Fic: Draw Blood
Title: Draw Blood
Author: deHavilland
Rating: PG-13
Pairing and Spoilers: None
Word Count: 5,049
Warnings: Some violence, some language.
Summary: It’s winter in Minnesota and there’s a pretty angry werewolf on the loose. Dean and Sam are on the case, but they can’t be bothered to bring anything as important as supplies - just guns.
Author’s Note: Written for hoodie_time’s ‘Writing Between the Lines’ challenge, based on this prompt by rainylemons, which was spectacular and which I took in probably the exact opposite direction of what was intended. I’m contrary like that.
Much love to my beta, Alrynnas and my alpha, Mindelan, who listened to my problems and notably said this about the bloody trail Dean leaves in the snow: “Can’t you make it comedic and the bottle of BBQ sauce in his pocket sprung a leak and made that trail?” Thank you, Mindelan. Thank you for nothing.
* * *
The sheer height of the snowy drifts out here in the cold is almost enough to make Dean wish that he’d sucked it up and not rolled his eyes at Sam when his brother had made the suggestion of commandeering a couple pairs of snowshoes from the little hunting cabin they’re using as home base. It wouldn’t really even be stealing, given that the owner of the cabin is the same person they’re tracking through the wilds of Minnesota, just north of Vermilion Lake. In fact, he probably owes it to them.
They’re closer to the Canadian border than they usually like to travel - specifically in order to avoid shitty weather like this - but the hunt has led them on a weaving trail of monthly victims and newly-turned weres all the way from Ohio. The werewolf they’re hunting is one of those especially destructive bastards who just takes, takes, takes and then moves on without leaving a trace.
Except that this time, it did.
But if it weren’t for Sam and his six-pound brain they wouldn’t even be this close to it. Even if ‘this close’ really only means that somewhere in a twenty-mile radius of trees, snow and wilderness is an angry werewolf that’s tired of being followed.
Stomping his way through snow that comes up to his knees isn’t Dean’s idea of a good night, but at least his brother, trudging with equal difficulty at his side hasn’t opened his mouth to complain and, more importantly, it beats the alternative. Dean half expects Castiel to show up any time now, standing solidly in the middle of a two-foot drift, the snow surrounding him all the way up to the flaps of his messy trench coat as he deadpans something about Lucifer. Or demons. Or demons and Lucifer.
Yeah, probably that one.
He almost shares this halfway amusing mental image with his brother, but the silence around them is just so absolute that he keeps his mouth shut.
And truly, the night-time quiet is a nice one. So often on hunts like this when after hours in the wilderness even the normal animals have fallen silent in deference to the supernatural the quiet is tense, eerie. Tonight, it’s almost comforting, which Dean thinks is largely to do with the blanketing effect of the snow - something he’s sure his brother has some kind of scientific explanation for. The dampening of sound waves in the trapped air between the fallen snowflakes, or some bullshit.
His brother might study it, but Dean just likes to enjoy. The world is quieter with the snow. The trees around them have silvery darts of icicles hanging from every branch and each step forward brings a cloudy, warm wash of air - his most recent exhale - back into his face. He has the sense that this is what normal hunters feel like when they track a buck through the wild. It’s a little different when what you’re going after is a still somewhat human-looking monster that consciously wants you dead.
But even so, the sentiment probably remains more or less the same.
Next to him, Sam stops and instinctively, Dean freezes as well, gloved hands closing a little tighter around his M1911. It’s nice to have the familiar weight of the pistol in his hands, though as far as werewolves are concerned, Sam has the better weapon. His Taurus is loaded with three times as much shot, but Dean wouldn’t have it any other way though his fingers itch for the long range rifle in the Impala’s weapons cache. It would be nice to have the advantage of a little extra firing room, but the ballistics of the rifle mean blasting the silver bullets through rather than into the monster.
Which could spell the difference between injuring the thing and killing it outright.
Sam is pointing to something only a handful of feet away and Dean cranes his neck to see over his brother’s shoulder.
Footprints.
The idea of them belonging to some traveler out in the cold is negated by the imprints of ten perfectly distinguishable toes, cleanly marked into the too-deep snow. The clarity of the tracks practically says out loud that the thing is picking its way through the drifts carefully, slowly.
