Clark could hear gunshots in the distance, and wolves howling, snarling, and whining, but there was nothing he could do to help Lex or Dean (or Sam, if he'd made it out as well). He had his own problems to deal with.

The three werewolves leapt toward him, all at the same time.

Clark aimed his fist for the throat, like Sam said. He punched as hard as he could. But he was tired, and all three of them ganged up on him and surrounded him. They were so fast that Clark could hardly see which one was attacking him, and the slashes on his arms barely had time to heal before a new set replaced them. And the pain just wouldn't go away. He couldn't help crying out as each stinging scratch tore his skin apart.

Claws slashed across his face, and Clark gave up punching. He wrapped his arms around his head, curled up on the floor, and screamed as they ripped up his back and shoulders.

Two of the werewolves wrenched him up by the arms, holding him in place. He struggled against their hold, but with the two of them holding him down, he wasn't quite strong enough to get away.

The other one grinned and tore what was left of the front of his shirt open. Clark glanced down at his skin, smooth and uninjured but covered in blood and threads of fabric. It was going to try to eat his heart out.

And there was nothing he could do about it.

Clark was breathing in to scream for help—maybe Lex or Dean could still come save him—but another idea occurred to him. A moment ago, he'd thought one of the werewolves was pretending to be asleep so that it could wake up and surprise-attack. Maybe Clark could try the same thing.

He went limp, dropping his head and closing his eyes.

The grip on his arm loosened, just slightly. He felt claws driving into his chest.

With all of the speed and strength he had, he drove his knee up into the creature's throat.

The werewolf who had been holding onto his right arm dropped it in surprise; Clark drove his fist into the throat of the one who was still holding him, then with a last burst of adrenaline, he shoved back the last of the three, and it dropped, hitting its head hard on the table.

Clark breathed hard, standing over the three bodies. He was okay. He was safe.

Gunshots, howls, and shouts still sounded from outside. Lex and Dean—and maybe Sam—weren't safe. Clark hadn't taken out enough of the monsters, and it didn't sound like their guns were helping.

He had to save them, whether they found out about his secret or not.

Clark ran out of the cabins and into the woods.

-------

Lex fired off silver bullet after silver bullet.

He fired as fast and as much as he could. They were close enough that he seldom missed, but it still seemed like they were getting nowhere. Each time a shot connected, the victim fell back and ran away, but each time, the same werewolf came back within less than a minute.

The silver wasn't working. They needed something more.

When no monsters approached him for a moment, Lex glanced back at Dean, and Dean gave him a quick nod. Lex lowered the rifle for just long enough to grab the shotgun out of the slip over his shoulder.

Lex had gotten used to the recoil on the rifle—this one handled differently. A lot differently. Dean had warned him the meteor rock slugs weren't quite safe in the guns, and that they'd scrape up the barrel. The first bullet missed by a quite a bit, and the shell flew off into the distance, disappearing between the trees. But by the second one, Lex had figured out how to compensate. The shell hit the werewolf square in the chest.

At first, Lex didn't think it was doing anything. The meteor rock slug hadn't even broken the werewolf's skin—the bit of glowing rock just stuck to a shallow indent it had left in the creature's bare chest. The creature stopped short, looked down at the rock, then back up at Lex.

Then its claws began to retract, and its teeth shrank.

-------

Clark peeked out through the cracked door of the warehouse to see movement that looked like fighting, just far enough away that he was pretty sure they couldn't see him. Maybe he could get out there without being seen. He could run over to the edges of the fight, wait for the moments when they were looking the other way, pick off werewolves one by one by dragging them away and punching them in the throat.

He wasn't completely sure he could get out there without being seen. But it didn't matter anymore. It was more important that his brothers were safe than that he kept his secret.

Clark stepped out of the cabin. He hadn't made it two steps before something hit him in the shoulder.

And burned.

Clark pulled in a breath and waited for himself to heal, but he didn't. Blood poured from a round, bullet-sized wound, and the longer he waited, the more it hurt.

He wasn't bulletproof.

Pain pulsed from the bleeding gash, spreading fiery heat all over his body, until Clark couldn't take it anymore. He screamed and fell to his knees, the world going dark.