Dust and dry leaves mixed into a whirling cloud when the car dashed trough the lonely road, twin beams of light drawing two white lines in the thick darkness.

Sam was driving, his foot on the gas pedal, the purr of the engine drifting quickly into a strong, continuous roaring. His brother's blood stained his partially torn shirt and dried slowly in his hands, closing on the steering wheel in a tight, almost mad grip. Dean didn't like his dear Impala being forced like that, and Sam knew he would give him a good telling-off as soon as he could. He could almost see him caressing the dashboard, while whispering to the car tender words as to a lover - did Sammy hurt you? Bad, bad Sammy -, scawling at him out of the corner of his eye.

If he makes it.

No. Shut up.

Of course he was going to make it. They had come through unscatted from worst situations; it was the usual thing when your life was devoted to hunting monsters. Each scar told a story, each injury and wound, they were part of the business- and they weren't only a few of them. That was just one more coming.

"S'mmy..."

"No, don't talk, Dean, don't talk... Keep pressure, don't stop"

Dean was too woozy to do it correctly, but Sam was driving, so he had to rely in his older brother. He was laying on one side along the back seats, his face completely drained of color, halfwrapped in a blanket and holding feebly a thick pad of cloth between his thighs. There was so much blood that the color of the fabric was impossible to discern; in the dim light inside the car, it looked plain black.

The creature had pierced the skin in his left thigh. If Dean hadn't moved in time and Sam hadn't shot straight to the specter's head, making it dissapear in a spray of rock salt, it'd had probably sectioned his femoral artery and killed him instantly. Nevertheless, it bleed profussely, and the torniquet Sam had made out from his belt, or the tight bandage improvised with a piece of his own shirt, hand towels and some duct tape won't hold the bleeding much longer.

"We're almost there, Dean. Hold on. You can shout at me later for driving like this-"

If he makes it.

Of course he was going to make it, dammit. It was needed something more that a wound to finish off a Winchester.

The creatures had taken them by surprise when they had to stop the car due to a puncture -they slash the wheels, Sam recalled; they slash the wheels with their sharp teeth so you are forced to stop, or they make you crash-. They heard the growling and baying when Dean was done with the rear wheel. One of the specters made them split up, the other attacked the older brother before Sam blasted it away with a rock salt pellet, but it was too late.

Sam first spotted the blood, bright crimson at the dim beam of the flashlight. Then, he saw his brother leaning back, breathing heavily, clutching at his left leg.

No...

"Son of a bitch!" Dean puffed. "It nearly bit my nuts off!-"

Panic pulled at Sam's throat when he realized there was much more blood coming out, squirting slowly between Dean's fingers.

No- he ran a hand through his hair and rushed towards Dean - No, it can't be possible, it hadn't tore it, or he would be dead already. He kneeled beside him; Dean was cursing between gasps.

"It's okay, Dean, it's okay- let me see."

When he took a closer look, Sam was unable to hold back a sigh of relief: it wasn't the femoral artery. Anyway, he had to make an effort to not wince in front of his brother.

"Doesn't look too bad- I think" he said, trying not to worsen even more his brother's distress.

It was not exactly true. The wound looked smaller than he expected, but blood, bright red, kept oozing in a pulsing fashion which didn't seem like it would stop at any moment. It had sectioned a peripherical artery. Without a second to lose, Sam pulled his hunt knife out and tore part of his own shirt, folding it quickly into a thick pad to cover the wound. There was a sick, wet sound; Sam's stomach did a painful flip when he felt the cloth rapidly getting hot and wet under his fingers. Dean jerked back his head with a groan.

"It's okay, Dean, hold on". Sam felt a heavy lump on his throat and swallowing wasn't of any use. "It's okay-"

Dad had taught them the basics of First Aid when they started hauting with him -taking care of your own injuries was a pretty normal thing when you were a hunter-, and Sam had learnt some more in his time at "Normal-life Land". If there were something the paramedic giving that First Aid course at Stanford repeated once and once again, was that arterial bleeding was way more serious, a threat that had to be managed properly and quickly. There was also some kind of motto: A focused mind saves lives, losing oneself means losing everthing. "That sounds easy when you're trying to save somebody you don't know- all things considered" Jess had muttered; his Jess, sitting beside him. And she was right. With his brother's blood throbbing beneath his hands and soaking the ground at his feet, trying to stay cool and focused wasn't exactly easy. Sam took a deep breath. Keep the pressure. Always the same pressure. Don't let it go. Stay calm.

