Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“I think I might have found us a case…”

At his brother’s words, Dean’s interest was immediately piqued. It had been a quiet few days around the bunker. Castiel was off dealing with a conflict in heaven, and the Winchester brothers had been left to their own devices for a few days of downtime.

So, of course, Dean was bored, itching for something to do.

“Yeah?”

He kept his voice deliberately casual, affecting an air of vague disinterest, as if he had better things to do than chase around the country on some whim. Sam glanced up from his laptop screen with a quirk of a smile, obviously not buying it.

“An old mining town,” he supplied, “people mysteriously vanishing periodically over the last six or seven years, then some kids out camping stumbled across a body in an old shaft. It was ripped to pieces… and missing the heart”

“Not damn werewolves again,” Dean groused, picking up his mug of coffee and scowling at his brother, “seriously, dude. We’ve put down so many packs recently they ought to be extinct.”

“I’m not so sure,” Sam mused, his gaze fixed on the screen once more as he read the text before him, “according to the news sites, the body was found in pieces and strewn over a large area; they’re suggesting it was torn apart by animals.”

“Like what?”

“Um… coyotes, maybe. Or wolves.”

“Yeah. Werewolves.”

“At any rate… it sounds like a hunt.”

“Yeah,” Dean sighed, reluctantly, “so where are we going?”

“Miami…” Sam began, and Dean let out a whoop of delight.

“Miami? Alright! Beaches, bikinis, and booze, here we come! Next time, Sammy, lead with that. ‘Bout time we got a break…”

“… Arizona,” Sam finished, dryly, “Miami, Arizona.”

Dean faltered, face falling, staring at his brother in dismay; “There’s a Miami in Arizona?”

“It’s an old copper mining town.”

“So… no beaches?”

“No.”

“No bikinis?”

“Probably not.”

Dean sighed; “Just booze, then.”

“And a sixteen-hour drive to get there,” Sam nodded, looking far too amused for Dean’s liking.

Dean sighed; “I’ll grab my stuff. Meet you at the car in ten.”

Dean took the first shift in driving; they took turns, only stopping for gas or to grab food on the go, alternating between driving, sleeping, and listening to classic rock on whichever station they could tune to as they passed through Kansas, then Oklahoma, through New Mexico, and finally into Arizona.

The small town of Miami lay in Gila County; Dean was behind the wheel of the Impala as they passed the welcome sign. Of course, Sam had regaled him with some of the salient details as they had travelled; home to around 2,000 residents, the vast majority of people were employed by the copper mines and concrete works that dominated the landscape, but the surrounding desert was littered with abandoned mines and forgotten tunnels. Route 60 passed straight through the middle of the town, surrounded by desert and rock and mountains.

The sun beat down overhead as they cruised around the town a few times, until they found a cheap hotel with a parking lot. Pulling in, they made their way into the lobby, carrying their hold-alls, paying for a room for five nights with a fake credit card. Their room was on the third floor; they dumped their bags, before laying out salt lines, and putting up protective chalk sigils that would wipe off when they checked out. They they donned their suits, and Sam hung the ‘do not disturb’ sign on the door before they made their way out.

The Miami Police Department was a single story, squat building on Sullivan Street. In their suits and ties they were already sweating in the Arizona heat by the time they made their way inside. Their FBI badges were enough to get them a meeting with Captain Dan Mercer, lead officer on the case. He appeared to be somewhere in his late thirties or early forties, around five foot ten; dark hair greying around the temples and cut into a short buzz-cut. He was lean and muscular, grey-eyed, with an easy smile and a laid-back manner, greeting them both with firm handshakes as they showed their fake badges and introduced themselves.

“I’m Special Agent Dean Osbourne, this is my partner, Special Agent Sam Daltrey. We’re here about the body found a couple-a days ago.”

“FBI?” Mercer quirked an eyebrow at them even as he ushered them into his office, “Wasn’t aware there was federal interest in animal attacks.”

“The case has hallmarks similar to bodies found in neighbouring states,” Sam told him, smoothly, “we’re investigating the possibility of a serial killer using remote locations and animal predation as a means of disposal.”

“Son of a bitch…” Mercer breathed, looking suitably horrified at the thought, “well then, Agents… how can I help?”

“We’ll need copies of all of your files,” Dean replied, “we need to see the body, and we’d like to see where it was found.”

“Sure,” Mercer agreed, readily, “I’ll get someone to get the files for you while we head over to the Coroner’s Office. It’s in Globe, about ten, fifteen minutes drive.”

“We’ll follow you there.”

The drive was uneventful as they followed the police cruiser, windows rolled down and music playing low. They were pretty much waved on through as Mercer greeted several of the staff by name, and led the way down to the morgue, where they were met by the coroner.

“Dr Hope Achebe,” she introduced herself, “you’re here to see our victim?”

“Yes,” Sam nodded, “do you have an ID yet?”

“Dental records are inconclusive,” Achebe sighed, gesturing to the three of them to follow her, “the jaw was too smashed to be of much use. No match on fingerprints or DNA on our databases and we didn’t find any ID on him, but from the height and hair colour, he matches the description of a missing itinerant, Joe Wells.”

“Poor Joe,” Mercer commented, “he used to hang out near the station sometimes. Never got in any trouble. Don’t know what he was doing so far out in the desert.”

“He’s in here,” Achebe reached for the silver-fronted steel drawer of the refrigerated storage unit, “I’m warning you, it ain’t pretty.”

She tugged the drawer open; both Dean and Sam grimaced a little at the gory sight and the rancid smell that rose to meet them. The body had clearly been in the desert for some time, and even refrigeration could not mask the cloying scent of decay that clung to the grisly remains. Nonetheless, they both leaned in for a closer look.

“First thing you’ll notice, aside from the obvious dismemberment,” Achebe said, clinically, snapping on a pair of disposable gloves, “the massive trauma to the chest.”

“Looks like a shotgun blast at close range,” Dean commented.

“Good guess, but there was no buckshot, no powder burn, nothing,” the coroner shook her head, “this is pure blunt force trauma; something hit him from behind and punched clean through his chest. This was either some kind of power tool, though God-knows-what, or someone with superhuman strength.”

Sam cleared his throat, shooting his brother a look of aggravation and amusement as Dean was mouthing the word ‘werewolf’ at him, while Achebe and Mercer were otherwise engrossed in the examination of the body.

“And these, uh… these look like teeth marks,” the younger Winchester noted.

“Yup,” Achebe nodded, “best as we can make out, they look like bear.”

“A bear?” Sam frowned, “You get those around here? The news reports said coyote or wolf.”

“We just said animal predation,” Mercer supplied, “papers took a wild guess and ran with it. We don’t get bear around these parts, we’re too far from the forests out here. If it is a bear, how it got here and why is anyone’s guess.”

“Anything else you can tell us?”

“He’d been dead for about a week when he was found, though in the heat, could have been less. And these limb separations? No tool marks that I could find. He wasn’t cut up… the jagged edges of the flesh, here, here, and here… he was torn apart.”

“You’re thinking by an animal?”

“Takes more strength than a human to pull apart a body like this – and there are no ligature marks on the wrists or ankles to indicate any sort of restraints were used that could suggest some kind of rack or other mechanism,” Achebe frowned, “beats me what else could have done this. Has to be a bear, but…”

“You don’t sound sure,” Dean noted.

“Well, if you guys are here… you must think a person did this? Correct me if I’m wrong, but the FBI don’t go around arrestin’ stray bears.”

“Maybe,” Sam replied, evasively, “we’re investigating the possibility, given similar cases along Route 60.”

“Could be one of those underground fighting rings,” Mercer suggested, “you know, like ya see on TV? Some guy has a bear chained up somewhere and they kidnap people off the streets to pit against it, like for bets or cheap thrills or somethin’?”

“Yeah,” Dean agreed, suppressing his amusement at the outlandish theory, “yeah, maybe. It’s somethin’ we’re lookin’ into.”

“You think maybe they’re using a truck or somethin’?” Mercer was clearly warming to his idea, “you know, you’d need a big vehicle to transport somethin’ like a bear, and there’s probably more than one guy involved…”

“Yeah, yeah, that’s a good idea,” Sam somehow kept a perfectly straight face as Dean had to hide his smirk of amusement, “tell you what; can you give us the location where the body was found? We’ll swing by the station, grab those case files, and head out to take a look around the dump site while you take a look at traffic camera footage, see if you can find any leads on big rigs passing through, maybe hanging around for a few days longer than the usual trucker stops?”

“Sure thing,” the Captain nodded, “thanks, Hope.”

“Anytime, Dan.”

As promised, they stopped by the police station, picking up a box file full of missing persons reports and everything on record about the corpse in the morgue. Captain Mercer gave them the location of the mineshaft, and they promised to return the next morning to exchange notes on their investigations.

Dean drove as Sam read through the files, finding little of interest.

“Most of the missing seem to be either homeless or traveller types,” he commented, shuffling through the paperwork, scanning through the text quickly, “people that wouldn’t be missed or are hard to trace. This is worse than I thought… there are dozens of victims going back over a decade.”

“You seein’ any other patterns?”

“Sorta,” Sam frowned, “before we left the station, I did check neighbouring towns and states. Turns out I wasn’t lying when I said there were similar cases along Route 60…”

“So this pack’s smart,” Dean remarked, “They’re picking hard to trace victims who won’t easily be missed and moving around periodically to different hunting grounds. Dammit. That means they’ll be long gone by now.”

“You still think it’s werewolves?”

“You don’t?”

“I dunno,” Sam shrugged, glancing out of the window, briefly, “something’s just… off. It doesn’t feel right.”

Dean let that slide; “So what about the body in the morgue?”

“A group of teens found it,” Sam replied, rummaging through the files and pulling out the thickest one, “yeah, here it is… statements vary a lot, but the general consensus is they came outta town to drink and smoke pot. They were playing truth or dare and daring each other to go deeper and deeper into an abandoned shaft, until one of them found a severed arm. They booked it out in their car and wound up at the police station drunk, stoned, and scared out of their minds.”

“And damned lucky,” Dean added, “that the pack had already left. I’m tellin’ ya, Sam, we’ve come all this way for nothin’ if they’ve moved on elsewhere.”

It was a good couple of hours driving slowly on dirt roads until they found the pit marked on the map provided by Captain Mercer. The sun was dipping low on the horizon, lighting the sky in red and orange, as they parked up the car at the top of the pit, and glanced around warily.

“This is definitely the place,” Sam commented, eyeing the obvious signs of a campsite at the bottom of the pit, “got tyre treads here, they left in a hurry.”

“No signs of any other vehicles though,” Dean was scouting around as well, examining the ground, “too many footprints to tell how many of them there were.”

“So, if it was werewolves, how’d they get out here?”

“Probably park elsewhere and bring the victims down here to feed on foot so they can’t be traced,” reasoned Dean, “we should probably check out that mineshaft just to be sure though.”

“This whole area is riddled with shafts,” Sam noted, “could be that there are other connecting shafts as well. Just because this is our way in and where the body was found, it doesn’t mean that this is where the pack entered.”

“Still,” Dean sighed, “it’s all we’ve got to go on. Let’s check it out, even if it is a waste of time.”

Sam eyed the dark opening in the rock with some trepidation, but nodded. Dean opened up the trunk, and they armed themselves with torches, silver blades, and handguns loaded with silver bullets. They made their way slowly down the winding path of the quarry pit, until they reached the bottom. There, they found the campsite, Sam wrinkling his nose slightly at the scattered beer cans, broken bottles, and food wrappers, strewn around a burned-out campfire.

“Looks like they had quite the party,” Dean grinned, bending down and picking up a lacy pink bra discarded on the ground, holding it up by hooking one finger through the thin strap, “check it out!”

“It’s not your colour,” Sam shot back, with a wry grin of his own, “or your size.”

“Bitch!”

“Jerk.”

They shared a chuckle of amusement as Dean dropped the discarded underwear, but their expressions fell serious as they approached the opening of the old mineshaft. There were broken planks scattered on the ground, and Dean crouched down to examine one.

“Splintered,” he noted, “but not recently. Something tore its way in a long time ago.”

“Think there’s anything still in there?” Sam queried, raising his flashlight and shining the beam into the dark shaft.

“Nah,” Dean shook his head, “they’re long gone. The discovery of a body? They’ve moved on to another huntin’ ground by now. Trail’s cold.”

“We should check it out anyway.”

Dean hesitated, and then nodded in reluctant agreement.

