SPN Fic: Hungry Like The Wolf
Title: Hungry Like the Wolf
Author: abrupte
Rating: PG13
Fandom: Supernatural.
Genre: Gen.
Wordcount: 4000ish
Summary: "For the record, I hate werewolves." It was a sentiment he'd repeated time and time again.
A/N: I wrote this fic for maygra's Pop Song Fic Challenge. My song was "Hungry Like the Wolf" by Duran Duran. I had a lot of ideas for this fic. Three of them made in, in one way or another (two of them only as references). In any case, this is it. Song lyrics appear at the end of the fic. ETA 21/10/07: Awwww, it's my first SPN fic. *hugs it*
†
He wasn't sure how long he'd been running, but he didn't dare stop. He had to find Sam. God, where was he? The subway tunnels were a maze, and he wasn't sure which ones he'd already been down. He couldn't risk getting turned around-- it was still only midnight and the full moon was high in sky, and that thing was lurking somewhere. Another turn yielded yet more concrete and metal rails. He spared a quick glance over his shoulder; saw nothing behind him but darkness. A mistake. If it was following him, he wouldn't be able to see it, and there was nothing he could do about it anyway--
He stumbled, his foot catching on one of the tracks, sending him sprawling. Add another injury to the list. He lay there, gasping, his heart hammering in his ears, his lungs screaming for oxygen they weren't getting. Instinctively, he reached for the .45 in his waistband before remembering that it was empty. Useless. Shit. The air was still and rank -- fresh air didn't make it down here very often, if such a thing existed anywhere in New York City. He hauled himself to his feet, his shoulders shaking as he tried to clear his head. Both of the knees were torn out of his jeans; there was a tear on the back of his shirt where its claws had caught the fabric but not his skin. Thank god for small miracles. It didn't quite make up for the fact that he was fairly certain he'd broken a rib.
Dean groaned. "I fucking hate werewolves," he said to no one in particular. So he ran, even though he thought his lungs would burst, even though he felt light-headed and sick, even though he was sure he would collapse from exhaustion and pain-- because there was something out there in the dark, and he didn't know where his brother was.
Gravel sifted underfoot as he ran, panting, trying in vain to catch his breath. If only he could find Sam -- another turn, another dark tunnel leading into blackness. He didn't want to admit that he was lost, because if he did, it would mean admitting that he was not going to be able to find him. But he couldn't leave his brother alone down here. He had to keep looking, he had to--
"Dean?" a quiet voice called out after him, cautious. "Dean, is that you?" He spun around, looking for the source of that voice. It came from behind a heap of gravel. He limped towards it as his younger brother emerged. Dean grinned.
"You bet, babe," he said, spreading his arms. "One and only." His expression was a little strained, but relieved. Sam was fine -- not a scratch on him. "Shit, man, I've been looking all over for you."
"We agreed to meet here-- remember?"
Of course he remembered--looking around, he could finally recognise his surroundings. He tried to laugh, but doubled over in pain instead, one arm going protectively around his damaged ribs. He wheezed, reaching out to grab Sam's arm. "Shit," he hissed, trying to push down the sudden wave of nausea and dizziness that overtook him.
Sam's face was as white as a sheet, and he reached out to support his brother, who leaned into him gratefully. "What happened to you?" he demanded, gently lowering Dean onto the gravel and taking stock of his injuries. Judging by the way he was holding his side, he'd done something to his ribs. His jeans were torn up, as was the skin of his knees. There were small scratches on his face and his palms were bloody. There was long tear in the back of his shirt. He was gasping for breath, and his shoulders trembled.
"Well," he said, "I found the werewolf." He grinned weakly. "Fortunately, I managed to lose it again." A pause. "I hope."
"You're a mess."
"What do you mean?" Despite the fact that it was agony to move, Dean retained his sense of humour. His hazel eyes were bright. "I feel like a million bucks, dude."
Sam watched him appraisingly. "You look like shit."
"That hurts. Almost as much as the broken ribs." Reaching back, he pulled the .45 out of his jeans. "Anyway, I'm out of bullets. Didn't even manage to hit the damn thing. How much ammo do we have left?"
Sam just coughed and looked away.
"Sam?"
"Yeah, about the silver bullets..." he said gently, rubbing the back of his head.
Dean buried his face in his hands. "This can't be good," he muttered to himself. "Please, tell me I'm wrong. Tell me everything is fine."
"Well, uh, we're not out, exactly, it's just--" Sam tried to figure out how to explain the situation. "I kind of... well... they're in the car."
Dean stared at him, his jaw hanging momentarily open. "You forgot the silver bullets in the car?!" he demanded. His bloodshot eyes were wide.
His younger brother cleared his throat before answering. "I guess you could put it that way."
"You do realise, Sam, that we're going to die, right?" he asked. "I mean, we're miles into the subway system. There's a werewolf down here. We have no silver bullets." He gave a melodramatic sigh. "Man, I always hoped I'd live to be thirty."
"We just have to get to the car-- get the bullets, then we can deal with this. Not that big a deal," he said, getting to his feet, but Dean just shook his head.
"We're so screwed. But -- well, guess we might as well give it a shot. I mean, if we're going to die anyway, might as well do it in a blaze of glory, right?" He held out a hand. "Help me up? Gently, please."
Sam laughed, pulling the older of the Winchester brothers to his feet. Dean dusted himself off, not that it made any difference.
