Title: Project: Noah's Ark
Author: HigherMagic
Artist: evian_fork
Fandom/Genre: Supernatural, Romance/Crime
Pairing (s): Dean/Sam, mentions of Castiel/Meg, Castiel/Sam, Dean/Castiel, Sam/Dean/Castiel
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~21,500
Warnings: character death, graphic disturbing imagery, violence, hybrid!boys, switching
Summary: Project: Noah's Ark is a secret government program designed to mix humans with the genetic coding of animals, both furthering the war efforts and to give humanity a fighting chance against disease, famine, and anything else Mother Earth can throw at them. The Winchesters are missing, having fled the agency and killing anything that tries to bring them back: Castiel, the Shrike, is E.D.E.N.'s fifth attempt to subdue the runaways that threaten the entire operation, and he is determined to hunt them down. But there may be more to Sam and Dean's story than what a manila folder will tell him, if only he would stop trying to kill them.
Check out the wonderful artwork from evian_fork on Livejournal!
When the Shrike found the Wolf, he was in a puddle of his own blood. The Shrike's lips twisted, cool blue eyes assessing the scene before him as he crouched down, fingers dipping into the puddle of red surrounding the Wolf's head, his gaze meeting the almost accusing, whited-out stare of the other creature as he licked at the blood.
"Damned fool," he muttered, rolling his eyes and smearing his bloodied fingertips across the Wolf's eyelids and his deteriorated gaze. He'd been dead for a while, if the lack of coloration in his iris was any indication.
The body was unresponsive, naturally, and so the Shrike huffed out another breath and stood. There was a tarp nearby, as well as ropes – the Wolf had been almost clever, trying to trap them between himself and the water by the marina – and so he could make a relatively easy time of wrapping the body of the Wolf up tight and hauling the corpse towards his car.
He dialed Mother on the way. "He's dead," he reported upon her answer, eyes focused forward as he effortlessly navigated the sparse traffic near the marina, the rain beating down on his windshield hardly a bother for his excellent eyesight. "Gutted like a fish by the lake."
Mother cursed softly, the sound of her fist slamming against her desk enough to make the Shrike smirk to himself. She had a temper and a half on her, Mother did. "They're getting better," she noted, and the Shrike assumed that she had meant to say it under her breath, but he heard anyway. "Are you disposing of the body now?"
"Personally," he replied, with no small amount of satisfaction and eagerness. He had never particularly liked the Wolf: the creature had taken a lot of credit for his kills and eaten the carrion himself. No one cared if the 'pretty little bird' had done most of the work. "This is the fourth they've killed." He knew because he was keeping count; it was his job to find those undercover, to find the bodies of those taken out – to find those that died hunting others down.
Mother sighed. He could imagine her rubbing the bridge of her nose in that exhausted way she did. "Alright, alright," she finally conceded, in a way that made his fingers tighten on the steering wheel of his car, straighten his back in readiness. "You're up, Castiel. Take the Winchesters down – alive for processing and rehabilitation, if you can. If you can't…"
He pulled up outside of an old warehouse, cutting the engine, and disconnected the phone to hold up to his ear so that the call could continue. "I won't let you down," he promised, eager to be on his way, but first he had to take care of the Wolf.
"Call me with any new developments," Mother said, before hanging up, and he grinned to himself, pocketing his phone again as he went to the trunk and unlocked it, hoisting the corpse of the Wolf into his arms and then over one shoulder.
His spirits were high, entering his personal nest – even the rain slowly seeping in through the corners couldn't dampen his mood, as he kicked haylage and mulch towards the edges to stop the leaks. Inside there were no lights, but the Shrike's eyes were sharp and so he did not need much light to see by. He knelt down, unwrapping the Wolf with the same kind of manic glee as a child on Christmas day, throwing the tarp and rope to one side when he was finished.
The Wolf had been a bulky man, muscled and brawny. Still, the Shrike had little trouble hoisting him upwards and then impaling him onto two metal spikes that stuck forward through his neck and through his stomach. Gas escaped the body at the puncture wounds in a vulgar noise that made the Shrike grimace in distaste, but the preparation now meant that it would be ready in time for his mate to see it.