“You first,” Sam gestured with his torch.

Dean shout him a sour look, shook his head, sighed, and ducked into the tunnel. He straightened up inside, taking a few paces in, sweeping the beam around, gun drawn and held ahead of him – just in case. Sam followed with equal stealth, though he let out a grunt as he realised he was too tall for the narrow shaft. Ducking a little, he followed Dean deeper into the roughly-hewn rock, swallowing his trepidation over whatever they might find in the dark depths.

Chapter Text

As Dean and Sam entered the mine, their torches picked out extensive graffiti on the walls, overlaid and overlapping, indicating years of teenage dares and hijinks, thinning out the deeper they went, obviously coming to the limit of the courage of the rebellious youths wanting to leave their mark.  

For a long time, the only sounds were their footsteps on the dusty rock, or the occasional breathless cough in the dry air, as they pressed deeper into the tunnel.

“Here,” Dean whispered, after several minutes, “this must be where the body was found, I got bloodstains here.”

Sam glanced over his shoulder; he could just about make out the grey light of sunset distantly behind them.

“Then this is as far as those kids went,” he noted, “we should go deeper. The police file said a search team went in as far as it was safe to but they didn’t find any more bodies. They found a collapsed section of tunnel and turned back.”  

“I’m tellin’ ya, Sam, we’re barkin’ up the wrong tree,” Dean sighed, but nonetheless pressed forwards, “we’re huntin’ a pack of wolves and they’ve moved on to the next town by now. Face it, the trail’s gone cold.”

“I’m not so sure… we should at least check. See if there’s another body if nothing else.”

“Can’t believe we came all of this way for a cold case and a dead end,” Dean grumbled, but set off down the pitch-dark tunnel.

“At least we’re close,” Sam replied, optimistically, “if there’s another incident in a nearby town we can follow the trail. Maybe if I have another look through the files when we get back to the hotel, I can figure out their pattern and we can get ahead of them.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

The tunnel began to curve slightly, and the darkness closed in around them; they passed a couple of vertical shafts that led to lower parts of the mine, the old lift pulley systems long since rotted away and collapsed into the dark pit below. There were a couple of larger chambers that they walked through, hollowed out in years long gone, made to extract valuable minerals and then abandoned when the seams ran out. They followed a couple of different passages, sometimes having to double back when they hit dead ends, until Dean finally ground to a halt. The tunnel they were in was tall, towering high above them with ledges carved into the rock where the miners must have excavated. There was a huge pile of rocks blocking the way, and although it did not quite meet the ceiling, it did not look stable.

“This must be it,” he said, his voice echoing slightly in the darkness, “this is where the search party gave up. I told ya, Sam, this was a waste of time…”

Sam hesitated, eyeing the pile of rocks as if he was considering climbing it, and then conceded; “Maybe you’re right… perhaps there’s another way around, another tunnel somewhere?”

“Probably, but it’d be a waste of time lookin’ an’ no guarantee of findin’ anything. Most of these old shafts ain’t mapped.”

Dean turned away from the dusty rock pile blocking the path with a shake of his head.

“I can’t believe I let you drag me all the way out here for nothin’…”

“Look, I’m sorry, man,” by the light of Dean’s torch, Sam looked genuinely contrite, “I really thought we were gonna find somethin’…”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. C’mon. Let’s go back to the hotel. I can find a bar and get my groove on while you go through the files and do the geek thing, maybe we can salvage this hunt and figure out where the pack are goin’. I gotta gank somethin’ so this trip was worth the gas money.”  

Sam was about to reply when a soft sound caught his attention.

“…Dean?”

“What?”

“What was that?”

“What was what?”

“…That.”

Dean was about to snap something terse at his brother, but then he heard it too. A strange, scraping noise, the sounds of rocks and gravel shifting, and beneath that a low, distinct growling sound.

“Sam…?”

Before Dean could say anything else, the rock pile seemed to explode; rocks and debris were catapulted outwards in a shower of sharp shards and cloying dust. Distantly, he heard Sam shout his name, then something collided with his temple. He dropped both his torch and his gun, and the darkness closed in; he was out before he even hit the ground.

“Dean!”

Sam was thrown to the ground; his gun was jarred from his grasp, his torch went skittering away, sending the beam of light flashing and flickering at odd angles until it came to rest. Coughing, choking on the dust, Sam levered himself up, squinting and blinking. By the light of their two torches, he could just about make out Dean lying nearby, too still to be anything but unconscious; he shied away from assuming anything worse.

“Dean!”

Coughing, Sam tried to push himself up, desperate to get to his brother’s aid, until he froze, blood running cold.

A low growl echoed around him.

Primal.

Animalistic.

Sam drew in a shallow breath, trying not to choke on the dusty air, as he groped around, desperately trying to locate his gun.

Nothing.

There was another low growl, closer this time.

“Dean! Wake up!”

There was a scraping sound again, louder this time, and the hairs prickled on the back of Sam’s neck when he heard grunting, sniffing, the unmistakeable sounds of something shuffling towards them.

Something big.

Something heavy.

Sam’s fingers reached for his torch with his left hand, using his right hand to draw the knife from his belt.

Whatever was approaching them sniffed and growled again, louder this time.

“Dean!” Sam hissed, desperately, “Dean, for the love of…”

He finally managed to hook his fingers around the torch, whipping it around as he rolled and launched himself to his feet, bringing beam and blade to bare… on a bear.

“Oh, shit!”

The beast was huge, lumbering towards him, eyes glittering in the light of his torch. Yellowing fangs dripped saliva beneath peeled back lips as it snarled at him, blinking, momentarily dazzled. The scraping sound Sam had heard were its claws on rock as it raised one paw, shielding its eyes.

“What the…?”

The bear roared and lunged. Sam swiped blindly with the knife; the torch was knocked from his hand with a powerful blow. He felt the silver blade slice into something, and the bear yelped in response. However, whatever small sense of victory Sam might have felt was extremely short-lived. His torch flickered out, and Dean’s was pointing the wrong way down the tunnel. Another snarl reverberated around the mineshaft, and something slammed, sharp and hard, into his left-hand side, between his ribs and hip. He was lifted clean off his feet and collided hard with the rocky wall. He slumped to the ground, winded, disorientated, utterly lost in the confusion of the darkness.

There was a lumbering, shuffling sound, and a strange popping, cracking kind of noise that Sam could not identify as he blinked rapidly, trying to cling to consciousness. And then, oddly, an all-too-human sounding voice; male, tight with fury, hissing in the darkness.

“Hunters! Damn you and your silver, how did you find us?”

Sam stayed silent, trying to keep his breathing under control. His side burned with pain where the beast had swiped him with its claws, and his clothing was beginning to feel oddly damp. The impact with the rock wall had knocked the breath out of him, leaving him bruised and stunned.

He heard footsteps in the darkness, and a low growl.

“You’re coming with me.”

He heard muffled noises, a ripping, tearing sort of sound, and then the animal growl of the huge black bear. There was a dragging noise, and then the lumbering sound of the bear shuffling away down the tunnel.

Skinwalker.

The word surfaced in Sam’s addled mind as he gasped for air; the creature, the man, was some sort of skinwalker. He had only ever seen them assume canine forms, distant cousins of the werewolves he and Dean had thought that they were hunting, but the lore said that in some rare cases they could take on the shape of other animals… and clearly this one was a bear.

“Dean!”

Sam forced himself to his feet but staggered as pain lanced through his side and stomach. He clutched one hand to his side, blind in the darkness, and groaned aloud as he felt the wetness of the fabric of his torn shirt beneath his jacket.

Damn; he was going to need a new suit.

“Dean!”

His brother gave no answer; Sam staggered forwards, one hand pressed to his side, the other reaching for the only one of their two torches that were still working. He cast the beam around frantically; where Dean had been lying, there was only a small smear of blood on the rock floor… and fresh drag marks.

“Oh, crap…”

The skinwalker had taken Dean. He had to go after them. Something glittered in the dust under the beam of the torch, and Sam had to take his hand away from his side to pick it up; his gun. With Dean’s torch in his left hand and the silver-loaded gun in his right, he took a shaky step forward. Agony shot through him, and he stumbled but righted himself with a grunt, gritting his teeth.

“I’m coming, Dean. I’m coming.”

Sam staggered, winded and groaning, feeling his blood soaking into his shirt and jacket, but unable to put pressure on the wounds, holding the torch and the gun in shaking hands. The mineshaft wormed and twisted like a labyrinth, but he navigated by memory; a broken and rusty pickaxe here, a coil of rotten rope there, an abandoned metal pail, a broken lift shaft… as he drew closer to the mine entrance, the graffiti he had seen on the way in began to appear; tags, crude imagery, and filthy words scrawled on the rock, obviously made by the local kids out for cheap thrills and their first tastes of independence.

Sam stumbled out of the shaft, casting the beam of the torch around, until it came to rest on a figure, slumped on the ground, his previously immaculate suit covered in dust, marred with several rips and tears.

Dean was going to need a new suit too.

Sam almost chuckled as he crept forwards.

Dean was lying face down, out in the open.

Bait.

Trap.

“Dean?”

He moved forwards with exaggerated care, casting his gaze and the torch beam all around, but in the pitch-black darkness of the quarry he could see nothing, hear nothing, the desert eerily silent.

“Dean!”

Sam edged closer to his brother, just as Dean began to groan and stir.

“Son of a bitch…”

“Dean,” Sam was almost at his brother’s side, whispering urgently, “Dean, are you alright…?”

Dean was just pushing himself up onto his elbows, groaning, raising one hand to cradle his aching head, when Sam froze. Movement, somewhere behind him and to his left. He tried to turn, but his injured side flared agony, and he stumbled, almost dropping the torch and the gun as he fought the urge to reflexively clutch at the wound.

“Sam!”

Dean’s warning shout came just in time. The bear loomed out of the darkness, swiping at him with a huge, clawed paw. Sam ducked and fired off a round, hearing a primal scream of raw pain and fury. The beast reared up, snarling, lashing out again; Sam ducked one blow, but pain lanced through him and he grunted, doubling over, unable to suppress a cry. The next blow came out of nowhere; the back of a hefty paw lifted him clean off his feet and sent him sprawling. His vision blurred and blacked out for a moment, but he dragged in a wheezing, rasping breaths, blinking, trying to stay focussed, stay conscious…

“Sam! Where are you, man?”

“Dean!”

“Sam, I lost my gun and I can’t see a damn thing! What the hell is that thing?”

Sam forced his eyes open to only the light of the moon and the stars; his flashlight was gone, but the gun was reassuringly solid in his right hand. He rolled and pushed himself to his feet, eyes and ears straining in the darkness of the quarry.

“Dean! Stay down! Stay down! It’s a skinwalker! Stay on the ground!”

Sam did not want to risk shooting his brother in the dark by mistake; he prayed Dean had the good sense to stay low. There was a low growl and Sam whipped around, left hand curled into a fist and pressed to his side, right hand holding the gun, shaking horribly. He turned towards the source of the sound and fired blindly into the night.

Nothing.

The growl came again, more to his left; he shifted his aim and fired again.

In the muzzle flash, he saw a blur of movement; he spun and fired, and was rewarded with a loud yelp and the hefty thud of a large body hitting the ground.

“Did you get it?”

“I dunno,” Sam replied, breathlessly, “I think so…”

He heard movement as his head spun; he reeled, dizzily, disoriented in the darkness. He heard a muffled curse from Dean, and then the click-click-click-flare of a lighter.

“Sam, behind you!”

Sam did not hesitate, he whipped around and emptied the rest of the clip into the huge shadow looming behind him. A roar became a scream, and the beast went crashing to the ground. Sam let the hand holding the gun drop to his side; he heard footsteps, and then Dean was beside him, shock written on his features, pale in the scant light of the flame he held, blood marring his temple. He bent down and picked something up; the torch. Dean flicked his lighter closed, slipped it into his pocket, and, after slapping the flashlight in his palm a couple of times, the beam flickered back to life.

Passing the light over the fallen creature, Dean let out a low whistle.

“A bear? A frickin’ skinwalker that turns into a bear?”

“It’s… it’s in the lore,” Sam replied, breathlessly, panting from the pain and exertion, “it’s… rare… but not unheard of. Dean… you okay?”

“Yeah… yeah, man, nothin’ some tylenol and a couple-a hours’ sleep can’t fix. You good?”

Sam was not sure how to reply to that. The night felt cold, closing in around him, and he was oddly dizzy, still breathless; his side burning fiercely, the pain a stark contrast to and only exacerbated by the chills that were now making him shiver.