Dean shoots his brother a questioning look and Sam slowly turns his head to look around them, which Dean interprets as the thought that the werewolf is most likely circling them. It’s probably true. If it were running, as it has been since Ohio, the tracks would be deeper and less clear. Even a werewolf barrelling nimbly through two feet of snow would make a mess of the landscape, but this isn’t the case. Finally, the sonuvabitch is going to stand its ground long enough for them to get a good shot at it.
Dean is equal parts thrilled and apprehensive at this revelation.
His brother is moving again, continuing in the direction they had initially set out in, leaving Dean to put some distance between them, following the tracks. If the werewolf is indeed circling with the intention of attacking, splitting up gives them the advantage. Should it spring at one of them, the other will be at a good range to pick it off without being under attack themselves.
Now the silence of the winter night has regained some of its tenseness. Ahead, the steady drip of water plinks against the frozen surface of the snow. The frost on the trees around them has just enough thaw to provide the sound and Dean’s eyes track along the terrain in front of him. Some of the tree branches droop under the weight of the ice and he expects any minute now to see one of them crack from the pressure.
He’s signalling a quick warning to Sam to be careful on the ice when his own leg drops through a thick sheet of it, the jagged edge catching on his pant leg and tearing through. It’s the cold he feels first, then the pain of too-sharp ice shards biting into his numbing skin.
He doesn’t cry out, though it hurts. Fuck it hurts. The sound of the ice cracking and Dean’s body dropping through it is enough to draw Sam’s attention to him anyway.
His brother is at his side immediately, legs planted firmly on either side of him as he grabs Dean under the armpits without asking permission, hoisting him helpfully upwards. The ice jabbing him in the leg takes this as an opportunity to retaliate against the reversal of direction by slicing through his skin the opposite way as it’s pulled past.
Free of the ice, Dean bats his brother away and sits down heavily on the ground, not caring that the snow is going to soak through his already too-cold jeans. There is blood staining the denim all along his right thigh, looking black in the scant starlight. There’s enough of it oozing out sluggishly to make Dean wonder if he’s nicked his femoral artery, but Sam’s sympathetic hiss isn’t panicked enough to confirm this.
“You okay?” His brother’s voice is soft as he crouches down next to Dean, hands pressing along his leg. “Looks deep.”
“I’m fine,” Dean brushes his brother’s hands away again. “Doesn’t hurt. S’too cold for that.” The clipped sentences belie just how cold it is and Dean finds himself beginning to shiver. Shock, he reminds himself. Get it together. Can’t sit on your ass and wait for the wolf. Need to move.
He considers hypothermia for a moment and rises shakily to his feet.
“See? M’fine.”
Sam looks like he’s about to argue, to insist on crafting some sort of makeshift bandage because they were too stupid to come out into the woods with any sort of useful supplies, but unless the sasquatch has a first aid kit hidden under his shirt, there’s nothing he can do anyway.
“Save it,” Dean holds up a hand to silence him, rising gingerly to his feet. “We gotta get that mother and get back to the cabin. Can’t just sit here.” His teeth are chattering too now. Damn it.
They start moving again, Dean favouring his right leg and walking with more care, eyes mindful of both ice and any glimpse of bare skin amidst the trees. The fact that what they’re hunting looks almost more human than not is one of the most off-putting things about the damn werewolf, but the prints he’s tracking continue on just as crisp and clean as when they started, so he follows. It’s hard to tell how fresh they are, the night air is still with no wind or falling snow to obstruct the tracks and give them a clue as to their newness, but all it takes is a glance back at the blurried trail behind him to show that this thing is moving slowly.
And given how slow the going is for himself and Sam, they have to be getting pretty damn close to the stupid thing.
A few feet away, his brother is mumbling something under his breath and Dean shoots him a sharp look. It sounds an awful lot like some sort of muffled prayer - to Castiel, apparently - and Dean is hard pressed not to roll his eyes. The last thing he needs is the angel lingering around being equal parts dick-ish and melancholy.
A sharp burst of pain shoots up his leg as he missteps in the snow and Dean bites back that last thought. Castiel... yeah, the angel might actually be pretty useful right about now. That doesn’t mean, however, that Sam should continue his under breath mutterings and Dean holds his glare until his brother notices and is silent.
