AN - OK, grovelling at this juncture is probably not going to help my cause, but if it's any consolation my personal life has completely kicked my ass seven ways in the last few months. I started a new job, lost a close friend, had family issues and got sick. On top of that, I've been building a new website. I'm really sorry for the delay with this chapter. I hope you enjoy it. Thank you to all the folk who have encouraged me to keep writing and who have stuck with this story. THanks to Leigh for the beta as always.

Chapter Fourteen

The Black Hills, South Dakota

Wed 13 March 1996, Nightfall

The attack was so swift that Dean barely had time to react.

Something hard rammed into his side, forcing the air from his lungs. Dean's legs folded like wet paper as blinding pain speared through his torso. He hit the ground in an explosion of pain that radiated from deep within his chest, spiking through his ribs and into his spine. The world flickered around him like a candle flame in a draft, his head spinning. He tasted bile as his winded lungs tried, and failed, to draw breath.

He could smell the familiar scent of his brother beneath him, could hear his weak moans of pain, could feel Sam's trembling frame shying away from his dead weight. Dean knew he had smashed into Sam when the attack had happened and that made his blood run cold. Sam was already badly hurt and Dean was lying on top of him, his own torso pressed against Sam’s bruised ribs.

"D-Dean?" Sam's voice, confused and pain-laced, was muffled beneath him.

Dean wanted to respond, to reassure his brother that he was fine – despite the blood that was starting to weave down his left cheek, and the fact he hadn't yet managed to take a breath – but he couldn’t make his voice work.

Something moved above him.

Dean turned his head to glance over his shoulder. Two white eyes stared back at him, the ferocity of the gaze terrifying him.

It latched heavy, clawed hands onto Dean’s left shoulder and dragged him up so he was sitting on top of his brother, rather than lying face down on his chest. White-hot agony flared in Dean's shoulder as the beast grabbed his arm and tugged. Dean tried to pull away, tried to escape the torment but the pain just intensified. He heard a sickening pop, then someone screaming. It took Dean a moment to realise that he was the one making the noise. The pain was blinding and, for a moment, his vision disappeared completely.

Then, he was being dragged backwards by his arm, wet snow soaking through his jeans as he was pulled across the ground. The agony shooting down his left side as pressure on the joint increased was unbearable. The wolf released him suddenly and Dean stumbled. He threw out his hands to catch himself, but it was a mistake. The agony that ricocheted up his left side nearly made him throw up.

Shocked and hurting, Dean lay in the snow, blinded by pain and tears. He blinked sluggishly, trying to get his bearings, trying to locate his attacker. The beast hadn’t moved him far; Sam was lying about two metres from him, but there was no sign of the wolf. A yell of pain from behind him made Dean’s stomach twist. It was his father’s voice. Dean tried to move, tried to push himself off the ground.

Then, sharp claws dug into his shoulder, the iron-clad grip stopping his attempt to escape. The pressure on the damaged joint nearly forced him into unconsciousness but Dean managed to hold it at bay long enough to kick his feet out. The wolf didn't even seem to notice his weak fighting.

And then he was being dragged across the ground with alarming speed, away from his father, away from his brother.

The pain to his shoulder was horrendous and his head was spinning as the darkness of The Black Hills swallowed him and the wolf. Dean knew he had to fight back, knew the further he was taken from his family the less likely he was to get back to them.

Dean wasn’t sure how far he was dragged when the ride came to an abrupt halt. His spine was bruised, his brain felt like a wrecking ball slamming again his skull and his shoulder was nothing short of agony. Above him, the clear navy sky was blanketed with thousands of twinkling dots and, for a moment, Dean was mesmerised by them swirling endlessly around him. He shuttered his eyes, briefly halting the roiling dizziness.

Snarling to his left yanked him back to reality. Dean turned his heavy gaze towards the shadow looming over him. He’d never encountered a wolf before; he wasn't sure what he had been expecting, but this wasn't it. Cujo was more what he'd had in mind, but this thing didn't have an inch of hair anywhere except on his head. In fact, his utterly human appearance was more terrifying than if it had been wolfish. Its eyes were bright white and its teeth were oddly elongated. Its clothes were torn and shredded fully in places to reveal bronzed skin beneath, and there was what looked like dried blood on its shirt - probably Dean's if the stinging above the elder Winchester’s left eye was anything to go by.