“Sam? You good?”

“Dean, I…” Sam tried to find the words to reassure his brother in some way, but a strange feeling of lethargy was washing through him, tinged with nausea, and he swallowed reflexively, “I… um… I…”

“Sam?”

Dean’s voice was distant, tight with worry, as Sam carelessly let the gun fall to the ground, fingers suddenly going limp and lax. The torch beam flashed towards him, and he was momentarily dazzled, but Dean swept the light downwards, clearly checking him over, until it came to a halt around his waist.

“Sam… tell me that ain’t your blood.”

Chapter Text

“Sam… tell me that ain’t your blood.”

“…What…?”

Sam squinted and glanced down; by the light of Dean’s torch, he realised that his white shirt was absolutely saturated in red, all down his left-hand side and across his stomach. Blood. It was soaking into his jacket, tie, and trousers as well. He plucked at the wet fabric of his shirt, feeling it sticking to his torn skin, and gave a weak shiver in response.

“Dean…”

“Oh, God, Sam…!”

Dean lunged just as Sam’s knees buckled, and Sam found himself being seized in an awkward embrace as his head looped dizzily and he clung to his brother, dragging in ragged gasps of breath.

“Alright, Sammy, alright, I’ve gotcha,” Dean rambled, hauling Sam’s right arm over his own shoulders and around his neck, bearing the brunt of his brother’s weight, “c’mon, man, let’s get you outta here and get you patched up, okay?”

Dean awkwardly crouched down, picking up Sam’s gun and shoving it into his pocket, then hauling his brother up. Sam groaned, horribly, clenching his teeth as he doubled over, pressing his left hand to his side, feeling his own blood slick on his fingers, his right arm hooked around Dean’s neck as he leaned heavily on his older brother.

Together, they staggered and stumbled up the slope, Sam growing increasingly weaker from pain and blood loss, Dean still struggling with the dizziness of a lingering concussion. They were both gasping and panting by the time they reached the top of the winding path out of the quarry and came to where the Impala was parked. Dean fumbled with the keys and unlocked the doors, reaching out and pulling open the passenger side door.

“Okay, Sam, okay, we made it, we made it,” Dean had kept up his litany of reassurances the whole time, trying to keep his brother conscious, focussed, planting one foot in front of the other, just keeping him going, “you’re gonna be fine, just fine, ya hear me?”

“Dean,” Sam hated how pitifully weak his voice was, “I’m fine, I’m fine…”

“And I might believe that if ya didn’t sound like ya just downed three bottles of bourbon,” Dean grinned, but Sam could see how wide his eyes were with fear, “and you’re whiter than your shirt, man… lemme see what we’re dealing with here, okay?”

Dean carefully lifted the edge of Sam’s jacket away from the wound, but there was so much blood and torn shirt fabric he could not fully discern the wound by the light of his torch, so he pressed the jacket back over, covering it, wincing as Sam gasped in pain.

“You keep pressure on that, we gotta get you to a hospital…”

“N-No,” Sam hissed, through clenched teeth, “no hospital. We can… we can stitch it up, back at the hotel.”

“You’ve lost a helluva lotta blood, Sam…”

“I’ll be fine, Dean. No hospital.”

Dean made the mistake of making eye contact. Dammit. Puppy dog eyes. Every damn time…

“Alright, fine. But if you pass out on me, the deal’s off, and I’m takin’ you straight to emergency, ya hear me?”  

“Fine,” Sam gasped, breathlessly, with a sharp nod.

Sam managed to fold himself over and into the car, wrapping one arm around his stomach, the other braced against the seat, holding himself upright. Dean slammed the door and dashed around to the driver’s side, leaping in and starting it up. The engine snarled to life and Dean peeled out, hauling the steering wheel around.

He had two choices; drive slowly to minimise the bumps and the impacts, each one of which jarred another sharp gasp or pained groan out of Sam whilst he slowly bled out, or drive fast to get to the hotel as soon as possible knowing that it was going to hurt Sam like hell, but at least he would be able to treat the wound sooner.

He chose the latter.

The Impala’s suspension was not built for off-roading and he found himself wishing they had hired a truck or something for the drive out to the old mine, but the powerful engine nonetheless roared as he put his foot down, muttering apologies every time Sam yelped or groaned aloud. He found himself almost wishing that Sam would pass out, if only to spare him the agony of the journey, but Sam stubbornly clung to consciousness, no doubt determined not to get dragged to the nearest hospital.

Finally, the dirt road smoothed out and Dean turned onto the highway, the lights of the town visible at long last. Sam was visibly flagging; every time Dean glanced across he could see his brother’s clenched teeth, the pallor of his face, the way he sat hunched over, clutching his side, and could hear every pained, rasping breath, every smothered gasp of pain, and Dean’s heart was a lead weight in his chest as he ignored every speed limit sign between him and the cheap hotel they were staying at.

Hauling the car into the lot he parked it haphazardly across two spaces, grateful that it was the dead of night and they were practically the only guests.

“Alright Sam, we made it, c’mon man, stay with me, okay?”

Dean bolted out of the car; their first aid kit was in the trunk, so he grabbed it and a bottle of cheap whiskey, before making his way around to the passenger side. Sam had already got the door open, twisting around, easing his legs out, gasping and groaning as he tried to move. Dean glanced around hastily, relieved that there was not a soul in sight; no eyes upon them.

“Alright, Sam, coast’s clear. C’mon.”

“Dean…”

“I gotcha man, I gotcha…”

Dean helped Sam to his feet, half-dragging, half-carrying him across the lot, but when they reached the front door, Sam pulled back.

“Sam?”

“Night porter,” Sam gasped, “concierge.”

“Shit,” Dean grimaced, “if I distract the staff, think you can make it to the elevator?”

“Sure.”

Dean gave Sam a moment to straighten himself up, tugging his dark jacket over his red-stained shirt, folding his arms and ducking his head, letting his hair fall forwards, hiding the bruising and pallor of his face. Dean patted his shoulder reassuringly and practically launched himself through the doors, smacking his hands to his chest, sending up puffs of quarry dust and dirt from his own ruined jacket.

“Can you believe it? We got lost on the way back from the damn quarry, blew a tyre, had to change it at the side of the road, I only went and fell over and whacked my head on the wheel arch, now look at the state of my damned suit! Hey, you guys know of a good dry cleaners that can do repairs around here? No? How about somewhere I can get a new suit? Gonna need a miracle to save this one, I’m tellin’ ya…”

The porter and the concierge stared open mouthed at the dirt-clad, blood-stained “FBI Agent” standing in the middle of the lobby as Sam slipped past behind him, heading straight to the elevator. He pressed the button, surreptitiously having to wipe away the smear of blood he left on the button. The elevator dinged and the doors slid open, allowing Sam to step inside.

“Yeah, alright, thanks fellas, guess I’ll be doing some shopping in the mornin’, much appreciated, you take care now, g’night!”

Dean waved cheerfully as he stepped into the elevator; the doors closed, and both he and Sam immediately sagged against the back wall. Dean hit the button to take them to the right floor, slipping his arm around Sam’s waist supportively. Sam looped his arm around Dean’s shoulders in response, leaning into the support gratefully.

“Alright,” Dean murmured, “almost there, man. You with me?”

“Yeah, I’m good.”

The hoarse whisper was hardly reassuring.

They staggered out of the elevator and made their way to their room, Dean almost dragging Sam along with him. He fumbled the key card at the lock a few times but finally managed to get the door open. Sam gazed longingly at the bed, but Dean steered him the other direction.

“Bathroom,” Dean said, sternly, “we need to get you cleaned up and stitched up without explaining why there’s blood all over the bedding when we leave. Bathroom’s easier to clean and then you can get some sleep in a bed that won’t look like a scene from a horror flick.”

Sam gave a shaky nod, as Dean pushed open the bathroom door. It was small, just the toilet, sink, and a walk-in shower cubicle. Dean dropped the lid down on the toilet and Sam sank down, gasping, trembling, eyes flickering as he fought to stay awake.

“Stay with me, Sam,” Dean said, firmly, “remember the deal, buddy, you pass out an’ you’re goin’ to the hospital, ya hear me? Now… let’s see what we’re dealing with here.”

With Dean’s help, Sam eased himself out of his jacket, and in the harsh fluorescent overhead light, Dean could not help but hiss in a breath through gritted teeth. The lower left-hand side of Sam’s shirt was utterly shredded, hanging in tattered rags, soaked in blood and sticking to the wounds beneath.

“Alright,” Dean licked his suddenly dry lips, “alright, here we go…”

There was a pair of scissors and some metal tweezers in the first aid kit. Dean set about carefully peeling and cutting away the ribbons of fabric as Sam clenched his jaw, breath coming in short, sharp gasps, reaching up to loosen and tug off his tie with one hand, the other gripping the edge of the sink for support. With shaking fingers, Sam unfastened the buttons of his shirt, and between the two of them, they removed the ruined garment, dropping it carelessly to the floor, and Dean was finally able to get a good look at the wounds.

“Jeez, Sammy… looks like that thing almost tore you in half.”

“Feels like it did,” Sam huffed, with a tight smile, “think you can stitch it up?”

“Sure,” Dean scoffed, confidently, “but it’s gonna take me a few minutes and it’s gonna hurt like a bitch. Here. Bite down on this while I clean it out.”

Dean grabbed dry washcloth and rolled it up; Sam clenched it between his teeth obligingly, giving his brother a nod. Sam twisted and leaned back as much as possible, giving Dean access to the wounds. Dean used a dressing pad and water from the running tap over the sink to swipe away as much of the blood as he could. He counted five separate lacerations, jagged yet parallel. The top and bottom ones were little more than deep scratches, already clotting, relatively short, and not too serious. It was the three in the middle, particularly the centre one, that looked the worst; deep and several inches long, still oozing blood. The surrounding skin was red and swollen, warm to the touch, no doubt the precursor to some livid bruising that would soon appear.

“Okay, Sam,” Dean held up the bottle of cheap alcohol he had snagged with the first aid kit, “this might sting a bit. On three… three!”

Dean poured the bottle and Sam let out a strangled cry, back arching as every muscle went taut in response, the cloth between his teeth muffling the pained exclamation enough to avoid drawing any unwanted attention. The strong whiskey tinted red with blood as it dripped and spattered on the white-tiled floor and Sam groaned aloud, shivers running through him as sweat pricked across his bare skin. As the burning sensation faded a little, he spat out the cloth, dragging in a few ragged breaths.

“Okay, alright, okay,” Dean was saying soothingly, as he picked up a needle, poured alcohol over it, and then threaded it up, “that’s the worst of it, Sam, I promise. Just hold still for me, okay? I’ll work fast, I promise.”

Sam tried to focus on his breathing, trying to steady himself. He was no stranger to sutures; he and Dean had stitched themselves and each other up more times than they could count. He tried to relax, but it was awkward and uncomfortable sitting on the hard toilet seat and twisted to one side so that Dean could get to the deep wounds in his side. He hooked his right elbow onto the cistern lid, resting his cheek against it, and let out a shaky sigh.

“Stay awake, Sammy, I’m almost done.”

“M’awake,” Sam murmured, forcing himself to raise his head as he rubbed a blood-crusted hand over his eyes, “ugh.”

“Yeah, ya look like hell,” Dean spared him a sympathetic look as he tugged on the needle, fastening off a suture, “couple more, Sam, just a couple more.”

“Need a shower.”

“Not sure that’s such a good idea, man. Ya look like ya need to pass out.”

“Shower first. Get the blood off. Then pass out.”

“Yeah, okay. Probably best you do get cleaned up, then I’ll bandage this up, okay?”

Dean finished and tied off the last row of sutures.

“Think you can manage by yourself?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll be outside. Don’t lock the door. I’ll toss some clean clothes in for ya.”

Sam gave a slight nod. Dean patted his shoulder, rose, and stepped out of the room, closing the door. Sam took a couple of breaths, and slowly rose. He stripped down and took a warm shower, not too hot, dabbing around the stitches with a washcloth and then scrubbing the blood from his stomach, chest, arms, hands, and face, before washing his hair and gingerly towelling himself dry.

He stepped out of the shower to find a pair of sweatpants on the toilet seat. It took him far longer than it should have to work his way into the clothing; catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror he was almost taken aback by the grey pallor of his face. There was a dark bruise appearing on his jaw where the bear had stuck him, and, as he looked at his hands, he realised how badly he was trembling. He felt weak and shaky, dizzy to the point of nausea. Shirtless, clad only in the sweatpants, the stitches in his side stinging painfully, he stumbled out of the bathroom, practically falling into Dean’s waiting arms, as his brother carefully lowered him onto the edge of one of the beds.

