Lupo Mutaret (15/?)
fifteen
It took the Winchester brothers less than an hour to meet up with Pastor Jim and their father and to prepare for the hunt. Dean had expected John to insist that they wait for the cover of darkness, but the eldest Winchester had announced that the cabin was deep enough in the woods that they'd get away with a little daylight hunting for once.
Considering how anxious Sam was to get out there, Dean didn't necessarily think it was a bad plan - waiting until night would only give the sixteen-year-old more time to work himself up.
As it was, the teenager hadn't said more than two words to his brother since they'd first left the woods. At first, Dean had assumed that the kid was ignoring him completely, and had rolled his eyes at the somewhat childish behavior. That was, until he'd unthinkingly asked his brother a question and Sam had replied in a short, clipped response. After that it didn't take a genius to figure out that the reason that Sam wasn't talking was because he was pissed as hell and trying not to say anything he'd regret.
Dean kind of felt a little mollified by that.
They made the trip back to the forest in complete silence, Sam having once more shifted into his canine form to make it a little easier to follow the same path that they'd taken before. Everything about the young man's body language screamed that he was a hundred percent on the hunt, but one ear was facing back towards his family and Pastor Jim. Clearly, he was just as concerned about them as he was with getting the hunt over and done with.
"It's just up here," Dean muttered quietly to the two elder hunters, squinting his eyes to try and make out the outline of the cabin through the gaps in the trees. "He was on the porch earlier."
John nodded, ducking his head to try and get a better glimpse at the area they were targeting, up ahead of them Sam visibly stiffened. Frowning, Dean lifted his head to ask his brother what was wrong, and in the next second there was an explosion of movement.
Sam twisted where he stood, launching himself at the bushes to the left of them - so close that Dean could feel the brush of his brother's fur against his leg - and careening with another body in midair. The two shapes crashed to the floor in a tangle of limbs, snarling and snapping, and Dean reached for his gun on blind instinct.
"Shit," John swore loudly. "Sam! Damn it, we're never going to get a clear shot like this."
Just a few feet away, Sam lunged for the other shifter - which, at Dean's best guess, was some kind of German Shepherd - his teeth aiming for the tender flesh of his throat. This shifter blocked the blow, head driving into Sam's side and sending him staggering sideways, trying to stay on his feet.
Instantly the clearing erupted into the sound of gunshots, all three of the remaining hunters firing at once. Ordinarily, the hunt would have ended there, but the angle was bad and the shifter just kept coming.
Dean jerked sideways as the creature lunged for him, narrowly avoiding dropping his gun, and Sam was barreling into the other canine's side before he had a chance to make a second attempt. This time, the impact sent them both rolling, and Sam seemed to defy everything that Dean knew about canine anatomy, twisting back on himself to charge straight back at his opponent.
The shifter was ready, teeth ready for an attack, and just as Dean thought that they were going to meet in the middle, Sam launched himself off the floor and sailed straight over his opponent. He disappeared into the bushes at the side of the clearing, the shifter hot on his heels, and for a second Dean couldn't work out what had happened.
John was swearing, eyes darting around the outskirts of the clearing in an effort to locate their youngest, but around them the woods were silent and still.
"Damnit," John growled. "What the hell is that fool kid playing at? Sam!"
There was no reply and just when Dean was opening his mouth to question what they were going to do, there was a pain-filled yelp from their left. Eyes widening, Dean darted into the brush without thought, readjusting his course a little when another yelp sounded and blindly stumbling his way through the forest. He was keenly aware of his father and their friend at his back, but his only thoughts were for his brother.
"Sam?" He yelled. "Sam!"
He stumbled into a clearing, glancing around wildly, chest heaving for oxygen as he strained his ears for the sounds of a fight.
Seconds later the sound of a gunshot echoed towards them and Dean was moving again, running even faster than before as a second shot sounded, followed by a third, and a fourth.
Sam had the best aim out of all of them, despite their father's insistences that he needed to take hunting more seriously and train harder. There was no way that he'd need four shots... not even if the angle was awful; which meant that either something had gone horrifically wrong, or there was somebody else out there shooting.
It was John that spotted the casings, grabbing Dean's arm when he continued to plow forwards, solely focused on finding his brother. There was three of them lying on a flattened bed of leaves just off to the right of the trail that they'd been following, and Dean didn't have to look any closer to realize that they were silver.
The outline of a boot was firmly outlined into the squashed grass, far too big to be Sam's, and accompanied by a small groove that could only have been made by a knee. Which meant that whoever had been shooting had known how to kill the shifter, and had known better than to be seen. There was only a select group of people that fit the bill, and Dean's heart sunk as he realized that there had been another hunter here the whole time.
John crouched in the indents, tipping his head towards a space a few feet further into the foilage, where Dean could just make out more bootprints. From what the teenager could tell, there was two more sets, and his stomach flipped sickeningly as he started to put pieces together and turned in the direction that the hunters had obviously been firing in.
Between the trees, he could just make out dark stain of blood against grass, and the faint outline of a body.
"Oh god," He breathed, hand tightening around his gun. He knew that he should go and check, knew that even if it was his brother lying there, there was still a chance to save him, but fear had his feet rooted to the spot. "Oh, Jesus."
John glanced up, following his line of vision, and Dean saw his father's face pale as he darted across the space between him and the body. The eldest of the Winchester boys watched his father's retreating back with a sick fascination as the man knelt next to the canine outline, and he closed his eyes as Jim gently sqeezed his shoulder.
It was Sam. He knew it. Dean hadn't been there to protect him, and some rogue hunter with a silver-loaded shotgun and good intentions had killed his brother, and-
"It's not him."
Dean's eyes flew open at the relief in his father's voice, locking on the man that had raised them, taking in the fear in set of the older man's jaw and the relief in his eyes. "It's the shifter."
It was those words that gave Dean the courage to cross the distance between them, long legs eating up the distance in a handful of steps, and he couldn't help the surge of relief that washed through him when finally laid eyes on the unfamiliar outline of the shifter that they'd been hunting - there was no mistaking the dark black saddle for Sam's lighter markings, or the now-blank brown of his eyes for the vivid hazel that Dean knew better than he knew the green of his own.
It was then that his eyes locked on the shifter's torn-out throat, and the relief was gone in the same instant, because a wound like that hadn't come from a gun - which meant that Sam hadn't shot anyone. He'd torn the shifter's throat out with his teeth and Dean wasn't naive enough to think that it was after the hunters had opened fire. No, his brother had killed the shifter, and then he'd been shot at.
And now, he was gone.
"John."
Dean jumped as Pastor Jim's voice ghosted across the clearing, having almost forgot that the hunter was there, and when his eyes fell on what the elder man was holding he thought he was going to be sick.
Gingerly held between forefinger and thumb, the red leather collar that Sam had been wearing when he'd left was blood-splattered and torn, stained with dirt and a far cry from the clean material that Dean had buckled around his neck only earlier that day.
Worse than that was that just a few inches over from the buckle, a deep gouge had scored its way through the leather - it was undeniable proof of how close at least one bullet had come to the vulnerable flesh of his brother's throat.
A/N: Kind of a short one guys, but we're finally getting to the action! Thanks for sticking with me this long!