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*
The shudder-growl of the Impala wakes him, not suddenly awake-and-alert but like a gradual shaking of clenched fists in his gut, and his body writhes a little, involuntarily, before his eyes fly open and he clenches his teeth, spine jerking.
"Dean," Sam's voice says, and the movement of the car changes, chokes a little, and it's not helping. "Dean, are you--? Shit--" At least he's smart enough then to pull the car over, and as soon as the movement of it gets close enough to stillness Dean shoves the door open and heaves. The taste in his mouth is rancid, his eyes squeezed closed but still streaming, nose too, blocked and congested abruptly like everything in his body's trying to force itself out of his face.
Then it stops, leaving him weak and shaking and gasping like his mouth and throat and lungs can't figure out that things are actually meant to be going in, not out, and it's possible that Sam's fist clenched tight in the back of Dean's jacket is the only thing keeping him in the car and not keeling face-first into the pool of his own puke right now.
"Here."
Dean frees his painful grip on the edge of the seat to grasp the bottle Sam's offering instead, almost gagging anew at the super-sweetness of the Mountain Dew against his acid-stripped tongue.
Sam leans across him and hauls the door closed again, and Dean manages to paw the lid back on the bottle before his neck muscles remember that they're made of jello and his temple presses into the hard seam at the top of the seat.
*
It's better next time he wakes up, mainly because the world's still and dark around him, and his stomach turns over again but not as violently, like a beast stirring in its sleep as opposed to one awake and protecting its fucking nest. He blinks once or twice, angling up on an elbow to peer around. He looks to the bed next to his -- identical polyester machine-quilted monstrosity of a bedspread crumpled a little, but empty -- and then he hears the rush of water as the toilet flushes, realises the low light his eyes have adjusted to is coming from under the bathroom door. There's the more melodic sound of water splashing around a porcelain basin, and then Dean's familiar enough with the routine of it all to look away when the door opens so that the blast of light doesn't stab right into his retinas. The bright cast of it spotlights his body for a moment before Sam grates out a "Sorry," and shuts it off.
Dean blinks again, the light-imprint of lines and shapes still sliding across his vision. He shifts a little, confirms what he'd seen for an instant. He's half-dressed, lying on top of the covers. There's a wide patch of gauze on his thigh just above the knee; the tape pulls on the hair there when he tries to bend it.
"What the hell happened?" His voice is thick, raspy, and he squeezes his eyes closed then wide again as if that'll help them re-adjust quicker. There's the sound of Sam moving around the room, then the synthetic hiss-brush as he settles his ass on the other bed.
"You don't remember?"
And Dean frowns a little, remembering… Hunting, in one of those suburban parks that like to think they're forests, trees planted in faux-casual lines, grass trimmed neat by county-funded gardeners or goats or whatever the hell they wanted to waste their money on. Bodies, torn up and bloodied, shredded and half-devoured. "Remind me," he says, rubbing his knuckles hard against the tender spot between his eyebrows.
Sam's silent for a moment or two longer, and the pause is long enough to make Dean want to pay attention to what Sam's going to say next, the urge somewhat thwarted by the fact that it feels like someone's prodding at his frontal lobe with a hot poker. "It was like you said," Sam says, his voice level and soft, as if aware and considerate of Dean's tender grey matter. "A hellhound." He laughs softly, the noise completely lacking humour; a place-holder for something else. "Totally sideswiped you, didn't even see it coming."
"Sideswiped me?"
Sam's laugh is a little more genuine. "Yeah," he says, "wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen it myself, dude."
How am I still here? Dean wants to ask, but thinks Sam might not take that too well for a number of reasons. Sam's eyes are glittering a little in the semi-dark, looking steadily at Dean, waiting for him to speak. "You got it, then?"
Apparently that's the right question, because Sam's mouth curls up a little. "Yeah, you provided the perfect distraction. Nothing a little holy water and a decapitation couldn't solve."
"You said the incantation? Burnt the body?"
Sam's body seems to be melting a little, hard lines of shoulders softening and rounding to match the shape of his mouth. "Yeah." He gestures to Dean's lower body. "Stitched you up while you were out. Got out of there before anyone got suspicious about the little campfire we left burning."
Dean nods a little, asks, "How long?"
Sam hesitates. "A few days," he says. "Four, actually." The pause is a little longer, no movement in Sam except for his eyes, sketching across Dean's face. "You were pretty out of it."