He smiled at the thought, gently brushing his fingers down the side of the Wolf's face. Next to him was the body of the Hawk, and on his other side the pale figure of the She-Hyena. Strung up above the trio hung the dismembered parts (or at least all the parts that he could find) of Mother's first attempt to kill the Winchesters – the Owl.
He hummed gently in pleasure at the sight – the two wayward brothers would make wonderful additions to his collection. "My turn," the Shrike sing-songed, raising his hand in a mock-salute towards the staring face of the Wolf, before he turned and climbed back into his car. The rain was an almost soothing patter against the roof and around him as he turned and meandered his way back to the Interstate. Mother would have forwarded him all the information he needed, and it would be ready for him as soon as he could be bothered to find a motel with decent internet.
All it all, it was shaping out to be a pretty damn good day.
"Sam, Sammy – I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
"Dean, it's okay. It's okay – I promise it's okay, just -."
Some days, Dean just really, really hated.
Days when all he could think about was the scent of blood and sweat, the feeling of a warm body struggling hard beneath him, days when the idea of licking along the tendons in some unwitting person's neck drove him to distraction, or when it was all he could do not to curl his nails into someone's skin and rip.
Those days made the ones between seem like distant, idyllic fantasies, mere wisps of smoke to curl around him at night and pray with whatever strength he had left that the next day wouldn't be the same.
Sam called them 'Rut' days. Dean had a few other colorful words for them, too.
Regardless of what they called those days, they were the same; Dean, waking up in a cold sweat with his hands shaking with adrenaline, eyes sharp and glowing an unnatural green to mark him as something other, lips curling back to bare teeth that were curved and sharp like those of a wild cat, and when Dean woke up like this all Sam could do was bow to him.
It ended the same way too – Dean with his teeth at Sam's neck, his nails – too-long and too-sharp, digging bleeding punctures into Sam's wrists and flanks – raking along his little brother's golden skin, his body covering Sam's as though he intended to envelop Sam completely while he fucked him as brutally as he could hold himself back for. He would never willingly hurt Sam – never wanted to, never would – but Sam wasn't made like he was. Sam couldn't make slick, didn't get wet like Dean could, didn't have hormones built into him to relax his muscles and make it easier. Everything Dean did, Sam felt, and his brother's low, pained whines were enough evidence for Dean of just how acutely he felt them.
Dean closed his eyes, burying his face against the side of Sam's neck, sweaty hair and moist skin all he could feel, all he could smell, pressing his hips flush against Sam's and squeezing his wrists tightly as he did so to make sure his brother stayed down. Sam was pliant beneath him, submitting in the way he knew Dean needed on days like this, when mating instinct went into overdrive and everything smelled like a bitch in heat. Sam shivered in a whole-body movement, goose bumps breaking out along his forearms when Dean breathed out, causing the older man to smile in a mix of relief and triumph; even like this, Dean knew how to play Sam's body to any tune he liked.
He curled his lips back, nipping at the meat of Sam's shoulder as he pulled out slowly until he could feel the slight catch of Sam's rim against him, and slide back inside hard enough to make Sam jolt and moan softly. Dean shifted his grip, instead lacing his fingers with Sam's and felt his little brother squeeze his fingers as Dean managed to keep himself relatively gentle, his teeth at Sam's back the only real threat now that the violence thrumming through him had momentarily passed.
"You're so gorgeous like this," he whispered, voice hardly more than an exhale now because he was trying to control the snarl that threatened to let loose. He could hear the muffled sound Sam let out at that, knew his brother was likely biting his lower lip to keep his own growls silent. "Fuck." He bit out the word, thrusting in again, squeezing his eyes tightly shut at the flutter of muscles around him he received for it. "Love you when you're – so good, Sammy, I'm so sorry -."
Sam could hear what Dean couldn't say in between the words; I'm sorry I'm made like this, and I'm sorry that you're suffering for it, and I love you, and he opened his mouth to, once again, reassure Dean, because it was okay and he knew Dean needed to hear it, but that was one more thing that made them different – for every word Sam needed to hear, Dean needed to feel it. He was the more tactile brother.