The worst damage was caused when Dean jerked back, skin torn like a shirtsleeve caught in a nail, but precisely that prevented teeth from digging deeper in the flesh. His brother was bleeding like a stuck pig, but he had been lucky, after all. Nevertheless, if the moment came, he wouln't dare to stitch him up; it wasn't a bullet, neither a piece of broken glass buried in the skin, or a knife cut in the forearm; it was a damn bite, a few inches from the femoral artery, and that only gave them some minutes to keep Dean from bleeding to death.

"I'm going to the car" Sam announced. He folded Dean's leg very carefully and hold of his brother's bloodstained hands to put them over the wound, trying not to move the piece of cloth. "Dean, listen. Don't move your hands, hold this tight, as much as you can. Don't loose pressure, not even for a second. Okay?"

Dean nooded, actually more pissed off than scared.

"I know, genius, not my first cut" he grunted, his forehead already soaked with sweat. He clenched his teeth in pain.

Sam took less than half a minute to get back from the trunk. He had hope to find a good amount of bandages and gauze pads in their father's old med kit, but there was only a package- and already opened. It wasn't the best moment to tell Dean they needed to improve their supplies asap, so he fumbled frantically inside Dean's duffle bag and found some clean hand towels, cheesy motel names embroided on them -"Stop taking them, Dean. Would you like to go into a motel and don't find a towel because somebody else took it?" And then Dean would just shrug and smile-. Bless you, Dean, Sam thought. Sometimes "taking stuff we've technically already paid for" was not a bad thing, after all.

"Thanks for not listening to me" Sam said when he came back to his brother.

Ignoring Dean's confused frown, Sam took a towel and folded it until he got a thick pad and applied it over the already soaked piece of cloth; he couldn't remove it or blood will keep squirting, and that was what had to be avoided at any cost. He handed his brother the flashlight, making sure his grip was firm. He noticed Dean's hand was cold and trembling, and he hold it tight for a second, as to reassure him.

"Light me here, I need both hands."

Dean propped his elbow behind him to light properly and take a look; he grimaced instantly, actually more annoyed than worried.

"What a frigging bloody mess-" he panted out "Better make it stop before we get into the car, blood stains are impossible to remove."

Sam couldn't hold back a smile. His brother always played funny as some sort of self-defence when he was in a life-threating situation... or when he was too scared. And he was scared, Sam was sure, noticing the way his chest was heaving up and down, and how the flashlight trembled in his hand.

"Dean, you have to calm down." Sam said; it seemed somehow stupid to ask his brother to do that when he also was terrified; the towel was soaking up so fast he soon would have to take a new one... and it felt like going against the clock.

"I'm calm" he replied, maybe too loud to be credible.

"You aren't. Your heart is beating way too fast. Lay down and try to take deep, slow breaths. You slow down your heart rate, you slow down the bleeding."

Dean rolled his eyes.

"Yeah, Sam, sure, try to calm down when you almost had ripped off your-!"

"Deeeean..."

Grumpy, his older brother started to take deep breaths, in through his nose and out his mouth, like if he were mocking at they way a yoga instructor would do it. Though he wasn't taking it seriosuly, it would work, as oxygen would still surge through his system, soothing his racing pulse.

"I'm counting to ten" Sam said. "Do it with me, focus on that, it will help you. One- two- three-"

Counting silently, eyes shut, Dean's breathing was slow and even and only in through his nose when they hit forty. As Sam had expected, his brother was too focused breathing to notice they had way past ten... but it didn't take long before he complained.

"Goddamit, Sam! It won't stop bleeding-"

Sam took a deep breath and shook his head to push a strand of hair away, his forehead drenched in sweat. Fifty one, fifty two- He didn't stop the pressure, not even for a second, though his neck and shoulders already felt sore and his arms were starting to have cramps.

"Just some more minutes. It has to stop completely. Keep breathing."

"To be sincere, I think I'm gonna throw up." Dean groaned.