Dean grunts, rubs a heavy hand across his face. Four days. Well, his head certainly hurts enough for it to have been that long, and the knot he can feel at the back of his skull tender enough. There's the taste of acid and copper and something rotten in the narrow space between his cheek and his teeth, and he grimaces; vague remembrances of puking on the side of the road, vivid red against the grey gravel. "Need to piss," he says, pushing himself off the bed. The wound on his thigh radiates a dull ache, muscles complaining a little as he stands. "And shower."
"I did laundry," Sam says after him. "There's dry stuff hanging in there."
Dean gives another grunt of acknowledgment and shuts the door behind him.
The sting of tape ripping hair out of sensitive skin makes him hiss a breath in through his teeth, but he's seen enough gore -- his own and other people's -- to examine the mess of the wound clinically. Sam's done a good job, considering; and the hellhound must have had a motherfucker of a jaw (or set of claws) because it's almost like his flesh has been shredded. He can't tell if they're punctures or slashes and in places it looks like the work of a knife, as if his skin were butter and blade hot, the muscle beneath trembling a little even just from the pull of it with his foot on the closed seat of the toilet, knee bent. Sammy's stitches are neat and sure though, and enough of them to remind Dean of train yards in the roadmap, little black stripes clustered together. White butterfly bandages bridge over the longer gashes, and the skin feels a little hot and a lot sensitive when he touches his fingertips to it.
He holds his breath before he twists the water on in the shower, but there's no noise from the room outside the door, and he rolls his eyes at the mental image of Sam standing outside the door with breath also held before yanking on the hot tap. Four fucking days. Where the hell are they?
*
He wants to get going but Sam insists on staying for a few more days to let Dean heal, and Dean doesn't put up much of a fight when it comes to it; the lingering ache in his limbs leaves him waiting for infection to set in, but the wound heals with little fuss. Surprisingly quickly, when it comes down to it, but that's not something Dean's going to complain about.
The day after he wakes up aware for the first time he's strong enough to leave the motel room and scope its surrounds. The car's gone; Dean has a vague remembrance of hearing the engine purr to life through the murky fog of his urging-to-consciousness dreams but Sam hasn't left a note, though there is a khaki bag full of weapons sitting behind the door. Consideration, Dean supposes, and he finds out where they are by flicking through the tourism brochures in the shallow drawer of the chipboard bureau crowding the room. He reaches for the khaki bag again once he knows, spending the rest of the afternoon examining and mentally cataloguing munitions old and new by spreading them neatly across Sam's made bed.
"Caleb?" Dean asks when Sam comes through the door at sunset.
"On a hunt. Caught him just before he left, a few days ago," Sam responds easily, conversation without preamble as if it's merely a continuation from the last time they spoke, no uneasy hours in-between. "Stocked up. There's more in the trunk."
Dean nods. Sam holds up a fistful of paper bags bulging with grease. "Got food," he says, and Dean clears the bed enough for Sam to spread the food out.
"So you just been cruising all day?" Dean asks with his mouth full when he's halfway through his second sandwich, and Sam swallows before answering.
"Working," Sam says shortly, and Dean raises an eyebrow.
"Looking for our next gig?" he prompts when Sam doesn't continue.
Sam shakes his head, takes a swig of his coke. "Already got that. I got a job."
Dean can't help the smirk that crosses his face, so he shoves some fries in his mouth, chewing with it open. "Table jockey?"
Sam shakes his head a little more irritably at that, as if he's insulted Dean would even suggest such a thing. "No money in that."
"What, then?" Enough fucking around. As if there was enough money in anything that didn't involve ripping off swaggering hicks or banks stupid enough to send him plastic.
"This is a university town," Sam says. "Research assistant."
"You would do that, freak," Dean says, automatic, and Sam air-swipes the space above Dean's head with a greasy hand, Dean seeing it coming for miles and ducking with ease.
"Well it's not like I'm scrounging for tips," Sam says, as if he feels the need to explain himself. "And it's only temporary. And not boring."
"Not boring," Dean's voice mimics the matter-of-factness, with a heavy dose of incredulity. "You are so adopted."
"Shut up," Sam says, his scowl ruined by a smear of ketchup below the corner of his mouth that Dean decides not to tell him about, just because.
"So, next gig?" He unfolds his leg, stretching it out on the bed and flexing the muscles experimentally. Sam's gazes flickers down and back to Dean's face.