The werewolf raised its head towards the sky and gave a feral howl that could have come right out of a Hollywood movie. Icy fingertips brushed up Dean’s spine; he didn’t dwell on it. Cradling his arm to his chest, ignoring the blinding pain in his shoulder, he pushed himself unsteadily to his feet. He had to escape; he wasn’t going to die like this, not as some chew toy to an oversized mongrel with bad breath.

Fuelled by adrenaline, Dean did the only thing he could; he ran. He knew instantly the wolf was following him; he could hear it snarling and hissing behind him. Heart pounding, his legs burning with acid, he stumbled through the trees, ignoring the branches snagging his skin and clothes as he hurtled forward. The snow was making it near impossible to gain traction or speed. It was like running through water, and his legs were already starting to feel like jelly.

He wasn’t going to make it. He knew instinctively that he couldn’t reach safety before the wolf caught him. In fact, Dean didn't even know if he was going the right way. He’d darted off into the darkness without knowing which way led back to his father. Survival instinct had taken over, and his only thought had been escaping. Now, clambering through the snow with a rabid dog on his tail, Dean felt that rash decision was about to get him killed. The wolf was closing in on him. He could almost feel its warm breath on his neck.

He was also aware that his gun was no longer tucked down the back of his jeans. He must have lost it when the wolf had dragged him through the woods. Without a weapon, Dean was screwed. He was a good fighter, but there was a hell of a difference between clocking some jock at school and having a fist-fight with a super-strength monster. It was a fight he had no chance of winning, and no intention of trying to.

Then he heard the most beautiful sound in the world; his father yelling his name resounded through the trees. Dean didn’t hesitate. He yelled into the darkness, not caring how pathetic he sounded. He needed his father, and he needed him now. The wolf was closing in, and was genetically wired to be bigger, stronger and faster than its prey, and Dean knew he was the prey.

Holding on to the sound of John's voice like life-saving drift wood, Dean changed direction, his feet sinking into the snow with each step. He could see milky flashlight beams fragmenting through the trees, a beacon of hope in the darkness, but it was short-lived hope.

The wolf snagged his left foot. Dean tried to keep his balance, tried to stay upright but the grip was too strong. He hit the ground hard, the impact jarring his torso painfully. Then there was pressure on his back, and acrid warm breath on his skin. Goose bumps rose on his neck as he attempted to twist away from the iron-clad hold. Claws raked down his back, and Dean could feel his skin tearing. His fear ratcheted up another notch as a death grip latched onto his shoulders, pushing his face further into the snow. Sucking in the cold white crystals with each spluttering breath, Dean tried to twist away from his captor, tried to breathe but his abused lungs seemed frozen.

A gun shot echoed suddenly into the icy air. It was followed by three more loud bangs and a shriek from the werewolf that made the hairs on the back of Dean's neck stand on end. The weight on his shoulders vanished, and the howls of anguish from the creature seemed further away.

For a moment, Dean lay in the snow in silence, too cold, hurt and tired to move.

"Dean!"

It was his father, but the panic in his voice was something Dean was not used to hearing. It was sheer, stomach-clenching fear.

“D-dad…” The word was garbled between numb lips and was barely loud enough to be heard over his laboured breathing.

“DEAN!” Then, his father was there, at his side, the scent of gun oil and old leather clinging to the inside of Dean’s nostrils.

John didn't even bother asking if he was hurt, in fact he didn't even speak. Warm hands explored Dean's injured body, brushing down his cold cheeks, studying the blood running down his face. Dean leaned into his father's touch. He was safe; his father would take care of him.

“Dean? Open your eyes.” He hadn’t even realised his eyes were closed, but he was surrounded by comforting darkness. Dean frowned and tried to open them, managing nothing more than half-mast and even that made the back of his eyes burn. “Dean! Stay awake.”

Dean wanted to reply and tell him he was trying but he couldn't make his voice work. In fact, nothing seemed to be responding the way it should.

