Chapter Text
Out of the corner of his eye, Dean could see Sam grimacing. He chuckled, and flipped a wad of goop off the bolt. His little brother always liked to complain that darkspawn blood put off his appetite. Even though Sam was keeping his mouth shut this time, the way that his head tipped back and his nostrils flared suggested that the thought wasn't far from his mind.
"Your favorite thing to wake up to in the morning, huh?" Dean wiggled the bolt at Sam and was rewarded with a full-body flinch.
"Bite me."
Still grinning, Dean went back to work, pulling out the quarrels one by one and tossing them into a spattered pile. Impala barked and wheeled in circles around them; she wanted to worry at the corpses, to gnaw and tear and make sure they were good and dead, but even she had the sense to leave darkspawn alone on the ground. While the magic of their creators had given the mabari an almost eerie intelligence, it hadn't made the dogs immune to the taint.
"Good girl," he told her absently, reaching out to pat her head and scratch her ears when she came up next to him. "You wanna move a little quicker there, Sammy?"
"It takes a while to fill bottles with blood when there isn't a heart to pump it, Dean," Sam scowled, not looking up from where he was playing hunt-the-vein for darkspawn blood. Why anyone wanted the stuff was beyond either of them, but the merchants paid well for it, and there wasn't any sense in wasting stuff that could be sold. Maker knew they couldn't rely on prying open rusted chests and crates in damp caves forever.
"Yeah, yeah." Sam might be happy with waiting like a stuffed goose for the axe, but hanging around after a kill always made Dean restless. Fresh corpses would attract other darkspawn soon enough. They'd only taken this passage because their father's map had said it would lead them through the mountain range instead of around it, and they didn't exactly have the luxury of time. The two of them had been lucky enough to avoid running into too many monsters so far, but they were already missing regular meals, let alone the other wonders of civilization.
One last squeak of a cork, and Sam was grabbing his bags. "That's the last one. Let's go."
"Finally. Let's get out of here." Hefting his half of the supplies, Dean circled around to take up point, knowing Impala would dutifully bring up the rear. The position was a familiar one. Growing up, it had always been important to make sure that Sammy -- gangly, bookish Sammy -- stayed safe. The fact that Sam now towered over Dean -- and wasn't that a trip, still surprising after half a year on the road -- hardly made a difference.
When Dean heard Sam groan behind him, he just grinned wider. "It shouldn't be too much farther to the last sighting."
"That's what you said half an hour ago."
"Yeah, well, half an hour is half an hour less walking we have to do, so let's get to it before we wait any longer."
Over his shoulder, he saw Sam swallow hard, and push to catch up.
Things hadn't really gotten any better since then.
The hunt this time was a good one, perfect for just starting off the spring: a blighted werewolf on the loose from its darkspawn brethren, or maybe just an unlucky wanderer out of the Brecilian Forest, where the most recent outbreaks were supposed to stem from. Fortunately enough, it had been reported solo; an entire pack of the demented things could have eaten their way through half a dozen farmsteads without slowing down.
The problem wasn't figuring out what the monster was, this time. The problem was deciding how they were going to deal with it. There wasn't much for them to go on when it came to information on werewolves, let alone tainted ones. All that was in Dad's journal was a note saying to look up Brother Genitivi, like half the other notes out there. If Dean ever met the good Brother, he'd either accuse him of making everything up, or buy him a round for every time Genitivi's gossip saved his life. Probably both.
For the time being, they were following recent sightings of the beast, using rumors to help guide them closer to their prey. The weather was good; the sun was returning at its own unhurried pace, thawing out a world that had been huddled down into the depths of Ferelden winter. It wasn't the first time they'd hunted a werewolf, but those kinds of beasts needed extra-careful handling -- no cure for a bite, so it was all long-range weapons and desperate escapes -- and they were already working with a handicap. Two handicaps, in fact. Sam's wrist was still on the mend, and neither one of them were fighting at their best while still being weighed down by the memory of the last time they'd seen their father.
Alive.
