AN: For tumblr user shaunabananaaa1995 & based on her prompt
"You're sure it's around here?" Dean asked for what must have been the hundredth time.
"Yes!" Sam hissed. "Why do you keep asking?"
"I don't know," Dean said. "Something doesn't feel right." During the trip to these woods, his demon senses sent a shiver down his spine every few miles, pointing out werewolves, shifters, and other demons in disguise. Now, however, everything was eerily silent.
"Well, this is the first time you've left the bunker since you woke up," Sam reasoned. "Are you sure that you're okay?" he fretted for what must have been the two hundredth time.
"Yes, Sammy, I'm fine!" Dean insisted, glancing away so his little brother did not see his eyes flash black.
"Then why won't you look at me?" Sam argued.
Dean cursed under his breath. "Thought I heard something," he muttered. At least, it wasn't a complete lie; he had heard a few twigs snap as if under a careless boot just to his rear-left.
"Dean, I don't hear anything. Grow up and talk to me."
"Not now, Sam."
"Dean!"
Dean ignored his brother and dove at the figure trying to conceal itself behind the tree. The thought of killing the supernatural used to unnerve Dean. Then it made him feel powerful and important. For the past few years it had even excited him. Now, however, with charged sulfur running through his veins, he relished in it. This was indeed his first time out of the bunker since he woke up holding the First Blade and lying uncomfortably stiff beneath Crowley's interested and worried gaze. Though he had tried sneaking out to satisfy his blood thirst, he found that he could not physically leave without someone opening the door for him; the spells and symbols etched onto every exposed area of the bunker caged him in. He tried convincing Crowley to help him escape, but even the King of Hell would not release him into the world yet. So, he stewed in the bunker pretending he was only 'sick' because he had come back from the dead – the excuse had sounded about right at the time.
For months following, Sam acted like a mother hen. It was disgusting how caring and attached he was. Dean almost snapped several times, but he was good. He never actually snapped Sam's neck, and it paid off. Now was his chance to snap something else's neck, something more powerful and satisfactory than a mere hunter.
Except, it was only a mere hunter, and Dean almost killed him just for the disappointment.
Dean fell on the middle-aged man and rolled with him, making sure to land on top, in control, with leverage. He knew his eyes were black, so he smashed the hunter's head into the ground to stun him. Then, he held a knife to the man's throat and pretended to act surprised when his brother and another hunter came running and shouting. Dean stood gruffly and left the other guy to get up on his own, which he did with great offense.
"See, Sam? I told you we weren't alone! And the damn thing's still not here!" Dean growled, shoving his knife back into its holster and handling his gun again.
"Who are you boys, and why aren't you home safe and sound? Don't you know these woods are filled with some pretty nasty stuff that comes out at night?" the hunter who had come running with Sam asked.
"You really think I'd be carrying this if I didn't?" Dean quipped mockingly, brandishing his flare gun.
"Where did you get that, boy? You could've killed me, dammit!" the hunter Dean attacked exclaimed, rubbing the back of his head and watching Dean nervously.
"My ass," Dean retorted.
Sam placed a heavy hand on Dean's shoulder and shoved him back a few steps. "Excuse me, but who are you?" he asked pointedly.
"We asked first!"
"You seriously don't know who we are?" Dean asked only annoyed.
"You think we'd be asking twice if we did?"
"We're the Winchesters," Sam explained incredulous.
"That supposed to mean something to us?" the one Dean attacked still argued. Dean really wanted to punch him now.
"John Winchester, Bobby Singer, the apocalypse?" Sam tried. When he received no recognition, he rolled his eyes and said, "Look, we've got this hunt. You go home."
"The two of you are going to take down a wendigo? I don't think so," the one Dean attacked laughed. "Just let us make sure that y'all are nothing evil, too, then we'll let you run home."
Sam groaned, and Dean tensed.
"You really don't have to. I promise we're clean," Sam sighed.
"Sure," the other said, "that's what they all say."
"It's just a waste of time!" Dean exclaimed. "If you want to stay, fine. Just stay out of our way, too."
"We ain't leaving you until you prove you ain't nothing!"
"Why should we have to?" Dean stalled.
"It's just a little water, boy, and a knife cut. You afraid of pain or you guilty of something?" the one he attacked jeered.
"Come on, Dean, just do it," Sam sighed in a bored tone.
"Not until they go first," Dean stated petulantly.