“Siddown,” Dean told him, somewhat unnecessarily, “here, hold that there.”

Sam obediently held the dressing pad over the wounds to his side, as Dean wrapped bandages around his waist, tying them off tightly, and then tossing a tee-shirt onto Sam’s lap.

“Put that on and get some sleep, Sam. My turn for the shower.”

Sam gave a wordless groan, tugging the shirt on slowly as his side flared in agony. Dean handed him a couple of white tablets and a glass of water; Sam swallowed them down without question. Dean lingered in the doorway of the bathroom as he watched Sam ease himself down to lie on the bed, pulling the comforter over his legs up to his waist.

“Nice work today, Sam,” Dean murmured, softly, “a skinwalker bear. Not something ya see every day.”

“Saved your ass,” Sam smiled, tiredly.

“I had it covered,” Dean shot back, “all part of the plan.”

“Plan? What plan? You thought it was a werewolf pack who’d already moved on!”

“Yeah, maybe that’s just what I wanted you to think, you ever think of that?”

“No,” Sam looked at him in exhausted incredulity, “that doesn’t even make any sense!”

“That’s because you’ve got a concussion on top of some serious blood loss. Go to sleep, Sam.”

Sam managed a wordless snort, but nonetheless sagged back into the pillows. Dean watched for a moment as Sam pressed a hand to his side, shifting uncomfortably, but after a few minutes, the powerful painkillers he had given the younger Winchester started to work their magic. Sam slowly began to relax a little, the tension melting from his creased brow and taut muscles. His breathing evened out, no longer pained gasps, gradually growing slower and deeper, and he succumbed to sleep. Dean smiled affectionately, and went to clean up the blood in the bathroom. He took a quick shower of his own, before he, too, surrendered himself to bed.

Chapter Text

The ringing of Dean’s phone split through his slumber like an axe to the head, and he moaned aloud as a headache throbbed through his skull and down his neck.

Damned concussion.

He swallowed his nausea as he heard a similar dismayed groan from Sam, and Dean levered himself up onto his elbow, reaching for the offending device. Hitting the receive call button, he pressed it to his ear, grunting into it as he forced himself to sit upright, pressing the fingers of his left hand into gritty eyes at the swell of dizziness this caused.

“Yeah?”

“Agent Osbourne?”

“Yeah,” Dean tried to sound less groggy and more awake, “Captain Mercer?”

“Yeah. Listen, we’ve just had a load of reports come in, and it ain’t good…”

Dean switched the phone to speaker as Sam carefully levered himself up on the bed, grimacing, pressing a hand to his side as he suppressed a gasp.

“You got me and Agent Daltrey on the line, Captain. What’s up?”

“We, uh… we got a trail of three bodies on the outskirts of town. All torn apart. And, uh… at least a dozen eyewitnesses saying they saw a giant black bear on the rampage. We’ve got damaged cars and dozens of wounded and no sign of the bear… it’s a goddamn blood bath out here and the whole town is terrified. Look, I know you’re FBI, not animal control, but if you guys can handle a rifle, we need all the help we can get to find and shoot this thing…”

“Uh, yeah, sure,” Dean was jolted to full wakefulness by the sheer panic in the Captain’s voice, “we’re, uh, we’re on our way, where should we meet you?”

“Meet me outside the station. We’ve put out an emergency stay-at-home alert; we’re instructing everyone to stay inside until we find this thing. Be careful. That thing could be anywhere.”

“Yeah. We’ll be there in ten.”

Dean ended the call and glanced up; Sam was staring at him in wide-eyed horror.

“We gotta go,” Dean announced, launching to his feet, already reaching for his hold-all; screw the ruined suit, if he was hunting, he was doing it jeans, “you up for this?”

“Sure,” Sam was slower to move, but already gamely getting dressed, despite the pallor of his face and the dark bruising to his cheek and jaw, “but Dean… I thought the skinwalker was dead.”  

“It was,” Dean replied, “I checked. You shot it in the head, Sam. It was dead.”

“Then how…?” Sam pulled on a clean tee-shirt and then froze with a groan of dismay, “oh, God…”

“What?”

“Stupid, son of a…”

“Sam! What?”

“In the mine… when the bear attacked us, and you were knocked out, it shifted into a man, and he was talking… he said; ‘how’d you find us’… not me. Us.”

“Aw, hell,” Dean groaned, pulling on his jeans and sitting on the edge of the bed to put on his boots, “ya mean there’s more’n one of those things?”

“Obviously,” Sam said, dryly, “damn it… this is my fault… should’ve realised. Should’ve gone back and checked the mine again.”

“This is not your fault, Sam, and neither of us were in any fit state for huntin’ last night after what the first one did, an’ besides, we don’t have time for a guilt trip right now. You sure you’re up for this? Ya look like hell.”

“I’m fine,” Sam finished lacing up his own boots and straightened up, “let’s go.”

As they strode out of the elevator into the lobby, the concierge behind the desk practically yelped at them.

“No, wait! You can’t go out there! There’s a bear on the loose! A freakin’ wild bear, man!”

“Yeah,” Dean nodded, with a dry, humourless smile, “we know. Stay here and keep the doors locked until we get back, okay?”

It was early morning; they had only been back at the hotel for a few hours, but the sun was already heating up the dry desert air. They went to the trunk of the Impala and armed themselves; they each took a rifle, loading up with silver bullets, along with a handgun and a knife each. Dean slipped into the driver’s seat, while Sam rode shotgun, keeping a wary eye out of the window and his rifle cradled in his arms.

“What are the chances this thing is still walking around in bear form?”

“Slim to none,” Dean replied, “damn thing could be anybody. Hiding in plain sight.”

“So how do we find it?”

“I’ve got a feelin’ it’ll find us,” sighed Dean, “I’m guessing it’s lookin’ for us.”

“You think we killed its mate?”

“Somethin’ like that.”

“Crap.”

They pulled up outside the police station, to find Captain Mercer standing ready and waiting with a shotgun in hand and an older Lieutenant standing next to him, rifle slung over her shoulder.

“Agents,” Mercer made no comment on their casual attire, though he eyed their rifles with some surprise, “you came prepared.”

“Yeah, we’re regular Boy Scouts,” Dean snorted, “where was the thing last seen?”

“North Davis Canyon Loop, out by the flood pit,” Mercer replied, sharply, “half the department is out there looking for the damn thing, the other half are patrolling the town in case it’s come further in. What’d you find out in the quarry last night?”

“A bear,” Dean opted for something close to honesty, well aware that the carcass of the great beast was still lying out in the open pit, “my partner here shot the thing, it was definitely dead.”

“Looks like it got its licks in first,” Mercer cast a knowing look over Sam and Dean’s bruised appearances, “you tellin’ me there’re two of the damn things?”

“One down, one to go,” Dean sighed, “c’mon, let’s see if we can find the sucker. Tell ya what; you head out to North Davis and co-ordinate the search from there. Me an’ Sam’ll take a cruise around the town an’ see if we come across anything. You see it, you call us in, okay?”

“Pretty sure me and my squad are packin’ enough heat to take down a whole pack o’ bears, but sure. Be careful out there, Agents. Here. Take a radio with you so we can keep in touch. Be safe.”

“Thanks. Yeah, you too.”

Dean and Sam climbed back into the Impala, watching as the Captain and Lieutenant got into a squad car and peeled out. The streets were eerily silent, like a ghost town, the only sounds coming from the odd police patrol car cruising by slowly. Dean rolled the windows down and leaned an elbow on the door frame as he eased the Impala up Route 60 and then detouring around the side roads. In residential areas, curtains twitched as scared, curious residents peered out, wandering at the absurdity of hiding in their homes from an enraged bear.

The truth of the matter would have been even more difficult to believe.

The radio crackled to life occasionally, bursts of static interjected with various reports coming in.

“I’m on Prospect Avenue, just sent a group of kids packin’ off the street, otherwise quiet out here.”

“Hey, I’m out on Dairy Canyon, following up on that report of an animal sighting, just a damned dog.”

“All quiet around the museum.”

“This is despatch, I’ve had a couple-a reports there’s a civilian woman out on Live Oak, heading into town on foot in breach of the lockdown order, any units in range to check it out?”

“That’s close to us,” Sam had a map out on the seat beside him, directing as Dean drove, reaching for the radio, clicking it on, “yeah, this is Agent Daltrey, we’re close, we’ll check it out.”

“You think that could be her?”

“If we did kill one half of a pair last night, it could be,” Sam nodded, “finding a skinwalker in human form in a town full of innocent people? Needle in a haystack.”

“We’ve had worse odds.”

Dean hauled the car around and sped towards Live Oak Canyon, a winding road that passed through residential houses and out towards the desert.

Sure enough, just as they turned into Live Oak, they spotted her; a young woman, dark haired, dressed in tight shorts and a tank top, glancing around as if she was searching for something. She saw the car and fixed them both with a glare, gritting her teeth and sniffing the air.

“Oh, yeah, that’s gotta be her.”

The woman turned away and launched into a run.

Dean groaned.

“Oh, c’mon!”

He stomped on the gas, but the woman was surprisingly fast, pelting down the road, past the houses and out into the desert, where she suddenly skidded to a halt, whipping around. Dean hit the breaks as he and Sam leapt out of the car, snapping up their rifles.

“Freeze!” Dean snapped, “You’re done, you shape-shifting bitch! We’re packing silver! Don’t move!”

“Hunters!” the girl hissed, backing away slightly, hands held out to her sides, “You killed my father!”

“Your father?” Sam shot a quick glance at Dean over the top of his rifle.

“You sons of bitches… Ryan! They’re Hunters!”

“Ryan?” Dean repeated, “What the…?”

There was a loud roar, and a hefty blow from behind lifted both Dean and Sam clean off their feet, sending them sprawling onto the dusty road.

Chapter Text

“Ah, crap! Sam?”

“I’m okay!” Sam was already struggling to his feet, “there are two of them, Dean!”

“Yep, yep, I’d already figured that part out!” Dean shouted back, pushing himself up.

He snatched up his rifle, stumbling a little, head spinning as he tried to blink the world back into focus. The momentary disorientation and lingering concussion cost him; suddenly, the girl was in front of him, one hand wrapping around the barrel of the rifle, her other hand curling into a fist as she tore the gun from his grip.

“We’re going to rip you apart,” she snarled.

Her fist collided with Dean’s jaw and he went sprawling, almost knocked out of his senses by her superhuman strength, tasting blood on his lips. He swiped at his split lip with the back of his hand as she loomed over him; teeth bared as she growled low in her throat… and then she shifted. Clothing tore apart; black fur sprouted, and the growl became a roar as, with a sound like joints popping, a giant bear stood over him.

Dean swore and bolted, rolling to one side and launching to his feet, just in time to avoid the swipe of a massive paw, only for a glancing, back-handed blow to send him sprawling.

“Sam! A little help over here?”

However, Sam was not faring much better. The second skinwalker, Ryan, had focussed on the younger Winchester. After being knocked down, Sam’s rifle had slid under the Impala; he drew his handgun and managed to squeeze off two shots; one went wide, the other hit the roaring bear in the shoulder, sending him staggering backwards; the beast howled, stumbling over, but rousing quickly.

The wound only served to make him angrier.

Ryan bellowed in rage, dropped to all fours, and charged. Sam stood his ground, sighting down the gun, and pulled the trigger.

The huge bear let out a pained yelp and stumbled. He crashed to the ground, sliding, collapsing in a heap at Sam’s feet, stone dead, one eye now just a bloody, mangled mess from Sam’s perfectly placed bullet.

At this, the girl in bear form swung around, letting out a shriek of rage and grief. Dean, disarmed, sprawled at her feet and braced for a killing blow, was all but forgotten, as she found a new target for her wrath. In one great paw, she picked up a lump of rock, and hurled it with brute strength.

“Sam!” Dean cried out, rolling onto his side.

He saw his brother duck, but the momentary distraction was all the skinwalker needed. She leapt into a charge, snarling, enraged, and cleared the distance between herself and Sam in seconds. Sam was snatched up in huge paws, lifted high, and hurled to the ground; Dean could only watch in horror as Sam hit the asphalt, hard, rolled a few times and then came to a stop, face-down and unmoving on the road.