“Dean!” His name was snapped this time, more a command than a soothing persuasion. John wanted him awake, and he wanted him awake now. Dean had no idea how the hell his father managed to bark an order and yet sound worried at the same time.

“What... the hell... took you so long?” Dean managed to croak out.

“Christ, you had me worried there,” John breathed.

Dean knew he was supposed to come back with a witty remark but he couldn’t think of anything to say. His mind seemed strangely devoid of anything remotely resembling a coherent thought at the moment. He was also sure his spine had been through a tree shredder. The pain in his shoulder overrode everything else, however. The joint pulsated angrily beneath his clothes. Every little movement pushed a wave of nausea through him that threatened to turn his stomach inside out.

“JOHNNY!” The new voice made Dean frown. It sounded oddly distorted, like he was hearing it through water.

“Over here,” John yelled back, his voice making the needling pain behind Dean’s eyes worse. He closed his eyes, scrunching his forehead to ease the throbbing. It worked – briefly.

“He OK?” There was movement close by, snow crunching under foot and the rustling of underbrush before the milky beam of a flashlight appeared. “Johnny – the kid OK?” Joshua Turner melted out of the trees, dropping onto his hunches next to Dean.

“Dislocated shoulder,” John replied even as his hands continued to ghost over Dean’s body, searching for other injuries. Dean was sure there was a hint of relief in his tone. “It could have been worse.” Dean wanted to disagree; it felt worse. Hell, it felt disconnected from his body completely.

“His back looks bad, John,” Joshua countered, anxiously. “Was he-?”

“Scratches, nothing more.” John hadn't let the southern hunter finish his sentence, but Dean knew what he had been asking; had Dean been bitten? If he had… It didn’t bear thinking about. One bite was all it took to be turned... That was one thing Hollywood had gotten right.

“I’m OK,” Dean mumbled. It would have been more convincing without the additional groan that slid from his lips.

“Sure you are,” Joshua said with a sardonic snort. “The agonised yelp of pain was just for effect, right?”

Dean shot him a dark glare through half-mast eyes. “I can get up.” He tried to sit up to prove his point, but his body had other ideas. He didn't even manage to raise his head an inch off the ground before his vision was swirling. “Or not...” he mumbled thickly.

“Take it slow,” John ordered, gently manoeuvring Dean so he was sitting up. Joshua moved in behind him and supported his weight, mindful of his back – which Dean was grateful as hell for. His back and shoulder were pulsating with agony and everything was spinning around him. Dean wasn’t even sure his legs would actually hold him upright if by some miracle he did make it to his feet.

“Christ, it's goddamn freezin' out here,” Joshua murmured. Dean suspected the southern hunter was talking out of nervousness, but the inane chatter was welcomed. It gave him something to focus on, something other than the pain to deal with. “Next time we go on vacation, Winchester, I'm pickin' the destination. I'm thinkin' Florida – somewhere were snow ain't a factor.”

John snorted softly. “You picked this vacation,” he reminded him without accusation. Evidently his father had grown as a person, or he was too worried to start an argument. Dean suspected the latter.

“Russell picked this hunk of ice, man. I'd take New York, Paris – hell, even Coney Island over this place.” Joshua sighed. “I ain't a nature lovin' kinda guy, Johnny. I like hotels, air con, cable... Camping out like a girl scout ain't my idea of a good time.”

John didn't reply, but Dean saw his father's lips twitch at the corners as he continued to examine Dean's shoulder. Without warning, Joshua clamped his hand on his shoulder and John pulled his arm towards him. Dean felt bone scrape bone as his shoulder joint rolled up and popped back into place. The pain was agonizing, and sharp. Dean yelped, unable to stop himself as his vision clouded briefly.

“Son of a bitch,” Dean moaned breathlessly, cradling his injured arm to his chest and squeezing his eyes shut.

“Hurts less if you don't see it coming,” John explained quietly. With hindsight, Dean knew he should have seen it coming, should have recognised the brief look that passed between the two men, but he'd been oblivious.

John shrugged his rucksack off and pulled a sweater out. Carefully prising Dean's coat off his shoulders, John gently slung the garment around Dean's neck and made it into a sling before draping his jacket back around him. “Think you can stand?”