They’re getting physically farther apart with each step and not in short because of Dean’s slower pace. When the moon comes out behind its cover of clouds, full and bright, he spares a glance at his thigh. The prognosis is not good. He may not have a hit an artery - even with the extreme cold helping the blood to clot faster, it would be squirting with each heart beat - but the ice definitely scratched something pretty important. His right pant leg is soaked with blood and if the cold night air hadn’t already numbed his limbs to freezing point, he would most likely be on the ground.
Sam is too far to his left to see this development and Dean’s grateful because if his brother knew just how injured he is they’d turn back and they are finally so close to ganking this thing that even an injury like this one isn’t enough to put Dean off the hunt.
There.
They see it at the same time, the flash of hulking body amid the trees, visible thanks to the moon’s reappearance overhead. The wolf seems to realize that it’s been sighted and it darts away into the darker cover of the trees.
The glimpse is enough for the brothers. Both Winchesters clutch their guns a little tighter, holding them aloft, ready to fire. They keep the distance between themselves even and measured as they calmly advance on the monster.
It manifests again on the right, closer to Dean and in instinct born of their dad’s training, he tabs the 1911’s thumb safety and fires off two quick rounds at the wolf.
They miss as the monster skitters off into the trees, gunshots echoing in the wilderness.
“Fuck,” Dean’s eyes narrow as he scans the darkness for the wolf, but it’s gone. More embarrassing than his misfiring is the fact that the kickback on the gun has him teetering on his good leg. He knows that the recoil on his pistol is actually lighter than most and the fact that it has had any effect on him at all speaks volumes towards how much blood he’s lost.
In fact, he’s starting to feel weak and sluggish himself, breathing becoming more difficult and fatigue eating at his freezing body. Whether these are a result of the hours-long trek through ice and snow, his injury or - worse - the onset of hypothermia, Dean’s unsure. He does know, however, that his leg hurts like a mother. Sharp, blinding spasms rocket up his thigh with each step. He probably should have done something to staunch the blood flow, but with the wolf bearing down on them, Dean’s out of luck now.
Almost as if for no reason than to refute that last thought, the werewolf doesn’t reappear for several long, tense minutes and Dean knows his condition is rapidly approaching critical. He’s lost entirely too much blood and his leg, literally, is killing him. Each step is a miserable jolt; God, he needs help. He needs divine intervention, needs Castiel to get his feathery ass to their side and do something about his leg. Teleport him somewhere warm and well stocked with bandages and antiseptics.
Something.
“Dean.” It’s not the angel’s gravelly voice that fills the silence of the woods, but Sam’s. He’s not looking at his brother, but at something behind him, and Dean’s pretty sure he knows exactly what that something is.
Sam’s gun is raised, but the sharp, resounding crack isn’t from the firing of the Taurus, but the snap of one of those weighted-down dead branches breaking off from a tree overhead. In a shower of falling ice and snow, the limb plummets downwards, too quickly to incite any sort of reaction and when it hits the ground it takes Sam down with it.
He doesn’t get up.
“Fuck. Fuck. Castiel, I don’t care if you just want to tell me that Lucifer is eating people,” Dean’s conversational tone does a piss poor job of masking his panic, “Now would be a great fucking time to show your face, man.”
Predictably, the angel doesn’t appear and Dean dares a glance back to see that the wolf is gone again, probably startled by the noise, before wading his way through the snow to Sam’s side. It’s stupid - being next to him makes them an easier target - but if his brother isn’t even conscious then there’s no one to watch his back anyway.
Three steps closer to his brother, Dean stumbles and trying to regain his footing only leads to his leg finally giving out for good.
When he turns to look, the path he’s left in the snow is red slush, almost black in the moonlight that filters down between the bare branches of the ice-crusted trees. Dean grips his gun tight and tries to get to his knees when he hears the werewolf howl. The sound is too close and Sam’s still form is too far.
It’s hard to breathe and everything feels too tight, too crowded in his chest. It doesn’t stop him from speaking, from gasping out a fierce, desperate prayer as something runs by in the shadows, circling him. Circling Sam.
“God dammit, Cas,” Dean wheezes, “fucking please, man. Please.”