Dean couldn't do a lick of good against both of those, so instead, he stuck to what he could handle. Impala was fast, but a werewolf would be faster, and have the advantage of reach. It had been human once; it would be canny. It would also be oozing with darkspawn taint.
So, as far as Dean could figure it, the answer was simple. They'd just have to hit the beast from a distance, hard and fast, before it could get in reach of them or anyone else -- and make sure the shot was a kill cleaner than Andraste's corsetry.
Easy. Right.
The more immediate concern was how well-equipped he and Sam were to deal with a fight of any kind. If funds were better, they wouldn't have to reuse weapons that were stained with 'spawn blood -- never safe to play with that, it was like kissing a desire demon and not expecting to swallow the excrement of its last victim -- but they had been running low ever since Orlais. Dwarves were too canny to be tricked into inscribing runes for something as insubstantial as a promise, and the Winchester money pouch was light enough.
The werewolf job would pay off well. It had to. There were only so many scams they could pull off, picking up the payments of tardy merchants and claiming they were simply errand-boys. If they didn't turn a decent bounty job soon, they'd have to resort to running close to black markets again, and Sam was still waking up shivering from the last time they brushed past the Coterie, and someone had whispered the right words about loose mages to the right templar ears. Dean and Sam had had to flee for weeks after that one, huddled in alleyway corners together, one hand clenched tight on a weapon and one hand clinging to each other.
Dean could have been fine on his own. The templars weren't coming for him. And he knew it wound Sam up sometimes to think about it, about how their family had spent so much time on the run, finding demons in every shadow and templars on their heels -- but Dean hadn't left him. Not yet.
Most of the time, frankly, he was worried about Sam leaving instead.
Word from the hunter boards had been that the blighted werewolf had been lurking around Gainn, a freehold in the northern Bannorn, west of Denerim, so that was where they were headed. He and Sam had settled on a long route, one that swung closer to Denerim and avoided the stretch of darkspawn-ravaged land around the wilds. Even if the darkspawn were gone from the blasted crater that had once been Lothering, Dean still didn't want to pass any closer than he had to. No telling what had seeped into the land with the darkspawn's influence. No telling what it might have woken up.
As he was sighting down the length of his crossbow, he heard the flame only seconds before he felt it: a ball of magic that had gone awry, skimming too close to his hair for comfort. Dean ducked out of its way with a yelp. "Maker, Sammy, watch where you're aiming those things! Pick a different side to practice, okay?"
Sam's only response was to blink at him blearily, body clearly still operating on the bare minimum of intelligence. Dean sighed. Neither of them were good at dealing with mornings, but Dean had had more practice forcing himself to function despite it. Besides, John Winchester had never been a fan of comfortable mornings. By now, the routine was too deeply ingrained for Dean to skip without feeling half-dressed for the rest of the day.
By the time Dean finished what was left of his warmup rounds, he was already ravenous. It was harder to pace himself when his supplies felt like they were feeding more than just two people; Dad had been a sparse eater, but Sam's stomach seemed endless. There wasn't always an inn nearby to look forward to, so their meals tended towards campfire fare, using whatever rations they could scramble together.
Tugging the last practice arrow from where it had lodged into a tree trunk, Dean rolled his shoulders back, assessing his brother's current state. Judging by his glazed look, Sam was likelier to end up tripping over a rock than being useful for actual motion.
"I'll go check the traps, see if they caught anything," he sighed, stowing the crossbow back into their packs. "Impala, stay."
The command woke up Sam up, if only temporarily, to squint at Dean through sleep-gritty eyes. "I'm not five years old anymore, Dean. I can take care of myself."
Dean snorted. "If you keep complaining," he threatened, "I'll have her sit on you."
