A/N: Nothing much to say about this one, other than it was a joint effort with a friend : )

"Sam, do it, now!"

John is on top of a giant wolf hybrid – a marquette – hands jerking a knife into its matted throat. The marquette is snarling and snapping, its leg a dead, bleeding thing dragging on the ground behind it. John chopped the end of it off a while back. He is now cursing and digging his heels into the soft dirt, trying to get a hold on the creature and tire it out. Dean is missing, fallen behind in the woods. They haven't said anything about it – Sam was just intent on following John so they could finish the ritual and destroy the thing – Dean's only unconscious. Isn't badly injured or in pain. At least that's what Sam's telling himself as he kneels in the dirt by their quickly erected alter.

A small fire is crackling in the silver bowl at his feet. The fire is feeding on bits of the beast's fur, but it wants more. Sam has a knife in one hand, his other held out, trembling. The last thing they need is "young blood." Sam's blood. He's never willingly shed blood before, never had to slice into his own pulsing flesh to see it pour thick and red from his veins. Dean's coached him, when they learned what would stop the creature, what it would take to send it back to Hell. Told him how to clean the knife beforehand and hold his arm at the right angle. Dean's done it, many times. He has a few scars along the insides of his wrist, too. He showed them to Sam with easy relish, pointing out each one and telling him the story behind it, all too proud to wear trophies of past hunts. Sometimes it was for a ghost, sometimes a monster like the one they're dealing with now.

But now he has to do it, and suddenly he feels like he's trying to suck oxygen from water, and John is swearing and reciting the banishment spell in short jerks and stops, the monster snapping in a rage under him.

The blade is an inch from Sam's skin, he's ready to pull it down, but he hesitates. He can do it. Just. Not. Now. He wants the world to freeze, to give him more time. He doesn't want to do this now, can't hurt himself like this. Because it's going to hurt. He's going to bleed.

John cries out and Sam's head whips around just in time to see John twist into the marquette with a vengeance, hands flying round in the dim light.

It's the marquette's fierce howl that makes Sam squint into the fight, and then the monster's body is twisted at an odd angle and there's a glint at its foreleg. John had stabbed his long dagger into the thing's limb, deep into the rock. The monster is writhing now, foaming at the mouth and barking shrill and desperate.

And then John is at his side, and Sam has less than a second to appreciate the company before his father pulls him to his feet, tears the knife from his hand, grabs his arm, and slices.

Sam screams and John holds his arm out, and, behind an explosion of pain, Sam numbly registers the thick ooze dripping from the cut. John's voice is clear and steady, Latin spilling from his lips like the blood from Sam's arm. Tears form at the corners of Sam's eyes and he swallows thickly, John's grip paralyzing and raw.

He shouldn't have expected anything different; he hesitated and they needed the blood. John only did what he had to do and it was Sam's own fault. He could have done it himself, but he didn't. It hadn't been that bad; the shock of it was mostly the worst part. Now his wrist is stinging and he wants to get away from this place, from John. He wants to pull his arm away and run as fast as he could back, back to where Dean is. Somewhere in the dark of the forest.

The monster begins to glow and it cries out, jerking unnaturally. John doesn't seem to see it. It rises up as if strung out like a marionette, and then collapses.

The forest seems quieter, colder, the only noises John's words and the altogether small crackle of the fire.

Then John lets him go, and Sam stands there for several moments, watching his blood fizzle in the fire.

John retrieves his knife.

Sam snatches his arm to his chest and jerks away, a burning ache slithering into his shoulder. He bites his lip. He can't let any noise slip from his lips. That would be weak and he can't afford to be weak, alone with John. He moves away as John comes up to the bowl and pours a splash of whiskey into it. The fire hisses and smokes fitfully, the light extinguished. Their faces are lit by the moon, and the woods feel empty and oppressive at the same time. Sam feels claustrophobic, stuck between John and the darkness... and the knowledge that Dean is out there somewhere.

"I'm going back the way we came," Sam says on impulse, not wanting to give John a chance to talk him out of looking for Dean. They're finished here. The creature's body will rot – its soul trapped safely in the fiery pits – and John has the bowl. They can leave.

"No."

Sam flinches, back already to John.

"I know we killed this one, Sam, but I can't be sure there aren't others out there. Dean's a big boy, can take care of himself. He'll find his way back if he hasn't already."

And that's a lie because Dean wouldn't go back unless he was absolutely sure they didn't need him. And what would make him think they were finished now? Can he even hear them, or not hear them?

"Dean!"

"Sam, no!" John grabs at him but Sam ducks away with a fierce look of outrage. John glares at him.

"Don't. You do that – you're putting your brother at risk more than he already is. If there are others they're probably already on their way here, but making noise isn't exactly a deterrent."

"...How would he know when to go back?"

"The silence. He'll know."

And with that, John turns and stalks into the forest. The dimmest fleck of light shines through the trees, a subtle whistling only the highway can make. Sam stays put for exactly three seconds, and then rushes to catch up, the darkness on his heels.

- x -

It's half an hour later. Sam is sitting on the edge of the Impala's back seat, legs hanging out forest-side. John's got a map laid over the steering wheel, a pen in his teeth, a compass in his hand. Sam's arm is pressed to his stomach, a bandage wrapped around. He had to do it himself because as soon as they got back the only thing John was interested in was getting their next direction plotted. Sam had felt like crying as he'd rummaged around in the back of the car for the roll of gauze. Carefully wrapped his hand up to cover the quickly-clotting red cut.