"Before we go though, uh... we need to have a little chat." The lightness was suddenly gone from Dean's voice. His face was marked by lines that Sam hadn't noticed before; the expression he wore was both hard and soft, the way the corner of his lips quirked downwards indicating that he was broaching a subject he'd hoped to avoid. He hated doing this, he hated bringing it up -- if he'd just been more careful, not let those shots go wild -- god, Sam was going to be pissed. Or scared, and somehow that seemed worse.
Sam frowned. "What's wrong?"
Looking over his shoulder, he indicated the tear in the back of his shirt. "Look, I know you aren't going to like this, but... well, it's gotta be said. When Dad and I had this conversation, hunting that wolf down in Arkansas, I wasn't crazy about it either, but looking back on it..." he trailed off, swallowing hard. Trying to distract himself from the conversation at hand, he peered off into the obscurity of the surrounding tunnels; there was a junction up ahead. He remembered the car was that way. At least he knew where he was.
Sam looked at his brother's worn expression, the lump in his throat that revealed that even he didn't like it. He wiped distractedly at a shallow cut on his cheek. "Just say it, then."
"This thing we're hunting," Dean said hesitantly, "it's still human. When the full moon passes, he goes back to his family -- wife, kids, you know. Maybe he doesn't know what's going on. Maybe he doesn't know what he's done. But we do, and you know, we've gotta stop him."
Where was this heading?
"Only way we can stop him is if we kill him, shoot him with silver bullets, probably salt and burn the body for good measure-- but it means that when the full moon passes, he won't go back to his family, they won't know what happened, just that he's missing. They won't know that he's dead, that we had to kill him." Dean shrugged his shoulders, though the motion hurt. "All I can hope is that-- is that they'd understand, if they knew. And that he would understand, wouldn't want to be like this, might even be glad to know that we were putting an end to it."
"Dean, what's the point, here?"
He swallowed hard. "The point is-- if it were me, I'd be glad -- you know, I'd want it to stop. I wouldn't want to be like that. And, uh..." he frowned, shook his head. When he spoke again, his voice was more forceful, holding none of the hedging that had previously marked his attempts at this speech. "The point is, it damn near got me, Sam. And you know what happens when you get bit by a werewolf -- and I'm not in good shape, so if something happens, you know, if I do get bitten or something--"
Sam cut him off, "You're not going to get bitten."
He gathered his nerve and kept going, even though he could see by his expression that his little brother was less than happy, "No, I gotta say this, man. If I get bit, I'll take care of our wolf friend, and then I'll take care of me -- and you just keep going. Forget we ever came here, and ... and don't look for me." His voice was gravely and rough, and he swallowed hard, his tongue darting out to moisten his lips.
"You're not saying what I think--"
He shook his head, holding a hand up to silence him. "I can't become what I hunt, Sam," he said quietly. "I just can't."
"What you're talking about is suicide!"
He squared his shoulders, standing up straight. "Yeah," he admitted, his voice soft, "I know." He shook his head, as if to clear the conversation from it, and then smiled suddenly, apparently content to brush it off after he'd said his piece. "Anyway, now that we've had the talk, let's get going. Maybe we'll get lucky."
"Dean--"
But he just shook his head. "C'mon, we need those bullets or we're fucked."
Despite appearances, his mind was still churning. Dean had inflicted a lot of gruesome sights upon his brother, things Sam hadn't wanted to see but had needed to. In that sense, he supposed he hadn't done very well at protecting his brother. Most older brothers would have shielded him from a mangled corpse, not pointed out the claw marks on the dead and pale flesh. Still, this was their job, and he couldn't afford to be squeamish. There were some things he would have to see, even if there was a part of him that wished he could say, "Sam, cover your eyes."
Still, he didn't think Sam would ever need to see his brains blown out in the pit of some dark tunnel somewhere, and he suspected that would probably be worse for his mental and emotional health than any of the other corpses they'd encountered. Better to be left down there, and one day they'd find the bones and would wonder who had gone down there and shot himself in the head, and why he'd done it with a silver bullet. When and if they identified the body, he wondered what they'd think, realising that Dean Winchester was a serial killer who had been shot to death (again, with silver bullets) in St. Louis. Of course, despite any morbid curiosity, he was hoping it wouldn't come to that.
†
They didn't bother being quiet, as they had when they had entered the tunnels earlier, creeping silently, hoping to keep the werewolf from noticing their presence as long as possible. With Dean bruised and bloody, drenched in sweat, silence served no purpose. They would be easy to track by scent alone.
Sam had wanted to support his brother, but he insisted he could walk on his own. He had to take it slow, but he could manage. He kept his face expressionless, shoving the pain into a far corner of his mind. He only stumbled a few times, pushing Sam away when he rushed to help. He couldn't exactly explain why, but he had to do it on his own. He had to walk on his own two feet, and if he fell down every so often, he would get up.
He needed a distraction from the fact that he felt like he could barely breathe. He knew he could -- it wasn't easy, but he could breathe. "Hey, Sam," he said, forcing a strength he didn't feel into his voice. Talking hurt, too, but it might keep him on his feet.
"Yeah?"
"For the record, I hate werewolves."
His younger brother laughed despite himself, "You know, Dean, I sort of figured that out." It was a sentiment he'd repeated time and time again.
"I ever tell you about that job Dad and I had down in Kentucky with the werewolf?"
Sam shook his head, kicking some gravel aside as he walked. "You told me about a job in Arkansas, but not one in Kentucky."