Which they'd done all the way up to when the Blight had broken out, and while the rest of the continent had thrown up their hands about a few hundred thousand million extra darkspawn, Dean had had bigger concerns. The yellow-eyed bastard had managed to finally get himself summoned through the Fade, and then Dad had come back pale and terse and all, we're going to get your brother. Now, Dean, and the two of them had beaten the path all the way back to Ansburg -- //Ansburg// of all places -- to collect Sam, only to find that that was exactly where the yellow-eyed demon had gone too, off to the same damned Circle. Somehow, the thing's minions had gotten into the place. A dozen mages had been killed, two dozen templars had been gutted, and Sam's illicit girlfriend was a crispy smear on the ceiling, so the only thing to do was to get Sam the hell out of there no matter what.
Clearly the Circle couldn't do jack about actually protecting his little brother, so Dean had to do it himself.
Dad had gone missing during that disaster -- after telling Dean to take the Colt and Sam and run, just run for it, and don't look back, you hear me boy? -- and Dean had followed orders. After that, the Circle had been too much of a mess to return to, and templars had been everywhere; way too dangerous to bring Sam anywhere close, so all they could do was keep moving and hope to meet up with Dad again somewhere.
So now, it was just the two of them on the road, just by themselves, carrying the weight of their father's weapons and his memories along behind them. Impala was loyal, but she was getting middle-aged and rusty, stiff-legged when she hunted, and Dean hadn't checked lately about how long mabari hounds were supposed to live. He knew it couldn't be forever. He loved her anyway, especially when she sagged over Sam's lap and drooled and farted and Sam made faces; there were a lot of things unresolved between Dean and his father, but his father's dog was nothing but perfect.
Dean grinned to himself as he popped open a trap and hauled a stringy squirrel out, checking it automatically for signs of taint. This tasty piece of meat was way too good for Sam, he decided. Impala could get dibs.
Which meant they would have to waste precious time on that activity which Dean always dreaded: research.
Gainn itself was more impressive than the other villages they'd come through, meaning that it was actually intact and didn't look half-burned from brigands. Its farmsteads stretched out in awkward coils, winding around stubbly roads and ancient tree stumps, testament to lukewarm efforts to clear the land, only to relent to the pressures of a short growing year. Most of the fences were upright. It was downright luxurious, after a fashion.
Dean whistled as he and Sam trudged down the last few miles to the town square. A few of the farmers had seen them coming; one or two had even lifted a hand in cautious greeting, but no one had approached directly. Dean didn't take it too hard. Plenty of reason to be suspicious, after all. Just so long as there was a dry place to sleep, and the villagers didn't try to run them off on sight, then he could handle a little caution.
Luckily enough, Dean's tips usually came from the local taverns. Sam got to stomp off to whatever mage collective was lurking around, making secret code sign hanky-panky with rainbow glitter until they let him into their depressing basements and shared the latest rumors over moldering sacks of mushrooms. Taverns were easier. Better eye-candy, too.
They parted pretty quick once they managed to orient themselves to the town hall, using the greying bell-tower as a landmark. There wasn't much need for words; Impala stuck with Dean, of course, and Sam had already settled into his usual murky glower that he got whenever the issue of secret mages came up. Splitting early meant that Dean had to carry the extra gear bag, at least until he booked a room, but the prospect of getting to sit down for a few hours and drink was well worth the trouble.
There was only one tavern in town, so Dean figured Sam would know how to find him. Dean slid into the Spotted Hand -- giving the sign on the front a rather leery eye -- and gave a nod to the bartender. The catcalls and jeers in one corner were sure indicators of a card game in progress. It made Dean's fingers twitch: crummy local place like this, people probably wouldn't realize what a decent player was if he up and walked out with their life savings. But fleecing drunks at games of Wicked Grace, by unspoken agreement -- or rather, by Sam's reproachful stare whenever Dean's eyes lingered on a game -- was off limits. A settlement like this was far from the worst of the Blight, but there were other, ordinary problems to deal with, like planting and harvests and erratic weather. Ferelden wasn't an easy country to scrape a living out of. Easy winter or not, people were still living off last year's harvest, praying for the next: they already had bad luck in spades. The Winchesters didn't need to add on to it, at least not until they'd taken out whatever monster was making their lives a fresh kind of hell.
