For Biffy

Sam was not having a good day. Well, Dean was not having a good day and Sam was along for the ride. He'd gone out for a run to work off some frustration, which was normally a safe thing to do. He was human on the way out to the country, then he'd change shape and leave a little bundle of stuff not too far from Biffy's farmhouse. Biffy knew and was fine with it, although Sam did occasionally wonder if someday he'd discover that his clothes had suddenly gotten more fashionable in the time between when he left them and when he came back for them.

He'd done the same today, but then it had all gone downhill. Literally, because he'd been running down a slope, feeling the wind in his fur and the crunch of snow between his paws, sniffing everything he could, when there had been a crack and then he'd fallen over from the impact.

Someone had shot him. He knew what it felt like, and that was definitely what had happened. He lay stunned for a few seconds, then carefully and painfully got up. They'd gotten his shoulder, so running was out of the question. Walking was possible, but it hurt like hell and it took forever.

Eventually he managed to make his way back to Biffy's farmhouse. He would have just gotten his clothes and gone, but he could smell that Biffy was there. Maybe he ought to have someone take a look at him. That'd be the smart thing to do.

He weakly woofed from the front yard, since he was bleeding and didn't want to get blood on Biffy's doorstep.