"Yeah," Dean nodded thoughtfully, "there were these wild dog attacks down there, all during full moons, which always spells trouble." He chuckled absently, which quickly became a hacking cough. He gasped for breath, reaching an arm out to steady himself against the concrete wall. Wiping the sweat from his eyes, he gave his brother a shaky smile, going on as if nothing had happened, "So we head down there, right? Cave Run Lake, right before the full moon, ready to hunt the son of a bitch. Go down into those woods, spend three days hunting the damned thing, never even caught sight of the damned thing, only saw a couple tracks. Full moon passed."
Sam was watching him for signs of weakness, and he was rambling, he knew it. Anything not to think about the pain. "You know Dad, never leave the job until it's done and you know it's done, otherwise you have to go back-- except for that Constance chick, but -- well, you know about that one, so anyway... he figures we'll rent a motel room in this nearby town, fucking West Liberty, Kentucky, population of one thousand. One of those everybody knows everybody kind of places. Spend twenty-five days sitting on our hands waiting for the full moon again."
"An entire month? That would have been kind of nice, staying in one place for a little while, just waiting."
Dean coughed--it was supposed to be a derisive snort, but didn't quite work out that way. "It was hell," he said. "Absolute hell. Turns out those 'small town values' don't agree with me. Didn't take long before I was sick of girls asking me if I thought they were 'fast' -- I mean, who even says that anymore? -- not that it mattered for long, because it only took a week before they realised I wasn't some good country boy, and then they wouldn't even look at me, which makes sex pretty difficult."
Sam looked scandalised, but maybe not as much as he should have. He knew his brother too well. The thing that shocked him was the fact that girls had let Dean get away with it at all, even if only for a week. "I don't know what got their panties all in a knot anyway -- alright, so I wasn't exactly a model citizen, or as ... uh, exclusive as they seemed to be under the impression I was, but I mean, it's not like they were virgins or anything!" He grimaced. "Spent the rest of the month watching old movies at the dollar theatre and working on the car, putting up with dad's griping about how unfriendly the locals were-- never did tell him it was because his son had a bad reputation with the girls, and their friends, and their brothers, and their parents, which added up to just about everybody."
His little brother was just a little incredulous. "You know, if you'd just kept it in your pants--"
"Dude, I was bored. Sex is the number one best way to relieve boredom." He was glad to fall back onto their familiar banter, back and forth. Something where he didn't have to think, could just toss insults and not worry too much, just let himself get distracted...
Sam groaned. "Couldn't you have just watched porn or something?"
"With Dad around?"
"Good point."
Dean held up his hand to silence him, stopping suddenly. He could hear the rasp of his breath hissing through his battered lungs, the aching and too-fast beat of his heart. And if he listened very carefully, he could also hear paws scrabbling over gravel, claws clicking on stone.
"Oh, shit," he breathed.
Sam frowned. "What?"
"Run."
Sam obeyed, and Dean followed suit. They ran, gravel flying up around their boots, biting their ankles and shins despite the protection of their jeans. He knew with a sudden, uncomfortable certainty, that he was going to die. That knowledge didn't stop him from pulling the gun out of his waistband and loading it again, because if worse came to worst, the lead bullets might slow the wolf down. As long as he could get Sam out all right, he didn't mind so much.
His knees protested. His calves were burning. He actually couldn't tell if he was breathing or not, and he didn't think that was a good thing. Sam was a few yards ahead of him, not surprising given Dean's condition. He fired several shots off over his shoulder, didn't have energy to waste on grinning when most of them found their marks. The wolf staggered, hesitated, but then was after them again.
"Lead won't work," Sam told him between gasps, as Dean managed to catch up with him. Adrenaline helped to keep him on his feet despite the fact that he almost wanted to be laying dead on the ground. At least it wouldn't be so painful. "We need to shoot it with silver bullets." As if he didn't know that.
"Dude, I know! Someone forgot them in the car!" He glanced over his shoulder. Shooting it had slowed it down, temporarily, but it was still gaining on them. "Just RUN!" he shouted, as Sam was starting to slow down.
Light up ahead. It was dim, just enough to be the streetlights. The car. Dean reached into his pocket, felt the cold metal of his keys in his hand, and managed a grimacing smile. We might just make it out of here alive. Behind them, the wolf barked, sounding closer than he was comfortable with, much closer. Or... maybe we won't.
"Sam, keep running! I'll catch up!" Sam looked over his shoulder as Dean stopped, chest heaving, and crouched down. "Don't look, Sam, run!" It was an order. There was a flash of silver as he pulled something out of his boot-- a blade.
"Dean!"
"I said run!"
Sam ran. The wolf hadn't been far behind, he would be on Dean in moments, but there was nothing he could do, except get to the car and pray to any god that would listen--
He only had one chance at this, and if he missed, he was dead. He didn't like the odds much. Still, Sam was depending on him, and they were both going to die if he didn't take this shot. At least this way, Sam might get out alive. The knife was cold and heavy in his hand, and the seconds passed like hours. He watched the wolf approach as if in slow motion. Closer, he thought, just a little bit closer, and... he would hit it and it would fall, or he would miss and it would be on him.
He threw the knife. It whistled through the air, Dean praying it would hit, and punctured the wolf's shoulder with a wet sound. The animal-- the man, the monster, whatever it was-- faltered, howling in pain. It fell forward, and Dean got to his feet and ran. His chest ached, his legs were screaming as they lurched into motion, but if he ran, he might live. He really, really wanted to live.
Gravel gave way to grass, then to pavement. He wanted to laugh. There was the car, right where he had parked it. He could see Sam crouched behind it, panting, waiting. He fumbled for the keys, letting himself slow down as he approached his brother.