Resigning himself to good behavior for now, Dean settled down to his own table, kicking their gear underneath. The only people in the tavern so far looked like merchants or tradesmen. Judging by the light, Gainn's farmers would still be out in the fields for another few hours, so the dinner crowd would be the riper opportunity for pickings.
Patient enough for now -- they'd just arrived, and the villagers were probably still wondering if they were about to turn into either templars or abominations -- Dean kept half an eye on the game, marking out who looked like they'd be easiest to bait. Just when the crowd was starting to get thick, and the players were looking loose enough for him to start winning a few good coins, Sam finally stomped back in.
Habit meant Dean had took a seat where he could keep an eye on the door and watch for people trickling through, so he spotted Sam the moment his brother returned. Sam had that strained, closed-off look he always had after he came back from talking with the mages' collective, and Dean almost felt sorry for him.
"So what've we got?" Without waiting, Dean slid over his own mug to Sam and motioned for a fresh one for himself; Sam sniffed suspiciously at the contents before taking a sip. Predictably, he grimaced, before reaching into his bag to pull out the rough map of the area he'd sketched out this morning. With a flick of his hand, Sam spread it out on the table, setting leather weights on the corners to hold it in place.
"As far as anyone can tell, it's running solo. It's only been sighted close to the river, south and west of the town -- here, here, and here." Sam pointed to each spot marked out on the map in chalky blue.
"Victims?" Dean squinted at the map, hoping the colors and lines would magically resolve themselves into a convenient pattern. No such luck.
Sam tapped the map again, drawing Dean's attention to the red marks. "Mostly livestock. One farmhand, though he was alive when they found him -- he died of infection a couple of weeks ago. Didn't turn, though, so he was a lucky one. Sounds like it's been sticking close to those farms in particular. If there's going to be another killing, it'll be there."
Time was, Dean thought reflectively, Sam would have delivered that spiel with flashing eyes and barely-checked indignation at the unfairness of it all. Sam had always been the bleeding heart for people -- still was, as far as Dean could figure -- but he was getting tougher, better at shoving that sentimentality aside to get the job done.
Truth was, even if Dean had spent more than half his life wishing Sam would quit falling for every sob story tossed his way, it felt like a loss.
"That settles it, then." He rolled his shoulders back, feeling an absent-minded pride at the twinge of hard-worked muscle. "We'll head out there tomorrow, take a look around. Set a few traps and try to catch this thing before it gets anyone else."
The corners of Sam's lips twitched down, the look he sent Dean just short of incredulous. "You're kidding, right? We haven't even talked to anyone who's seen the thing."
"You've been talking enough for both of us." Sam's expression shifted from exasperated to murderous, and Dean fought back a grin, holding his hands up placatingly. So easy. "Look, it's a werewolf. It's got the taint. We've dealt with all that before, what's the big deal about both at once?"
Their inn room was safe enough, or as safe as Dean could make it: checking the walls and floorboards, paying extra for a door that actually closed, and even then, he looked under both cots. Just in case. He brought the crossbow out sometimes, carefully, only when they were absolutely certain that nothing else was around -- and that even if darkspawn came burrowing out from the ground they were sitting on, there were still at least three different ways to fight back or escape. The weapon didn't look like much. Dean could recognize some of the symbols etched into the Colt's stock, but even Sam couldn't read all of them, and he said the Colt probably came from the Tevinter Imperium. Before the Colt, Dean would have said the idea of an all-metal crossbow was a ridiculous one, but whatever magic was bound into the Colt also made her weigh only as much as any other crossbow. She looked like a sculpture, a toy, even though all her normal bolts came out trailing sparks and practically screaming with magic -- and the special ones, the ones forged by Colt himself, those burst out like liquid silver.
The Colt was made for hunting demons, but either Samuel Colt figured he was going to be around long enough to make more ammo, or he didn't believe in making something so powerful into a target for demons for miles around. When Dad had shoved it into Dean's hands, there had only been had a single bolt left. Only one meant that they had to save it for the yellow-eyed demon. No excuses. No mistakes.
