They are not dogs. They are not hellhounds either. Dean would prefer either of those to whatever the fuck is looking at him from amongst the trees.
He feels his body heat up, as if the red eyes are burning him from the inside. Running is an option, except he doesn't know these 'things.' They could be jumpers, or flyers. They could be fast like Jaguars. He might not get far before one pounces on him and locks him in place for the rest. From his experience in the woods he knows that's what they'd do. Wild animals always pounce when their prey tries to get away.
Except, this isn't the woods, and these aren't wild animals. Fuck if he knows what they are or if knowledge means anything here. The only knowledge that matters is that the bitches are getting closer. He's sure that one wasn't standing there before. It was back near that downed tree. And there are extra pairs of eyes looking at him now, new guests who likely arrived after he first laid eyes on them.
That's when he thinks to hell with it and runs. He skirts a fallen log and jumps over a cluster of…something. Pebbles, bones, it doesn't matter. It catches the top of his boot though and trips him forward. The trees embrace him and he catches himself against a trunk. His hand brushes a bark; it feels like coarse skin against his palm and has bumps that resemble fingertips jutting out.
The creatures have launched themselves after him. He hears them breathe somewhere nearby. A glance left shows him red dots in the trees. They are at his heals and all around him, flanking his escape route and getting closer. They can take him out anytime they want to. His bowels tighten and his feet get wobbly. He steps in another unknown pile and this time he can't stop himself from hurtling. He goes down messily. There's no time to consider the pain. He springs up - hands and knees scraping mud and nostrils filling with the stench of gore. He starts running again. His ankle screams at him and he ignores it. No time for trivial things like joint injuries when he's got shit to worry about like staying alive.
It's then that one of them jumps him. He was distracted by his ankle and didn't see it coming. It tackles him to the ground, rolls him three times and flattens him on his back. It towers over him, growling like a rabid hyena. It's the first time he is seeing one of them up close and the sight chills him. It's not a dog, it's not a hellhound. It's worse than anything he's ever seen before.
The skeletal head is covered with greasy long hair that brushes against his cheeks. It reminds him of that creepy girl in The Ring movies. It moves like that girl too, jerky convulsive shifts that are fast as a flash frame and slow down when it peers into his eyes. Its eyes are glowing red. No lids or pupils or irises. Just burning coals in a skull that's caked with ash. The body – the part that is animal the most – has thick, slimy fur the color of its hair. It's got arms and legs that are bent backwards at the joints but end in human feet and hands, hands that dig talons into his upper arms.
The creature is salivating all over his face. The others are getting closer and Dean can't free himself from the claws. He can't get up or avoid the mouth opening above him. It shows rows of needle-like teeth inches away from his face. It wants to rip off his nose, his eyelids, his cheek. There's no escape and no hope now. He lets his head fall back and looks at the sky, at the dirty moon and the shredded clouds around it. When he feels the first sting of teeth he closes his eyes and hides himself deep within his soul where Sam and Cas are waiting.