“Oh, God…” Dean struggled to rise; his head was spinning, his own body bruised and aching from the blows he had taken.

The bear dropped to all fours, padding slowly down the road, growling low, clearly going in for the kill. Dean glanced around; his rifle was close by. He tried to rise but dizziness knocked him back down. Reeling, groaning with nausea and pain, he forced himself to hands and knees, all but dragging himself over the hot asphalt, crawling over to the only weapon that could hope to stop the enraged creature.

She was close, too close to Sam, and his brother still had not moved.

“Hey, bitch!”

Dean grabbed the rifle, kneeling on the ground, wavering, gritting his teeth with determination and desperation.

The bear grunted, and half turned, glowering at him over her shoulder.

Dean clicked off the safety.

The bear growled, showing her teeth in an angry snarl.

“Get the hell away from my brother!”

The bear reared up on her hind legs, roaring; in the distance, there were the sounds of sirens, the police no doubt alerted by the local residents.

Dean fired.

The bear stumbled, wavered… and collapsed forwards, crashing down onto the road with a heavy thump, blood trickling from her jaws, silver bullet lodged in her heart.

Dean dropped the rifle and staggered to his feet.

A haze of heat blurred the road, the dead bear, and the prone body lying only a short distance away.

“Sam?”

The sirens were closer now. Seconds away. Dean paid them no heed.

“Sammy?”

He dropped to his knees beside his fallen brother.

“Sam?”

Dean reached out, hesitantly.

Sam lay motionless, face down on the road. Dean could see blood around his nose, upon his lips, and a small pool forming under his head. He reached out, grasping his brother’s shoulder, giving him a gentle shake.

“Sam? C’mon, Sam… don’t do this to me, man…”

The squad cars arrived, four of them, several heavily armed officers piling out, spreading out, the more senior ones barking orders as they assessed the scene, and amongst them all, Captain Mercer, sprinting over, shotgun still in hand, eyes and mouth agape at the sight of two gigantic black bears, dead on the road.

“Agents!”

“I need some help over here!” Dean shouted, over his shoulder.

“Lieutenant! We need medics, now!”

Mercer dropped down opposite Dean, on the other side of Sam, setting down his shotgun and reaching to check for a pulse.

“He’s alive,” the Captain said, breathlessly, “what the hell…? There were two… three of the goddamn things? What the hell happened? What the hell’s been goin’ on in this town?”

“Best guess is someone had them walled up in that old mineshaft,” Dean prevaricated, making up a cover story on the fly, “you know, your whole bear-baiting-underground-fighting-ring theory? Guess whoever was doin’ it had more’n one. Chances are they got outta control, the perps are now amongst your missin’ victims, and the three beasts got out to wreck havoc.”

“You think there might be any more of ‘em?” Mercer met Dean’s gaze, his expression one of pure shock, “Or any other wild animals? God, what if they had lions or somethin’…?”

“No, no, I think we’re good,” Dean assured him, turning his attention back to Sam, “C’mon, Sam, wake up already…”

“He looks like he got hit pretty bad.”

“Yeah,” Dean chose not to elaborate, his concern ramping up a notch as Sam remained completely limp under his gentle touch, “just hang in there, Sam, help’s on its way.”

“Lieutenant! Get a perimeter set up, get those people back in their houses, now!” Mercer bellowed, pointing at the small crowd of civilians gathering to watch the spectacle with wide eyes and camera phones, “lockdown order stays in place until we know there’s nothin’ else out there, you hear me? You, you two, this ain’t a roadshow, I catch anyone else taking selfies with the dead bears and you’ll be on unpaid suspension for a month, understood?”

There was a scramble of activity as the officers moved to obey, but Dean paid no attention to them now, his attention solely fixed on Sam.

“Captain,” the grey-haired Lieutenant soon approached with a casual slouch; she placed a cigarette between her lips, rifle slung over her shoulder, as she sparked a lighter and took a heavy drag, “perimeter’s secure and the civvies are tucked up nice and safe. You given any thought to what we’re gonna do about Smokey and Yogi over here?”

“Damned if I know. Taxidermist, maybe? Stick ‘em in the museum for the tourists to pose with? How the hell are we supposed to move a couple of dead bears? These things are huge.”

The Lieutenant took a drag of her cigarette and gave a laconic smile, before she turned and hollered over her shoulder.

“Hey, Garcia! Call up your brother with the recovery truck, would ya? Tell him we’ve got a job for him he ain’t gonna believe…”

“Well, that’s one way of doin’ it,” Dean conceded, then frowned as he felt a slight movement, a shift beneath the palm he had laid on the back of his brother’s shoulder, “hey… Sam? Sammy? Hey, I think he’s wakin’ up…”

Sure enough, Sam stirred, letting out a low groan; Dean held him down though when he tried to move. It was worryingly easy to do.

“No, Sam, no,” Dean told him, in a low voice, leaning over him, “don’t try to move until we know how bad you’re hurt, okay?”

“D… Dean?”

“Yeah, I’m here. So’s Captain Mercer, and Lieutenant, uh…”

“Chavez,” she supplied, flicking the cigarette butt on the ground and crushing it beneath her heel.

Even in his addled state, Sam took the hint; there were others present, they could not talk openly.

“The bears…?” Sam whispered, screwing his eyes shut as his vision wavered and pain began to register.

“Both dead. You got one with a headshot, I got the other in the chest. They’re done for, but not before you got tossed like a bridal bouquet. Can you tell me what hurts, man?”

Sam considered this for a moment.

“…Everything.”

“Yeah,” Dean sighed, tiredly, “figured at much.”

“Dean?”

“Yeah?”

“Side. Stitches…”

“Ah, crap…”

Dean glanced down; sure enough, there was blood slowly seeping through Sam’s shirt; no doubt the dressing and bandages underneath were already saturated, the stitches torn out, allowing the wounds to re-open.

“Where’s the damned ambulance?”

Sirens wailed in the distance as if on cue; the roadblock of patrol cars shifted, and an ambulance trundled up the road towards them. Two paramedics piled out; to their credit, they only froze momentarily at the sight of two very large, very dead bears, before professionalism kicked in and they swept over to their patient.

“What happened?”

“Escaped circus animals,” Dean supplied, quickly, as Mercer looked to him in desperate askance, “went crazy and had to be put down. I’m FBI, Special Agent Osbourne, this is my partner, Special Agent Daltrey, we were in town to investigate the disappearances, he got thrown by one of those animals, hit the road pretty hard.”

“Okay – Lucy, fetch spinal board and c-collar, we’ve got definite head trauma, possible neck or spinal injuries, maybe internal injuries. We’ll immobilise and assess en route. We’ll take him to the clinic in Globe, Agent, you wanna follow us there?”

“Yeah, will do. Captain, can you tie up things here?”

“Sure thing,” Mercer agreed, “thanks, Agent.”

Dean could only stand back and watch as the two medics expertly turned Sam, strapping him into a collar and onto a backboard, getting him onto a gurney and loading him into the waiting ambulance. Dean gathered up their weapons and stowed them quickly in the trunk before he followed in the Impala, thoughts whirling and head aching.

By the time he reached the hospital, Sam had already been admitted. A kind orderly directed him to the waiting room. He sank down into an uncomfortable plastic chair, leaned back, and stared at the clock on the wall.

Sleep claimed him before he even realised that he was drifting.

Chapter Text

“Dean? Dean, wake up!”

A shake of his shoulder jolted the elder Winchester back to full wakefulness; with a gasp and a start, his eyes flew open. He slapped away the hand automatically, curling a fist, ready to strike, until he met a very familiar, slight amused, slightly worried gaze, and he groaned in relief and recognition.

“Jeez, Sam…”

“Sorry,” his brother flashed an apologetic grin, “c’mon… we need to get outta here before someone notices I’ve checked myself out…”

“Uh, yeah…” bewildered and still foggy from sleep, Dean scrubbed a hand over his eyes and rose to his feet, groaning and sore muscles protested the uncomfortable position he had been in for…

His eyes drifted to the clock on the wall and widened slightly.

Four and a half hours.

Shit.

“Yeah, okay,” he patted Sam’s arm, not missing the way his brother winced, “you good?”

“Yeah,” Sam lied, “let’s go.”

Dean raised an eyebrow at his brother; Sam was pale, bruised; there was surgical tape over the bridge of his nose, both eyes were bruising to black, and his right cheekbone was swollen, looking hot and bright red. No doubt it would soon blossom into a spectacular bruise. He had a clean shirt on, though it was a couple of sizes too big even for his lanky frame, no doubt taken from somewhere in the hospital. There was a bandage around his head, one around his left wrist, and he was walking slightly hunched over with an obvious limp, but he was at least upright and vaguely mobile.

“Dean?”

“Yeah, yeah…” Dean shook himself, “car’s out front. Let’s go.”

Dean led the way through the hospital corridors, Sam beside and half a step behind him. Occasional backward glances and keeping his brother in his peripheral vision assured Dean that Sam was keeping up with him, putting up a good front, one that Dean could see right through. Worry knotted in his chest. Sam was hurting, and Dean had no idea how bad it was.

Nonetheless, they managed to slip out of the clinic relatively unnoticed; Dean beckoned and led the way over to where the Impala was parked. They climbed into the car and Sam leaned back in the seat with a relieved sigh. Dean started up the engine, thinking fast; they needed to grab their bags from the hotel and beat a hasty retreat out of town. With the hunt over, it was dangerous to hang around any longer than necessary.

Pulling the car out of the parking lot, he headed back towards Route 60 in the direction of Miami.

“So?” Dean asked, impatiently, with a quick glance across at his passenger.

“So, what?” Sam gave him a blank look.

“So, what did the doc say?”

“Oh,” Sam shifted uncomfortably, “uh… yeah. I’m okay.”

“Really?” Dean arched an eyebrow, “That’s what the doc said? Yeah, sure, you’re okay, off ya go?”

“Uh, somethin’ like that, yeah.”

“Sam.”

Dean fixed his brother with a glare. Sam flashed him a guilty look, and sighed.

“Yeah, okay,” defeated, Sam glanced away, running a shaking hand through his long hair, “uh… they re-did the stitches in my side; couple-a broken ribs, um… sprained wrist…” he held up his bandaged left hand, rubbing it unconsciously with his right hand, then gesturing vaguely to his head, “severe concussion, couple-a stitches somewhere up here… ahh… fractured cheekbone, broken nose, dislocated shoulder… hah, that hurt like hell when they put it back in… twisted my knee up good, too… I made a break for it when the doc went to go grab a sling and some painkillers.”

“Maybe you should’ve waited,” Dean remarked, eyeing his brother dryly.

“No way,” Sam chuckled, with a grimace, “I wasn’t sure if I’d get another chance to escape.”

“How long were they plannin’ to keep you in for?”

“Three, four days at least,” Sam admitted, “we gotta get outta here before they alert Captain Mercer and he realises that two FBI agents have gone missing.”

“Yeah,” Dean stepped on the gas, “we just need to grab our stuff from the hotel and get gone.”

It was mid-afternoon by the time Dean pulled into the parking lot and the lockdown order had clearly been lifted, as the roads and streets had returned to normal. Dean parked up the car but placed a restraining hand on Sam’s arm when his brother moved to open the door and climb out.

“No,” Dean told him, firmly, “you wait here. I’ll grab the bags, clear the room, and then we’ll split.”

Sam hesitated, and then reluctantly nodded. Dean returned the gesture and clambered out of the car. He strode into the lobby, only to be immediately accosted by the concierge.

“Hey,” the old man snagged his arm, peering up at him excitedly, “is it true? There really was a wild bear? You and your partner killed it?”

“Yeah, yeah it’s true,” Dean spared him a tight, polite smile, disengaging himself quickly, “look, I’m sorry, I just gotta grab something from our room, urgent police business, you understand.”

“Oh! Oh, yes, yes, of course, of course,” the old man waved after him as Dean lunged to grab the elevator, “thank you for your service, Agent!”

“Yeah, sure,” Dean murmured, hitting the button repeatedly until the doors closed.

He jogged to their room, gathering up their things in a rush, cramming everything into their two bags. He swept the salt from the doorway and windowsill, flushing it down the toilet. He bagged up the bloody clothes and dressings from the garbage can, tying up the bag to be burned later, and wiped the wardings from the walls with a damp washcloth. Hefting their bags, he checked the room quickly, satisfied everything was done, and caught the elevator down to the ground floor.