While Sam flipped through his books and made faces at all the pictures, Dean focused on the crossbow, making sure all the parts that he understood were cleanly sliding. Enchantments or not, the Colt was still a weapon, and Dean knew weapons like he knew his own breathing. Before he put it away, though, he lingered, touching it, making sure to use the oilcloth to cancel out each smudged fingerprint. He'd never admit why. Not without looking creepy, but handling the weapon made him feel closer to Dad. The Colt was something important to Dad, one of two things that had mattered to him: Sam and the Colt. Just those two.
Well, and one more thing -- but that was what they were hunting. After Dad had been taken, Dean had heard about a gathering that the yellow-eyed demon had been setting up, some kind of mage collection fit to rival an entire Circle. Sam had been going to pieces ever since they'd caught rumor of it, and that had decided the matter right then for Dean. He hadn't waited; he'd taken Impala out with him every night for every lead, until finally the two of them caught up with the blood mages on the road, had pegged the lead guy from surprise and then took out the rest of the gang, as methodical as plugging a row of apples off a tree. Roadside banditry: a Winchester classic. No need to wait for the demon to get prepared for whatever showdown it'd been planning.
The crazy part was that Dean couldn't shake the feeling of something being thrown off-course ever since then, like the demon hadn't anticipated this twist of events. Maybe it had never counted on Impala being tough enough to take part in the hunt, or for its blood mage tools to get hijacked en route. For all Dean knows, it was part of the demon's plan to get his puppets killed; the thing might have been some kind of frame job to implicate the Winchesters as the real maleficarum. Dean seriously couldn't tell.
But ever since losing its clutch of pet kid Circle mages, the demon had apparently gone to ground. Dean knew it was only a matter of time before it comes back up again. He knew, and he would be ready.
Dad had traded himself as a distraction and given over the Colt and Sam to Dean's care, and that fact still hurt whenever Dean thought about it. If he'd been tougher, maybe he could have helped enough. Maybe Dad could have been with them now.
All Dean could do was keep Sam and the Colt safe. He wouldn't let it come down to what Dad had warned against. He wouldn't let Sammy become something that Dean would have to kill.
A few minutes' reconnaissance confirmed what Dean had suspected, which was that neither of them were going to be able to shoot for shit. Closer to the village, the ground was littered with the stumps of trees that had been felled and used for village lumber, Further in, the untouched trees huddled together mutinously. Their progress slowed to a crawl as they picked their way around lichen-covered trunks, hampered by their supply packs. At least they'd been able to store the bulkiest gear back in the tavern, but they still couldn't travel light. Dean wasn't going to trust the Colt to some backwater inn, and traps were going to be necessary, which meant having to carry all that crap on their backs while they found the right place to set up.
Impala, predictably, was already in love with the territory, bounding over half-collapsed trees and rocky outcrops like a pup. Dean was less thrilled. The chances of them getting a kill shot in the middle of these woods were about as high as Dean convincing Sam to settle down with a nice busty milkmaid in one of the better-protected banns, have a farm and cottage -- oh, and stop using magic while he was at it, too.
He cursed as Sam let a branch snap back and nearly take out his eye. "Hey! Aim for the mark, not your brother."
"Sorry," Sam grunted back, not sounding sincere in the slightest.
"Well, watch it," Dean huffed. "Just because you've got your own damned walking stick -- ow!"
"Sorry."
The sun had already crept over the edge of the trees by the time they managed to find a clearing good enough to set up camp in. Having branches interlocked overhead would keep the worst of the rain off, if it came, and it was big enough to fit two men and a full-grown Mabari. Dean surveyed the space, sniffed the air, and then unceremoniously dumped his packs.