One more minute, and Sam was still applying pressure, so tight he could feel his own pulse mixing with his brother's. His right wrist, which had been broken and in a cast only some days ago, started begging at him. One hundred and twenty- He felt stupid there, counting, but the bleeding had to be totally stopped before they got to the car the car or Dean would loss even more blood. Sam's clothes were stuck to his skin, slick with sweat, and when the cold breeze hit him, he shivered. There is too much blood, that's not good, it should have stopped by now. His brother's breathing was starting to hitch again. Sam saw his face was pale, brow damp with perspiration, like if he could pass out at any moment.

How much blood could a person lose before it was life-threatening? Twenty percent? Thirty? He vaguely recalled that, from forty on, there were no chances of survival outside an intensive care environment, because organs started to shut down; he couldn't tell how much his brother had lost already, but it was enough to send a cold surge of fear through his spinal cord.

A pressure point could help, even if the indicated one in that case wasn't in the easiest to reach of places. Dean jerked when Sam unzipped his pants and sank the heel of one hand on his left groin.

"Hey! Wound is some inches down, Sam, what the heck are you doing?"

"Just shut up, Dean. Towels alone aren't working. A pressure point helps to stop the bleeding."

Dean blinked slowly.

"What are you frigging talking about, Sam? You didn't got an online medicine degree, did you?"

"Advanced First Aid course, back in the uni. Not that I like touching that place of your body either, but I'm trying to save your life."

"What about a simple torniquet?"

"Not a good idea, unless you want your leg cut off."

"I don't. I like my leg."

Sam maintained the pressure just for some seconds, until he felt the pulsing of blood trough the towel become slow and weak; it also had stopped soaking it up. He pulled out from his jacket a roll of duct tape and started wrapping the wound tightly. This should make it until we get to a safe place, he thought. It has stopped bleeding, this should work. Dean clenched his teeth in pain.

"Just hold on, almost there– Don't be a baby now." Sam said. To play it down, it was something they have learned when they were kids, and sometimes it was as important as knowing which were the monster's weak points.

Dean giggled raspily, letting his head fall back a little. His face was already damped with sweating.

"Jo said the same. When that blonde son of a bitch called Meg rented a room for free at Sam's motel, and you shot me- well, it wasn't you, but still... Jo, she yanked the bullet out... and she said- she said-"

Light flickered, and Dean didn't keep on talking. The flashlight fell from his hand.

"Hey hey hey- Dean! Stay with me, don't pass out."

Sam slapped him, maybe too violently; Dean let out a bad word and shook his head.

"I'm okay, I'm okay. I'm here" he grunted.

Maybe he was there, but he wasn't okay. His eyes were lousy, and instead of looking at him, they seemed to be trying to focus him.

"Okay, you're done, and we have to go" Sam said, taking back his flashlight and shotgun from the wet dirt. Don't look at the blood, don't look, he said to himself while he helped Dean yank to his feet; the older brother grimaced in pain."Black dogs may come back at any moment and you're not exactly in your best shape now to fight them."

"I've noticed, thanks..."

He groaned; the effort of standing upright seemed too much for him. He had lost too damn much blood, and they both knew it.

Even if it was near them, helping his brother to get into the car wasn't exactly easy, and Sam's considerable height make it even harder for Dean. Sam, you're too fucking tall, Dean mumbled while he tried to walk, arm over his younger brother's shoulders, a moan of pain escaping from his lips with every step they took. For Sam, on the other hand, it was like moving a mannequin made of flesh and bones; Dean could barely use his wounded leg, and he was so weak his weight seemed to double up.

With the adrenaline rush fading, Sam was consicious of the silence -besides Dean's ragged breathing- which surrounded themr. A forest would never be that quiet, especially with darkness falling, when owls and all sort of noctural creatures started their franctic activity.

"You feel it, too?" Dean asked in a low voice, almost like if he had read his mind.

"Silence? Yeah. Creepy."

Sam would have liked Dean to be on the passenger seat besides him, but he knew laying flat was safer in his state. The Impala's back seats would suffice. He pretended to lift his legs some inches above his heart to help circulation, but he feared the wound would open again, so he simply let him lie there, head slightly tilted to one side. Dean panted and groaned, his teeth clenched in pain.