Sam tilted his head the other way so that he was facing Dean, drawing his arms in and nuzzling against Dean's head until his older brother lifted up enough that he could fit his head underneath Dean's. "It's alright, Dean," he murmured, earning a soft, choked-sounding noise from the older creature, even as Dean rocked into him again and Sam gasped at the feeling. Dean was close, he knew it as surely as he knew his own name; Dean could never look him in the eye when he was like this, but when his orgasm came crashing into him his brother almost always sought out Sam's mouth to muffle the sound of his triumphant, dominant snarl.
Dean breathed out, pressing his forehead against Sam's temple, trying to lose himself in Sam's sweat and the feel of his body, pushing up hard and hot underneath him in an almost insistent, demanding way. He knew Sam didn't get hard from this, didn't enjoy it – after a while he had stopped trying. But that never stopped Sam from freely bending to Dean's will on Rut days; because it was yet one more necessary evil they both had to deal with.
Sam fought a hand free, bringing it up to gently lace his fingers through the short hair at the back of Dean's head, and turned his face to gently rub his nose against Dean's affectionately, earning a small, half-grimace-half-smile from his brother as Dean finally went still above him, his mouth opening against the skin of Sam's jaw as he groaned lowly, hips pressed flush, body trembling. When the Rut was over, it was like Dean collapsed from the inside, everything spilling out until he was nothing more than a breathing weight against Sam's back.
Sam turned his head a little more, though it hurt to do and he wouldn't be able to keep the position for long, and pressed his lips chastely against Dean's slack mouth. The fingers still linked with his hand tightened at the kiss.
After another long, blissfully still moment, Dean shifted. The sound that broke the silence when they separated made Dean grimace, flinching from it, but Sam was used to it by now – used to the feeling of unnatural slickness against his thighs from Dean's sweat and semen, used to the subtle but unpleasant twinge in his ass when he tried to move. He went to the bathroom, leaving Dean alone because Dean always needed a moment after to quell his urges again, to center and ground himself in the reality once more, and cleaned himself up as best as he could bring himself to do, splashing his face with water and rubbing a damp towel down his thighs.
When he returned, Dean was sprawled under the sheets of their second bed – the bed that they actually used for sleeping. His back was to Sam, staring towards the door, and his breathing was even if a little too even and slow to be him in his dream state. He was still awake.
Sam approached the bed slowly, going out of his way to make noise, and gently nudged the bed with his knee. Dean didn't move – he wouldn't. Sam smiled to himself, tired and pleased that he wouldn't have to coax his mate into allowing him into their bed tonight. He crawled over Dean, pushing at his shoulder until Dean rolled onto his back, the green of his iris no longer glowing so unnaturally brightly, but settled into their regular mix of shale and gold and emerald.
Dean's expression was tight, tense, just waiting for this to be the day – the day that Sam finally knew he took it too far, demanded he get help, turn himself in for rehabilitation, whatever-the-fuck else – but Sam simply smiled at him, brushing his sweaty hair back from his face, and leaned down for another kiss, this one deeper and wetter and more of what they were both craving.
Dean melted into it, his hands coming up to loosely thread through Sam's hair and wrap around his shoulders, and Sam's arms curled under Dean's shoulders to hold him close as he laid their bodies flush together. Sam poured all of what Dean would never let him say into that kiss – never let him because tomorrow could be the day Dean took it too far, or the day one of the Hunters finally managed to kill one or both of them. Never let him because there weren't enough words in the English language for all that Dean loved his little brother, his mate, so what was the point?
He shivered underneath Sam, though, his legs instinctively spreading out to make room for Sam, even though the sheet still blocked them from each other. Sam knew, if he pushed the barriers apart and reached between Dean's legs, his brother would be soaked through, wet and open and ready for him, but Rut days were days Sam couldn't have Dean like he so desperately wanted – not if he wanted to keep his head.
