He woke to the knowledge that he was a murderer and the he would kill again. It was the only reason he continued his existence. It was what he lived for. To kill. Pain and hunger crawled through his body endlessly, relentlessly. He lay very still with the earth surrounding him, staring up at the star-studded, night sky. It was bitterly cold. He was bitterly cold; the blood flowing in his veins like ice water, like acid that burned it was so cold.
Call me to you. I will warm you.
He closed his eyes as the voice slipped into his head. He called to him on every rising now. The voice of an angel. The heart of the demon. His savior. His mortal enemy. Very slowly he allowed breath to seep into his lungs, his heart to take up its steady breathing. Another endless night. There had been so many, and all he wanted was rest.
He floated out of the ground, clothing himself with the ease of long practice, his body clean, where his soul was damned. The sounds and smells of the night were all around him, whispers and scents that flooded his senses with information. He was hungry. He needed to go into the city. As hard as he tried, he could not overcome the need for rick, hot blood. It beckoned and called to him as nothing else could.
Dean found himself in a familiar part of the city. His body traveled the accustomed path before he even thought where he was going. The small church tucked among the rising buildings and maze of narrow streets and alleyways beckoned to him. He knew this neighbourhood, this small city within a larger city. He was familiar with each and every apartment and office building. He knew the occupants and he knew their secrets. He watched over them, watched over their lives, yet he was always alone, always apart.
Reluctantly Dean climbed the steps to the church and stood at the entrance as he had so many times in the past. With his acute hearing, he knew the building was occupied, that the priest was finishing his duties and would soon be leaving. He was much later than usual.
He heard the rustle of the priest's robes as he moves through the church to the double doors. He would lock them – he always locked them before he left – it wouldn't matter, Dean could open them easily enough. He waited in the darkness, deep in the shadows where he belonged, watching the priest in silence, nearly holding his breath. There was urgency inside him, desperation. Dean returned again and again to the beauty of the small church. Something drew him, called to him, nearly as strongly as the call for blood. Sometimes he believed this was where he was supposed to die; other times he thought repentance might be enough. He always went to the church when he knew he had no choice but to feed.
The priest stood for a moment just outside the doors, looking around him, his eyes adjusting to the darkness. He actually looked right at him, but he knew he was invisible to him. The priest started to speak, hesitated, and made the sign of the cross in his direction. Dean held his breath, waiting for a lightning bolt to strike him. "Find peace, my child," the priest murmured softly and made his way down the stairs with his slow, measured tread. He remained in the shadows, as still as the mountains rising above the city. How had he sensed his presence? He waited until long after he had gone down the block and turned into the narrow alley leading to the garden behind his rectory. Only then did he dare let her breath out slowly, to breathe again.
Dean went back to the ornate doors, but this time they weren't locked. He looked back to the street where the priest had disappeared around the corner. He knew, then. The priest knew Dean needed his church, and he had silently given his permission for him to enter the sacred, hallowed place. He didn't know what Dean was, but he was a good man and he believed all souls could be saved. He pushed open the doors with a trembling hand.
Dean stood in the doorway of the empty church, wrapped in darkness, his only ally. He shivered, not from the cold air surrounding him, but from the ice deep within his soul. Despite the pitch-black interior, Dean could easily see every detail of the church's beauty. He stared at the crucifix over the altar for a long time, his mind in turmoil. Pain crawled through him as it did every moment of his existence. Hunger was sharp and ravenous. Shame was his constant companion. Dean had come to this sacred place to confess his sins. He was a murderer, and he would kill again and again. It would be his way of life until he found the courage to destroy the evil thing that he had become. He dared not enter, dared not ask for sanctuary.
He stood for a long moment in silence with a terrible unfamiliar burning behind her eyes. It took him a few moments to realize the sensation was tears. He wanted to weep, but what was the use of it? Dean had learned that tears brought the echo of ugly, demonic laughter, and he had taught himself not to cry. Never to cry.
Why do you insist on suffering? The voice was deceptively beautiful. Male. Gentle. A soothing blend of masculine exasperation and charm. I feel your pain; it is sharp and terrible and pierces my heart like an arrow. Call me to you side. I will come to you at once. You know I can do no other. Call out to me. There was an underlying whisper of power, of compulsion. You know me. You have always known me.
The voice brushed at the walls of his mind like the flutter of butterfly wings. It whispered over his sin, seeped into his pores and wrapped itself around his heart. He breathed the voice into his lungs until he needed to answer, to hear it again. To call out. To obey. Dean needed that voice. It kept him alive. It had kept him sane. It had also taught him things – hideous, murderous things, but necessary.
I feel your need. Why do you insist on silence? You hear me, just as I feel you when your pain becomes too much to be borne.
Dean shook his head, a firm denial against the temptation of that voice. He wanted to rid his mind of the deceptive purity of that voice. Nothing could induce him to answer. He would not ever be trapped by a beguiling voice again. He had learned that lesson the hard way, sentenced to a living hell he dared not think about.
Dean forced air into his lungs, controlling his emotions, knowing that there was a chance the hunter could trace him through the sharpness of his despair. A movement in the nearby shadows had him whirling around, crouching low, a dangerous predator ready to attack.