Cas doesn’t answer and Dean takes aim as the werewolf darts towards Sam’s body. He doesn’t know if Sam’s still alive - can’t see from this distance if his chest is still rising and falling with breath. It doesn’t matter. Dean would still fight to the death over his brother, even if he’s standing between a corpse and the monster that wants to rip his heart from his chest.
And that’s definitely the hypothermia talking. Or the shock, or whatever. Because Sammy is not dead. He’s taken harder blows to the head than that and Dean bites back the wave of nausea he feels when the image of the branch falling on his brother replays itself for him.
The werewolf disappears into the trees once more, long enough for Dean to close the gaping distance between himself and his unconscious brother by half before it returns.
The monster is more man than beast, hunched over as though its supernatural instinct to walk on all fours is fighting with its more human side. It’s naked, clothes lost and torn during his transformation and its bare skin gleams in the silvery moonlight. It seems to contemplate Dean, on his knees in the snow, with eerily intelligent eyes. Dean’s gun is at the ready, both hands cradling the grip as he takes careful aim.
The first bullet grazes the wolf’s shoulder as it dodges quickly out of the way, circling around to get between him and Sam.
The second bullet emits a spray of blood as it pierces the beast’s leg, but it’s not enough to bring the werewolf down yet.
As the wolf darts away, favouring its leg, Dean does the math in his head. His M1911 only has three shots left in the loaded magazine, but Sam’s Taurus, loaded and unfired, has seventeen. If he can make it to his brother’s gun, he’ll stand a much better chance of bringing the thing down.
It’s watching him from just out of range now, sitting on its haunches and staring at him with those eerily aware eyes. They’re at an impasse for now. As long as Dean has a loaded gun, it knows better than to attack, but it also knows that Dean’s bleeding out all over the snow. It’s only a matter of time.
And it doesn’t mind waiting.
Reaching behind him with one hand, the other still holding his pistol planed at the wolf, Dean drags himself closer to Sam. If he’s lucky, which to be honest he wouldn’t hedge any bets on, given that nature seems to have it out for the Winchesters tonight, then the silver in the werewolf’s leg will weaken it somewhat. As he crawls backwards, pulling with his free arm and pushing with his good leg, the werewolf growls at him. It’s still too far away to shoot at, so Dean ignores it, slowly closing the distance between himself and Sam.
When there’s only a foot or two left, the wolf lunges, gnashing its teeth at Dean’s injured, outstretched leg.
It darts away, playing him, before Dean can hit it. Another bullet wasted.
There’s only two left, but he’s so close to Sam, so close to the Taurus. If he could take his eyes off of the werewolf for even a second, he could turn and have the gun in his hands.
As if sensing this, the wolf pads closer, eyes glittering dangerously.
On instinct, Dean fires, missing, and the wolf leaps at him a second time, teeth closing around his booted foot in a movement much more animal than man and wrenching. Dean lets out a howl of pain as he kicks it away. The fucker broke his leg.
It’s unbearable, absolutely unbearable the agony he feels. Dean is no stranger to broken limbs and that’s definitely what this feels like. It gives a shock to his numbing system anyway, clearing his fog-addled brain long enough to gingerly drag himself to Sam’s side and blindly reach for the Taurus.
There’s no longer any restraint in the werewolf’s movements, no calculated assault. It goes in for the kill, throwing itself at Dean, fangs bared, a low snarl rumbling through its chest.
Dean holds back from firing. With only one bullet left in the M1911, he needs to save it for a point blank, can’t-possibly-fuck-this-up shot.
The werewolf pins him, claws digging bloody furrows into his arms, teeth going straight for his throat. He grapples with it, using his extra height and its weight to his own advantage, toppling it to the side and landing it gingerly on its injured leg.
As it wheels back to lunge a second time, Dean kicks at its shoulder, gun planed to fire as it moves in closer.
In the end, the wolf makes it almost too easy. As it tears at him with both claws and teeth, Dean is able to press the muzzle of the gun flush against its head and in an implosion of blood and brain matter, the silver bullet does its job.
It takes Dean a few moments of heavy breathing before it sinks in that the werewolf is dead, that he needs to check on Sam, that they need to get back to the cabin.