Sighing, Sam pulled back, because if they kept going he would most likely try, threat of death or not. He rubbed his nose against Dean's, glad when Dean finally smiled and rolled his eyes mockingly. Sam didn't mind. He wrapped his arms around Dean when his brother turned back onto his side, eyes on the door.
"Sleep," he murmured to the nape of Dean's neck, holding him as close as he could with the blankets still between them, and pulled the far end back over his own body so that Dean could grab onto the far corner, wrapping Sam tight as though he was cocooned. It was the only way Dean could sleep: knowing that Sam had no way of getting out of bed without his knowledge.
Dean huffed softly at that, and Sam imagined him rolling his eyes again. The image made him smile, stroking a hand up and down Dean's arm as he felt his brother finally begin to relax, and softly purr.
By the end of the third night, the Shrike had both of their files memorized, and he was closing in.
They were Sam and Dean Winchester. Sired and birthed by the same two parents, four years apart. They had been intended for the Greater Felines program given their father's size, strength and military service reflecting a solitary but vicious fighting style. It was common that nature and nurture were paired together in instances like this.
Dean had been born, healthy and apparently promising. Then Sam. By the relative ages of twelve and eight it was clear that Sam was the more dominant brother, bigger than Dean had been at his age and more prone towards aggression in an argument than other tactics. Mother had been disappointed, to say the least – they'd had high hopes for Dean, but with Sam being the more promising brother, it was likely that he would kill Dean once they both reached maturity and leave E.D.E.N. one hybrid short.
Mother wouldn't have that.
The Shrike liked to refer to him as Spider now. It was, after all, almost fitting. They'd tried an experimental pre-pubescent genetic mix instead of the usual in-utero alterations in an attempt to guide Dean's qualities away from the feline and more towards an arachnid. After all, Dean might not have been the strongest or most aggressive brother, but he didn't need to be. They could make something useful out of him.
Dean had been their first post-natal success in that particular field.
So he was dealing with a Lion and a Spider. Two species that he would have never have pegged for cohabitation or partnership. Perhaps the human part of them kept their bond strong. The Shrike almost laughed at the thought – it hadn't stopped him from slaughtering his nest mates as soon as he had the strength to, despite the fact that he had been the youngest, the latest to hatch.
He was momentarily distracted from his drive by his phone ringing, and answered, eyes still on the road. "Yes?"
"Castiel." Instinctively his lips quirked up in a smile at Mother's voice. "Have you found them yet?"
"I am still a six-hour drive away from their last known location, but once I get there it shouldn't take long. Is there a problem?" he asked, momentarily going tense because damn it, she'd assigned him this case, and it was his now. He'd earned it.
"No, not at all," Mother replied, and he relaxed somewhat, stretching his fingers from the grip they'd taken on the steering wheel and smoothing over the small indents that his strength had left behind. "I was simply thinking about how we might reward you should you succeed, Castiel."
After a moment, he frowned, pulling over on the side of the road and putting his hazards on. This was clearly a conversation that would require his complete attention. "What do you mean?"
"I mean the subject of your mate, Castiel," Mother replied gently, as though trying to explain the cosmos to a small child, and the Shrike blinked, staring at his phone in shock though he knew Mother couldn't see him. "You will be twenty-eight soon, and with a recent kill you will be very attractive to her, I'm sure. We can put you together as soon as you successfully detain the Winchesters."
Slowly, a smile broke across the Shrike's face as he turned his attention towards the road again, watching the steady repeat of lights flaring past his car, no one stopping to see if he needed help because no one helped anyone anymore. Not in this kind of world. Breathing out steadily, he placed his hands against the steering wheel again and turned back onto the road. "What is her name?" he asked.
"Meg," came Mother's reply.
"Meg," he repeated, nodding to himself at the name. "I look forward to meeting her."
There were some days that were almost perfect. Waking up with Dean's body turned against his, his brother's soft exhales against Sam's chest, they were almost good enough to erase the malignant memory of Rut days. Dean didn't used to have them before they began to fuck with his genetic coding, forced him between so many species and instincts that it was hard to tell which way was up some days, who presented a threat or a meal or a means of release from each other.