The other two hunters shared eager, worried looks but continued anyway. Both of them definitely suspected Dean. Hell, Dean suspected Dean! Sam was looking at him funny, too, but Dean was doing his damnedest to ignore it and maintain a poker face.
"Well, if they're so worried about us, why can't we check them?"
When the other two finished, they did obnoxious bows and motioned for Sam and Dean to begin.
"This is ridiculous!" Dean continued. "We're wasting precious daylight! If you were real hunters, you'd see the importance of that when hunting a wendigo!"
"You're the one who's stalling, boy," the other hunter pointed out with a smirk. In the corner of his eye, Dean saw his palm the hilt of a knife.
"Dean, shut up, it's fine," Sam exclaimed. He pulled out a silver knife and slit the skin of his bicep. Then he made an exaggerated face for the other hunters. Without warning, he slid the knife through Dean's bicep, and Dean cursed in surprise. Not that he really expected it to; the silver knife did not hurt at all. It was just Sam's nonexistent aim and fair warning that caused it to sting. The idiotic hunters, however, started shouting. They both pulled out silver knives from their belts and threatened Dean.
"Oh, shut up!" Dean cried grabbing the knife out of Sam's hand and slicing clean through his palm. He held up his bloody hand and waved it at them. "Happy? God, of this excites you so much, you're probably shit at hunting." He turned to Sam who was reaching in his pocket for holy water. "Here," he handed Sam the silver knife hilt-first and tugged a flask from his own pocket. "This is so damn unnecessary," he muttered, attempting to stall again.
"What's the matter, boy? Afraid of messing up your perm?" the other hunter laughed.
Dean sarcastically laughed with him while fighting the urge to break his nose. "Shouldn't we be worried that you know what a perm is, Ellie Woods?"
"Dean, why do you even know that reference?" Sam asked exasperated, a mischievous grin lighting his face.
"I only watched it because Ben had a girlfriend over. He was trying to impress her and decided that movie was a good idea," Dean explained.
"Well, you know what's not a good idea?" the hunter Dean attacked suggested mockingly. "Wasting our time. Drink the damn holy water!"
With a deep breath that he hoped sounded more dramatic than nervous, Dean splashed himself in the face with the water in his flask. When nothing happened, he looked at the other hunters through his dripping lashes and smirked angrily. It took a lot of self-control not to rejoice too obviously. Instead, he threw water at Sam without warning and got a laugh out of his brother's spluttering.
The flask he used was the old scratched up one that his father used to carry. One of the first things he did when Sam started talking about hunting again was scratch off the simple cross that adorned the front in a way that looked natural so he wasn't suspected. The second was fill the thing with tap water and keep it far from Sam's blessings. Now he offered silent thanks to Lucifer that it had worked.
"See, boy," the hunter Dean attacked keened. "Not so bad after all."
"I could punch you right now," Dean stated, wiping his face with his bloody hand accidentally. The water stung his palm, and he sharply inhaled. This time, no one but Sam noticed.
The other hunters finally pushed past Sam and Dean with comments about working alone and precious daylight, and Sam rounded on his brother.
"What was all that about?" He exclaimed.
"Nothing," Dean said heatedly. "So I was a little nervous. It's not a big deal."
"It's a huge deal, Dean," Sam argued. "Is this because you died again?" he asked in a gentler tone. Dean stopped and looked up at his brother interested. Then he decided to play along and stared at the ground in shame.
"You were stabbed, Dean, I understand if you're a little nervous about knifes on your first hunt," Sam said. Dean wondered briefly if he was speaking from experience. He opened his mouth to agree, but Sam continued, "And how many times have you been to Hell now? God, you probably expected to wake up a demon this time!"
Dean nodded pathetically where he stood. Then, he opened his eyes wide and pleadingly to look at his brother. "I'm sorry, Sammy. I really am. But, God, you don't – you don't know where I went this time," he shuddered. "Apparently, there's this special place in Hell for people who use of the First Blade. Abbadon was there..." Dean knew he was laying the lie thick, so he trailed off there purposefully, letting it sound uncertain and afraid. Sam was by his side in an instant, wrapping him in a hug.
"I'm here for you, man," he assured his brother, "and I will never let you turn into a demon!" he swore.
Dean silently laughed at the sappy irony over his brother's shoulder. "Thanks, man, but enough," he muttered after a moment. "We really are wasting daylight."
"True, true," Sam muttered. Even so, he stuck close to Dean's side for the rest of the hunt.