Dean wasn't sure he could do anything right now; he was too busy trying to stop his head from rolling off his shoulders and his arm from throbbing, but his father was looking at him expectantly.

Licking his lips, Dean nodded slowly. “Yeah... I think so.”

John hooked his hands under Dean’s uninjured side. He flicked his gaze towards Joshua who had taken his other side, mindful of his shoulder. “On three.”

Dean braced himself as the countdown began. As Joshua and John hoisted him up, he tried to gain traction with his legs but as soon as he moved from sitting to upright, Dean was hit by a wave of vertigo that almost drove him back to his knees. It was only his father and Joshua’s firm grip that stopped him from eating the ground.

“You all right?” John sounded worried.

“Just dizzy,” Dean muttered, thankful that his father and Joshua were still holding him upright. “Gimme a sec.”

“Lassie did a real number on you, kid,” Joshua said sympathetically.

“Yeah, he's not house-broken yet,” Dean deadpanned even as he opened his eyes to half-mast. Everything was no longer whirling around him in a maelstrom of blurred colours, but he was still dizzy as hell.

“We need to get back to the others,” John broke through the levity.

Others...? Sam... Where the hell was his brother? Dean felt panic rise up his throat. “Where's Sam?”

Dean was sure he saw anxiety flash across his father's face but it quickly disappeared behind titanium shutters.

"Your brother is fine."

John’s reassurance did little to alleviate Dean's anxiety but his father was already dragging him forward, signalling the end of the conversation. Normally, Dean would have accepted that, would have held his tongue, but this was Sam and Dean couldn't keep his silence. Dean wouldn't forgive himself if anything else happened to the kid. He couldn’t believe his father had left Sam alone after everything he'd been through tonight - even for him.

Dean glanced around the darkened clearing, squinting against the throbbing pain in his head. There was also no sign of the wolf anywhere - but that wasn’t exactly a positive, not when Sam wasn’t with them. Not when that thing was still out there. Not when one bite could…

“The wolf... did it go down?” Dean demanded, shifting on his feet as a fresh wave of dizziness swept over him. He hadn't seen it fall, and his brother was a magnet for trouble. If that thing was still alive, he had no doubt Sam would attract it, and Dean knew that his brother couldn't take any more.

“Let me worry about the damn wolf, Dean.” John’s tone brooked no argument, but that didn’t stop Dean.

“You gotta get back to Sammy,” Dean said, rolling from under his father’s shoulder and pulling away from him and Josh. He stumbled a little as the earth seemed to shift beneath him, but he kept his feet. John’s whole stance was irritated as he turned towards Dean.

“Have you lost your mind?” he snarled. “I’m not leaving you out here, Dean! You're barely upright!”

“I can take care of my damn-self.” Something that Sam definitely could not do at the moment. His brother had been one step from collapse before the Black Annis had even got hold of him, sick with a chest infection for a week or so before they'd even taken this gig. Dean had tried to get his father to take his brother to Bobby Singer's, or even Pastor Jim's but John insisted on coming straight to The Black Hills. Dean wasn't sure he could ever forgive his father for that lack of disregard about his brother's health.

John raised his brow. “Clearly.”

Dean scowled. He didn’t need to be told he had screwed this up. His shoulder was dislocated and that was going to make an already difficult situation even harder. They still had to get down the mountainside and into the town to a hospital, and the small group was already in a mess. Dean’s shoulder was just another problem - one that Dean should have avoided. He might have taken the time to feel guilty about it, but right now his only thought was for his brother’s safety.

“Did you see it go down?” Dean repeated.

“I hit it,” John snapped.

“That's not what I asked.”

“What the hell are you asking, Dean? Did I kill it? I don’t know. Do I want to hunt the thing down and make sure it is dead? Of course I do, but right now we need to get the hell out of here, and that is exactly what I plan on doing. We don't have time to play exterminator! Your brother and Caleb are up shit creek without the boat, never mind the damn paddle!” John was breathless by the time he finished speaking, his irritation rolling off him in squalls that even the darkness could not hide.