"California," he says, and puts his half-eaten sandwich down, hands wiping absently over his thighs before looking up at Dean again. "Werewolf."
"Suburban or wild?"
"Wild," Sam says. "Whole lotta park to roam, hikers to eat…"
Dean frowns a little. "And how do we know that's what it is, again?"
Sam rolls his eyes a little. "Research assistant, hello," he says. "Believe me, I've looked into it. The bodies, the lunar cycles, it all fits."
"Okay." They've passed the point now where Dean feels the urge to double-check everything Sam does, got back into the habit of relying on someone else almost alarmingly quickly after the effort it took to adjust to the fact nobody had his back in the long weeks he was alone. Besides, he trusts that Sam's Google-fu exceeds his own. And fuck, Google-fu? Since when did that become a part of his vocabulary?
College-boy's still staring at him expectantly, like he's still waiting for Dean's approval of all of this, which is weird enough to give Dean pause for just a moment. "So, the timing is…?"
"We got a few weeks. I figure… few more days here, finish the research job… then a few days cross-country -- maybe longer, depending on what we find on the way -- and a day or two to scope it out."
"Then full moon?"
Sam nods, lips pressed between his teeth after the sudden rush of words. "Yeah."
Dean chews on his own cheek for a moment. Reluctant to spend another night, let alone day in this hotel room; but a few more days'll give him time to take a look around anyway, maybe find some dive he can hustle up a couple hundred of his own. Two of his cards are maxed out, and he's not even sure how Sam's paying for the room, let alone the re-stocking care of Caleb. "Okay. Plan it is, then." Sam's hand comes up and wipes at his mouth, making the ketchup-smear worse.
*
They get to the campsite sometime after lunch but before late afternoon has started to descend into dusk. The light's different, here, less gray than it is further north, but still richer than it is in the south, cleaner. Could be the forest though, huge fucking tree exhalation tinting the air gold. Sam's got a duffle slung over each shoulder, and cockblocks Dean's potential for an evening of teasing by answering "hair curlers" when Dean asks him what's in the second one. The first has food and a blanket and a Glock with silver bullets, Dean saw Sam shove them in there himself.
It's cold by the time the sun dips low enough for the trees to start blocking the warmth of it, something Dean's not going to complain about, really, because autumn weather means less hikers means these two warm bodies are going to be all that's drawing their predator of choice in tonight, and hell if they're not going to be waiting. Sam stops walking at a place where there's a break in the trees, feet kicking around a little in the soft, sawdust-consistent mulch at ground level before dropping the bags.
Moonrise at 9pm, and time enough in the meantime to secure camp, prep weapons and cook up a little something to eat -- Sam, much to Dean's disgust, produces a couple of cans of beans from his duffle, and sets to crank them open and set them in the fire while Dean's making the finishing touches to the wards. They might not be forming an invisible barrier, but they're bound to make any evil sumbitch that crosses through them more than a little uncomfortable, hopefully giving them warning enough to ready-aim-fire.
"All done," Dean says, strolling back to where the fire's starting to provide more light than the sky, crouching down on the opposite side to Sam. Sam's body rocks a little, as if he's huffed out a breath or something in response; nothing Dean can hear. Sam's face is lit from below by the fire, warm red and orange casting weird shadows from his nose onto his forehead, mouth a tense line.
Sam wraps one of the cans in an old, torn-down towel and drops a spoon into it, reaching 'round the flames to hand it to Dean.
"My favourite," Dean says without the slightest hint of sincerity, and digs in.
Sam still hasn't spoken twenty minutes later when Dean sets the empty tin down, nor another fifteen minutes after than when Dean's not entirely sure why, but he's not quite feeling up to standing right now. Sam's staring at him, eyes dark through the filter of the flames, and Dean feels an irrational flare of panic rise in his throat.
Or not so irrational, seeing as he can just about feel the darkness dropping around in on them now, and oh, something is so not right, only when he tries to stand he finds the silhouetted trunks around them bend and spin a little and next thing he knows his knees and the heels of his palms are digging into the soft loam and Sam's crouching beside him, hand cold on the back of Dean's hot neck. Sam's voice is quiet, calmer than it should be, goddammit, and Dean can't even make his tongue work to answer Sam's soft, thick murmurs of "It's okay, Dean, It's okay…"
*
Sam's the first thing he sees when he opens his eyes again, or more specifically, Sam's back; Sam's crouched a few yards in front and to the right of Dean, digging at something in the ground, lit bright from the bordering-on-bonfire blaze to Dean's left.
