some of the doctor's blood first into the bag. The yellowish substance was some kind of preserver.

“You'll have to help me. The blood may coagulate before we collect it all, you only have to move the bag, a swaying movement, like a boat. Make sure the blood flows correctly.”

“Okay”.

He sitted down and took an IV cannula, disinfected his own arm, and inserted it in a vein with a wince. Blood didn't take long to flow out, pouring into the bag while Sam did what he was told. It felt warm as it filled, slowly. After a while, it was done.

“I need you to do another thing, just one more.” the doctor said; Sam noticed his breathing was hitching a little. “The IV line I used has two connectors. You connect this needle to your brother, I open the bag. Can you do it?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

At the doctor's signal, Sam removed the cap and introduced the needle in his brother's line. At the same time the veterinary inserted the spike into the bag and blood burst into the drip chamber, drifting immediatly at the doctor's command into a slow, steady dripping. When Morris finished setting the blood bag, he was almost as pale and sweaty as Dean and he had to sat down, taking a deep breath. Sam rushed to him to help.

“Doctor Morris, are you fine?”

“Yeah, son, I will survive” he winked an eye and took a deep breath again. “But I will be really grateful if you lend me something from the fridge, maybe some fresh juice, and snack? The kitchen is attached to the TV room, just turn to--”

Suddenly, they heard a loud knocking at the main door. The doctor raised his gaze over his glasses. TV and lights were on, so they couldn't pretend nobody was at home, but obviously he didn't want to leave the brothers alone. He looked first at Sam, then at Dean, and finally he had a quick read at the monitor as to be sure everything was fine -and should be that way until he came back.

“Take care of your brother.” he said, taking off his gloves and stethoscope. “Don't make a noise, they can't know you're here.”

It's the car, Sam thought. In a small village, an unknown car, especially an eye-catching one like the Impala, sure was like a lighthouse beam to the most nosy neighbours. They maybe wondered which kind of foreigner would take a sick animal to a veterinary so far from the main town. Or maybe, and that was even worse, the people knocking at the door had an emergency: in that case the doctor couldn't deny medical attention to a wounded pet, and they couldn't risk moving his brother to another room. The Winchesters in trouble, what's new? Sam thought bitterly.

As Morris left the room slowly, Sam wished he wouldn't faint in front of that mysterious visit. He heard voices, coming out too muffled through the sliding door to discern what were they saying, but the tone seemed friendly, relaxed. Sam was -he wanted- to be sure that visit wasn't going to be dangerous. Along the years, he had grown sharp, even paranoid. When one is on the hunt, everything can mean danger, especially the unexpected visits. After some minutes passed and Sam was sure it was just some acquaintance of the doctor, he took a deep breath and came back to his brother. He adjusted again the oxygen mask to his face and hold it, the other hand clutching his brother's, still too cold.

A hunter's life was complicated, to use a simple word. A day, you could miraculously survive a demon attack, torture included, to die later in the claws of a creature which most hunters would consider a “weekend hunt”. Both Sam and Dean knew each hunt could be the last one, and they never knew what would bring every new day. That day, they were two fugitives hidden at a small veterinarian clinic.

“Dean... hey...” Sam caressed his brother's forehead with the thumb near the temple, and waited for a response. “Can you hear me?”

Nothing, except his breath warming the mask, and a brief flutter of eyelashes that Sam could feel under his fingers. If Dean could hear him, he was too weak to prove it. Sam really hoped the blood the doctor gave him would work.

It will, Sam thought. It has to. This can't be how it ends. If we die, if one of us has to die, it only would be after we hunt and kill that bastard...

Living a long life was a luxury for a hunter; living a normal, happy one was impossible. Though it was a recurrent thought in their lives, they never really believed they were going to die. Maybe it was the survival instict every human being had carved deeply inside, but knowing death was a close companion didn't make it easy, neither made them accept it. To say the truth, it terrified them.

Especially, since his father had gone forever, leaving them alone to face the evil being who has broken their family in pieces.

“Dad said I might have to kill you, Sammy--”

Sam shook his head to wipe away his brother's words. It wasn't his fault, neither their father's; if somebody had to be blamed, it was the demon who started it all.

Sam clutched tighter his brother's hand.

