Lupo Mutaret (16)
sixteen
The first thing Sam was aware of was that he was moving.
It was a subtle movement, more of a sense of momentum than any real sense of movement, but Sam had been raised out of the back of a car. He'd made himself a home in the back seat of the Impala, and her familiar rolling gait had lulled him into sleep more times than not.
It took less than a second for him to realise that he wasn't in the Impala. There was a distinctive crunch-crack of grinding gears from somewhere to his left, and every muscle in his body tensed at the noise, because that was the sound of someone grinding the gears of a vehicle much bigger than his brother's Impala or father's truck.
He forced his muscles to relax, even as he trained his ears for any sounds. His hearing seemed dulled, and it took him a few moments to understand that it was because he was in his human form as opposed to his canine one.
Thankfully, even as a human his hearing was better than most, and certainly good enough to overhear a faint thread of conversation from the same direction as he'd heard the crunching only seconds before.
"-couldn't see well enough to even know for sure that he is a shifter!" Someone was snarling, sounding more than a little outraged.
The man's comment was followed by a dull roar of laughter, and a few mutters. Sam couldn't work out how many people he was dealing with, but he was certain that it was more than two.
"Of course he's a shifter!" Somebody else snapped. "Did you miss the part where one second there was two dogs, and the next second there was a dead dog and a fucking kid? How the hell is that not proof enough?"
It took Sam a few seconds to recall the sickening tear of flesh between his teeth as he'd torn the other shifter's throat out, and even longer to recognise that the voices he could hear were talking about him. He tried to turn his head a little, hoping that he might be able to hear them better, and regretted the decision almost immediately when a sharp lance of pain shot its way from his head, down through his spine.
It was only years of his father's training, of constantly being told to 'suck it up, soldier!' that had him biting back the groan that threatened to escape him.
As it was, he fought to take deep, steady breaths and wisely chose not to attempt to move his head again. His stomach churned uncomfortably, but thankfully settled a second later - he figured that he was suffering from at least a minor concussion, and had a brief recollection of turning to the sounds of gunshots, only to be whacked around the back of the head by something hard and heavy.
Past experience told him that it was probably the butt of a gun.
"-still a kid, and I'm not gonna let you fucking shoot him until we know for sure!"
It was only then that Sam realised that he'd lost track of the conversation, and his eyes flew open at the mention of being shot. He abandoned his attempts at being subtle in favour of assessing his situation and hoping that he could find a way out - it was pretty obvious that he wasn't going to learn anything of use just by listening.
It took his eyes a few seconds to focus on what was going on around him, and the slightly blurred edge to his vision suggested that he may have slightly underestimated his head injury. The bright light streaming through the van's windscreen almost seemed to be aiming for his eyes, and he squinted to try and get a better idea of the situation.
From what he could see, there was three men sitting in the van's cab, and two more sat behind them - leaning forwards as the five of them spoke quietly. None of them were watching him and Sam let his eyes sink shut in relief for a long second, before he blinked them back open and forced himself to focus.
Wriggling his hands and feet proved that they weren't bound, and he braced himself on his right arm as he painstakingly rolled over - leaving his head for last. This time the pain was more than a sharp bolt, and Sam found himself blinking his eyes open moments later to the realisation that he'd passed out.
He could understand why the hunters - and he was sure that was what he was faced with, because who else knew about shapeshifters, and shot at them with silver bullets? - hadn't bound him, because that movement alone was enough to prove that he wasn't going anywhere under his own steam. Even the infamous Winchester determination wouldn't get him far.
There was no internal release catch on the inside of the van's door, which was probably good planning on their behalf, because Sam wasn't above letting the door's swing open in the hope that someone might see him and step into help - even at the risk of falling out and getting hit by a car or something. In fact, the throbbing pain in his head and curdling nausea in the pit of his stomach left him wondering whether that would be preferable.
He sucked in another deep breath, and let his eyes roam around the inside of the van - he could see a few duffel bags, and felt a smile tease the edge of his lips when his eyes fell on the hilt of a knife sticking up out of one, just a few feet of his hands.
He painstakingly shifted, reaching his hand out as far as he could manage, and felt a swell of triumph as his hand closed over the cool metal.
A split-second later, the van hit a pothole in the road and Sam lost consciousness once more.
*
The second time Sam came around, it was to the reassuring feel of metal in his hand. His eyes opened slowly, the teenager more than a little dazed by his latest spell of unconsciousness, and when the door next to him suddenly swung open it was instinct alone that had him flipping the blade in his hand and thrusting it upwards blindly.
There was a startled shout, a splatter of warm liquid against the side of Sam's hand, and then something connected with his wrist and despite years of training having taught him to do the exact opposite, Sam's hand released its grip.
The knife clattered to the floor, and without his own arm obstructing his view, the young hunter's eyes fell on his kidnappers for the first time.
By all accounts, they were typical hunters; five burly men with scars on their knuckles and hard eyes, dressed in plaid shirts and jeans. Sam figured that, out of his view, they'd be wearing steel-capped boots - just to complete the look.
"Jesus christ," One of them was swearing, clutching his arm close to his chest. "The fucker got me with my own goddamned knife!"
Sam grinned dizzily, proud of the blood dripping from between the man's fingers. With the amount of blood he could see, he figured that he'd got him pretty deep - regardless of how this ended, at least one of them would be leaving with a new scar.
"You said this would be an easy job!" The guy continued, getting more and more irate. "I'm getting too old for this shit - Martin, get our bags. We're out of here."
The smallest of the guys carefully climbed into the van, keeping his eyes on Sam as he manouevered his way towards the two duffel bags near the injured teenager's head. Sam kept his eyes on him, watching as he passed it out to the man Sam had knifed, and turned to grab another from near the teenager's feet.