Joshua hadn't said anything throughout the entire exchange; he just sighed and raked his fingers through his hair. “Christ, Johnny, I ain’t exactly yearnin’ to go after Cujo either, but the kid's got a point. If it keeps comin’ at us like that, we ain't gonna last an hour up here. I mean, the frigging thing dragged off Dean like he was nothin' but air. It gets a-hold of Caleb or your youngest... Hell, I don't even want to think about it.”

Glancing up at the lightening sky, John let out a breath laced with frustration, not to mention exhaustion. “We’re not that far from the bottom of The Hills now – an hour or so tops before we hit civilisation. We've just got to hold it at bay long enough to get out of here.” John's jaw tensed, his lips drawing into a tight, resolved line. “As soon as everyone's safe, I'll come back and kill the thing myself.”

“Sam won’t last five minutes, let alone a couple of hours, Dad,” Dean snapped, “and, even if, by some minor miracle he does, Caleb definitely won’t.”

Even in the pre-dawn light, Dean could feel the irritation that washed over his father.

“Well, then,” John growled, “I suggest we move fast.”

The wind was picking up and the air so cold that every inhalation seemed to burn Joshua's lungs. Under normal circumstances he might have complained about it, but not tonight. Instead, he stumbled through the thick drifts of white, flicking his flashlight around the tightly packed trees, eyes scanning ceaselessly for the wolf. Where the hell was it? He didn't know much about werewolves, but, like all creatures at the top of the food chain, he doubted it would give up on its meal that easily; especially when their small group was practically a walking-talking all-you-can-eat buffet.

Joshua had no idea how far they were from the others, but John led them, confidently picking the route as if he had an internal compass that was magnetised towards his youngest. Joshua followed him without question. John had his faults but the man was the best in his field. Josh knew only a handful of other hunters who could rival Winchester. He might not always see eye-to-eye with the man, but he did trust his judgement.

His light passed over Dean as he scanned the surrounding woods. The teenager looked like shit. His arm was slung against his chest, and a mix of dried and new blood was crusted on his face. The kid was weaving like a drunk, but he refused any help from either Joshua or John. While he admired the kid's tenacity, Joshua couldn't help but think that Winchester pride would, one day, be the undoing of the three of them.

“How much farther?” Dean snapped suddenly, cutting through the icy silence.

“Not far,” was all the reply John gave, but there was a tension in both father and son's tone that Joshua recognised. Christ, he'd used it enough himself with his own father.

He understood Dean's frustration and irritation. He and Russell weren't exactly the Waltons but, despite their differences, he loved his father dearly. That sentiment didn't detract from the fact he wanted to ring his neck at the moment .

This whole hunt was completely and utterly out of control. Caleb was a mess, Sam was a disaster, and Dean had almost become a werewolf's snack. He had expressly forbidden his father from coming on this damn crusade, but Russell never did listen to anyone, and never would. Joshua would have smacked some sense into him if he thought it would make a blind bit of difference, but his father was as stubborn as they came. He'd never take the blame for this, and he'd never accept he had screwed up. The son of a bitch would always do stuff his way, but Joshua wished he'd stop dragging other people into his mess.

He had no idea how John would react if they ever made it out of the damn hills. In fact, Josh was a little anxious about it. Even if both his boys made it out safely, Joshua hadn't forgotten that John and Caleb were close, too. He had no idea what the hunter would do to his father and, in all honesty, Joshua wasn't sure he'd try to stop him.

The trees thinned out and as they stepped around a clump of underbrush, Joshua was greeted by a familiar clicking sound. He spun to the side, flicking the beam of his flashlight towards it and allowed his pounding heart to slow down. Russell's haggard face greeted him over the barrel of a rifle. The artificial light enhanced the fear in his expression, the black-blood on his temple making his pale face seem even starker.

“Christ, Russell,” Josh exclaimed, lowering the beam from his face.

“You found the boy,” Russell said tightly, shifting his gaze toward Dean. “I didn't think you-” He shook himself and met Joshua's eye. “Next time, a bit of warning before you come sneaking back out of the trees. I could have damn well shot you.”

Joshua snorted. “Nice to see you too, Russ.” He slapped his father on the shoulder and stepped around him as he lowered the handgun.

