The howl of a wolf tore through chilled night air.
Dean tightened his grip on the gun he was holding, his breath rising in misty clouds around him. Damn cold. he thought irritably, his fingers long since numb and red. Makes everything seem like a fucking horror movie. He silently cursed his dad for dragging him out on the hunt. In a much better world, Dean would be sitting on the motel couch eating pizza right now; in fact, that's probably exactly what Sam was doing right now, the lucky kid. Dean and his dad, however, had the bad luck to be out in below freezing weather at night in the woods tracking down an unusually vicious werewolf.
A few days ago, Bobby had told John Winchester of a werewolf that was savaging a town in the Appalachian mountains, hunting down people in the wrong place at the wrong time and ripping them into shreds. There had been over twelve deaths so far, all equally horrible. However, as far as Dean and his dad were concerned, there would be no more after tonight. Fortunately, the werewolf hadn't Turned anybody yet, so Dean and John didn't have to track down more than one werewolf. Unfortunately, the two hunters had to cover more than one hundred square acres of land to find the werewolf. His dad had suggested that they split up to cover more ground, and Dean had gone along with the plan. However, as Dean trudged through the night alone, he wished that he had chosen differently.
The frozen leaves behind him crunched, and Dean froze. Tightening his finger around the trigger of his gun, Dean whirled around.
Nothing. Only dark shadows and low hanging trees.
Dean cursed under his breath, hunching his shoulders forward. I'm going crazy. He thought to himself. He turned back around and nearly bit his own tongue off.
Standing in front of him, snarling, hackles raised, was the werewolf. The giant wolf's teeth glistened in the moonlight, its ink-black pelt rippling as its muscles bunched together. Dean whipped his gun up, taking a split second to aim, then fired. The gun spat silver bullets at the werewolf, burying themselves in the wolf's chest. The werewolf howled in pain and leapt at Dean, teeth bared. Dean jumped back, firing his gun all the while as the wolf twisted in mid-air to avoid the bullets, blood spattering the ground as it landed. Dean swallowed hard, knowing that there were only so many bullets he could fire. The werewolf seemed to know it, too. It backed away into the trees, eerie golden-green eyes gleaming in a furious rage as Dean shot at it, silver whistling through the air until-
click. The gun was empty. Dean's heart pounded. There was no use yelling for help; his dad was likely out of earshot, and even if he was, his dad would never be able to get to him in time. Dean raised the gun like a club, his palms sweaty. The werewolf paused, as if it could sense his fear. Dean's breaths sawed at the air as he slowly backed away from the wolf, as if it would help. The werewolf crept closer, taking two steps for every one that Dean took, eyes glimmering with triumph. Dean stumbled slightly as a pebble rolled under his foot -and as if sensing his momentary weakness- the werewolf attacked.
John Winchester trudged through the woods, the frozen leaves crunching under his boots. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled as the eerie howl of a wolf echoed through the woods. Enemy. Run. His brain insisted, shooting pulses of adrenaline through his veins. John ignored the traitorous thoughts and continued walking, hands steady on his gun. He hadn't gone very far when the phone lodged in his pocket vibrated insistently, tearing John's focus away from the trees. He hastily tore it out of his pocket and flipped it open, not bothering to check who the caller was.
"Whoever this is, it better be important." He growled low into the phone, eyes flicking up to check the surrounding trees for threats.
"Dad?" His son's concerned voice emitted from the phone. "What's wrong? Are you hurt? Is-is Dean okay? What happened with the werewolf? I thought-"
"God, Sam, everything's fine. Relax. Why the hell did you call me in the middle of a hunt?" John said, frustrated. "Is everything alright there?"
"I-yes, sir, everything's fine. It's just-"Sam stuttered.
"Just what, Sam, I don't have time for this, goddammit!" John hissed into the phone.
"Well, Bobby called a few minutes ago and he said that you would know what he meant by 'yellow-eyed demon,' but I could be wrong, he was talking really fast, and I-"
"Tell Bobby I'll call him back, Sam, but I'm in the middle of a hunt. I can't do anything right-"John snapped his head up. He had been distracted with the conversation with Sam and he had failed to listen to his surroundings, but now he heard it what he had missed clearly. Gunshots.
"Dad?" Sam's voice issued tinnily from the phone where John had lowered it. "Is everything-"
"I gotta go, Sam. I'll see you when this is over." John said hurriedly, snapping the phone shut and cutting off the call. He shoved the now-silent phone into his pocket and ran towards the gunshots, fingers tightening on the trigger of the gun.
Leaping at him faster than Dean's eyes could process, all Dean saw was a wave of black fur before the wolf slammed into him. Dean struggled to remain standing under the mass of the beast, trying in vain to hold the werewolf's maw away from him. The wolf snapped at his neck and Dean fell, the full weight of the werewolf on his chest. Agonizing pain shuddered through him as his ribs snapped like twigs under the wolf's weight, and Dean gasped in pain, his grip on the gun loosening and the only barrier between him and the werewolf falling away. Dean yelled in agony as the wolf's claws tore at his chest, ripping through his shirt and slashing his flesh with razor-sharp claws. Hot spikes of pain tore through him, and his grip on the werewolf's neck faltered slightly. The wolf ripped its head free of Dean's arms, pinning them beneath him with its paws. Dean's chest heaved as the wolf paused, rearing its head back to stare at him. Pain lanced through his body as the werewolf settled on his chest and Dean let out a strained groan, his body shuddering.