"Damn it Sammy- it hurts like a son of a bitch-"

"You'll be fine, we'll get you fixed, but we have to get out of here first" Sam reassured.

Before climbing to the driver's seat, Sam took a moment to suck a deep breath in and dry his own forehead with his hand, absently tacking his face with his brother's blood. He heard Dean let out a wet, exhausted grunt. Sam had really hoped the worst part was over, but in the dim light, Dean looked more pale, even his lips were drained of any color. His eyelids fluttered, as he were fighting to maintain his eyes open. When Sam leaned over him and touched his face, the skin felt cold and clammy, slick with sweat. His brother tried to say something- and then his eyes closed.

"¿Dean?..." he was alive; Sam could feel his chest swaying with his breathing underneath him, but when he searched for a pulse in his neck, he felt the anxious pounding of his own blood standing out above his brother's.

Sam realized Dean was going into shock, and fear sprung up in his stomach like acid, turning into cold panic in his chest. In dozens of hunts they had splitted their own blood other dozens of times -even in purpose if the situation called for that- but Dean had lost too much, too rapidly, in too little time. His system was shutting down, quickly deprived of circulating blood. Sam winced when he noticed a warm wetness seeping through his own jeans: Dean's wound was bleeding again, each drop draining away his brother's life. Fuck, not again- no no no, please no- Sam shoved down the wrapped wound with both hands, taking out a long, dull groan from Dean, who arced his back in pain.

"Shhh- it's okay, it's okay, try not to move-"

Dean remained still, and Sam didn't know if it was because his order or because he was absolutely drained of any energy. How long had it been bleeding since they reached to the car? Sam started to think he shouldn't had moved his brother so quickly, but they were not safe out there, where he could feel red eyes shining among the trees, watching them...

Sam removed his own belt and tied it tightly around his brother's left thigh, where the femoral artery should be. He was going to risk it and do that torniquet which seemed not a good idea at first, but that now was the only option if he didn't want his brother bleed to death. He expected to gain more time. They only needed that. Just a little more time. Dean groaned again; his eyes fluttered and rolled, and he seemed to drift once again toward uncounsciousness. God, he looks so pale. Sam craddled his head between his hands, forcing him to come to.

"Dean, you hear me, you with me? Come on..." he searched again for a pulse, digging with his fingers near the collarbone, moving them around, anxious "Come on- Don't you dare to leave me, Dean..."

Dean grunted.

"Stop fondling me, creep..."

Sam sighed with relief.

"Listen, I'm going to get help- You'll be okay- you'll be okay."

Sam couldn't be sure if he was talking to Dean or to himself. He pulled out the cell phone from his pocket, trying to take deep breaths to control his trembling hands and slow down his pounding heart. They were not going to fix this with a good nap and some greasy take-away junk food, giving the body some time to build the blood supply back up. No. His brother needed medical help, right now.

The most reasonable thing he could do was take him to a hospital and get him a blood transfusion, but they were among the FBI's most wanted after a hunt who had gone really wrong, tracked in several states by an obnoxious federal agent named Henrikssen. They probably would keep Dean hospitalized and under observation for some days, and then they would reunite in prison. It was that, or waiting for the doctors and agents to lose track of them for a second, remove wires and tubes from his brother's weakened body and run away through the ambulance's entrance- probably bushing one, too. What difference would it make? Just another bunch of crimes to add to a long list, featured by the gruesome "tomb desecrations" -they were to be blamed for that, after all-, a "bank robbery" and finally, at the top of the list, the "harsh murder" of some civilians. Damn, they had been practically condemned before, only saved thanks to an agent who had witnessed their "freak stuff" and by a lawyer who firmly believed they weren't any kind of psycho. No chances they would be that lucky a second time.

I have to do something. Quick. Think, Sam. He pressed his cell phone against his nose, shutting his eyes tightly, rocking back and forth. Think. He could feel on his skin the sticky warmth of his brother's blood where it had damped his own jeans. He's dying- He's going to die- Think, Sam. He felt Dean moving, and absently put his cell phone away to lean over his brother. He was getting worse, breathing too fast, every new intake coming out in short puffs. He pressed a hand to his chest and felt his heart, beating fast, and somehow yet too weak. Sam knew it was trying to compensate the sudden fall in blood pressure by pumping faster. He felt a vibration under his hand and noticed his brother was trying to talk.