Sam had known Dean his entire life; he'd gotten good at telling which days would be which before Dean even woke up. Today would be an alright day – he might have to let Dean Rut again tonight, to work off any excess, but today would still be a good day. With that knowledge, he leaned down to kiss at his brother's warm, slack mouth, hand cupping Dean's jaw to make sure his big brother didn't pull away just yet.
Dean woke quickly in the mornings, and soon he was kissing Sam back, gentle grip knotting in Sam's thick hair, body arching forward. "Mornin', Sammy," he rasped, voice hoarse with restrained snarls and ragged with suppressed emotion, and Sam leaned in to kiss him again.
"Morning," he replied, sleep-warm and happy. "You hungry?"
Dean smiled, humming as he nodded, before he turned back around and rolled out of bed. "Yeah, starvin', actually," he answered, going to their duffle bags and pulling out a relatively clean pair of jeans, pulling them on and fastening them before taking last night's shirt and slipping it over his head. Sam followed suit, wincing at the dull ache in his ass when Dean wasn't looking. "We've gotta get moving pretty damn soon."
Sam nodded. He could feel it too, like an itch under his skin – unfortunately both of them had inherited, or been 'gifted with' or whatever, an uncontrollable wanderlust. The fact that they were hunted from all corners of the United States may have had something to do with it. "Breakfast, then we hit the road?"
"Sounds good," Dean replied, stuffing the leftover clothes from yesterday into his bag before pulling out enough clothes for Sam to finish getting dressed, and shouldering the both of them to load them back up into the car. He looked good today, Sam decided, nodding to himself once he finished his subtle assessment of his brother. If he kept Dean distracted today, it might turn into a really awesome one.
When they were both settled into their car and had put a good amount of distance between themselves and their soiled motel room, Sam pulled out the newspaper he'd swiped from the front desk, opening up just enough that it wouldn't spoil Dean's view of the mirrors, but so that he could easily flick through to any interesting stories.
The car was relatively quiet, muted rock coming from the speakers as Dean searched out a viable place for food along the way, when Sam cleared his throat. "There's been no report of that guy's body," he said thoughtfully.
Dean grunted noncommittally, pulling off the road into an exit that led to a diner sporting a sign for the best smoothies in town.
"You know, that hybrid guy we got," Sam added, pressing onward; "The one that was crossbred with a wolf or jackal or something. Absolutely no mention of him."
"Maybe they haven't found him yet."
"No, but Dean, get this," Sam said, hurriedly stepping out of the car when he saw that Dean wasn't going to sit around and wait for him to get to the point. They went inside, the cheery little bell above announcing their arrival, and passed three booths with various levels of occupation to find a new one at a wink and head jerk from the waitress. When they were seated, Dean pointedly looking at a menu and doing his best to ignore Sam's persistence, Sam spread the newspaper out in front of him. "There's not even a missing persons report, nothing about him whatsoever. We caused a lot of trouble back there, Dean. Why is no one talking about it?"
"Shit happens all the time that no one talks about, Sammy," Dean muttered with a roll of his eyes over the menu. "Us, for example."
"That's different and you know it."
"What're y'all havin' this morning?"
At once, the tenseness in Dean's shoulders melted away as he plastered a charming smile onto his face, setting his menu down and sliding it over for Sam to see. "Hey, can I get some coffee – black – and the short stack with a side of bacon?"
"You got it, Hun," the waitress replied with a smile, jotting down Dean's order and turning to Sam. "And for you?"
"Uh, coffee with milk and the heart smart platter, please," Sam replied, setting the menu back down and ignoring Dean's smirk when he refused to meet the waitress' eyes.
"You got it. Comin' right up." And with that she sashayed away, pen stuck into the messy bun at the back of her head. Dean watched her go, for no more reason than he knew it would piss Sam off – they both knew from personal experience and research that they'd likely never be attracted to purebred humans. Too much of a genetic cocktail to guarantee strong children – if they could even breed viable children in the first place.
It didn't stop Dean having some fun, though. "Why do you even care if no one found the body?" he asked, raising an eyebrow and finally returning his attention to his sullen younger brother. He had seemed in such good spirits earlier, and Dean felt a small thread of guilt over being an obvious damper on Sam's good mood.