Oh, and that he’s probably dying.
* * *
“Wake up, Dean, wake up. Please, Dean. You have to get up. Have to.” Sam’s panicked voice is the first thing that Dean’s conscious of, followed by the fact that his brother is shaking him furiously and lastly the agonizing pain that this causes.
“Sam,” his tongue feels too heavy for his mouth and the name comes out slurred and misshapen, but the shaking stops so Sam must have heard.
“Dean,” his brother’s voice, if possible, sounds even more worried and Dean has the vague feeling that he’s floating until he opens his eyes. It’s still night, in fact it’s only been a minute or two tops since he killed the werewolf, though it feels like days. Its still-warm corpse is only a few inches away. “Dean, you’re a mess. You have to stay awake for me, okay?”
He squints at Sam, trying to see his brother’s face through the fog - and when did it get foggy? Or is that just him? Sam is covered in blood. Whose blood, Dean can’t even begin to figure because everything is covered in blood. Himself, the werewolf, Sammy, everything.
“Sam...” Again, the name doesn’t sound right and suddenly Dean is ensconced in warmth. Some part of him knows that in reality Sam can’t be that warm, but it just feels so good that he leans into the touch, eyes drifting shut.
Immediately, the warmth retreats and the return of biting cold does its job in waking him up. “No, Dean. You have to stay awake.”
He hears something about shock and hypothermia, but it all sounds like white noise to him. He just wants that warmth back and to sleep.
His brother grips him by the belt, raising him up off the ground and manhandling him to the corpse of the werewolf. Dean has the vague sense that this is a dead body that he’s being manoeuvred towards, but he doesn’t complain as Sam, in a truly impressive feat of strength borne of adrenaline, jostles him under the still-warm body. As he the limp torso and limbs of the werewolf is draped over him, Dean decides that he doesn’t even care that it’s a corpse, not when it’s so warm.
Though he can’t help but slur out a distorted, “An’ I thought they smelled bad on the outside.”
Sam’s hands leave him for a moment, then brush over his forehead. Even through his brother’s gloves, the touch feels good, comforting, though some part of Dean knows that this is supposed to be working the other way around with him providing the comfort. “Good, Dean. You know, I don’t really remember Star Wars too well. Wanna explain it to me?”
Dean grasps onto this concept. Does he! He watches, drifting in and out of lucidity as Sam breaks off pieces of the same tree limb that knocked him out, piling them up in what is becoming a makeshift campsite, all the while regaling his brother with his borderline hypothermic version of Star Wars. And if it happens to be about Duke Skywalker and his flying General Lee, Sam at least has the good grace not to bother correcting him. At least it’s keeping Dean conscious, anyway.
Dean doesn’t remember when his brother took his lighter out of his jacket pocket, but the spark of flame it emits when Sam bends down to start a meagre campfire attracts his attention. His eyes follow the light, watching with all the entrancement of a stoner on their first high as the pine boughs catch and begin to burn.
It takes the entire duration of Dean’s detailed description of Duke’s cousin’s golden bikini before the flames are high enough to classify the burning sticks as a proper fire. Once they are, he watches Sam shed his mitts, leaving them closer to the flames. The action, which he’s certain should make sense, only baffles him.
“S’at a fire?”
“Yeah. Yeah, it’s a fire.” Sam sits down next to him, pressing his own body against the warm wolf corpse. Again Dean remembers that what he’s lying under is a rather substantial hunk of dead monster. It’s surprising actually, just how much heat it gives off, and between it and the fire Dean is almost starting to regain a bit of his lucidity.
“No fires.” His eyes are perhaps a little too wide, a glitter of some sort of madness flickering there in the firelight. “Gonna attract attention.”
Sam huffs a soft laugh. Even in shock Dean’s instincts are alive and kicking, and he can’t understand why his brother thinks that this is funny.
He forgets this, however, when Sam places a hand on his cheek. His brother’s skin is only a little bit warmer than his own, but the touch feels so good that he can’t help but lean into it. His body hurts like a bitch and he feels like it’s covered in freezer burn, but that touch on his face is the absolute best thing he’s ever known, he’s certain of it.