Thankfully, the concierge was busy talking to someone checking in at the front desk, so Dean all but ran out of the hotel. He tossed the bags into the trunk, and jumped behind the wheel.

“Still a lot of patrol cars out on the streets,” Sam told him, warily, as Dean turned the key in the ignition, “the locals are on high alert.”

“Then let’s get the hell outta here.”

Tyres squealed as Dean hit the gas and hauled on the steering wheel, turning sharply out of the lot and onto the road. As he drove, Dean opened up the glove box, rummaged around, and pulled out a box of painkillers, tossing them haphazardly into Sam’s lap, eliciting a surprised grunt from his brother.

“Take a couple-a those,” Dean told him, “take the edge off. Try and relax a bit.”

Sam hesitated, and then nodded, fumbling open the box and popping two tablets out of the blister pack, swallowing them dry.

“Thanks,” he mumbled, folding his arms gingerly and leaning up against the door, “still can’t believe it was a friggin’ bear.”

“Three bears,” Dean corrected him, a little too cheerfully for Sam’s liking, “nice going, Goldilocks.”

Sam groaned; “Oh, God, Dean! How long have you been waiting to make that joke?”  

“Ever since you finally woke up face down on the asphalt,” Dean grinned, “skinwalkers, Sam! I can’t believe it. Three of them, and bears to boot. I’m gonna be drinkin’ for free on this story at every Hunter bar we can find. Damn!”

He slapped the steering wheel in excitement, as Sam gave a low chuckle.

“Told you it wasn’t a waste of time.”

“I knew it all along,” Dean declared, shooting his brother a cheeky, I-dare-you-to-argue-with-me grin, “never doubted you for a second.”

“Sure,” Sam snorted, and then grimaced, pressing the finger and thumb of his right hand to his bruised eyes, “ahh…”

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” Sam winced, “oh, yeah… I’m good.”

Dean was about to suggest his brother get some sleep, when a flash of light in the rear-view mirror caught his eye, and he groaned aloud.

“Ahh… crap.”

“What is it?” Sam asked, fuzzily; the pain-relievers were obviously starting to kick in already.

“We got company,” Dean sighed, “and I think they wanna have a chat…”

With little other choice, Dean rolled the Impala to the side of the road, turning off the ignition, pasting a neutral expression onto his face.

“Captain Mercer,” he greeted the police officer cordially, as the man bent down to his window; glancing across, he recognised the woman at his brother’s window, “Lieutenant Chavez. We were just on our way to the station to catch up with you guys.”

“Station’s three blocks back that way,” Chavez made a vague gesture with the two fingers that held her cigarette, before she took a drag on it, angling her face to blow the smoke away from the car, before turning back, tutting; “I think you boys missed a turning or two.”

“Oh, right,” Dean smiled, charmingly, “sorry about that. These small towns, man… they blur together a bit, y’know what I mean? No offence.”

“Look, fellas,” Mercer gave them an apologetic look, “I’m sorry to do this, and I’m sure it’s all a bit of a misunderstanding…”

“Is there a problem, Captain?”

“See, thing is,” Mercer at least had the good grace to look uncomfortable, “I called through to a buddy of mine in Quantico, wanted to speak to your supervisor, put in a good word for all you’ve done, but when he checked, he couldn’t find any agents on record with your names.”

Shit, thought Dean, as he exchanged a glance with Sam, forcing a smile onto his face.

“The FBI have asked me to hold you here until a couple of agents arrive to confirm your identities,” Mercer continued, reluctantly, “look, fellas, I’m sure it’s a mistake an’ all, but you’re gonna have to come to the station, okay? Feels wrong after all you guys did for us, but I’ve got orders. You’ll need to come with me in the squad car… and I’ve been ordered to take your badges and your guns too.”

“Well, I can’t just leave my car out here on the street…”

“I’ll drive it back to the station,” Chavez spoke up, “don’t worry. I won’t put a scratch on her.”

Dean hesitated, glancing across at Sam, who gave a small, tired shrug. He sighed, and opened the door, stepping out and raising his hands. Sam followed suit; Chavez and Mercer took their badges and guns with obvious reluctance, before Mercer reached for his cuffs.

“Aw, c’mon, man,” Dean groaned, “is that really necessary?”

“Orders,” Mercer at least had the good grace to look embarrassed.

Dean heaved a sigh, holding out his wrists, and Mercer snapped the cuffs on. Chavez did the same to Sam, though she muttered an apology as he winced when the cuff closed tightly around his bandaged wrist; they were folded into the back of the squad car, and Chavez turned back towards the Impala.

“Hey!” Dean shouted after her, “No smoking in my car!”

She tossed him a grin and raised the middle finger of one hand over her shoulder, and Dean was forced to watch as his baby was driven away, back towards the station. Mercer climbed behind the wheel, and Dean heaved a sigh as the Captain turned the car around, and hauled them off to the station.

Chapter Text

“C’mon guys!” Dean bellowed, grabbing the cell bars and giving them a good shake with his cuffed hands, for good measure, “Let us outta here!”

“Quiet down there!”

A distant voice yelled back, and Dean grunted in frustration, turning away from the bars, raising his cuffed hands to scrub them through his hair in annoyance. It had been at least three or four hours since he and Sam had been shoved into the cell; Dean had pleaded for the cuffs to be removed but the custody sergeant had refused, citing ‘orders’ that they be kept restrained ‘until the real FBI showed up’.

“We are so screwed,” Sam mumbled.

At least they had been put in the cell together, somewhere in the basement of the building. It held no comforts, designed for short-term holding; a single narrow cot and a toilet with no seat, no paper, and no sink. Dean had insisted that Sam lie down on the cot; it was a couple of inches too short, but it at least offered the chance for Sam to rest a while. It was hardly comfortable, though; Sam’s breathing was erratic, and he was white as a sheet beneath the bruises. The painkillers had obviously worn off some time ago, but of course Sam made no complaint, clinging to stoicism and enduring the discomfort as quietly as he could.

Dean paced a few times, but then crossed to the cot and carefully sat down, perching on the edge of it, letting his cuffed hands rest in his lap. Sam shifted uncomfortably, blinking up at him through heavy-lidded, red-rimmed eyes. His arms were bent at the elbows, so that his cuffed hands were resting on his chest in almost prayer-like position, and Dean could see how swollen the fingers of his left hand had become under the bandages and the tight cuffs.

“How’re you doin’?”

Sam managed a dry chuckle; “Great, just great.”

“Yeah,” Dean snorted, “me too.”

“Liar.”

“Look who’s talkin’.”

Sam chuckled again, but broke off with a pained groan. Dean hung his head a little.

“I’m sorry, Sam,” he said, at length, with a heavy sigh, “I should’ve been faster at the hotel, we could-a been outta here by now…”

“S’not your fault, Dean,” Sam replied, softly; he sounded tired, hoarse, “this was bound to happen sometime…”

“Yeah,” Dean scowled as he was forced to raise both hands to rub his face, “God, I miss Bobby. One phone call…”

“Yeah,” Sam gave a half-smile, “he’d’ve cussed ‘em out for wasting his time and we’d’ve been outta here in a second.”

“Damn straight,” Dean agreed, with a fond smile.

“Have you tried Cas?”

“Been prayin’ to him on and off for the last couple-a hours,” Dean admitted, “either he’s too busy or he can’t hear me right now.”

“Damn,” Sam breathed, shifting a little on the cot, wincing, “I wish they’d at least taken the cuffs off…”

He immediately fell silent when Dean snapped his head around, tensing, then pushing himself to his feet at the sound of footsteps on the stairs. Sure enough, Captain Dan Mercer appeared, looking very sheepish, a red flush on his high cheekbones.

“It’s about damn time…” Dean began, but Mercer held up both hands, staving him off.

“Look, fellas, I’m really sorry about all this,” he said, with genuine feeling, “I can’t thank you enough for dealing with those damned bears, but I’ve been on and off the phone all day with the FBI and they’re saying your badges are fake. There are no agents called Dean Osbourne or Sam Daltrey… but they are after missing, presumed dead, fugitives named Dean and Sam Winchester, and they faxed over the mugshots, and… well… I think you know the rest.”

“When are they comin’?” Dean asked, flatly.

“We’re keeping you here overnight and transferring you to federal custody in the morning,” Mercer replied, regretfully, “they’re telling me you’re extremely dangerous and to be kept under armed guard and restrained at all times. They’re citing a long list of charges against you fellas…”

“Yeah, well, only half of ‘em are true,” Dean grumbled, “look, you want the truth? Me and my brother, we hunt things. Crazy things. Like, shit you wouldn’t believe, man.”

“Like bears?”

“They weren’t normal bears, and I think you know that,” Dean said, firmly, “they were monsters. They’re called ‘skinwalkers’. Things that look human but turn themselves into animals, that’s why you couldn’t find them; they looked like people.”

“Skin… walkers?” Mercer repeated, dubiously.

“Yeah,” Dean nodded, “vampires, werewolves, witches, demons… that’s our job, and we’re damn good at it, and we save people, man. People like you and all the folks in this town, but sometimes, sometimes that puts us on the wrong side of the law, you know?”

“Like… pretending to be FBI agents?”

“Yeah,” Dean ducked his head for a moment, then met Mercer’s questioning gaze, “look, I don’t really care if you believe me or not, but we did save your ass and this whole damn town. My brother got hurt pretty bad taking down those beasts. He needs a doctor, or at least the damned cuffs takin’ off and some pain relief, alright? We won’t give you any trouble, I swear.”

Mercer hesitated, jaw twitching slightly, but then he gave a slight shake of his head.

“Can’t make any promises,” he replied, “but I’ll see what I can do.”

The police Captain disappeared, and Dean let out another sigh, leaning heavily against the bars of the cell, gripping them with his cuffed hands.

“And how about some damned room service? A coffee would be nice!”

“It ain’t right, Dan,” Chavez was leaning against Mercer’s desk as he paced up and down, “you know it, I know it; it just don’t feel right.”

“What do you want me to do, Tash?” Mercer held up his hands in frustration, “These guys are wanted by the Feds. Have you seen the list of charges? Everything from credit card fraud to murder to… grave desecration? Who the hell are these guys?”

“They, as they quite rightly pointed out, are the two badasses who saved this whole damn town from frickin’ bears.”

“Yeah, but… fake FBI badges? Pretending to be Federal Agents?”

“Gets the job done, I suppose.”

“They’re also batshit crazy,” Mercer slapped a hand to his head, “did you hear the part I said about monsters? Monsters. They think they hunt monsters! Vampires and shit. They said those bears were some kind of… shape shifters. That they were people who could change into bears. Absolutely nuts!”

“That ain’t the half of it,” Chavez snorted, “I had a poke through their car…”

“Uh, Tash… the Feds told us not to touch their vehicle once it was parked in the lot.”

“Yeah, so? So, I had a poke through their car, and man, they are packing some seriously weird shit. Standard stuff; knives, guns, that kind of shit, but weird archaic stuff too; wooden stakes, iron bars, and they seem to have a weird obsession with salt… fake ID’s, credit cards? Dozens of ‘em, multiple names, everything from police to park rangers to homeland security to health inspectors… and a grenade launcher.”

“A… what?”

“You heard,” Chavez patted down her pockets, pulled out a packet of smokes, offering one to Mercer and then taking one for herself, “I’m tellin’ you, Dan, these guys are badass, and armed to the teeth, and probably crazy, but… I don’t think they’re bad news.”

“We can’t disobey Federal orders, Tash,” Mercer leaned in as she held up her lighter, igniting his cigarette, taking a drag, and exhaling slowly, “what the hell am I supposed to do?”

“If it was me? I’d let ‘em out,” Chavez replied, crossing her legs as she leaned back against the Captain’s desk, drawing deeply on her own smoke, “screw the Feds. Those guys down there are goddamn heroes.”

“We can’t just let them out!”

“Well, we can stage it, say they escaped – hell, if those boys are as dangerous as the Feds say they are, they should-a been here to pick ‘em up quicker, shouldn’t they?”

“How are you even still on the force?”

“Because you like the pasta salad I bring to potluck?”

Mercer snorted, and then grimaced as his desk phone rang, staring at it with trepidation. Chavez caught his look, rolled her eyes, and snatched up the handset.

“Chavez… yeah, yeah, we’re both here. Yeah, okay. Yeah. I’ll send him down. Thanks.”

She put the phone down on the cradle, angling a look across at Mercer.

“Front desk. Some old lady wants to make a complaint, says her husband was murdered last night and her two kids were gunned down by police this morning, she wants to speak to the officer in charge.”