While Sam crouched down to start digging out a fire pit, Dean sorted through their trap kit. He pulled things out of meticulously marked pouches, running his fingers over a glittering lure before putting it away. As much as he liked the shine, something like a werewolf couldn't be drawn by the flash of false gold; the things hunted more by scent than by sight. The claw traps were a no too. In general, they were handy to have around, except that their prey was bipedal this time and closer to a human's weight than a bear's. That kind of similarity always made Dean nervous whenever he was carrying enough gear and hiking through too much mud; he'd stepped hard on bear triggers before without springing the teeth, but a werewolf-weighted trap just seemed like an unnecessary risk.
Snares would be less destructive, but less likely to keep the werewolf in place. Clouds might work; a misdirection cloud trap might just save their asses if it meant the difference between a claw and a bite. Grease could be on their side, but it also might keep them from a safe retreat. After enough poking and prodding, Dean settled on a range of shock chemicals -- no need to burn down the forest -- snares, and powders. The rest would be up to how well he and Sam could hold up in combat.
Sam put up a few protective glyphs, ones that wouldn't last for the entire night, but were good enough when combined with a regular watch. Even if they were magic, Dean still liked knowing they were there. Wards were warmth, wards were safety, and wards made the shape of their bed-downs. Any hunter worth their salt knew the double-edged lesson from the start: the best protections were mages, but they were also what could lead demons straight inside.
Sam would be smarter than that, though. Sam had to be smarter.
The first night was quiet, filled with the occasional snuffle of animals too small to be a threat. Dean and Sam relocated camp the day afterwards, staying on the move to keep their scents from soaking too much into their surroundings. They checked for evidence of kills, for spoor and damaged bark, for clumps of fur that were coarse and flaking. The woods stayed normal enough: no darkspawn, no random murder victims, and most importantly, no blightwolf.
By the third day, Dean was getting irritated by the lack of a target. It wasn't like they needed the thing to waddle right up to them and flop down; he just needed an idea of the territory it was staying in so that he could set up the traps properly. It wasn't any good to find the perfect cul-de-sac if their mark was hanging out over an hour away. On the other hand, if it was too canny, then it was probably just hiding out in hopes that Dean and Sam would pass through.
"Think we're going to have to leave a deer out," he suggested after another hour spent squinting at the trees.
If Sam frowned any harder, his mouth was going to fall right off his face. "Not like we can force it to show up if it's being cautious, Dean."
"Yeah, well, no animal I know gets that scared when it's hungry."
"If it's out here, we should have seen some sign of it by now. It probably knows we're here, and it's staying away. A deer won't cut it, Dean."
"Patience, Sammy, is the first virtue of a true hunter." Dean waggled the dagger he was sharpening at Sam, tutting under his breath. "Patience and respect for an appetite. It's like I never taught you anything."
The look Sam shot him was worth it, pure poison in little brother form. "It's not like you set a good example. I don't remember much of you or Dad being -- whatever."
Impala whined.
Just like that, Sam's mouth had snapped shut. Dad wasn't something they talked about yet. Even Dean felt the tension winding him up, erasing all the good feelings he was trying to assemble about the hunt, and replacing the with the uncertainty of the future.
"Fine," he spat, fed up suddenly with all Sam's wailing. "You want to try another idea, you go and do it. Bet you're the expert, after all. Reading all those books in that Circle probably taught you about real hunts."
Sam started to say something; then he stopped, clamped his teeth shut, nostrils flaring with the force of every bitter word he refused to throw back in a return volley. He stood up, grabbed his staff, and stalked off into the woods.
Dean was righteously pissed for all of two seconds more, until Impala nudged his leg and whined again. Dammit. Sure, Sam was a mage -- but Dean had the fire for protection, and yeah, the blightwolf wasn't exactly showing up in front of them, which meant that it was out in the woods. Somewhere.
Impala mouthed his hand, and Dean could feel the not-so-gentle pressure of a tooth. "Yeah, okay," he admitted, shifting his fingers to ruffle her behind the ears. "Go keep an eye on Serah Prissy-Pants, will ya girl?"