In true Winchester fashion, Sam chose that moment to lift his boot and slam it into the man's back, sending him careening into the side of the van with a loud thud. The van rocked, and Sam thought for a second that he might pass out again, before his eyes focused on movement at his feet.
Bloody-nosed and cursing up a storm, the now-injured man tossed his duffel into the dirt by the van's doors, before turning to land a swift kick to Sam's ribs with a sick smile of enjoyment.
The sight of blood dripping down his face was well worth the pain.
"For your sake," The first man sneered, tugging Martin out of the back of the van by his arm. "I hope they kill you quickly."
Sam just smiled, watching triumphantly as the two hunters turned and left. Whilst it wasn't that much of an accomplishment - still leaving him with a concussion to rival all others, throbbing ribs and three more hunters to face - it was, at least, a little bit of an improvement. As his father would say, 'the less people you have to fight, the better your outcome.'
"Great," One of the other hunters - a stocky ginger man, with a thick beard and a scar running from the corner of one eye up to his temple - groused. "This job sucks ass, Byron. Maybe Karl's right - how do we even know that the goddamn kid's a shifter?"
Sam snickered a little at the realisation that the stockiest of the three remaining men - a brunette with a cruel smile and a heavy-looking metal crucifix dangling from around his neck - was named Byron. His brother would have had a field day with a hunter having such a 'pansy-ass name'.
The last remaining hunter of the three, who Sam assumed to be Karl, shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. From what Sam could gather, he was probably the voice that he'd overheard earlier - the only one that seemed to have any repercussions about killing him there and then.
Though he was a little more slight than Byron, he certainly made up for it in height - none of the Winchester men were exactly slacking in that department, but Sam wagered that he'd have left all three of them in the dust with ease.
All things considered, he probably wasn't the worst person that Sam could have landed in his corner. Frankly, he was lucky to have anyone at all.
Now he just needed to work out some way to exploit the other man's indecisiveness for long enough to get the hell out or dodge. Or, failing that, for long enough to get a message to his brother and his father.
"Just shut up," Byron snarled. "The kids as much shifter as I am hunter, and that's all there is to it. Now quit your bitching and get him inside."
Karl still seemed reluctant, but he didn't argue the point. Instead, he stepped up to the van, and reached for the young shifter's legs. It took Sam only a few seconds to realise that he was the only one so far that seemed to be thinking things through properly - tugging Sam out of the van by his legs without so much as attempting to get close enough for Sam to land a hit.
Sam scowled at him, kicking out almost petulantly, and his world spun sickeningly as Karl deftly avoided the blow, locked his hands around Sam's ankles and tugged. Pain seared through him, and he could practically feel his eyes starting to roll back into his eyes as he fought to stay conscious. As tempting as it was to give into the blissful, pain-free land of unconsciousness, he was determined to see where it was he was being taken.
It was information that would be more valuable than anything, should an escape attempt be successful.
By the time he forced his eyes to open, he was being roughly supported between Karl and the ginger hunter, one arm slung over each of their shoulders and his feet dragging along the ground as they tugged him towards what appeared to be some kind of holiday cabin, complete with a rocking chair on the porch and a quaint little bench that looked to have been carved from the trunk of a fallen tree.
There was woods to the left, and a seemingly endless road to the right. Sam knew that if he were to get free, the woods would be his best bet - he'd be quicker on four feet than two, and his canine shape would give him more than a little bit of an advantage when it came to navigating the rough forest terrain.
Byron was leading the way, shotgun slung casually over his shoulder. Sam knew better than to hope it was filled with buckshot or rocksalt; he could smell the acrid tinge of the silver rounds in the air, and his neck stung sharply at the reminder of just how close on of those bullets had gotten to his neck.
"Marie will be glad to see the little shit," He was saying conversationally, leering at Sam over his shoulder as he bounced up the steps. "He and the brother sure as hell made a bad impression on her when she scouted them for us. She hasn't stopped raving about making them pay since she got home."
Sam frowned, wondering whether his brain was more addled than he thought and he was misinterpreting what was being said, or whether he and Dean really had made a bad impression on someone, and simply hadn't noticed.
His question was answered when the cabin's door swung open to reveal a middle-aged woman grinning brightly, red lipstick still smudged against the yellow of her teeth. By her feet, a sorrowful dalmatian stuck it's head around the door, as if apologising for his mistress. Sam resisted the urge to swear loudly by a hairs-breadth, recalling Dean's rather rude brush off of her; whilst his older brother had only done it in an effort to stop her crushing Sam to death, it seemed that Sam was about to pay for it.
"About time you showed up," She said, giving Byron a kiss on the cheek as he headed past her. The jerky movement of being dragged up the stairs almost had Sam losing his battle against the encroaching blackness, but he sucked in deep breaths and fought as hard as he could to keep his eyes on Marie as she turned to him. "Hmmm. Still pretty even as a human, I see. I'd be almost sad to get rid of him if I didn't know it was one of their tricks, the filthy animals. Put him in the basement -"
"I'm not letting anyone kill him until I've seen him shift." Karl interrupted her, tightening his grip on Sam's arm almost protectively.
Marie raised an eyebrow, appearing amused rather than annoyed.
"Is that the case?" She asked, something dark flashing through her eyes. "You always did have a big heart and too little brains in that head of yours. Well, then, we'll just have to convince him to shift for us, won't we? Chain him up downstairs, and we'll see how long it takes the runt to shift once we start playing our games."
The vibrations of the ginger hunter laughing rocked Sam unsteadily on his feet, and his tenuous grip on consciousness finally slipped.
(A/N: Finally, you get a little bit of Sam POV. There'll be a lot more of that to come, but I'm not planning on abandoning Dean's side of the story either, so don't worry!)