Dean was already limping towards his younger brother, weaving a little as he stumbled forward; John was less than a step behind. Joshua had known the eldest Winchester for a long time, and worry was radiating from him despite the stoic, tight-lipped expression the older man wore. John, like Joshua, knew this entire situation was fucked. The severity of it hit him hard, however, as he moved further into the clearing. Joshua had no goddamn idea how they were getting out of this mess.

Glancing past the former-marine, Joshua let his eyes wander to the two teens. Sam was lying on the ground next to the unconscious form of Caleb. Judging by the drag marks in the snow, Russell had pulled the kid across the ground next to the arms dealer and he had covered him with one of the other sleeping bags from the packs – no doubt attempting to warm up the frozen kid. The boy was a mess. His dark hair was plastered to the side of his face, his jaw hanging slackly to one side. Dean sank onto his knees next to him, and ran a hand over his blood-stained cheeks before brushing his longish hair out of his closed eyes. Josh wasn't close enough to hear what the older teen was saying to the unconscious kid, but he continued to stroke his hair as he spoke in hushed tones.

Joshua moved away from them, uncomfortable watching the private moment, and followed after his father who was collecting their strewn belongings. When the wolf had struck, Joshua didn’t remember dropping his heavy pack, but it lay on the ground next to the rolled up tent and other camping equipment that had been dumped in haste as they took off after Dean.

“You OK?” The question wasn't unusual, but it made something snap inside Joshua's head. He cut his eyes towards his father and scowled.

“I'm half way up a mountain in subzero temperatures, running from a cannibalistic shape-shifting man. I'm frigging peachy.” Joshua couldn’t help snapping; they wouldn't be here if it wasn't for his father's stupidity.

He expected his father to growl back, to launch the all-too familiar argument but it never came. Russell scrubbed a hand over his chin, and let out a long suffering puff of icy air. When he offered no come-back, Joshua felt deep-seated worry stir within him.

“You feeling OK?” he asked suspiciously, wondering how hard his father had hit his head.

Russell sighed wearily. “I'm fine, Josh.” He glanced towards the small family unit before reaching for the nearest pack. “You get the wolf?”

It was Joshua's turn to give a frustrated sigh. “Johnny hit it, but neither of us saw the friggin' thing hit the deck.”

Russell's jaw tightened. “We've gotta get those boys out of here. Caleb ain't come 'round for a while now, and I couldn't get Sam to wake up at all. The kid didn't even flinch when I moved him.”

Joshua agreed fervently. He wanted nothing more than to have four walls around him again. If he never saw a speck of grass again it would be too soon.

Russell glanced up at the sky. Sunrise was steadily approaching and the previously lightening sky was now smeared with pale yellow before it blended into a bruised purple.

“How far do you reckon it is ’til we reach civilisation?”

“John reckons a few hours,” Joshua replied quietly.

Russell let out a long breath. “Those boys don't have a few hours.”

Joshua knew that, but he didn't know how the hell to get around it. They would just have to patch the pair of them up the best they could and pray to God they made it.

“Yeah, well, unless Caleb has a chopper in his pack...” Joshua broke off with a helpless shrug. “Ain't a whole lot we can do but keep moving.”

Raising his eyes to the heavens, Russell shook his head and sighed.

“I screwed up, Josh.” The admission was given quietly, but it was no less heartfelt. Joshua felt his breath catch in the back of his throat.

“Yeah,” he agreed after a moment, “you did. But that ain't to say you can't put it right, Russ.”

Worn, old eyes flicked towards him. “Not sure this can be put right, kid.”

Joshua wasn't sure of that either, but he was spared from giving a response by his father stumbling. Instantly, he threw his arm out and caught him under the elbow, steadying him.

“You OK?”

Russell rubbed his eyes, and then blinked. “Must’ve hit my head a damn sight harder than I thought.”

“Maybe it'll have knocked some sense into you.”

Russell smiled but didn't reply; John had moved over to them.

“We have to go, now,” the older hunter murmured under his breath, his brown eyes darting around the clearing as if expecting the wolf to materialise. It made Joshua's heart dance beneath his ribs.