"They didn't find that bird, either," Sam muttered, folding the newspaper up again and setting it to one side. "Or the others."
Dean pressed his lips together, leaning forward and bracing his forearms on the table. "So, what, someone's cleaning up our messes?" he asked, tone clearly telling Sam what he thought of that theory.
"I'm just saying maybe we should be a little more on our guard. That dog guy happened, what, three days ago? Someone's catching up to us, Dean. We should at least be prepared for it, maybe even change up our pattern a little."
"Go into hiding?" Dean's words had a bite to them, then, low and dangerous, the unnatural brightness in his eyes momentarily flaring. It struck Sam, once again, that Dean wasn't quite over his Rut yet, and he had known that, but the reminder made him tense up for a moment, shivering and lowering his eyes from Dean's.
"That might be what it takes," Sam said, because he knew he was right.
Dean huffed, sitting back as the waitress brought their food, cheery flash of teeth finally breaking the tension between the two brothers again. They were silent as they ate, practically inhaling their food because the body of the dog had had enough money on it to pay for food and a motel room, sure, but it wouldn't last, and who knew when their next meal might be. Dean only ate three of the four pancakes along with his bacon, and he made sure Sam ate everything as well as finishing off the last pancake.
Then they were off again, as far along the highway as Dean could stand to drive.
One week later, the Shrike had finally caught up to them. Perhaps they had tried to hide away, maybe they'd gotten tired of hick diners and dirty country roads (Mother knows he certainly had), but he ended up finding them fringing the outskirts of a large city. From his perch above their heads he could see them easily.
The Spider looked sick, haggard and worn. There was a paleness to him that wasn't in his case file – too long hunting at night and not enough time sprawled out under the warm rays of the sun as the Lion in him craved. He had lost a significant amount of weight and it showed in his face and around his stomach, but the muscles that he still possessed made him look broad and strong. To the Shrike's superior eyes, the Spider's own green-gold-grey mix were a beautiful, glowing shade, piercing and powerful and altogether what one of Mother's own should look like.
The Lion looked in much better shape than his brother, large muscles and shiny hair marking him apart from the other man. He sat hunched and guarded while the Spider spread out, the picture of ease and flashing white teeth in his smile. The Shrike was sure that he had found Sam and Dean Winchester – there was no mistaking the strength in those two, and although he could not see the Lion's face he was sure Sam was just as beautiful and deadly as his brother.
Smiling to himself, goose bumps rising on his skin in anticipation, the Shrike pulled out his cell phone and dialed the number of the disposable phone he'd attached to the bottom of the table Sam and Dean were sat at – he'd put a phone under every one, having caught their scent around the area and figuring that they would eventually stop at the 'All-American Diner: Best Pie in the City'. Dean, it seemed, had a sweet-tooth.
He watched with barely controlled glee as the two hybrids jumped at the sound of the phone, Sam ducking under to investigate while Dean raised his eyes to try and scour out the caller. The Spider was tensed, the Lion unsure and confused, and he watched their mouths move as they tried to determine whether to answer or not – the Shrike was prepared to call as many times as he needed to. One of them would hear him eventually.
"Sam," Dean finally whispered, eyes focused away from his younger brother, his nostrils flaring out in an attempt to find the same scent that clung faintly to the cell phone. "Answer it."
Sam frowned, mouth twisting in anxiety, but obediently answered and held the phone up to his ear. "Who is this?" he asked.
"This can go one of two ways," came a smooth, low voice from the other end – one that instinctively set Sam's teeth on edge, close his eyes before the golden hue of a wildcat could come out and reveal itself to the general populace. "You surrender to me now, and you might live, or you can run, and I'll catch you, and you definitely won't."
Dean's head snapped to face Sam – he'd heard the answer. Of course he had. And immediately his eyes narrowed, jaw clenching, before he held his hand out for the phone. Sam pushed it away.
"You're awfully sure of yourself," he replied, raising an eyebrow in Dean's direction and jerking his head just slightly towards the innards of the restaurant. Dean followed his eyes, drumming his fingers on the table twice to indicate that he'd understood.
