This is one of a several my stories that I'm posting here off of my livejournal. The link to my livejournal can be found in my profile.

Title: The Uncontrolled
Author: LadyReivin
Beta: unbataed
Word Count: 1,308
Rating: R
Warnings: graphic gore and disturbing imagery.
Disclaimer: I own nothing! I wish I did…but I don't *sigh*

Author's Note: This piece follows Animal I Have Become but you don't actually have to read it for this to make sense. This is just a piece of the 'verse. I originally was going to put off writing this piece because I was stupid enough to sign up for Big Bang 2010...but Creative Writing got in the way and I had to write a 4 page paper with less than a week until the first workshop. And this was the only other idea I had that would fit the page limit.

Fresh tracks, fresh blood, all plain as day and less than a few hours old. He was getting closer to the prey he'd been hunting for so long now. The prey he didn't want to hunt but had no choice. This lycanthrope held something over him that no other beast of the night had ever had. He knew him, knew him intimately. Probably knew him better than he knew himself, could out hunt him, predict the moves he'd make. And this? This was the closest he'd ever gotten to this particular beastie.

He stood and looked at the forest around him. Looking for the body would be useless. It'd be like all the others he'd seen over the months, mangled and bloody and not much left. Not enough to identify whom the victim was. What he did know was that the victim was a hooker, male or female, or a regular bar goer who had wanted to get laid. That was his modus operandi, something that the monster had picked up after he left, and something that actually surprised him, the Hunter.

The Hunter turned next to look at the road where his car was parked. Obvious black car tracks were laid out on the asphalt. He knew those tracks very well. They belonged to the fine, muscle car that the beast, his brother, drove. He let his hand rest on the hood of his classic car, the car that was once his father's, as he looked toward the road, gauging the direction and trying to remember if there was anything that lay out that way. An old abandoned farm.

They had worked a case there years ago, before the Stanford fiasco. If he was in his brother's position and had just spent the night hunting, feeding, that would be where he'd go to rest before continuing on.

The worn bench seat of the '67 Chevy Impala was soft and sun warmed, the car filled with both the comforting scent of leather and the sharp smell of the gun oil he'd spilled on the back floorboards a week ago. The engine turned over without a problem and the car was instantly filled with the rumbling of the engine and the mellow tunes of "Tuesday's Gone" by Lynyrd Skynyrd; he slid it into gear before turning back onto the road, following the same path his brother had taken hours before.

The burgundy Chevelle was sitting where he expected it to be, parked in front of the old ranch house that was falling in on itself. The car looked just as it did when he first watched his brother tear out of the parking lot of their no-tell motel so many months ago, claiming that he couldn't be around his brother, the Hunter, without attacking him – without killing him or turning him. Or claiming him.

The Hunter slid the clip out of his chromed, pearl handled Colt 1911, his fingers brushing over the elegant swirling engravings on the barrel, and checked the clip. Full. It wasn't silver, he couldn't do that, not yet, he couldn't kill the only family he had left, his brother, but it was iron, and that was more than enough to slow down the beast his brother had become, concentrated iron mixed in salt.

He slid the gun back into his belt at the small of his back as he headed for the rickety wooden steps, his face set in determination. He would see his brother this time, would finally confront the man-eating beast he shared blood with. The immortal one of the brother's Winchester. The old wood creaked and complained under his boots as he moved to the door. What he saw just within the open screen was unexpected. In what had once been the living room, was what remained of a man – the man was African American and appeared to have been in the prime of his life when he'd been killed. There was no reason for the body to be there, the Beast had just fed and therefore wouldn't be hungry, but the evidence was as plain as the rising day before the Hunter.

The Hunter stepped over to the body and knelt down, taking the hunting knife from his boot to poke at the remains, staying alert for any sound of his brother coming up on him. There wasn't much left of this one, like all the others before that he'd seen over the long months. The head was half gone, the skull empty but for a small pool of blood against the white of the bone. One eye remained, staring blankly across the room, the brown iris slowly clouding over in the milky-blue tone of death. The neck was nearly completely severed from body, displaying torn muscle and bone fragments. Most of the body was in such a state, chewed on, shaken up, and left to rot. He poked around with his knife, frowning. Per usual lycanthrope victims, the heart was missing.

He stood after, cleaning the blade of the knife on a piece of clean cloth he managed to find not far from the body. He slid the knife back into his boot before he grabbed his gun from his belt and began to slowly, methodically search the house. He'd been raised by an ex-marine, sometimes even considered himself a marine. A marine who hunted the supernatural and lived off of credit card scams and whatever cash he could hustle in games of pool or poker.

A sound upstairs alerted him, causing him to pause in his search of the kitchen, pressing up against the pantry door. His gun was pointed to the floor as he tilted his head back, looking up at the ceiling, listening intently. There was another sound and a soft whining growl, followed by a sickening crunch. The sound made his stomach turn, too familiar to when they first realized that his brother was infected from that she-wolf the month before, all because they had no idea, at the time, that lycanthropy acted like a STD.

He slowly crept up the stairs, gun held in front of him. He tested each step before he put weight on it, trying to remember which ones squeaked, but it had been too long since he'd been in the old house. He did his best, hoping he hadn't alerted the Beast to his presence.

The hall was long and narrow before him, dimly lit from the rising sun. The windows were covered in a thick film of dust and cobwebs seemed to grow on every surface. There were clear, bloody prints in the dirt on the old hardwood floor. The paws that made them were twice the size of any regular wolf, even someone who knew nothing about animal tracks would be able to tell it was unnatural.. And so familiar to the Hunter. The Lycanthrope walked with a slight limp, favoring it's right hind leg because of a particularly nasty run in with a nest of Pixies when the Beast had been 16; the poison of their bites had ruined some of the muscle in his thigh.

He pushed open the door at the end of the hall slowly, gun held in front of him, a shield of sorts. He knew the room. It was the room they had shared when they'd stayed there so many years before. The beds were still pushed together in the center of the room. And on top of them lay the transforming figure of his brother.

He could do nothing but stand and watch as the bones and muscles contorted under his brother's skin, reforming, turning back into that of a human. The fur that had covered him during his hunt slowly shed away, falling to the dirty sheets he lay on. Within minutes, or perhaps it was seconds, his brother had finished. The Beast lay naked upon the beds, curled up in a fetal position, shivering. When he spoke, it took the Hunter by surprise.

"Hello, Dean."