“I think we’ll be okay for tonight,” Sam says in regards to the fire and Dean grumbles a little when his brother’s hands leave his face, reaching for his shredded arms instead. He draws them away from beneath the wolf and Dean closes his eyes as though to will away both the pain and the cold. “It got you good, huh?”
The deep gashes the werewolf left in his arms have ceased their sluggish bleeding, clotting in the subzero temperature. Dean is only vaguely aware that the strips of cloth Sam uses to bind them are torn from his brother’s shirt.
“How are your hands holding up?”
It takes Dean a moment to consider this question and whether or not he even has hands.
“Dean?”
Green eyes swivel up to peer at Sam, “Th’fuck you wan’ me to say, Sammy? They’re cold.”
Sam pulls the cheap gloves off of them and Dean wonders for a moment if his brother’s brain is as befuddled as his own is, because that’s absolutely not going to help - but Dean mewls, actually mewls when Sam’s warmer hands grip his stiff, frozen ones. He whimpers lightly as his brother gently smoothes his hands over Dean’s numb flesh, then slips the gloves that have been warming by the fire over them.
If Dean still had a dick, which he’s pretty sure he doesn’t anymore, the feel of the warmed fleece against his hands would be positively orgasmic.
The downside of this added warmth is the fact that now his blood has started to recirculate through his fingers and it stings, though not nearly as much as his leg does.
“Better?”
“Yeah.”
“Alright, sit tight for a bit.” Dean watches as Sam places the other pair of gloves by the fire and then begins to fill his flask with snow, placing it too near the flames.
Dean finds he can only handle his brother being out of reach for so long before calling out to him. “Sam?” His voice sounds small, weakened by the feeling being brought back into his battered body.
His brother returns to his side, flask in hand. He takes a quick swig of it himself before pressing it to Dean’s lips and letting him have the rest of it. “It’s okay, Dean. We’re good, man.” The flask is pulled away from too-dry lips. “Can I see your leg?”
Dean tries to move, to offer his ruined leg to Sam’s clinical scrutiny but his brother is quick to keep him still.
“Woah, Dean, stop. Let me.” With a careful grip under both his arm pits, Dean is manoeuvred away from the warmth of the wolf corpse, but close enough to the fire not to miss it too much, to allow Sam better access to the limb.
He manages to sit up enough to watch as Sam binds the angry-looking thigh wound. The edges of the torn skin are jagged, his flesh in shreds. The tears caused by the ice are more merciless than those caused by an actual blade, but either way this hurts like a mother fucker. As Sam pats his leg down, checking the break, the pain of the fracture jostles Dean back into complete clarity. It’s broken all right, but at least it’s a clean break, there’s no white flash of bone peeking out through the skin that he can see.
Dean loses track of the next couple of minutes, lost in the haze of pain. Sam goes somewhere out of his line of vision and returns with two straight, sturdy tree branches, which he uses in conjunction with both of their belts to form a makeshift splint for Dean’s broken leg.
Necessary preparations made for what promises to be a long night, Dean is hustled back under the wolf, his shoulders and head cradled comfortably in Sam’s lap.
“Let’s go s’mwhere warm, ‘kay?” Dean’s eyes are closed as he relaxes into his brother’s hold. “Texas. Flor’da.”
Sam laughs, drooping his own tired head down, chin against his chest as he brushes the light strands of hair near Dean’s temple around his ear in smooth, circular motions. It’s something he used to do for Sam when he was little, Dean recalls, enjoying the comforting touch.
“Sam?”
“Yeah, Dean?”
“You didn’t believe that shit, didja? Star Wars. S’not what it’s about.”
There is silence for a moment. “You were just fucking with me, huh?”
“Yeah.” Dean’s teeth are chattering. “Yeah, jus’ fuckin’ with you.”
* * *
Sunlight offers only a little added warmth as it illuminates the whiteness of the snow. Though the sun’s slow ascent has been gradual and Sam’s been awake for the entire process, it still feels as though the forest is filled with light all at once, sun already high in the sky.
After stretching out his long limbs, refilling the flask and warming both his and Dean’s gloves one last time, Sam hoists his brother onto his back, mindful of the need for Dean’s broken leg to remain straight and unjostled, and sets off for the cabin and the Impala.
They’ve survived.