More Than a Feeling

Chapter 1

A twig snapped beneath Dean's boot.

Damn.

He turned a slow 360, gun extended. Hunting in the woods sucked. Nothing but trees and bushes, aka cover for the creepy crawlies to ambush him from. Constant noises: rustling pine needles, creaking branches, calling birds—aka false alarms distracting him from the sound of footsteps. And this particular forest was about three hours from the nearest decent burger.

He scanned the ground, looking for any sign of footprints or crushed underbrush. Nothing. He took several careful steps to his right and peered down into the deep ravine again. No sign of it. Maybe Sam was having better luck on the north side. Although if he were, Dean would have heard a shot by now.

He resumed his route along the south side of the ravine, senses on full alert. He didn't want to leave Idaho without finishing this job. It had already been a doozy. In fact, he was down to his last bullet. Before they'd split off, he'd tossed his extra mag to Sam, who'd been empty. Dean had played it off like he had a third one in his back pocket. Sam wouldn't have taken it otherwise. The situation wasn't ideal, but one bullet was better than none.

He'd make the shot count.

An icy breeze cut through all four layers he was wearing—he'd added a heavy coat over his usual tee, flannel and jacket. His ears stung from the cold. Something wet touched his forehead. He looked up: snow. Big, soft flakes filtered through the pine branches overhead. According to the weather forecast, the snow wasn't supposed to start for another two hours at least. You had one job, jackasses. He set his jaw and faced forward again. Snow would make it easier for him to track the wolf—and for it to track him.

He shook off that last thought. He was the hunter here.

Another gust of wind squealed around the trees and sent a flurry of snowflakes needling into his face. He raised an arm over his eyes. Beneath the wail of the wind came a rhythmic sound: footfalls in swift succession.

He dropped his arm and raised his gun, but the werewolf was already on top of him. It snarled and knocked his gun hand back to the side, but he managed to hang on to the piece. A mouthful of protruding, yellowed teeth came at his face in a blur. He dodged the bite and landed an awkward, left-handed punch to the side of its head. He regained his grip on the gun, found the trigger, swung it upward—but not fast enough. A deep, fiery streak of pain raked across his left ribs, tearing a yell out of him. The other clawed hand smacked the gun down. It thudded onto a bed of brown pine needles.

The werewolf snarled again, baring unnaturally long, sharp teeth. It wore a dingy gray jacket, adding to the overall wolfish effect. Its tangled, light brown hair was turning dark and wet from the snow. "Why couldn't you just leave us alone?" it growled.

"Just doing my job."

"You killed them!" It swiped at his face with a hairy hand.

Dean ducked the blow, and gave the monster a crooked smile. "Don't worry. You'll be together again real soon."

The wolf gave a vicious snarl, and hurled itself at him. Dean took a neat sidestep, caught it by the back of its jacket collar, and used its momentum to swing it right over the edge of the ravine. A single, fading howl of surprise and fury ended in a sharp crack, followed by tumbling, sliding noises. Then silence.

Dean laid a hand against the left side of his chest, over the shredded strips of his coat. Warm wetness soaked up through his equally torn jacket, and his hand came away red. Son of a bitch. He loved that jacket.

Still, he shouldn't have tossed the wolf. That was a split-second decision, and it was pretty awesome. But only a silver bullet would kill it for sure. He'd lost his silver knife in the confusion of the big fight earlier.

He bent to pick up his gun, and fresh pain roared through his ribcage. Bright red droplets spattered onto the thin layer of snow covering the ground. He growled through gritted teeth and pressed his left arm across his side and chest. He snatched up the gun, stepped to the edge, and peered over.

Loose rocks and scattered pine needles blanketed the ravine's steep slopes. The rocks and needles were quickly gaining a wet, white blanket of their own. Far down, nearly at the bottom, the wolf's booted feet stuck out from behind a boulder—which completely blocked the rest of its body. Dean walked twenty yards along the rim, but that only hid the wolf completely from view. Twenty yards the other direction didn't help either. No clear shot.

He needed to hike down there and finish this job. This wasn't just a mutt, some poor schmuck who'd gotten bitten. This was a pureblood, obviously, considering it was wolfed out at eleven in the morning. Just like the rest of the pack.

The adrenaline pulsing through him slowly faded. Burning, throbbing pain took its place. He pulled his left arm away from his chest. The coat sleeve was already soaked.

He eyed the slope, searching for possible routes of descent. The options were steep, steeper, and suicide. And all three guaranteed to be slippery as hell under this snow.

Even if he made it down alive, he'd never make it back up.

Son of a bitch.

He gazed ahead, to the west. He and Sam were supposed to meet up at the end of the ravine. Another mile at least, if the geezer back at the motel in town could be believed. Dean hated to leave, but without cell service, Sam would never find him down there. He already needed what felt like a couple hundred stitches. And the snow wasn't letting up.

They'd just have to come back later and finish it off. If it was even still here by then. After one last glare at the wolf's boots, he forced himself to walk away.

Soon, trudging through the deepening snow grew more difficult with each step. His torn skin burned, but the rest of him was freezing. He wondered if he already had an infection. No telling what that thing had under its nasty nails.

He'd made fun of Sam for wearing gloves and a hat. Teeth chattering, he imagined the smug face his brother would make when they saw each other. He clamped his teeth together.

Snow swirled around his head, obscuring the way. He veered a little left, just to be safe. He didn't want to risk slipping into that ravine. Head bowed against the wind, he pushed forward. One foot in front of the other. Don't think about the pain or the cold. Just think about getting to Sam. Then Baby. She was a couple miles away, parked along the side of the road in this godforsaken forest. No problem. Sam would get him there. Just keep going.

A root hidden beneath the snow caught the toe of his boot, and he landed hard on his knees. He didn't have the energy to curse. He looked around for the first time in...crap, how long?

The ravine was gone.

A jolt of fear streaked through him. Where was it? Had he passed the end without realizing? How far back? Or had he veered off course to the south? His head felt thick and warm. Come to think of it, his whole body felt warm. That was nice.

No, not nice. That was a sign of hypo— something or other. His brain felt like grinding gears. What was the word? Sam would know. He knew all the big words. Sam was such a nerd. Where was he anyway?

At the end of the ravine. Right.

Dean shook his head, trying to clear it. He needed to backtrack. He pushed himself to his feet and turned around. The forest spun around him. He hit the ground again and fell flat on his back. The impact sent a brief, dull ache through his chest and side, but it quickly faded into numbness. Lying there, surrounded by tall trees and floating flakes felt like being inside a snow globe. So peaceful.

He'd rest here like this, just for a minute. Just long enough to regain some strength.

Like the snow drifting silently around him, his eyes drifted slowly closed.