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They made it to camp in a running stumble, supporting each other and losing track of whose blood was trickling down their arms. By the light of flashlights they broke into the medkits and performed a triage, hissing as alcohol hit raw wounds and giving no quarter as they cleaned each other up. It was a good thing they packed the equivalent of an ambulance in first-aid supplies.

"I'll tell you one thing," Sam said. "That monster wasn't a wendigo."

"No, not even close." Dean glanced over his shoulder, dropping his voice. "And who mistakes a tailypo for a wendigo, anyway? I know we have more class than that."

"Who breaks formation?" Sam asked. "We still haven't seen Adam. And I'm pretty sure there's no cell reception out here."

"Yeah. No kidding." Dean stood up, and yelled "Hey, thanks for leaving us out there to die!" at the woods.

"We didn't do too bad," Sam said.

Dean chuckled. "Which is good, because if I got killed by something called a tailypo, I would so wind up haunting these woods."

"You don't think Adam--" Sam started.

"Tailypos don't make more than one kill a night," Dean said. "If it killed him, it wouldn't have come after us."

"How'd you know that?"

"Dad must've hunted one once," Dean said, offhandedly. He blinked. "...something like that."

Sam paused. "Your dad?"

"...hunted," Dean confirmed. "Yeah. Sure I mentioned it before."

"Can't remember," Sam said.

"Yeah, that doesn't say much, braincase," Dean said. "Just glad you remembered your way around a pistol. I thought, the way it sounded--"

"Surface cuts," Sam said, fastening a butterfly clip. "Lots of noise and blood, but--"

"Sounded worse than it was," Dean agreed. "Anyway, you still only have about three inches of you that's not torn up."

Sam's entire body was aching, even while his system was pumping him full of endorphins and the adrenaline of the fight hadn't yet worn off. "Three?" he asked. "There are three?"

"Yeah, well--"

Dean shoved the last of the bandages back into the pack, turned off his flashlight, and grabbed Sam's shoulders.

"Hell with all that," he said.

He shoved Sam back, sending the two of them stumbling into the tent, bearing him down in a controlled tackle.

They went for the hearts first, hands and lips on chests and necks, seeking out a pulse, looking for proof they were alive. Then it was flesh, and muscle, and warmth, and need, and this time they didn't stop until they were spent and breathless and the cold night air was cooling the sweat on their skin.

"How did we do this before?" Dean asked, as they were pressed against each other in the corner, fixing the bandages which had been chafed loose. He shook his head, pressing one gash closed again and wrapping the gauze around the wound. "'cause I know one thing. You? Not being dead?" He flashed a grin in the direction of Sam's left hip. "Fuckin' turn-on, man."

Sam grunted. "Name give things that don't turn you on."

"Adam," Dean began, without thinking. "Demons. Especially those big slimy ones, and the ones with all the sulphur--"

Sam had to laugh. "Adam makes the top of your list?"

"Ehh. Something about his eyes."

"You're complaining about somebody's eyes?" Sam asked.

Dean looked up. The sheer amount of white visible around his pupils was a little unnerving. "What?"

"Nothing." Sam laughed.

"We don't need him," Dean said. "He's the third wheel from hell. Don't you ever think we could do this alone?" He leaned in. "Two of us. Like it should be."

"Yeah, maybe," Sam said, mostly for the sake of peacekeeping. He was about to bring up the times Adam had been invaluable, but still couldn't remember any. Dean was right: he didn't feel necessary.

"You and me," Dean said, but he sounded less certain that time.

He rolled over, pulling in a corner of the sleeping bag. "It doesn't add up, does it?" Sam asked.

"Go to sleep, Sammy," Dean said. But the question was in his tone as well.