She bounded eagerly once towards the edge of the firelight, and then lingered, looking back at him expectantly. He waved her off impatiently, making scoffing tchs! between his teeth until she finally relented, and moved on. The night settled in around him as he fed the fire in small doses, not wanting to use up all their wood, but not wanting to have to lug a ton of branches with them either.
When Sam didn't return right away, Dean tried to count up how many hours he'd give him before hitting the bedroll. He hadn't planned on staying awake the whole night for watch, and it was getting close to what would be Sam's half of the shift. He scooted closer to the nearest tree, wedging himself up against it for support while he let a doze take over, letting his senses fall into the half-muffled trance that would snap him out at the first sign of weirdness.
The night passed fine like that, easy and routine, until Dean found himself sitting rigidly upright, with no idea of why.
Everything was quiet. Way too quiet, and there was a reason it was called quiet as death: when there was something big enough, dangerous enough, to silence everything from the boldest of crows to the stubbornest badgers, then that thing was going to come and try to kill you too, if you didn't hide.
Dean's skin prickled uncomfortably as he tried to remember exactly when the noise of living creatures died away. It had happened sometime when he was napping, slow enough not to get him on immediate alert -- and he had no idea where his brother was.
"Sam?" He called. The woods absorbed all sound; nothing echoed back. "Sammy?"
Moonlight trickled down serenely overhead.
In an instant, Dean's hunter instincts went full-blown so fast that they almost choked the air off in his throat, he clenched up so quick. His hands were grabbing for his crossbow; his hips felt the reassuring weight of his daggers as he pushed himself up to his feet -- and then several hundred pounds of fur and claw came pounding out of the woods, powerful enough to spring directly over the fire for his throat.
Dean twisted fast, hoping the beast would hit the tree and get stunned; unfortunately, all he got for the effort was a faceful of bark chips and a set of claws raking for his eyes. He backpedaled, bringing up the crossbow underhanded in a shot for center mass. The string twanged; the bolt buried itself in a roll of fur, eliciting a strangled growl, but little else.
Dean dropped the crossbow -- no time to reload -- and grabbed for his daggers.
This wasn't good. It definitely wasn't good; he'd trapped around the camp, duh, but Sam's glyphs had long-expired, and Dean had been expecting his brother to be there to fill in the holes. Now that the creature had exposed itself, he could see that they'd found their quarry after all: a werewolf, scabbed over and oozing like no living creature should be while still mobile. Darkspawn taint had flayed the flesh away from its muzzle, exposing blackened bones to the air. Where a nose should have been was only a slit, burbling with each of the creature's whuffing snorts. Its ebony fur was matted and spiked with filth. It looked like a demented, giant porcupine -- but one with a pair of very aware, very alert eyes that were fixed on Dean, teeth bared in a grinning leer.
"Come on, bitch-tits," Dean panted, bringing up both his daggers in oblique angles. Trying to parry would be stupid; the thing was so much more massive, it'd swat his weapons away like twigs. His best chance would be to sting it into a frenzy, and then trip it into the fire somehow, pin it down there, somehow. Somehow.
The front claws came for him again, keeping him on the retreat; trying to dodge and keep to the firelight was a definite disadvantage, as it left him trying to backpedal in a circle, stomping on their gear. He took a bad rake across his forearm, glancing off his bracers and almost snagging in the lacings. The bag with his trap supplies was on the opposite side of the fire now, and Dean tried to keep it in view as he maneuvered, entirely on the defensive now as he tried to recover some space.
Then the war-howl of a mabari sliced through the air, and even despite his training, Dean froze, because if Impala was back, then Sam was there -- thank the Maker, and not killed by the blightwolf out in the field somewhere, and Dean hadn't even let himself think about that option until now. The cold possibility of it hit his gut; then a punch followed up, Dean's armor barely keeping the blightwolf's claws from disemboweling him. He stumbled, his attention split between Impala and the monster, and then he went pinwheeling down, boots tangled up in one of their bedrolls, eyesight blinded into spots from the nearby fire.
The next thing Dean was aware of was Sam's voice distantly calling his name, and white-hot pain lancing up his leg.
