Author's Note: Hi, everyone. Welcome to my new story. This takes place early season four. And thanks again to everyone who read and reviewed my last Supernatural story.
Chapter One: Green Skies and Red Rain
Dean Winchester stared up at the sky and tried to figure out why it was green instead of blue. The sky was supposed to be blue, wasn't it? Maybe the fact that the sky was the wrong color was the reason he was so cold. But people always used the color blue to represent cold so wouldn't the sky not being blue make it warm? That made sense, right? Sure. But a green sky, that didn't make any sense at all. Wait, now it wasn't just green, it was becoming red. It was strange though. The red seeping into the green sky was accompanied by a strange wet feeling on his forehead and into his eye. Maybe it was raining. A green sky raining red rain. And it was still making him so cold. Maybe if he wiped the red rain off of himself, he could get warm again. He reached up with his right hand and swiped rather clumsily at his face. The wetness didn't go away, it merely smeared all over and the rubbing motion caused him pain.
The sharp pain jerked Dean out of the hazy murkiness that his brain had been drowning in. With a gasp, he blinked several times and tried to make sense of his surroundings. Now he became certain that the sky was still blue, but it was being mostly obscured by the dense trees all around him. And it wasn't raining. The right side of his face was covered in blood. Okay, well that explained the pain. But his head and face weren't the only places that were hurting. His back and chest felt like they were on fire, his left leg was in agony, and his whole body was cold, a sure sign of shock and/or blood loss. Not his worst day, but certainly not his best.
The real question though was what had happened for him to be in this less than perfect condition. Dean closed his eyes, trying to remember. Running. He'd been running. Running from something. The pounding in his head derailed his thoughts. Damn, but he hurt.
Dean put his hand up to his head to try and figure out how bad the bleeding was. There was a lump and a gash at his hairline that was pouring out blood and a shallower cut down the side of his face where the blood was sluggishly oozing out. The head wound was pretty bad, but he wouldn't bleed out. On to the other injuries. Dean gently pressed his fingers over his ribs, checking for breaks. At least one broken and several more fractured or bruised. His breathing wasn't hindered so he assumed that his lungs weren't punctured. He had no way to check the reasons that his back hurt, but he prayed it was just bruising and nothing major. He knew back injuries could be serious and that he probably shouldn't move, but a voice in the back of his head was yelling at him that he couldn't lay on the ground for too long waiting for help. So he slowly and carefully sat up. As he did so, his left leg screamed at him in protest. Dean closed his eyes against the pain, struggling against the overwhelming urge to lie back down and perhaps pass out. After a moment, when he had himself back under control, the hunter opened his eyes and looked to see what the damage on his leg was like. Damn. His knee was obviously swollen, he could tell even with the joint hidden by his jeans, and the lower part of his leg was positioned at a very odd angle. But the good news was that there weren't any bones popping through his flesh. So, probably dislocated and fractured but not broken. The bad news was that the lower portion of his leg was bleeding heavily from four long, deep, ragged gashes that ran from knee to ankle.
"Son of a bitch!" Dean spat out through clenched teeth.
Just how the hell was he supposed to get up and get back to the others. Others? Who had he been with? Sam. Sam was definitely with him before, so why wasn't he here now? Oh, right he was back at the camp. Camp? Why were they camping?
It didn't matter right now. He had to stop the bleeding. Dean struggled out of his leather jacket, and pulled off his dark blue flannel shirt. He then took out his pocket knife and cut the denim pant leg off just above the swollen knee. He'd have to get the damned thing set after he took care of his open bloody wounds. After cutting the denim into long strips, Dean folded his shirt and pressed it against the cuts, gritting his teeth to keep from crying out. He then took the strips of cloth and used them to tie the shirt tightly over his wounds.
When he was done, the injured young man wanted nothing more than to lay back and rest, but that wasn't an option. Using what little strength he had left, Dean gripped his leg and jerked the bones back into place. This time he couldn't stop himself from crying out. And he didn't even try to remain upright. Falling onto his back (which jarred his other injuries and hurt like hell), Dean felt the darkness trying to take over, but he didn't let it. He was hurt for some reason and if that reason was nearby and he lost consciousness, there was a good chance he'd never wake up.
What he needed was a plan. Okay, step one: Don't die. Step two: try to remember why he was injured and what he was up against. Step three: figure out how the freakin' hell he was gonna get up and walk outta here.
His gaze fell upon his shot gun, lying just out of reach. If he could scoot over and grab it, he could use it as a means of defense and as a crutch. So, steps one and three were looking attainable. But what about step two? What had happened to him?
Suddenly, Dean heard a something growling off to his right. He turned but didn't see anything. The sound got closer, much too close to be hidden by the trees or bushes surrounding him. But still he couldn't see the creature. That's when he remembered.
What little blood he had left drained from his face and he began to shake. Dean prided himself on his fearlessness during hunts, but right now he had to admit that he was terrified. But really, who in his position wouldn't be. He was alone and severely injured in the middle of an 800,000 acre forest. His brother probably wouldn't be rushing to his rescue any time soon, and there was no way he'd be able to move very quickly. His best weapon was lying just out of reach, leaving him with just a small knife on the ground near his hand and the pistol that was tucked into the back of his pants and pinned between his body and the forest floor. Oh, and he was being stalked by at least one, and possibly more, of the creatures that he hated the most. The beasts that paralyzed him with fear. The things that had once torn him to pieces and sent his soul to unending torture in Hell. Vicious monsters that couldn't be seen but were extremely dangerous. Dean was being hunted by hellhounds.
Author's Note Part Two: Sorry for the short chapter. This is kinda just like a teaser and future chapters will be longer. Hope you all enjoyed and please take a moment to review. Thanks.