"Samm'my I'm so damn thirsty..."

"You can't drink, Dean, you are... Wait, wait, hold on."

He pulled out of his pocket the silver flask which contained the holy water and let some drops fall into his brother's dry lips. Dean licked them clumsily. When Sam was about rolling him to side in a recovery position, he noticed he was shivering, his breath hitching.

It's the shock. Warm, I have to keep him warm, he thought.

Blaming himself for not remembering it before, Sam leaned towards the passenger seat and took a blanket hidden behind it. They had it here in case they had to sleep in the car and outside it was so cold they couldn't maintain the heat, even with the windows closed. He finished placing his brother to recovery position and covered him with the blanket, rubbing firmly but carefully his hands -damn, his hands are so cold- Dean lifted his green eyes to him, looking at him, though he seemed to be looking through him. He had to make him comfortable, trying to prevent confussion and anxiety caused by shock from strain his body even more. He rubbed his back, trying to sooth his shivering. Dean let out a shaky sigh and finally remained still, but awake, his wandering eyes fixed on him and at the same time nowhere.

Sam knew Dean normally won't let anybody take care of him, becuse he hated to look weak -especially in front of his younger brother- but now he wasn't especially lucid to protest. Sam recalled once when they were kids and his father went out on a hunt, leaving them alone in a motel so cheap it even lacked central heating. Sam woke up next morning with an extra blanket and found Dean in the other bed, still asleep and covered with the sheets only. Sam didn't say a thing. He knew his brother only would tell him to shut up and eat his breakfast. They have always looked for each other. Always. But this time, Sam feared, the problem was way more serious that spending a cold night in a cheap bed. His brother's life depended on him.

He couldn't fail him. He wasn't going to fail him.

Sam rushed forward between the front seats and started searching frantically inside the dashboard. In the mess of papers and cassette tapes, his hands found the old, black leathered book.

His father's journal.

As a kid, he had seen his father come to that book when he needed "somebody who owed him a favor". So Sam's hazel eyes now flew among the scribbled pages, ignoring dates, cases, and any data on the lore. He was shaking, seized by panic. If he didn't find anything, he would call an ambulance. His brother's life would be saved, and they would find a way to escape from prison later. They always did. Fuck that Henrikssen, fuck the FBI. Like Dean used to say, "we'll cross that bridge when we get to it"

He was ready to close the journal and dial 911 when he saw it, quickly scrabbled in red ink at the bottom of the page about the Black Dogs of Tennesse.

C. Morris— Medical help.

For Dad, medical help didn't necesarily mean physician, but C. Morris seemed to be the only solution so far. There was also an address. If Sam had learnt something, it was that in John Winchester's journal even the most insignificant note or scribble had a purpose. That meant they could rely on somebody willing to help without asking too many questions.

Red Boiling Springs was just some miles away from there. If he hit the gas like mad, they could be there in ten minutes.

Sam shook Dean carefully by his shoulder, and his brother lifted his eyes to him; they were still out of focus, but Sam could see a glimpse of lucidity coming back for a second.

"I found help, some dude on Dad's diary, near here. I'm taking you there. Try to keep your eyes open. Don't close them, or you may fall asleep, and you can't fall asleep, Dean, okay?"

"Is that-" Dean had to swallow drily "Is that some doctor?"

"Uh- Technically, it is." Sam said, climbing to the driver's seat.

"What does that mean?"

"Just leave it to me, okay?"

"Like if I had a choice-"

Sam had driven since then, talking to his brother to prevent him from falling asleep. Every two minutes he looked through the mirror, controlling his breathing. Still steady, a bit fast, but steady, please just keep it like that. Road was long, so damn long, like if it had no end; ten minutes seemed ten hours to him. On the dark, dawn-orange horizon, there were only thick, black clouds, a storm waiting its moment to blow.

Dean's voice was raspy, monotone, pulling Sam away from his thoughts.

"Tired- S'm- so dam tired-"

"Don't fall asleep, brother, we're almost there. God, Dean, don't you dare to fall asleep-"

Through the rear mirror, Sam saw his brother was trying hard to maintain his eyes open, and he knew he won't resist much longer.

Sam tapped harder on the gas pedal.