“Dean... Please, brother, you can do this. Don't – don't leave me alone. Please, God, don't let him die--”

Then he heard the door swishing and doctor Morris appeared, sliding it again closed after he entered.

“It was the owner of the farm near here, he told me a storm is expected to come tonight” he said calmly, handing Sam a mug of coffe. It was deliciously hot and seemed to be fresh, something he wasn't used to. “Take this, it will comfort you. I'm glad he didn't see you coming here, or at least I think so. It may surprise you, but some people in this town want me out of order, and I prefer not to give them a good reason to take away my licence” he explained, studying the vital signs monitor and next checking the blood set. “Of course, he asked me about your car. I told him I saw some campers parking it there and getting into the forest. Nice car, by the way.”

“Huh- why they want you out of order?” Sam asked, frowning.

“Maybe it is because I want to treat 'retired' hunt dogs fairly and with dignity. I've already reported some hunters who treated them ill. Wow, I'm such a dangerous criminal mind!” he winked an eye to Sam. “I just think that's what I have to do. No matter the consequences. Because it's the right thing.”

The right thing, no matter the consequences.

Sam drew a sad smile.

“Dad, he... He somehow taught us well. But sometimes doing the right thing it's not easy. We have to sacrifize too much.”

“I think your father is not with you anymore. Am I right?”

Sam said nothing; it was what the doctor needed to get an answer.

“Mr. Wright, the farmer, I mean” the doctor said, changing the subject to ease the situation. “He was worried about those campers and said he was going to tell authorities. I wonder what they will do when they don't find anyone.”

“Worried, because...”

“Yeah. The dogs.”

“Huh, that farmer-- did he asked why you look sick?” Sam took a sip from his coffe, and despite it had a good amount of sugar, it tasted bitter.

“Food poisoning. Trust me, it always works.” Sam couldn't help a smile “He even recommended me not to have coffe, just some herbal tea, but I told him coffe was my only love and I was in need of its tender caresses.”

Sam's smile widened a little.

“Feeling better?”

“Yeah, I'm fine. Nothing a good glass of juice couldn't remedy. Okay!” the doctor sighed and rubbed his hands, leaning to Dean. “Let's check on your brother. Did he wake up, or said something?”

Sam shook his head.

“Not yet.”

“I see... Well, his vitals are slightly better now” he added, taking a quick look at the monitor while feeling his pulse in his neck. “Still a bit weak, though.”

Sam glanced at the monitor and realized his heart rate had dropped to 100. It wasn't as high that when they had arrived, but it was still fast, and there were no great changes in the oxygen and pulse graphics.

Morris touched his brother's forehead and next his hands, to feel their temperature.

“He's also getting warmer, that's good... He has stabilized enough, so is time to deal with the wound.”

The doctor moved apart the blanket on the legs and loose the pressure of the tourniquet. Then, he very carefully cut the duct tape with surgical scissors and removed the clothes, soaked in blood. Sam thought it was a good thing that there was no red stains on the sheets and towels.

“Pressure gave time to form a clot, but he has a severed artery” the doctor said, taking a look at the wound. “You did what you could with what you had at hand, and you did good, boy. I see you've dealed with these things a lot. While I was checking his heart I saw a recent bullet injure in your brother's shoulder.”

“Scars are part of business” Sam said bitterly, with a weak smile.

“After all this passes, you can add another one, then” the veterinarian added. “It's not a complicated intervention to be honest. I have to clamp the bleeding artery first, then stitch the wound up. He seems stable enough to resist suture, though we'll have to use anaesthesics, and not only for ethical reasons. Maybe you two are used to sew each other's wounds with the help of a good swing of whiskey, but in his state, the shock would send him into cardiac arrest. Also, any involuntary movement, and I could severe a major artery. I'm sure you two are tough as hell, after all the difficulties you have lived through, but this is far out your line of work. Now is my turn.”

He smiled at Sam, raising an eyebrow.

“You look terrible, boy. You should wash yourself, eat something, even have another cup of coffe, the more black the better. I'm going to need you awake and ready to go. You're my assistant.”

Sam was going to answer that eating wasn't something he felt up to right now when a muffled, increasing tapping noise was heard above the other sounds in the room.

It had started to rain.