"Where'd you leave the bullets?" he asked. Sam looked up, startled.
"You're--"
"Yeah, I'm fine, but we don't really have time for that right now. Where are the bullets?"
"Front seat, passenger's side."
Dean snorted, moving to unlock the door. Looking through the windows, he saw it. Limping, but still determined. Pissed off now, and probably hungrier than it had been earlier. Its eyes shone an eerie red in the light of the full moon. He swung the door open, hissing at Sam to stay down, popping one clip out of the .45 and a new one in. Silver bullets.
"Dean," Sam whispered.
"Hang on," he said.
"No, Dean, it's important." There was a hissing urgency in his voice. Dean glanced up at the street. The wolf was no longer standing in the street.
He heard the low growl, looking down to where his brother sat. It was the first time Dean had got a clear look at the thing, a great black wolf with wicked teeth and red eyes. Its fur was matted with blood, some of it human, some of it pouring from a wound that was lodged in its shoulder, tooth marks on the end of the hilt where the dog had tried to pull it out. It crouched low, its muscled tensed and ready to pounce. He only had a second to realise what that meant, to take aim. It leapt, and the still air exploded with a sound like fireworks. It fell back with the first shot, but Dean believed in making sure that the job was done right. As it struggled to get back to its feet, he fired again, five more times, even though it was dead by the third time he shot it. Three silver bullets wasted. He didn't mind so much.
He clicked the safety on and threw the gun onto the car's front seat. Pulling the car keys out of the door, he tossed them to Sam. "You're driving," he said, "but pop the trunk." He did as he was told, and Dean smiled absently, supporting himself against the car as he opened the trunk and the half-hidden compartment that was home to their munitions. He dug around until he found what needed: salt, gasoline, a lighter. He'd have to be quick. Even though this was New York, eventually someone would call the police.
†
Dean leaned back in the passenger's seat, barely able to move. Whatever had kept him going was now gone, the adrenaline that had helped him stay on his feet replaced by sheer exhaustion and a sick feeling in his stomach. The six aspirins he had swallowed had done little, if anything, to reduce the pain.
"You need to go to a hospital?" Sam asked, once again eyeing his brother's injuries.
A slight smirk formed on his lips, "How are you at setting broken ribs?" Sam's blank, apprehensive look was all the answer he needed. It said quite plainly that while he could probably do it, he really didn't want to. "Hospital it is then. Fuck." Dean wasn't crazy about hospitals.
He breathed in small, shallow gasps. He'd be out of commission for a few weeks at the very least, he figured. At least New York was a more interesting place to be trapped in than small town Kentucky. Sam would like being stationary for a little while, and Dean would just have to ignore the obituaries section of the newspaper to keep the need to hunt from becoming overwhelming.
"Hey, Sam?"
"What?"
"All this talk of ribs-- I'm starving. What do you say when we get out of the hospital, we get something to eat?"
"Yeah... you wanna stop at that diner by our hotel?"
Dean shook his head. "Nah -- after this, I think we deserve a nice meal. There's gotta be a half decent restaurant around somewhere." He closed his eyes. "Wake me up when we get there." The thought of cute waitresses in short skirts helped him to fall asleep despite the pain. Sam glanced at his watch. 5AM. He hoped they would be in the hospital long enough that when they got out, a place that served ribs would be open. Dean deserved that much.
†
Author's note (continued): My three ideas were: (1) Dean and Sam being chased by a werewolf. As you may have noticed, this was the main topic of the fic. (2) Dean sleeps around. This is referenced in the story of the Kentucky werewolf. (3) Dean and Sam are hungry. Referenced at the end when Dean wants ribs.
I also thought about including a reference to Diane Downs, who shot her three kids while this song was playing on the radio back in 1983. I couldn't get it to fit in, but oh well.
Lyrics: Hungry Like the Wolf by Duran Duran
Dark in the city, night is a wire
Steam in the subway, earth is a fire
Do-do do do, do do do, do do do, do do do, do do
Woman you want me, give me a sign
And catch my breathing even closer behind
Do-do do do, do do do, do do do, do do do, do do
In touch with the ground
I'm on the hunt I'm after you
Smell like I sound, I’m lost in a crowd
And I'm hungry like the wolf
Straddle the line, in discord and rhyme
I'm on the hunt I'm after you
Mouth is alive with juices like wine
And I'm hungry like the wolf
Stalked in the forest, too close to hide
I'll be upon you by the moonlight side
Do-do do do, do do do, do do do, do do do, do do
High blood drumming on your skin it's so tight
You feel my heat, I'm just a moment behind
Do-do do do, do do do, do do do, do do do, do do
In touch with the ground
I'm on the hunt I'm after you
Scent and a sound, I'm lost and I'm found
And I'm hungry like the wolf
Strut on a line, it's discord and rhyme
I howl and I whine I'm after you
Mouth is alive all running inside
And I'm hungry like the wolf
(Hungry like the wolf)
Burning the ground I break from the crowd
I'm on the hunt I'm after you
I smell like I sound, I'm lost and I'm found
And I'm hungry like the wolf
Strut on a line, it's discord and rhyme
I'm on the hunt I'm after you
Mouth is alive with juices like wine
And I'm hungry like the wolf
Burning the ground I break from the crowd
I'm on the hunt I'm after you
Scent and a sound, I'm lost and I'm found
And I'm hungry like the wolf
Strut on a line, it's discord and rhyme
I howl and I whine I'm after you
Mouth is alive all running inside
And I'm hungry like the wolf...