"You fucking drugged me," Dean says, the first coherent thought, but as it turns out his body's response time isn't quite up to standard, and it comes out sounding more like, you fuggn druhd me. He tries to move, finds he can't; rough bark pressing against his back, skin numb and bare, motherfucker, but not cold -- too fucking hot. There's something binding his wrists too, thick warm bands of it against the side of the wide trunk, and he can't twist his head to see it but he can look down and see what feels like a cloth-wrapped chain wrapped 'round his ribcage, and something that looks like fucking manacles around his ankles, bright yellow in the firelight.
Sam's lost his fucking mind.
"Sam," Dean grits, that word coming out perfectly clear, and Sam's standing before him now, and if Sam's still not talking Dean's going to have to choke a bitch. As soon as Sam gets him free, of course.
"I'm sorry, Dean," Sam says, and his hands are shaking as he slides the empty clip back into the Glock, and Dean rolls his head back against the trunk as he realises what Sam was doing moments before. What he was burying. Sam's eyes are wide, his expression pretty impressively blank for someone who's just drugged his brother and tied him to a tree, tasty bait for an imminent beastie. Motherfucker. "It'll be okay," Sam's saying. "Just this once. Just the once, then it'll be okay."
"Sam," Dean says again, voice sounding like the grinding of the Chevy's engine if he tries to turn it over when she's already running. "Let me loose."
Sam shakes his head wordlessly, backs away a couple of steps.
"At least -- fuck -- at least arm yourself, jesus--" And Sam shakes his head more vehemently at that, and Dean tosses his head again, screwing his eyes tight before they fly open again and he shifts his gaze again, looks away from Sam to the ground, the trees around -- the wards. Not where he set them, but closer, closer to Dean, surrounding him, with Sam standing outside of them.
Understanding comes in a blinding rush, hotter than the crawl already itching under his skin, and he can't even speak for a moment for the solid rage and fear and no abruptly lodged in his throat. He doesn't even realise he's thrashing against the bonds until the sharp pain in his wrists and ankles cuts through the film that's slid over everything, and the burn doesn't stop even when he stops moving.
"You fucker," he pants. "You fucker. You fucking fucker."
"I'm sorry," Sam whispers, and Dean is entirely unconvinced.
"I'm going to kill you," Dean hisses, not entirely sure himself whether it's a threat or a warning, unable to tell from the almost-sob the words crest out on. The silver of the manacles take on more of their natural sheen as the white moon breaches the horizon, light strong even through the trees, and slamming his head back against the trunk again does nothing to stop the agony licking up his limbs, now, the silver encircling them like bands of white-hot fire. He thinks his throat might be full of blood, nostrils flaring and burning as he sucks in air desperately, forest fire night sammy prey and then his scream turns into a howl, distant against the roaring filling his head, engulfing any kind of logic as his body breaks into an absence of thought, becomes here and now and hunt.
*
He doesn't remember dawn but late morning is cold and the shivering that wracks his body makes the sensation of his flesh having been tenderized somewhat of a constant. The light hurts his eyes, too yellow now, and he longs for the cool white instead even as something pulls on him, pulls down, like he's about to be turned inside out and sucked into the earth below his feet. He's still bound against the tree, and the realisation of that sends twin surges of relief and desperation through him simultaneously.
"Sammy," he says, and his throat is raw, like someone's scraped it out with a knife. A serrated knife. Dean closes his eyes again and the darkness there's warmer, more soothing, even as he's able to relax enough to feel his body go boneless and liquid against the tree, pinned by the constant dull pain at wrists and ankles.
Something cool against his mouth, then, and he opens his eyes to see Sam standing there, holding a cup to Dean's mouth. Dean swipes out a tongue and tastes the scratched aluminum and stale copper on his own lips, then Sam's tilting it and cool water slides into Dean's mouth and down his throat, over his chin when Sam tips too quickly.
"Sorry," Sam says again, and Dean just… doesn't know what to say, to that. Except maybe this is the perfect time to ask Sam to scratch his nose, please, a little to the left; but when he opens his mouth to speak nothing comes out.
Sam steps back and Dean makes a noise, then, because Sam's holding the now-empty cup in his right hand but his left hand is cradled against his chest, arm bent up and held close to his body. Sleeve around his upper arm bloody.