“The wolf?” Joshua asked, his own gaze searching. John dragged a hand down his face, averting his gaze towards his sons. “Sam?” He shot the hunter a questionable glance.

John didn't say anything, but he didn't have to; his expression spoke louder than any words. Joshua could practically feel the worry radiating off the older man. There was a lot of crap said by a lot of hunters about the infamous John Winchester, but there was no denying the man loved his boys, and that he would die trying to protect them; Joshua had seen first-hand how far the man was willing to go to keep his boys safe.

“How do you want to do this – with Dean's arm?” Joshua's gaze cut from the teen back to John.

Winchester frowned, and Joshua wondered if he John had thought that far ahead. Dean was clutching his injured arm to his chest, his expression weary. The kid looked two steps from collapse but, in spite of his obvious exhaustion, Joshua didn't miss the grim determination in his face as he remained by his brother's side.

“Russ, how you feeling?” John questioned, glancing passed Josh.

“I can carry that damn litter, if that's what you're askin'.”

John gave a satisfied nod of his head, “We need to get out of here as quickly as possible.”

“And Dean?” Joshua pressed. Sometimes John tended to forget that people weren't super-human. He'd been on the receiving end of a Winchester motivational pep-talk; they weren't pleasant and, from what Joshua remembered, they weren't exactly motivational either.

“Dean will be fine,” John assured him. Joshua wasn't sure he agreed with that assessment.

“He was out of it when we found him, Johnny.”

The older hunters jaw tightened at the reminder, and Joshua felt the beginnings of a storm brewing. “He's stronger than he looks.”

“I ain't doubting his strength, John,” Joshua countered, “but he went down hard after that wolf hit him.”

“We don't have a choice.” John snapped, his gaze cutting to his eldest who was still crouched next to Sam. “Dean has to walk out of here. We don't have enough people for me to baby him!”

Joshua sighed, raking his fingers through his hair. The situation sucked, but John was right – Dean had to walk out of here – and Joshua surmised that even bleeding, with limbs missing, Dean would walk out of here. Winchester stubbornness was almost as notorious as Winchester pride.

John Winchester was a man used to being in control. Every aspect of his life was planned and executed like a military operation. He'd hated the marines, had come back trying to forget the things he'd seen, had done, and yet, even after all the terror he had experienced, he'd never lost his compassion – until Mary died.

Sometimes, John barely recognised the man he had become, barely even liked the person he was since she'd passed. With her death he'd slipped back into that familiar life that had defined his youth before he'd married his late wife.

It was easier to deal with the pain when he was lost in routine, when he had something worth fighting – and possibly dying – for. He knew people took his attitude to mean he didn't give a rat’s ass but nothing could have been further from the truth. He did what he had to in order to keep his kids safe. He loved his boys, but God, he'd never leave them unprepared. Not like he himself had been.

Monsters, demons... they'd been nothing more than a fairytale, comic book creatures to John before his wife was stolen from him. Now, they formed part of John's everyday existence. In the last twelve years he'd had more myths and legends thrown at him than he could physically count. From ghosts, to vampires, to werewolves – he'd seen it all.

He glanced down at his youngest. He was shorter than Dean had been at his age, soft and petite, like Mary. In many ways, Sam reminded him of his late wife's mother, but with Samuel's temper. Mary's father had a temper that could have been sold and packaged as weapon of mass destruction.

He despised himself for dragging his boys into this mess. Sam was a mess, his head twisted to the side, dark hair plastered to his face. He hadn't woken up yet, and that worried John. The kid should have come round by now. Exposure, potential internal injuries, head trauma...the list of causes was too long for John to figure out what had caused his son's slip into unconsciousness, but his need to have him in a hospital under a doctor’s supervision was overwhelming.

In all honesty, John had no idea how the six of them were getting out of there in one piece. Caleb needed a transfusion after his attack by the Annis and probably surgery to repair the damage the damn the bitch had caused him. Dean's shoulder was a mess, and he was concussed.

The hazy light of pre-dawn was filtering through the leafy canopy overhead, casting shadows on the snowy ground. The sun would rise shortly and, with sunrise, the threat of the werewolf dissipated. It would have to act soon if it wanted to finish its hunt, but John was praying it was too hurt to trail them.