†
Author: abrupte
Rating: PG13
Fandom: Supernatural.
Genre: Gen.
Wordcount: 4000ish
Summary: "For the record, I hate werewolves." It was a sentiment he'd repeated time and time again.
A/N: I wrote this fic for maygra's Pop Song Fic Challenge. My song was "Hungry Like the Wolf" by Duran Duran. I had a lot of ideas for this fic. Three of them made in, in one way or another (two of them only as references). In any case, this is it. Song lyrics appear at the end of the fic. ETA 21/10/07: Awwww, it's my first SPN fic. *hugs it*
†
He wasn't sure how long he'd been running, but he didn't dare stop. He had to find Sam. God, where was he? The subway tunnels were a maze, and he wasn't sure which ones he'd already been down. He couldn't risk getting turned around-- it was still only midnight and the full moon was high in sky, and that thing was lurking somewhere. Another turn yielded yet more concrete and metal rails. He spared a quick glance over his shoulder; saw nothing behind him but darkness. A mistake. If it was following him, he wouldn't be able to see it, and there was nothing he could do about it anyway--
He stumbled, his foot catching on one of the tracks, sending him sprawling. Add another injury to the list. He lay there, gasping, his heart hammering in his ears, his lungs screaming for oxygen they weren't getting. Instinctively, he reached for the .45 in his waistband before remembering that it was empty. Useless. Shit. The air was still and rank -- fresh air didn't make it down here very often, if such a thing existed anywhere in New York City. He hauled himself to his feet, his shoulders shaking as he tried to clear his head. Both of the knees were torn out of his jeans; there was a tear on the back of his shirt where its claws had caught the fabric but not his skin. Thank god for small miracles. It didn't quite make up for the fact that he was fairly certain he'd broken a rib.
Dean groaned. "I fucking hate werewolves," he said to no one in particular. So he ran, even though he thought his lungs would burst, even though he felt light-headed and sick, even though he was sure he would collapse from exhaustion and pain-- because there was something out there in the dark, and he didn't know where his brother was.
Gravel sifted underfoot as he ran, panting, trying in vain to catch his breath. If only he could find Sam -- another turn, another dark tunnel leading into blackness. He didn't want to admit that he was lost, because if he did, it would mean admitting that he was not going to be able to find him. But he couldn't leave his brother alone down here. He had to keep looking, he had to--
"Dean?" a quiet voice called out after him, cautious. "Dean, is that you?" He spun around, looking for the source of that voice. It came from behind a heap of gravel. He limped towards it as his younger brother emerged. Dean grinned.
"You bet, babe," he said, spreading his arms. "One and only." His expression was a little strained, but relieved. Sam was fine -- not a scratch on him. "Shit, man, I've been looking all over for you."
"We agreed to meet here-- remember?"
Of course he remembered--looking around, he could finally recognise his surroundings. He tried to laugh, but doubled over in pain instead, one arm going protectively around his damaged ribs. He wheezed, reaching out to grab Sam's arm. "Shit," he hissed, trying to push down the sudden wave of nausea and dizziness that overtook him.
Sam's face was as white as a sheet, and he reached out to support his brother, who leaned into him gratefully. "What happened to you?" he demanded, gently lowering Dean onto the gravel and taking stock of his injuries. Judging by the way he was holding his side, he'd done something to his ribs. His jeans were torn up, as was the skin of his knees. There were small scratches on his face and his palms were bloody. There was long tear in the back of his shirt. He was gasping for breath, and his shoulders trembled.
"Well," he said, "I found the werewolf." He grinned weakly. "Fortunately, I managed to lose it again." A pause. "I hope."
"You're a mess."
"What do you mean?" Despite the fact that it was agony to move, Dean retained his sense of humour. His hazel eyes were bright. "I feel like a million bucks, dude."
Sam watched him appraisingly. "You look like shit."
"That hurts. Almost as much as the broken ribs." Reaching back, he pulled the .45 out of his jeans. "Anyway, I'm out of bullets. Didn't even manage to hit the damn thing. How much ammo do we have left?"
Sam just coughed and looked away.
"Sam?"
"Yeah, about the silver bullets..." he said gently, rubbing the back of his head.
Dean buried his face in his hands. "This can't be good," he muttered to himself. "Please, tell me I'm wrong. Tell me everything is fine."
"Well, uh, we're not out, exactly, it's just--" Sam tried to figure out how to explain the situation. "I kind of... well... they're in the car."
Dean stared at him, his jaw hanging momentarily open. "You forgot the silver bullets in the car?!" he demanded. His bloodshot eyes were wide.
His younger brother cleared his throat before answering. "I guess you could put it that way."
"You do realise, Sam, that we're going to die, right?" he asked. "I mean, we're miles into the subway system. There's a werewolf down here. We have no silver bullets." He gave a melodramatic sigh. "Man, I always hoped I'd live to be thirty."
"We just have to get to the car-- get the bullets, then we can deal with this. Not that big a deal," he said, getting to his feet, but Dean just shook his head.
"We're so screwed. But -- well, guess we might as well give it a shot. I mean, if we're going to die anyway, might as well do it in a blaze of glory, right?" He held out a hand. "Help me up? Gently, please."
Sam laughed, pulling the older of the Winchester brothers to his feet. Dean dusted himself off, not that it made any difference.