“Shot by police?” Mercer screwed his face up in confusion, “The only shots fired today were to take down those two rabid crazy-ass bears… there were no civilian casualties.”

“That we know of,” Chavez shrugged, “you’d better go talk to her.”

“Yeah… you coming?”

“Do I have to?”

“Oh, hell yes.”

“Asshole.”

“That’s ‘Captain’ Asshole to you, Lieutenant.”

“Whatever. Let’s go see what the crazy bitch wants…”

“Hey, Chavez?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you think bears can actually get rabies?”

“How the hell would I know?”

As soon as Mercer left, silence fell in the tiny cell.

Dean and Sam waited; Dean alternating between pacing the confines of the cage of sitting on the edge of the cot. Sam drifted in and out of consciousness, unable to properly sleep but not really fully awake.

Minutes ticked by slowly.

Mercer did not return.

Eventually, two heavily armed officers appeared sometime towards the evening, one carrying a tray. Dean was ordered back from the door at gunpoint; the door swung open, the tray was placed on the floor, and then the door clanged shut again, the two officers disappearing back up the stairs.

“Hey! Any chance we can lose the damn cuffs now?”

There was no response, and Dean growled a curse, turning towards the tray on the floor. He eyed the contents; two chicken salad sandwiches on napkins, no plates, no cutlery, and two paper cups filled with water. There was also a small plastic medicine cup containing a couple of innocuous white pills that looked like over-the-counter pain relief; not much use given the obvious agony Sam was in, but better than nothing.

“Sam? Sit up, man, I got somethin’ for ya…”

With a pained groan and a little help from his brother, Sam managed to get upright, sitting on the edge of the cot, gasping a little and blinking dizzily at the shift in position. Dean waited until a little colour returned to his waxen features, as the nausea abated a little.

“Here,” Dean tipped the pills into Sam’s right hand; he swallowed them quickly and washed them down with a sip of water, from the cup Dean passed him, “you need to eat somethin’…”

The sandwiches were dry and fairly stale, but both Sam and Dean forced them down; it was the first sustenance they had eaten all day, and it was getting late. The water helped a little, but they still felt parched; they were both weak and tired, battered, bruised, and more than a little dehydrated. Dean sank down on the bunk next to Sam, close enough that their shoulders were touching.

“Are you sure you haven’t got anything on you that we can use to pick these locks?”

“Sorry,” Sam replied, a little distantly, “they searched us both pretty good before they locked us in here.”

“Crap,” Dean sighed, leaning back, “how the hell do we Houdini our way outta here, then?”

“Jump a guard?”

“I don’t think they’re risking coming anywhere near us.”

“Yeah…”

“We could do the whole ‘help-I-think-my-brother’s-dying’ ruse,” Dean suggested, with a wry smile, “at least you look the part.”

“Yeah, because that’ll totally work,” Sam rolled his eyes and then groaned, raising his hands to his head.

“Hey, take it easy there, or the routine’ll end up a little too convincing.”

Sam leaned against the wall with a grimace, glancing up at the ceiling. He ached all over and he still felt queasy, the sandwich having done nothing to settle his stomach. His head pounded in tandem with the blazing pain his his side, his left shoulder and wrist were throbbing, fingers swollen and numb beyond use thanks to the tight cuffs over the bandages. His chest, stomach and face all ached horribly, he was bone tired and generally felt like he had been hit by a truck… he groaned as dizziness and nausea threatened to overwhelm him…

Before he realised it, there were gentle hands easing him down onto the thin mattress of the cot; someone lifted his legs up as he slumped over, and then there were hands resting on his arm. He blinked, sluggishly, trying to force his hazy vision to focus.

“Sam? You alright? You still with me?”

“Dean…” the word came out as a croak, groaned more than spoken.

“Yeah, I’m here,” his brother patted his arm reassuringly, “you get some rest, man. I’ll figure something out.”

Sam managed a slight nod and drifted… so he had no idea whether it was mere minutes or hours that had passed before the screaming started.

Chapter Text

At the sounds of screaming, Sam snapped to full wakefulness with a gasp, hauling himself upright with a pained grunt, adrenaline lending him sudden strength.

“What’s… what’s going on?”

“No idea,” Dean was pressed up against the bars, gripping them tightly, trying to peer around to the stairs, but he could see nothing, “but whatever it is… it ain’t good.”

There were multiple voices; shouting, screaming… gunshots, several rounds firing all at once, and then, over it all, a bellowing roar. Some of the screams were cut off, abruptly, and then the lights dimmed, and an emergency klaxon sounded somewhere above them – the fire alarm.

“Hey!” Dean shouted, “Hey, is there anyone there? What’s going on? Hello? Hello?”

“Dean…”

Before they could say anything else, the door at the top of the stairs was flung open and a lone figure came hurtling down, missing the last couple of steps, going sprawling, gasping, sobbing, scrambling to her feet.

“Chavez…?”

Dean hardly recognised the normally laconic Lieutenant; her hair was in disarray, uniform torn and bloodied, a deep laceration spilling blood down her cheek, eyes wide and wild, streaked with tears and bright with terror.

“It’s true,” she gasped, breathlessly, clutching the bars of the cage, hanging on tightly, as if they were the only things keeping her grounded, “it’s all goddamn true… what you told Dan… he’s dead, oh God, he’s dead, that thing tore him in half…”

“What thing?” Sam forced himself to his feet, staggering, almost collapsing, but managing to get to the bars, leaning up against them, “Chavez! What thing?”

“Some… some crazy old lady turned up, screaming some shit about her husband being murdered last night,” Chavez let go of the cage and was fumbling with her keys, her hands shaking so badly she could barely hold onto them, “then saying that her kids were gunned down by police this morning…”

“Oh, crap,” Dean shared a horrified look with Sam.

“Let me guess,” Sam said, faintly, “she, uh…”

“She turned into a bear!” Chavez half-laughed, half-sobbed, bordering on hysterical, “a freakin’ bear, man, right in front of me, crazy lady one moment, then bam, a massive frickin’ black bear right in the goddamn lobby and she… she just… she tore Dan in half, man…”

She finally got the key in the lock and clawed the door open, flinging herself into the cell, scrabbling at her keys again, unfastening the cuffs around Dean’s wrists. He calmly shook them off, took the keys from her trembling hands, and used them to free his brother, not missing the look of pure relief Sam gave him as he gingerly rubbed his bandaged wrist, cradling the injured left arm in his right one as he rolled his sore shoulder with a groan.

“Well, we got daddy bear and the two baby bears, looks like it’s momma bear’s turn,” Dean commented, dryly.

“Our guns aren’t doin’ shit to it,” Chavez was still babbling, shaking her head, drawing her gun and popping out the clip, waving it at them, “I emptied this whole damn thing into the bitch and she just kept comin’! How the hell do you stop this thing?”

“Silver bullets,” Dean replied, bluntly, “one to the head or to the heart. It’s the only way to take down somethin’ like this.”

“We need our guns,” Sam spoke up, with a pained grimace.

“They’re in lockup…”

“Can we get to it?”

“Not without getting past that… that… that thing.”

“What about my car?” Dean pressed, “We’ve got backup weapons and bullets in the trunk.”

“That crazy ass armoury of yours? Yeah, sure,” Chavez swiped a hand over her eyes, clearly trying to pull herself together, “it’s still in the lot, Feds told us not to touch it. There’s a back way out, follow me…”

“Sam? You good?”

“Yeah,” Sam nodded, a little breathlessly, “what’s one more, huh? Let’s do this.”

Chavez dropped her empty clip, slapping a new one in and pulling back the slide, releasing it back into position. She then held the weapon close to her chest, for all the good it might do, then gestured to them. Dean indicated for Sam to go first, mostly so that Dean could bring up the rear and keep an eye on his brother at the same time.

The station had gone eerily quiet, but Chavez visibly jumped at every noise as she led them through the halls, towards the back of the small building. From somewhere, there was an angry shout; a loud roar, three shots followed, then a piercing scream, abruptly silenced. Chavez whimpered and made the sign of the cross over her chest, but pressed onwards.

Slipping out the fire escape at the back of the building, Dean was momentarily thrown by the fact night had fallen; he had not realised just how long they had been in the basement cell. Chavez led them around to the front; a large crowd of people had congregated, drawn in by the noise and confusion; several officers were there, some of them bloodied and shell-shocked, others trying to hold back the gawking crowd.

Her terror and trauma forgotten, training kicked in, and Chavez took charge.

“Get these people outta here!”

Her bellow cut through the chaos, rousing several of her colleagues to action, but the crowd was not dissuaded. Chavez held her gun up high, and squeezed the trigger, pumping three rounds into the sky. The crowd let out gasps and cries of shock, cowering back.

“I said; get these people outta here, now! Clear this goddamn street! Right now! We got a major gas leak, the building could blow, give me a clear radius before the whole damn street goes up!”

“Gas leak?” Dean repeated, amused, “And you just shot your gun in the air?”

“Shut up,” Chavez hissed back, “here, your keys. Get what you need. And gimme one of those guns too while you’re at it.”

She tossed him the car keys as she bellowed orders at her subordinates, jarring them into action, forcing the crowd back, out of sight, and out of harms’ way. Dean shot across the lot to his beloved Impala, hauling open the trunk, grabbing their rifles and handguns; he turned, tossing a rifle to Sam, who caught it despite his bandaged hand. He passed one of the handguns to Chavez, who took it with a slight curl of her lip.

“Any chance of having that grenade launcher instead?”

“That won’t do squat against this thing,” Dean replied, knowingly, “they can regenerate from pretty much any wound that ain’t caused by silver. It’s the one thing they can’t come back from.”

“And you’d call it, a, a, what was it…?”

“Skinwalker,” Sam supplied, slipping the safety off his rifle and pressing the butt into his shoulder with a wince, raising the weapon cautiously, “they’re distantly related to werewolves… these ones are very rare. Normally they take on canine forms.”

“First time we’ve ever even heard of a bear one,” Dean nodded, “let alone a whole damn family of ‘em.”

“Momma must’ve stayed in the mineshaft while the kids came out after their dad,” Sam theorised, as they slowly approached the front door, “be careful. These things are fast, they’re strong…”

“And this one’s as pissed as all hell,” Dean nodded, “alright… let’s go. Stay together. We don’t split up, okay?”

Sam and Chavez gave sharp nods, as Dean pushed open the door, and stepped inside.

The front lobby was a scene straight out of a horror movie, and Sam shot a sympathetic look at Chavez’s strangled sob at the sight of her friends and colleagues strewn across the blood-slicked floor… at least, the parts of them that were still recognisable as human. Spent shell casings littered the linoleum, and, in the blood, huge paw prints led towards the door to the rest of the station… where they shrank, becoming all too human.

“Even in human form, skinwalkers are incredibly strong,” Sam whispered, “if you see her, don’t hesitate to shoot. Do you know what she looked like?”

“White, late sixties to early seventies, long grey hair, bit wild and crazy lookin’,” Chavez whispered back, “about five-eleven, heavy built, wearin’ old jeans an’ a grey tank top… before she, uh, turned into a giant black bear, that is.”

“Oh,” Dean gave Chavez a tight smile, “if she’s shifted to bear form an’ back to human, she’ll be buck-ass naked now.”

“Oh,” Chavez said, a little faintly, “right. Obviously.”

“You’re alright, Chavez. We’ve got this.”

Without warning, the side door Dean was passing was flung open, and a grey-haired, heavy-set, wrinkled old woman, naked and wild-eyed, launched herself out of the room. Chavez was thrown into the wall, colliding hard with it, slumping to the ground. Dean found his rifle being snatched out of his hand and swung at him like a club; he just managed to raise his arm to shield his face, but the blow sent him hurtling, sliding along the polished floor of the corridor like a hockey puck on ice.

“I was wrong! We don’t got this! Sam…!”

Sam managed to squeeze off a shot, but the woman was lightning quick; shoving the rifle barrel to one side and snarling a curse at him through yellow, jagged teeth. A powerful shove sent him flying backwards; he slammed into the wall, unable to prevent a cry of pain, crashing onto the ground.

The woman took a step towards him, and Sam managed to raise his bandaged hand defensively, helpless…

“Hey, bitch! Over here!”

Dean’s shout split the air; the woman turned, snarling, shifting, and the corridor was suddenly a lot smaller when it was filled with bear.

And she was one very angry bear.