Sam doesn't look at him and Dean doesn't have to struggle to feel the flare of the silver against his raw skin, doesn't have to try particularly hard to smell the silver of the bullets buried in the earth before him, the wet of Sam's blood. "I don't know what the hell you thought you were doing," he grates, "but I am never going to forgive you for this. Ever."
The little shit has the gall to look up at him and smile then, fucking smile, tiny and wry as it is. "Still want me to let you loose?" he says, and Dean's breath speeds and his ribs press painfully against the chain, No and Yes all wound-up painfully and he's too fucking sore and tired for this, this…
He's calmed himself a little by the time Sammy comes back with more water, drinks slower. His breath hisses in pain and a little in appreciation when Sam dabs around the manacles, water-soaked cloth cool against the raw skin. "Just this once," Sam says again, and Dean's just about stopped questioning that, now. He doesn't laugh, but it's a near thing.
*
When dusk edges in around the clearing Sam stokes the fire again, one-handed and wobbling on his feet and by sunset he's not moving at all but for the fever shaking his frame where he's curled just outside the wards, heels digging into the soft loam, teeth clenched.
Dean struggles a little, unable to stop himself though the dark has brought with it a sharpening of his senses; the smell of Sam's blood is so strong he can taste it in his mouth, strong and alive. When the moon rises Sam lets out a groan of agony that matches Dean's own, and the transition's quicker this time though the silver burns hotter.
*
Dean wakes when the sun warms him and he puzzles over the strange angles of the trees before he realises he's lying down, loam soft against his side. The skin around his mouth, chin and throat feels tight, pulls a little when he shifts his head, and then flakes dark red under his fingernails and he sits up so fast his head reels and vision blanks out momentarily. His heartbeat slows again at the unmistakable sound of Sam throwing up, and Dean looks around to find him adding to the general aura of 'slaughterhouse' the clearing seems to have taken on. There's the shreds of a body by a tree covered in scratch marks, oozing sap, pieces of silver scattered around it, and the slender limbs and speckled hide are enough to assure Dean that it's the remains of a fawn, not anything… anyone…
Sammy's back shakes and heaves under Dean's hand, and when he finally straightens his eyes are streaming, chin stained a fresher red than Dean's. "We gotta…" Sam gasps, smears a hand across his mouth. "We gotta move further in." He struggles to his feet, walks to where their duffles still lay, barely touched on the other side of the blackened campfire, fumbling for clothes. He takes a swig from a plastic flask, swallowing fiercely before offering it to Dean. "Better hunting."
He's not surprised, really, at how well Sam's planned it. He's had a whole month, after all. "Why California?" he asks as they're hauling themselves into deeper forest, hands as often as feet finding holds on the huge, arching tree roots, just the right height to support exhausted bodies. "Some kind of screwed-up homecoming?"
Sam looks at him sharply, but breaks the stare first, casting his eyes down. "Warmer," he says. "In winter, than other places we could have picked."
"You mean you could have picked."
Sam doesn't even look at him this time, just leans where he's slouched against a moss-draped fallen tree limb, tilting his head to the side and back a little, lashes flickering behind his bangs. Dean feels his lips peel away from his teeth.
"Whatever," he says after another moment, pushing his sleeves back from where the cuffs chafe against the raw skin on his wrists. "Come on, then."
*
By the time winter comes 'round it hurts less and Dean remembers more; as if the pain was what made him mad with it, mad for it. Remembers more and less, because it's not until spring's almost over that he thinks to ask Sam, "What about Dad?"
Sam's lolling in the fresh sun, waning crescent moon low in the pale sky above his shaggy head, slicing into the blue like a blade from another life. He's picking venison fibers from his teeth; they eat very little that isn't meat now, regardless of what phase it is. "What about him?"
"What if he comes looking for us, dipshit?"
"He won't find us."
Dean's definition of hunt has changed considerably in the past several months, but not so much that he's about to underestimate John Winchester's skill for finding things that would prefer to be hidden. They'd buried the silver with the remains of the fawn in the clearing, destroying the wards and scattering the campfire, erasing any trace that they'd be there. Except for the scarred tree trunk, which, short of hacking it down or setting fire to the forest, would have to stay there for another several decades. "What about the car?"
Sam's knees drop, hands fiddling where they rest on his belly. "I got rid of it."