"Before we go though, uh... we need to have a little chat." The lightness was suddenly gone from Dean's voice. His face was marked by lines that Sam hadn't noticed before; the expression he wore was both hard and soft, the way the corner of his lips quirked downwards indicating that he was broaching a subject he'd hoped to avoid. He hated doing this, he hated bringing it up -- if he'd just been more careful, not let those shots go wild -- god, Sam was going to be pissed. Or scared, and somehow that seemed worse.
Sam frowned. "What's wrong?"
Looking over his shoulder, he indicated the tear in the back of his shirt. "Look, I know you aren't going to like this, but... well, it's gotta be said. When Dad and I had this conversation, hunting that wolf down in Arkansas, I wasn't crazy about it either, but looking back on it..." he trailed off, swallowing hard. Trying to distract himself from the conversation at hand, he peered off into the obscurity of the surrounding tunnels; there was a junction up ahead. He remembered the car was that way. At least he knew where he was.
Sam looked at his brother's worn expression, the lump in his throat that revealed that even he didn't like it. He wiped distractedly at a shallow cut on his cheek. "Just say it, then."
"This thing we're hunting," Dean said hesitantly, "it's still human. When the full moon passes, he goes back to his family -- wife, kids, you know. Maybe he doesn't know what's going on. Maybe he doesn't know what he's done. But we do, and you know, we've gotta stop him."
Where was this heading?
"Only way we can stop him is if we kill him, shoot him with silver bullets, probably salt and burn the body for good measure-- but it means that when the full moon passes, he won't go back to his family, they won't know what happened, just that he's missing. They won't know that he's dead, that we had to kill him." Dean shrugged his shoulders, though the motion hurt. "All I can hope is that-- is that they'd understand, if they knew. And that he would understand, wouldn't want to be like this, might even be glad to know that we were putting an end to it."
"Dean, what's the point, here?"
He swallowed hard. "The point is-- if it were me, I'd be glad -- you know, I'd want it to stop. I wouldn't want to be like that. And, uh..." he frowned, shook his head. When he spoke again, his voice was more forceful, holding none of the hedging that had previously marked his attempts at this speech. "The point is, it damn near got me, Sam. And you know what happens when you get bit by a werewolf -- and I'm not in good shape, so if something happens, you know, if I do get bitten or something--"
Sam cut him off, "You're not going to get bitten."
He gathered his nerve and kept going, even though he could see by his expression that his little brother was less than happy, "No, I gotta say this, man. If I get bit, I'll take care of our wolf friend, and then I'll take care of me -- and you just keep going. Forget we ever came here, and ... and don't look for me." His voice was gravely and rough, and he swallowed hard, his tongue darting out to moisten his lips.
"You're not saying what I think--"
He shook his head, holding a hand up to silence him. "I can't become what I hunt, Sam," he said quietly. "I just can't."
"What you're talking about is suicide!"
He squared his shoulders, standing up straight. "Yeah," he admitted, his voice soft, "I know." He shook his head, as if to clear the conversation from it, and then smiled suddenly, apparently content to brush it off after he'd said his piece. "Anyway, now that we've had the talk, let's get going. Maybe we'll get lucky."
"Dean--"
But he just shook his head. "C'mon, we need those bullets or we're fucked."
Despite appearances, his mind was still churning. Dean had inflicted a lot of gruesome sights upon his brother, things Sam hadn't wanted to see but had needed to. In that sense, he supposed he hadn't done very well at protecting his brother. Most older brothers would have shielded him from a mangled corpse, not pointed out the claw marks on the dead and pale flesh. Still, this was their job, and he couldn't afford to be squeamish. There were some things he would have to see, even if there was a part of him that wished he could say, "Sam, cover your eyes."
Still, he didn't think Sam would ever need to see his brains blown out in the pit of some dark tunnel somewhere, and he suspected that would probably be worse for his mental and emotional health than any of the other corpses they'd encountered. Better to be left down there, and one day they'd find the bones and would wonder who had gone down there and shot himself in the head, and why he'd done it with a silver bullet. When and if they identified the body, he wondered what they'd think, realising that Dean Winchester was a serial killer who had been shot to death (again, with silver bullets) in St. Louis. Of course, despite any morbid curiosity, he was hoping it wouldn't come to that.
†
They didn't bother being quiet, as they had when they had entered the tunnels earlier, creeping silently, hoping to keep the werewolf from noticing their presence as long as possible. With Dean bruised and bloody, drenched in sweat, silence served no purpose. They would be easy to track by scent alone.
Sam had wanted to support his brother, but he insisted he could walk on his own. He had to take it slow, but he could manage. He kept his face expressionless, shoving the pain into a far corner of his mind. He only stumbled a few times, pushing Sam away when he rushed to help. He couldn't exactly explain why, but he had to do it on his own. He had to walk on his own two feet, and if he fell down every so often, he would get up.
He needed a distraction from the fact that he felt like he could barely breathe. He knew he could -- it wasn't easy, but he could breathe. "Hey, Sam," he said, forcing a strength he didn't feel into his voice. Talking hurt, too, but it might keep him on his feet.
"Yeah?"
"For the record, I hate werewolves."
His younger brother laughed despite himself, "You know, Dean, I sort of figured that out." It was a sentiment he'd repeated time and time again.
"I ever tell you about that job Dad and I had down in Kentucky with the werewolf?"
Sam shook his head, kicking some gravel aside as he walked. "You told me about a job in Arkansas, but not one in Kentucky."