With a deep roar, the beast broke into a lumbering charge; a gunshot tore through the air, but this bear really was smarter than the average bear.

Flinging herself to one side, she punched a deep hole into the drywall with the impact of her bulk, squealing in rage and pain as the bullet gouged into her shoulder, wounding, but not fatal. Another shift, and Dean’s second shot went wide of the mark, hitting the ceiling instead of the bulk of the bear as the human-form old woman executed a surprisingly athletic leap, vaulting, kicking the gun from Dean’s hand, and then she was upon him, claw-like fingers grasping at his neck, choking him.

Dean grabbed her wrists, trying to fend her off, but despite her advancing age, her superhuman strength was undiminished.

“Sam! A little help over here, man!”

“Allow me!”

It was Chavez, not Sam; a booted foot kicked the woman squarely in the face, once, twice, and the woman snarled, releasing Dean, swiping the blood from her nose with one hand as she rose to face the new threat. Chavez raised her handgun, cop instincts taking over.

“Stand down! This is your last chance, don’t make me shoot you!”

“Chavez! Shoot her!” Dean snapped.

“Stand down!”

“You,” the old woman hissed, “you killed my babies! Hunter bastards!”

“Chavez! Shoot her!”

Too late.

The woman lunged in a blur of motion; the gunshot went wide, and the old skinwalker slammed into Chavez, flinging the gun aside. With one hand, she pinned Chavez to the wall, bringing her other hand up, curled into a fist…

Chavez let out a choked cry of terror as the woman shifted, and she found herself gazing into the glittering black eyes of a gigantic black bear, snarling, fangs beared, frenzied and out for blood.

Dean scrambled for his rifle.

The bear roared, standing on her back legs, Chavez pinned to the wall… and Dean’s rifle trapped firmly under one foot.

The bear raised her paw, clearly aiming to smite first the cop, then the hunter.

A gunshot rang out.

There was a wet, popping sound.

Blood splattered everywhere.

Chavez let out a gasp, red dripping down her pale features.

The paw at her throat went limp.

The bear topped over, a hole blown clean through her temple, scattering blood and brains across the hallway walls, floor, and ceiling, her eyes wide and unseeing as her body hit the floor with a hefty thump that shook the building to its foundations.

Dean lifted himself up onto his elbows, scrambling away from the gigantic corpse that had missed crushing him by less than half an inch.

Sam stood, further down the hallway, rifle raised, a wisp of smoke rising from the barrel. He lowered the gun, and spared his brother a tight nod.

“Is she dead?” Sam rasped.

Chavez, still pressed against the wall, rolled wide eyes towards him and gave a slow nod.

“Yeah,” she whispered, shakily, “yeah, you got her… thanks…”

“Awesome…”

Sam staggered sideways, leaning heavily against the wall, but apparently this was not enough; his legs folded from beneath him, and he slid gracelessly to the ground, slumped up against the wall, somehow still clutching his rifle.

“Sam?”

Dean managed to stagger to his feet, all but climbing over the dead bear as Chavez stood over it in shock. Dean yanked his rifle out from under the corpse, crouching in front of his brother.

“Sam, you alright, man?”

“Yeah, yeah, just… just need a minute,” Sam wheezed, head lolling a little as he leaned against the wall for support.

“Chavez? You hurt?”

“Uh… no,” came the shaky reply, “traumatised for life and wondering how the hell I’m going to explain yet another dead bear and two escaped fugitives to the FBI in the morning, but I’m okay.”

Dean hesitated; “Two… escaped fugitives?”

“Oh,” Chavez gave him a shaky smile as she finally peeled herself off the wall, easing past the huge body and picking up the dropped handgun with shaking hands, “yeah… yeah. Y’see, we had these, uh, these two really, um, really dangerous guys, down in the lockup, and, uh, they, they must’ve busted out in all the chaos, you know, never saw ‘em leave, don’t even know which way they went, and, uh, with all this mess, the computers got screwed up, so, you know, all the camera footage is gone, and, and, and, uh, we just couldn’t spare anyone to go lookin’ for ‘em, you know, not with, with all our dead and wounded…”

Chavez was giggling and sobbing at the same time, swiping at the tears tracking down her blood-slicked face with the hand that held the gun.

“Go,” Sam patted Dean’s arm, jerking his head towards the stumbling Lieutenant, “see to her. I’m alright.”

Dean rose with a nod, reaching out, catching Chavez as she stumbled a little, and, the next thing he knew, he had his arms full of a sobbing Lieutenant as she gripped his shirt tightly with one hand, the other still clutching the gun. With a gentle sigh, he returned the embrace, patting her on the back.

“S’okay, Chavez, s’alright,” he murmured, sympathetically, “you’re alright, c’mon.”

To her credit, Chavez quickly managed to get herself under control, gulping in a few deep breaths, trembling all over, but pulling back from the embrace with a grateful nod.

“I’ll, uh, I’ll save the rest of the breakdown for later,” she gasped, wiping away the tears again, sniffing back her emotions, “you’d better get out of here, now. You don’t have much time before reinforcements show up and things get messy…”

She hiccuped, another half-laugh, half-sob escaping her, as she gestured the gun at the hallway.

“Messier, I mean…”

Dean snagged the gun, taking it gently from her unresisting grip, as she let out a whimper, then visibly steeled herself.

“Go,” she told him, “take him and go, now. I can deal with this.”

“You sure?”

“Absolutely. Now, go!”

Dean did not need telling again. He bolted, reaching for the arm Sam outstretched towards him, hauling his brother to his feet, clenching his own teeth when he heard Sam’s strangled gasp of pain, but Sam gamely kept pace as they fled down the corridor, through the gore-slicked foyer, and out through the main doors to the parking lot. A couple of officers were there; they moved to intercept, but a shout from the doorway stopped them in their tracks.

“Garcia! Henderson! Stand down!”

Chavez, covered in blood, sweat, and tear stains, stood framed in the entrance, hand on hips, expression one of righteous fury.

“Lieutenant! The prisoners – they’re escaping!”

“I don’t see any prisoners escaping and neither do you, do you hear me, Henderson?”

“Uh… yes, ma’am!”

Dean and Sam flung their weapons carelessly into the trunk. Dean threw himself behind the wheel; Sam hesitated momentarily, meeting Chavez’s gaze.

“Thank you,” he mouthed, nodding to her.

She gave him a quick salute, inclining her head, and then made a ‘go away’ flick of her hand. Sam lowered himself into the car; he was still closing the door as Dean threw the Impala into reverse and tore out of the lot. Tyres squealed as he hauled it around a few tight bends, and then he put his foot down as they hit Route 60, and the town flew by until the lights disappeared behind them, and Miami was a speck in their rear-view mirror.

The town vanished into the distance, and Dean finally allowed himself to heave an exhausted sigh of relief.

“I think we’re gonna make it,” he breathed, at long last, “you still with me, Sammy?”

“Yeah,” Sam sounded even worse than before, “that was… some hunt.”

“Yeah… and don’t think I didn’t notice that you took down three of the four bears, man! You really are Goldilocks. You’ve certainly got the hair for it, anyway.”

Sam let out an amused snort, weakly batting away the hand that reached out to ruffle his hair.

“Get off,” he retorted, breathlessly, wincing a little, “jerk.”

“Bitch,” Dean smiled, his relief at their narrow escape making him feel a little giddy with elation.

“Dean?”

“Yeah?”

“Is it… uh… is it okay with you if I pass out now?”

“Sam?”

Dean shot a worried look across at his brother; Sam spared him a sickly smile, before his eyes rolled up and his head lolled forward, and he seemed to slump bonelessly in the seat.

“Sam!”

Dean kept one hand on the steering wheel as he reached over, giving Sam a firm shake; there was no response. With a low curse, Dean fumbled awkwardly, managing to get his fingers to the pulse-point at Sam’s throat, holding his breath for a long moment, and then letting out a relieved huff at the steady beat beneath his touch.

“Jeez, Sammy, don’t do that to me,” he whispered, “you just scared the crap outta me, man…”

There was still no reply; Sam was out for the count, shoulders slumped, head nodding forwards, lips slightly parted, eyes closed. Dean moved his hand, giving his brother’s shoulder a gentle squeeze. He toyed with the idea of pulling over to try and wake Sam up, but he knew they needed to get away from Miami and out of Arizona as fast as possible, so he put his foot to the floor, and let the Chevy eat up the miles.

It was at the second gas stop that Sam finally stirred, the sun already well past dawn and starting to climb. The first thing he was aware of was pain, thundering through his head, into his neck, though his chest, and… well, everywhere, really. A feeling of nausea clawed at his throat, and he tried to swallow it down, coughing, gasping, head reeling with dizziness. His left shoulder, wrist, and hand throbbed mercilessly; his side blazed fire and he wondered, vaguely, whether the stitches had held up.

At that thought, memory came crashing back over him and he blinked his eyes open, confused and disorientated; he felt stiff, movements uncoordinated as he reeled, and then finally recognised the familiarity of his surroundings.

The car.

He was in the Impala.

That meant he was safe.

Dean…

The events of the night came back in a rush as he blinked, gasped, and glanced around, desperately, wondering where…

The driver’s door opened and Sam instinctively flinched back in shock.

“Heh-hey, look who’s finally awake!”

Dean dropped heavily into his seat, and Sam could only stare at him in bleary confusion as a bottle of water was thrust towards him, ice cold, dripping condensation, cool and inviting.

“Here,” Dean told him, “you need to drink somethin’. You’ve been out for nearly six hours.”

“No wonder my neck hurts,” Sam managed to mumble, around the thick, vile taste in his mouth, rubbing the back of his head ruefully.

He accepted the bottle with shaking hands, managed to fight off the lid, and sipped it carefully, mindful of his roiling stomach. The cold water was a balm to his parched mouth and throat, and it took him a moment to realise that the groan of relief he heard had actually come from him, when Dean chuckled a little.

“Got you a coffee chaser, too,” his older brother set a cardboard cup-carrier down on the seat between them, “also got us a couple of breakfast burritos, and some protein bars.”

Dean started up the car, keen to hit the road again, even as he tore into his burrito with gusto, and they were back under way.

“How’re ya feelin’, Sammy?” Dean asked, cheerfully, around the mouthful of food he was chewing.

“Gross,” Sam admitted, deliberately looking out of the window at the desert surrounding them so that he did not have to watch Dean eat while he was still feeling queasy, “like I got… I dunno…”

“Punched by a bear?” Dean supplied, flippantly.

“Something like that,” Sam managed a wan smile, “you been driving all night?”

“Somethin’ like that,” Dean echoed his brother’s words back to him with an amused grin, “worth it, though. Figured we’d cover as much mileage as we can, maybe find a motel in a few hours, take a breather, and finish the drive home to the bunker tomorrow, that sound good to you?”

“Oh, yeah, man, sure,” Sam nodded in agreement, wincing; the prospect of a few hours of sleep in a proper bed sounded like heaven to his aching body.

“You want somethin’ to eat? It’s been a while.”

“Maybe in a bit,” Sam sipped carefully at the water bottle again, “this’ll do for now. Thanks.”

“You sure? The breakfast burrito’s good, man… sausage, bacon, omelette, hash brown, onions…”

“Ugh,” Sam groaned, “Dean, no, please, stop…”

Dean glanced across, saw the greenish pallor of his brother’s face, and hastily rolled the windows down, getting the greasy smell out of the car.

“Don’t you hurl in my car, man.”

Sam only grunted in response, shifting a little so that the warm breeze was on his face, leaning heavily against the door frame.

“Hey, Sam?”

“Yeah?”

“If you’re not gonna eat your burrito…?”

“It’s all yours, Dean.”

“Awesome.”

Dean chuckled as he tore into the second wrap with the same enthusiasm as the first one, sparing his brother a sympathetic look.

“Concussions are a bitch, huh?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“Ya look like ya got hit by a bus.”

“Feels like it… ugh…”

“Feeling a little queasy there, princess? Ya sure ya don’t want some of this burrito? It’s really good, man…”

“Dean… for the love of God…”

“Sorry, Goldilocks, the gas station was fresh outta porridge.”

Sam shot his brother an aggrieved look.

“Dean, I swear…”

“Don’t worry, Sammy, we’ll get you to a motel for some proper sleep soon. And you know what?”

“What?”

“I’m gonna check the beds first, to make sure they’re juuuust right.”

Sam rolled his eyes but could not suppress his amused chuckle as Dean let out a whoop of a laugh, floored the accelerator, and they tore through the desert with the sun rising behind them.