He cut his eyes towards the trees on his right side as something rustled but it was just the wind. John wondered if he had hit the wolf enough to keep it away. He'd had a good shot, a straight shot of the creature, but he'd missed. The esteemed John Winchester had missed a simple shot. It had been sheer terror that had made the shot swing wide. He'd heard Dean's moans of pain, had seen the shadowed figure of the wolf looming over his son's body and he had panicked. John Winchester didn't panic, he was cool, calm. He wasn't a rookie kid; Christ, he'd been doing this shit a long time, and yet, when it had counted, he had missed the shot. Had he kept his cool, they could have stopped worrying about the damn wolf. That thought cut through him painfully. He could have ended at least one part of this nightmare.

“D-Dad?” The familiar voice drew his gaze downwards. Sam blinked up at him owlishly, his expression pained.

“Hey,” John murmured softly, relief racing through him. “Welcome back, Sammy.” He ran a hand over his son’s clammy face, and frowned at the heat radiating off the kid. They'd had a week of fevers like this before they'd taken this hunt, but in the middle of nowhere? It didn't ease John's apprehension.

“Wha-” his youngest frowned and blinked again, his glassy gaze rolling around. Dean was instantly at his side, dropping into the snow next to him. His relief, and his worry, was palpable.

“How you feelin', Sleeping Beauty?”

Sam winced and shuttered his eyes. “Like I got hit by a truck.”

“You look worse, dude.”

Sam glanced up at his brother. “You...don't...look much better.” He frowned deeply, his brow furrowing. “The wolf?”

“Pulled a Houdini,” Dean replied tightly.

“Your arm...?”

Dean glanced down at the sling and shrugged one-shouldered, “It’s all the rage up here, Sammy. Slings are in this season.”

John had no idea how the hell the pair of them could joke about the situation when he was one step from mind-blowing panic. In fact, he was just glad that Sam was awake. He'd take sarcasm, ill-timed humour...anything – as long as he could see those bright hazel eyes.

“Hey, keep those beady eyes open,” Dean nudged his brother. Sam blinked.

“Sorry...”

“Don't be sorry, just stay awake.” Dean shook his head. “You really are living up to the title of narcoleptic boy.”

“Not much of a superhero,” Sam teased, but his half-mast eyes and a barely-suppressed groan from between clenched teeth clearly said things weren't as peachy as they were all trying to make out.

“It's a pass into the Justice League, dude. Be grateful. Besides, it takes years to work up to Awesome Man.”

Sam grunted scornfully but his eyes were back at half mast. “Awesome Man? That's your superhero name?” he murmured.

“Beats the hell outta Narcoleptic Boy,” Dean countered. “Or you could be Brooding Man.”

John scowled at his eldest, the childish conversation starting to grate on frayed nerves but he didn't have a chance to chastise him. A pain-filled howl echoed through The Hills. Instantly on his feet, his gun in his hands, John stayed close to his boys. He strained to listen, eyes ceaselessly scanning the tree line for any sign of the wolf.

“It sounds close,” Russell said tightly, shifting closer to the others, gun in his own hands.

!but it was not close enough. They just had to keep ahead of it for a while longer.

John shifted his pack on his shoulders. “We keep moving,” he said firmly.

The wolf wasn't giving up on this hunt, and John's panic was growing ten-fold with every second that counted down. Caleb had not woken up since the wolf's first attack and Sam's breathing was becoming increasingly laboured, his fever spiking. Time was steadily running out for the small group.

The howling was closer this time. John glanced over his shoulder, pulling his gun from the back of his waistband. Dean was close to his side; Joshua and Russell on the other carrying the litter. He glanced up at the patches of sky peeking from underneath the leafy canopy. It was getting lighter with each step.

It was almost sunrise; it was ten, fifteen minutes away, at most. They just had to stay ahead for that long; survive just long enough for the sun to come up and the wolf to transform back to its human form. John just wasn't sure they could. The bullet had slowed the creature down, but it was still coming.

Movement rustled the bushes ahead of them and a lone figure charged into view. John pulled up short. The wolf was silhouetted against the backdrop of the lightening horizon, snarling and hissing like a rabid dog.