"Don't even think about it," the Shrike hissed, hand tightening around the phone. "I do hope you're not planning on running – I think you'd be much more fun alive than dead."
Sam swallowed, eyes widening and looking to Dean – again, Dean had heard. He can see us, Sam mouthed to his brother, just in case, and Dean drummed his fingers again. Knowing that Dean was on the lookout now, Sam allowed himself to force a relaxed posture, hoping that wherever the other creature was, he could see that they no longer intended to run – if he had a weapon aimed at them, neither of them would get out of the way in time, and it could potentially endanger civilians.
"So what are you?" Sam asked, doing his best to distract the nameless man while Dean's eyes carefully scoured the streets, the windows in the building opposite, the roofs – anywhere and everywhere a person could perch or hide or melt into the shadows.
The Shrike cocked his head to one side, eyes narrowing down at the pair. "I see you're doing this the hard way," he murmured, just as the glowing green eyes of the Spider locked on his own. Immediately Dean was on his feet and the Shrike cursed, shying back into the relative shelter of the showroom apartment he had chosen as his perch.
They'd seen him.
"Damn it," he muttered, shutting his phone and sliding it back into his pocket. Plan B, then.
"Sam," Dean said lowly, reaching for the phone again and Sam gave it to him.
"Line's gone dead."
Dean hummed, spinning the phone around in his hand and accessing the 'Recent Calls' list. "And the number was blocked." He looked up again, back towards the window. "I saw him, Sammy. He was lookin' right at us."
"Can you feel him?" Sam asked, getting to his feet and following Dean's gaze. He could see no movement from within, but that didn't mean the man wasn't too fast for them, or hadn't moved at all. Maybe he wasn't afraid of them. Maybe there was no reason to run.
Dean was silent for a moment, before he let out a soft sound of frustration. "There's too many people," he muttered, glaring around at the milling crowd as though personally offended by their existence. "Come on – let's go back to the room and get the Hell outta dodge."
Sam nodded in agreement, following Dean as he turned and hurried away from the building the strange man had supposedly inhabited. He felt a gaze on the back of his neck like a physical weight, but forced himself not to turn around to look because there were a lot of people and even a split second could mean Dean's retreating form was lost in the crowd.
Just as that thought crossed his mind, Dean ran across a road just as the lights changed, and Sam was forced to halt as the street was suddenly full of vehicles, loud horns a grating roar in his ears. "Dean!" he yelled, but could not see his brother, didn't know if Dean had heard him and stopped too. By the time the road cleared and Sam was able to dash across it, there was no sign of Dean. Panic began to well up in Sam, as he tried to use his superior height and sense of smell to spot Dean out, but there were too many people and some of them looked too much like Dean from behind and Sam had no idea where to even start.
"Dean!" he yelled again, only to hear a startled hiss in return. It was barely audible over the hubbub of those surrounding him, but he followed the sound anyway – where he had thought it'd come from. When he reached a vendor sporting fresh fruit, some of which were smeared with a sticky, tacky layer of webbing, Sam knew he was on the right track. He yelled for his brother again, earning several startled looks as those around him scattered, and finally – God, finally – he heard a low grunt, the sounds of fighting.
He took off for it, pushing a few unwitting people out of the way with a rushed apology, but he had to get to Dean. Dean was in trouble. There was an alleyway to his left that was mostly blocked with two large dumpsters, but Sam easily leapt onto the edge of them, scaling along the sides and dropping down into the shadow-swamped dead end of the alleyway.
His eyes glowed yellow, enhanced cat-sight helping him see in the darkness.
"Ah, Sam. How kind of you to join us."
The dim light from above glinted off of the barrel of a revolver, which was pointed squarely at Dean's chest. Another pistol was aimed at Sam, and the younger Winchester snarled at the sight of it, tense and afraid for his brother because Dean was pinned between the gun and the side of the alleyway. Sam could smell blood, and knew because it was so familiar that it was Dean's, and when his brother tilted his head just right Sam could catch the smear of it across his nose.