"Yeah," Dean nodded thoughtfully, "there were these wild dog attacks down there, all during full moons, which always spells trouble." He chuckled absently, which quickly became a hacking cough. He gasped for breath, reaching an arm out to steady himself against the concrete wall. Wiping the sweat from his eyes, he gave his brother a shaky smile, going on as if nothing had happened, "So we head down there, right? Cave Run Lake, right before the full moon, ready to hunt the son of a bitch. Go down into those woods, spend three days hunting the damned thing, never even caught sight of the damned thing, only saw a couple tracks. Full moon passed."
Sam was watching him for signs of weakness, and he was rambling, he knew it. Anything not to think about the pain. "You know Dad, never leave the job until it's done and you know it's done, otherwise you have to go back-- except for that Constance chick, but -- well, you know about that one, so anyway... he figures we'll rent a motel room in this nearby town, fucking West Liberty, Kentucky, population of one thousand. One of those everybody knows everybody kind of places. Spend twenty-five days sitting on our hands waiting for the full moon again."
"An entire month? That would have been kind of nice, staying in one place for a little while, just waiting."
Dean coughed--it was supposed to be a derisive snort, but didn't quite work out that way. "It was hell," he said. "Absolute hell. Turns out those 'small town values' don't agree with me. Didn't take long before I was sick of girls asking me if I thought they were 'fast' -- I mean, who even says that anymore? -- not that it mattered for long, because it only took a week before they realised I wasn't some good country boy, and then they wouldn't even look at me, which makes sex pretty difficult."
Sam looked scandalised, but maybe not as much as he should have. He knew his brother too well. The thing that shocked him was the fact that girls had let Dean get away with it at all, even if only for a week. "I don't know what got their panties all in a knot anyway -- alright, so I wasn't exactly a model citizen, or as ... uh, exclusive as they seemed to be under the impression I was, but I mean, it's not like they were virgins or anything!" He grimaced. "Spent the rest of the month watching old movies at the dollar theatre and working on the car, putting up with dad's griping about how unfriendly the locals were-- never did tell him it was because his son had a bad reputation with the girls, and their friends, and their brothers, and their parents, which added up to just about everybody."
His little brother was just a little incredulous. "You know, if you'd just kept it in your pants--"
"Dude, I was bored. Sex is the number one best way to relieve boredom." He was glad to fall back onto their familiar banter, back and forth. Something where he didn't have to think, could just toss insults and not worry too much, just let himself get distracted...
Sam groaned. "Couldn't you have just watched porn or something?"
"With Dad around?"
"Good point."
Dean held up his hand to silence him, stopping suddenly. He could hear the rasp of his breath hissing through his battered lungs, the aching and too-fast beat of his heart. And if he listened very carefully, he could also hear paws scrabbling over gravel, claws clicking on stone.
"Oh, shit," he breathed.
Sam frowned. "What?"
"Run."
Sam obeyed, and Dean followed suit. They ran, gravel flying up around their boots, biting their ankles and shins despite the protection of their jeans. He knew with a sudden, uncomfortable certainty, that he was going to die. That knowledge didn't stop him from pulling the gun out of his waistband and loading it again, because if worse came to worst, the lead bullets might slow the wolf down. As long as he could get Sam out all right, he didn't mind so much.
His knees protested. His calves were burning. He actually couldn't tell if he was breathing or not, and he didn't think that was a good thing. Sam was a few yards ahead of him, not surprising given Dean's condition. He fired several shots off over his shoulder, didn't have energy to waste on grinning when most of them found their marks. The wolf staggered, hesitated, but then was after them again.
"Lead won't work," Sam told him between gasps, as Dean managed to catch up with him. Adrenaline helped to keep him on his feet despite the fact that he almost wanted to be laying dead on the ground. At least it wouldn't be so painful. "We need to shoot it with silver bullets." As if he didn't know that.
"Dude, I know! Someone forgot them in the car!" He glanced over his shoulder. Shooting it had slowed it down, temporarily, but it was still gaining on them. "Just RUN!" he shouted, as Sam was starting to slow down.
Light up ahead. It was dim, just enough to be the streetlights. The car. Dean reached into his pocket, felt the cold metal of his keys in his hand, and managed a grimacing smile. We might just make it out of here alive. Behind them, the wolf barked, sounding closer than he was comfortable with, much closer. Or... maybe we won't.
"Sam, keep running! I'll catch up!" Sam looked over his shoulder as Dean stopped, chest heaving, and crouched down. "Don't look, Sam, run!" It was an order. There was a flash of silver as he pulled something out of his boot-- a blade.
"Dean!"
"I said run!"
Sam ran. The wolf hadn't been far behind, he would be on Dean in moments, but there was nothing he could do, except get to the car and pray to any god that would listen--
He only had one chance at this, and if he missed, he was dead. He didn't like the odds much. Still, Sam was depending on him, and they were both going to die if he didn't take this shot. At least this way, Sam might get out alive. The knife was cold and heavy in his hand, and the seconds passed like hours. He watched the wolf approach as if in slow motion. Closer, he thought, just a little bit closer, and... he would hit it and it would fall, or he would miss and it would be on him.
He threw the knife. It whistled through the air, Dean praying it would hit, and punctured the wolf's shoulder with a wet sound. The animal-- the man, the monster, whatever it was-- faltered, howling in pain. It fell forward, and Dean got to his feet and ran. His chest ached, his legs were screaming as they lurched into motion, but if he ran, he might live. He really, really wanted to live.
Gravel gave way to grass, then to pavement. He wanted to laugh. There was the car, right where he had parked it. He could see Sam crouched behind it, panting, waiting. He fumbled for the keys, letting himself slow down as he approached his brother.