There's a faint noise in the woods. Sam perks up, and he can't mistake the heavy sound of somebody moving through the forest. Twigs snap and brush whispers. He shoots a look to John, but his father is too absorbed in the map to take notice. Sam stands up, watches the darkness. Then the woods shift and Dean's face comes into view. It's pale and contorted as he steps gingerly over ferns and logs. Sam runs over and Dean looks up, smiling tiredly.

"Hey, hey, look who vanquished the monster all by himself..."

"Shut up." Sam quickly scans Dean's body, feeling his own start to shake as he sees the blood soaked through his jeans near the calf. "What happened?"

Dean smirks at him, but it's far from genuine. "Got me in the leg. Nothing serious. Not going to turn into a werewolf or anything. Hopefully." He winks and Sam glares at him.

"That's not funny. How'd you—"

"I heard you call my name. It was pretty quiet so I figured you guys were done and I could limp back to base camp." Dean rolls his eyes and grins, but Sam can see the ghosts in his eyes, how he'd let himself wonder what he would do if he came back and found the Impala empty. But that's gone in a heartbeat, and then Dean is looking at him now, a slight, thankful smile on his lips.

"I'm serious though. Good job." His eyes flick down to Sam's wrist and he pauses, looks to the car, to Sam's eyes. "How was it?" He doesn't seem overly worried, but Sam knows Dean cares about what happened.

"Fine," Sam lies. It wasn't really anything and he doesn't want Dean getting angry with John for nothing. He's fine now.

Dean narrows his eyes and Sam knows he saw through it, but Sam stands firm, and Dean lets it go with a barely-there grind of his jaw. Then he relaxes, and throws a careful arm around Sam's shoulders. Despite being less than three quarters Dean's weight, Sam puts an arm around his waist, supporting him as they make their way up the bank. Sam knows John's looking at them but he doesn't acknowledge it. Dean inhales sharply as they cut the hill, but then he's got the trunk open and is leaning against the fender, grabbing the gauze Sam had just put away.

"Need help?" Sam can't help but ask, thankful for the trunk lid blocking them from John.

"Nah," Dean says, sitting on the edge and pulling up his jeans.

There's so much blood. Sam swallows, but before he knows it he's an inch away from Dean, sitting beside him on the edge. Dean doesn't look up as he wipes his calf with a cloth doused in disinfectant, nor when he starts to wind the bandage around his leg. And as he works he leans closer, and there is that delicious warmth between them again. Sam realized he's missed it, even though they've only been apart for a few hours. He inhales silently. Dean then grabs a little metal clip and pins the fabric in place.

Dean's peaceful now. Thoughtful. He turns to Sam, completely unsurprised at their proximity.

"And that's how you do it." He grins breezily, and there's a beat, and before Sam can protest, he leans away again. Sam wants to say something but can't think of what, so he averts his eyes to the pavement.

There isn't a car for miles.

They can hear the soft crinkle of paper from inside the car.

And then, all too soon, Dean pushes up and Sam lets go, forcing himself to stay where he is. Something in Dean's eyes warns him to stay put for a minute. He takes the gauze Dean had put down and holds it in sweaty hands, too nervous to even fiddle with it.

Dean goes around and Sam can't help but listen in as the voices weave paste each other.

"Did you just leave him after you got back?" Dean whispers harshly.

"Needs to learn to take care of himself, Dean," John counters lazily, and Sam can tell he's not even looking up.

"Yeah, I know – you did that to me too and I hated it. You can't just leave him alone all the time; it does things to a kid."

"You turned out fine."

"I turned out screwed up, and don't kid yourself into thinking otherwise. Sam needs us and you need to be there for him—No. You know what? Forget it. Forget I said anything. You obviously aren't going to so why should I bother?"

"Hey." John's voice is a hard warning, and there's silence. Dean's holding it in, feeling the weight of the word in the air. "I'm doing as much for your brother as he needs. And what he needs is to be able to take care of himself, because, Dean, I'm not—"

The pavement crunches.

"I'm not going to be around forever. And what happens if I don't make it back one day, huh? Will you boys know how to take care of yourselves? You need my help, ask for it. But I'm not going to offer it unless I know you need it. And Sam didn't. He's fine."

"You're unbelievable..."

"What did you just say to me?"

"Just... don't hurt Sam. Just don't, dad."

More silence. Then a tired exhale, the crinkling of paper again, and Dean's back. Sam looks up carefully. Dean's eyes are hard but he attempts to soften them. He doesn't fool Sam, but Sam drops his own eyes and moves away. Dean shuts the back of the car with a slam, then jerks his chin with a heavy look, eyes calm and tired. Sam swallows and goes around, into the open door. He scootches over, behind John but far enough down so his father can't see him unless he twisted his body around.

Dean gets in and closes the door, body spread wide and angling towards Sam.

John's circling a place on the map, eyes guarded. He pauses, then folds the map and throws it on the passenger seat. He turns the keys without a word and they're on the road again.

Sam stays quietly tucked into his corner for a good fifteen minutes. Then he feels a hand on his shoulder. He looks up and then over – Dean's looking at him carefully, eyebrows drawn and an almost apologetic smile tugging at his lips. Sam exhales and immediately slides over, pressing into Dean's side. He's at first stiff, but Dean wrap an arm around him and squeezes. Sam shudders, and nuzzles his nose into the leather of Dean's jacket. It smells of home. And then the sudden pressure builds at his eyes and he feels like crying, and it's hot and persistent behind his eyes.

Dean stiffens, and then he's whispering worriedly into his ear, "Hey, hey," and his fingers tighten at Sam's back, and he's being pulled closer and all he can do is look up at Dean's honest eyes. And then he sniffs and smiles, so Dean knows he's fine – fine now – and leans back in. Dean shifts around Sam, accommodating him. And if Dean's hands are a little tight around him, Sam doesn't mind.