"Dean," he murmured, aching to reach out to his brother and mate, but the dark heart of the gun's muzzle kept him back. "You okay?"
"Peachy," Dean snapped out, eyes narrowed and glowing at the other man.
"You were both meant to be smarter than this," the nameless man tsked, shaking his head, tone patronizing. "This is what happens when you skip out on your training, boys."
Dean raised his chin, but otherwise remained silent. "If you're going to kill us, just do it," Sam spat out, hating the tense impasse that the three of them had found themselves in – as soon as the man moved, Dean would be on him, of that Sam had no doubt. It would just be a matter of finding the perfect moment. The fact that Dean refused to look Sam's way was a hindrance, but they'd gotten out of worse situations before.
The man hummed, cocking his head to one side. "Well, you did agree to do it the hard way," he conceded, and Sam's blood ran cold at the sound of the hammer of the gun pointed at Dean being cocked back. Dean didn't move – not even a twitch – but Sam didn't have the same control, the same deadly resignation and lack of care for Dean's life.
"No, don't -."
"Sammy, stop it," Dean finally said, tired and weary, his shoulders sagging as he leaned his head back against the wall. Sam snarled at him in anger – how could Dean just let it end like this? All of their running, their fighting to be free, the lives they'd taken and the price they'd paid to be out from under the thumb of their organization, and Dean would be taken out by another freak like them with a gun? No, Sam wouldn't allow it. He -.
Sam and the nameless man went tense at the same time, shallow breathing the only sound between the three men. It was then that Sam realized what Dean was doing – one more thing that separated them, that made Dean more powerful, deadlier, and weaker at the same time.
Pheromones.
He could sense them starting to affect the other male, too – already the gun was starting to lower, low gasp and exaggerated inhale accompanying the answering wave of testosterone, a male posturing to a prospective mate.
That was when Dean struck.
The gun aimed at Sam went off a second too late, aimed above Sam's head at the open air beyond, as Dean lifted the man's arm, snapping the elbow over his shoulder and threw him over his body to the ground. The man let out a rough curse, hissing and swinging his gun to aim for Dean's head, but Dean was faster and had a foot planted on his wrist, crushing down with spiteful force until the grip on his gun loosened and the weapon clattered to the floor.
Sam raced to catch it, aiming it for the man's head. He'd never held a gun before – never needed to learn – but the threat of it seemed enough to stop any reaction. Dean held out his hand for the gun and Sam immediately handed it over, breathing out heavily because the stink of Dean's pheromones was still heavy in the air and he desperately needed to clear his head.
"Now," Dean murmured mockingly, aiming with a steady hand at the man's head, "this can go one of two ways. Surrender, and I might let you live."
The man laughed. "Fuck you, Spider," he snarled.
Dean's mouth twisted and Sam braced himself for the bang of the gun, stepping forward and bracing himself behind Dean so that his brother could feel his warmth. What he was unprepared for was for Dean to suddenly kneel down and slam the blunt bottom of the handle of the gun against the guy's temple, knocking him unconscious. New blood exploded in the air enough to wipe away the lingering scent of Dean's pheromones and Sam licked his lips, shoulders relaxing as Dean pushed himself off of the man's limp body and stepped far enough away that he couldn't be reached.
Dean threw the gun to one side and kicked the other away. "Let's get him back to the room," he finally said after a moment.
Sam looked up at his brother, confused when Dean simply reached down again to haul the man's body over one shoulder. "Why?" he asked, coming forward despite himself to help Dean when his brother seemed to be struggling, taking the surprisingly small weight of the man's body from Dean's shoulders. "We should just leave him here."
"If we kill him, another will take his place," Dean answered with a one-shouldered shrug. "If we leave him here, he'll come after us again. We keep him alive, find out all he knows, then we kill him." He smiled again, showing teeth that had rings of blood in the arcs of his incisors, and pulled Sam in for a kiss. Sam could taste the coppery blood, rich and thick in Dean's mouth – his own brother's blood, and he could feel the snarl building in his throat knowing the man he was carrying had caused Dean to hurt, to bleed. "Simple, Sammy. Come on."