Dean's jaw aches and he doesn't understand why until he realises his teeth are clenched, gums suddenly cool as the forest air hits them. "You what?"
"I got rid of it," Sam says again, a little softer, "Dean," His head tipping back more, eyes looking anywhere but at Dean, Dean's nails digging harsh into the soft flesh on the inside of Sam's forearm. Dean looks at Sam's throat, watches it moves when Sam swallows and feels a sound start at the base of his own. "I had to," Sam says. "We don't need it now. C'mon."
Sam's body is entirely limp beneath his, and Dean pushes up and away. "Yeah," he says. "Yeah."
*
When summer comes Dean realises that Sam's made a mistake; didn't move them in far enough. The night's warm and bright and he's fitting into his skin with each fluid stride and there's a doe, and the smell of it (tornearth damphide bloodfear), and Sam flanking him (eager hunter sammy pack) and coming at it again to snap at its fetlocks and then there's other scents, sour sweat and gunpowder, arrhythmic sounds and shouts and then a shot, and Dean (not-Dean) reels and slows and waits and--
…holy shit, did you see … size of it … think I got it …
--and he holds back the growl deep in his chest 'til the sounds come closer, and then all he can smell is prey and everything is hunt.
*
There's only one body, throat torn out and head hanging from a thread of spine, face unrecognisable from the mask of gore that covers it. It's easy enough to see the scatter of its trappings in the daylight and Dean sniffs the open mouth of the stout, army-issue flask he finds, making sure it's water before tipping it over his hands, his face; washing the blood away.
The other scents get clearer, then, and he follows one until he finds Sam. He hasn't gotten very far, pushed himself into a gaping split at the base of a hollow trunk, earth around him torn up in fresh gouges. His eyes are wide, breath quick, and he watches steadily as Dean approaches, crouches, runs his eyes along Sam's body. There's dirt and debris stuck around his upper thigh, side of his leg, and Dean's fingers come away dark and sticky with red.
"It's okay," he says, though Sam's not making a noise, not even moving except for the quick up-down of his chest as he breathes. "It's not silver. Just plain old iron."
He flattens his hand against Sam's flank, presses thumb and forefinger down and together and Sam hisses and twitches a little as fresh blood pushes out sluggishly, and Dean can see the bullet bulging a little just under the half-scabbed surface of the wound, healing already. He leans down and swipes the flat of his tongue against it and Sam swears and kicks -- "Shit, Dean--!" -- and it's gritty in Dean's mouth and the bullet is warm from Sam's flesh when he tongues it, urges it out, then cleans the skin around it.
There's an edge of humour in Sam's voice when Dean sits up to look down into his face again. "You're not going to pee all over my stuff now, are you?" The hint of a smirk, the curl of his lip, bared teeth for an instant.
"Pee," Dean scoffs. "You're such a girl."
"You wish," Sam laughs outright this time, but he's licking at the corners of Dean's mouth, seeking out the residue of the kill.
*
They leave the body as it is, knowing that before nightfall can come with the scavengers in their territory there'll be someone -- someones -- to come and claim it, carry it, grieve over it. They remove the traces of their human footprints, Dean leaves the wolf-tracks, alarming in their size as they are.
They don't wait til nightfall to start moving, understanding unspoken between them to move further, deeper. There's a hidey-hole on the edge of their territory, and Dean watches the sun set through the split and charred wood.
"Do you think he'll come for us?" Sam asks, voice damp against Dean's skin. Dean doesn't have to ask who.
"It was self-defense," he says. Or a closer approximation of, he thinks, and that makes him think of fire, and the abrupt sense-memory of the scent of baby Sammy, and Dad, and how Dad should understand more than anyone the how and why; the sudden urge for it rising in Dean's chest.
"I doubt the papers are gonna report that," Sam says, fingers tugging idly at the fine hair nearest the crease of Dean's elbow.
"It was a kill," Dean says, tone stiff. "Not a feed."
Sam shifts a little, but he's already said his piece, and Dean already knows he's right. His throat feels stuck, something congealed and choking him because he remembers the burn of silver, thinks sometimes he can even still smell the buried bullets and Dad would find them and he'd know and nothing would stop him, not even knowing it was his boys. Dean remembers the hot flood of salty copper into his mouth as he severed the hunter's jugular with a swift snap; thinks, especially knowing.
The moon's rising, and they've got a lot of ground to cover. Sam's breath is already quick and eager behind him. "Come on," he says. "Come on."