"Where'd you leave the bullets?" he asked. Sam looked up, startled.
"You're--"
"Yeah, I'm fine, but we don't really have time for that right now. Where are the bullets?"
"Front seat, passenger's side."
Dean snorted, moving to unlock the door. Looking through the windows, he saw it. Limping, but still determined. Pissed off now, and probably hungrier than it had been earlier. Its eyes shone an eerie red in the light of the full moon. He swung the door open, hissing at Sam to stay down, popping one clip out of the .45 and a new one in. Silver bullets.
"Dean," Sam whispered.
"Hang on," he said.
"No, Dean, it's important." There was a hissing urgency in his voice. Dean glanced up at the street. The wolf was no longer standing in the street.
He heard the low growl, looking down to where his brother sat. It was the first time Dean had got a clear look at the thing, a great black wolf with wicked teeth and red eyes. Its fur was matted with blood, some of it human, some of it pouring from a wound that was lodged in its shoulder, tooth marks on the end of the hilt where the dog had tried to pull it out. It crouched low, its muscled tensed and ready to pounce. He only had a second to realise what that meant, to take aim. It leapt, and the still air exploded with a sound like fireworks. It fell back with the first shot, but Dean believed in making sure that the job was done right. As it struggled to get back to its feet, he fired again, five more times, even though it was dead by the third time he shot it. Three silver bullets wasted. He didn't mind so much.
He clicked the safety on and threw the gun onto the car's front seat. Pulling the car keys out of the door, he tossed them to Sam. "You're driving," he said, "but pop the trunk." He did as he was told, and Dean smiled absently, supporting himself against the car as he opened the trunk and the half-hidden compartment that was home to their munitions. He dug around until he found what needed: salt, gasoline, a lighter. He'd have to be quick. Even though this was New York, eventually someone would call the police.
†
Dean leaned back in the passenger's seat, barely able to move. Whatever had kept him going was now gone, the adrenaline that had helped him stay on his feet replaced by sheer exhaustion and a sick feeling in his stomach. The six aspirins he had swallowed had done little, if anything, to reduce the pain.
"You need to go to a hospital?" Sam asked, once again eyeing his brother's injuries.
A slight smirk formed on his lips, "How are you at setting broken ribs?" Sam's blank, apprehensive look was all the answer he needed. It said quite plainly that while he could probably do it, he really didn't want to. "Hospital it is then. Fuck." Dean wasn't crazy about hospitals.
He breathed in small, shallow gasps. He'd be out of commission for a few weeks at the very least, he figured. At least New York was a more interesting place to be trapped in than small town Kentucky. Sam would like being stationary for a little while, and Dean would just have to ignore the obituaries section of the newspaper to keep the need to hunt from becoming overwhelming.
"Hey, Sam?"
"What?"
"All this talk of ribs-- I'm starving. What do you say when we get out of the hospital, we get something to eat?"
"Yeah... you wanna stop at that diner by our hotel?"
Dean shook his head. "Nah -- after this, I think we deserve a nice meal. There's gotta be a half decent restaurant around somewhere." He closed his eyes. "Wake me up when we get there." The thought of cute waitresses in short skirts helped him to fall asleep despite the pain. Sam glanced at his watch. 5AM. He hoped they would be in the hospital long enough that when they got out, a place that served ribs would be open. Dean deserved that much.
†
Author's note (continued): My three ideas were: (1) Dean and Sam being chased by a werewolf. As you may have noticed, this was the main topic of the fic. (2) Dean sleeps around. This is referenced in the story of the Kentucky werewolf. (3) Dean and Sam are hungry. Referenced at the end when Dean wants ribs.
I also thought about including a reference to Diane Downs, who shot her three kids while this song was playing on the radio back in 1983. I couldn't get it to fit in, but oh well.
Lyrics: Hungry Like the Wolf by Duran Duran
Dark in the city, night is a wire
Steam in the subway, earth is a fire
Do-do do do, do do do, do do do, do do do, do do
Woman you want me, give me a sign
And catch my breathing even closer behind
Do-do do do, do do do, do do do, do do do, do do
In touch with the ground
I'm on the hunt I'm after you
Smell like I sound, I’m lost in a crowd
And I'm hungry like the wolf
Straddle the line, in discord and rhyme
I'm on the hunt I'm after you
Mouth is alive with juices like wine
And I'm hungry like the wolf
Stalked in the forest, too close to hide
I'll be upon you by the moonlight side
Do-do do do, do do do, do do do, do do do, do do
High blood drumming on your skin it's so tight
You feel my heat, I'm just a moment behind
Do-do do do, do do do, do do do, do do do, do do
In touch with the ground
I'm on the hunt I'm after you
Scent and a sound, I'm lost and I'm found
And I'm hungry like the wolf
Strut on a line, it's discord and rhyme
I howl and I whine I'm after you
Mouth is alive all running inside
And I'm hungry like the wolf
(Hungry like the wolf)
Burning the ground I break from the crowd
I'm on the hunt I'm after you
I smell like I sound, I'm lost and I'm found
And I'm hungry like the wolf
Strut on a line, it's discord and rhyme
I'm on the hunt I'm after you
Mouth is alive with juices like wine
And I'm hungry like the wolf
Burning the ground I break from the crowd
I'm on the hunt I'm after you
Scent and a sound, I'm lost and I'm found
And I'm hungry like the wolf
Strut on a line, it's discord and rhyme
I howl and I whine I'm after you
Mouth is alive all running inside
And I'm hungry like the wolf...
†