The wolf threw back its head and howled. The sound echoed through the trees, and Dean grinned weakly, tasting blood. You stupid son of a bitch, you just led my dad right to us, Dean thought with a small amount of relief that disappeared as soon as the werewolf turned its gaze back on him. The wolf reared back, golden-greed eyes nearly overtaken by black pupils fixated on Dean's own-
and buried its teeth inside Dean's shoulder. Pure agony ripped through Dean's body and he screamed in pain, writhing underneath the werewolf as its teeth tore and snapped at his flesh. Blood bubbled in his throat, choking him and cutting off his agonized screams with a strangled gasp. Heaving for breath, Dean thrashed under the wolf as it tore into his shoulder. Darkness curled in the edges of his vision as Dean's struggles grew weaker, blood flowing from his shoulder and chest. He was on the brink of unconsciousness when he faintly heard gunshots fired, and the werewolf sagged against him, its jaws still buried in his shoulder. Dean's chest heaved, his lungs straining for oxygen where there was none, and he sank into unconsciousness.
John bolted through the trees, the sound of gunfire getting louder and louder with each step he took. He ducked under branches and jumped over those he could small twigs whipping into his face and hands. He could taste blood on his lips. He strained his ears towards the direction he was running in and registered two, three more gunshots, then deafening silence. Then he heard a hoarse yell that made his heart leap to his throat. Dean. John raced through the trees, everything else forgotten. His breaths were unfamiliar to his ears, jagged and harsh with fear. He stumbled to a stop, the lack of sound bringing him to the realization that he had no idea if he was going in the right direction anymore. "Dean!" He yelled, hoping that his son would answer. "Dean!"
Silence. Then, rising from a low whine, a long howl trembled in the air. John cursed once, loudly, and spun in the direction of the howl as it slowly faded away. Then, replacing the howl, an agonized scream rang out into the woods, abruptly cut off for reasons John feared with a feeling akin to the terror he felt at Mary's death. He ran for an interminable time, slowing down when the glow of his flashlight illuminated spots of crimson on the leaves. He followed the trail of blood through the trees, heart stuttering, stumbling to a halt when his eyes caught on a hulking mass of black crouched low over something lying sickeningly still on the icy ground. Dean. John raised his gun, and, willing his hands to stop shaking, fired silver bullets into the beast's head and chest until it stopped moving.
John stepped forward cautiously, eyes locked on the werewolf. Satisfied that the wolf was dead, John ran towards his son's limp form, falling to his knees beside the blood-soaked body. With a strength that John didn't know he had in him, he rolled the body of the werewolf off of his son, the wolf's teeth emerging from deep inside his son's shredded shoulder, covered in blood. John leaned over his son's body, furiously willing himself not to cry. This was supposed to be an easy hunt. He sobbed inwardly, clenching his fists so hard blood ran down his palms. Get in, kill the damn thing, walk out. A tear dripped down his face, and he wiped it away angrily. It seemed to unlock something within him, and a sob burst free from his chest, loud in the silence of the night. John pulled his son's body into his lap, cradling it as if it were a baby. He could feel the drying blood stiffening in his son's hair, his limp fingers brushing against John's, his pulse-
John jumped, pushing his son away from him instinctively. His pulse? Dean's eyes blinked open, slivers of green in stark contrast to the crimson blood on his face. His fingers twitched.
"Dad?" Dean croaked, blood dribbling from his lips. "Dad-" he bent over, coughing. Blood spattered the ground, yet John could not move to help. His body seemed frozen in its position, a sickening feeling arising in his gut. His mind reeled, trying to deny the information. Dean was alive, but at what cost? John's eyes locked, seemingly of their own accord, on the wound in Dean's shoulder. The teeth emerging from deep inside his son's shoulder, covered in blood. He looked at the wound that seemed to be knitting itself back together, as well as the other gashes on his stomach, and he knew. He knew.
Dean had been bitten.
Dean was a monster.
He recoiled from what had once been his son, fingers scrambling for his gun. Monster. John raised the gun, aiming it at the beast. His hands trembled.
"Dad?" The werewolf asked, bewilderment coloring his tone. "Dad, what are you-"
"Stay away from me!" John blurted out, his teeth chattering. He jerked the gun for emphasis.
"Dad, it's me, it's Dean, I'm your son-" the werewolf said tremulously, raising his palms with a look on his face that nearly broke John's heart.
"No, it's not." John rasped. "You-you're not my son anymore. You're a monster who looks like him."
"Dad, I-" the werewolf's voice broke mid-sentence. "I'm not a monster. I'm Dean." it pleaded, stepping forward.
John's finger tightened involuntarily on the trigger, and a silver bullet buried itself inside the beast's arm, propelling the werewolf a few steps back with a howl of pain.
"You're not Dean." he said once more, lifting the gun again. The werewolf flinched reflexively, fingers clutched tightly around his wound. "Just-just stay away from me and my family." The thing that had been his son looked as if he had been slapped.
"Dad, you can't, Sammy-"
"Don't you dare say his name!" John hissed, stepping forward threateningly. "Stay away from Sam. I can't- I won't kill you now," John's voice broke. "But if I ever see you again, I'll shoot you without a second thought."
The werewolf opened his mouth, then closed it again. His fingers were trembling, John saw, a faint quiver that seemed to run throughout the beast's entire body.
"Run." John growled, tightening his fingers over the trigger of his gun. "Run, and never come back."
The werewolf ran.
Dean stumbled through the trees, tears stinging his eyes and his mind a blur of pain. You're not my son anymore. Stay away. Never come back. You're a monster. Monster. Monster. A sob clawed its way free from Dean's throat, choking him. He ran until he could run no further, and then he curled into himself on the frozen ground of the Appalachians, retching up blood and tears. The wounds on his shoulder, arms, and chest had mostly healed, knitting themselves back together with the healing speed of a werewolf. Monster. The gunshot wound on his left arm ached; the silver bullet had passed cleanly through his arm, but the burn of the silver remained. Dean lay on the leaves for what seemed like years, hugging himself with trembling arms, moving only to wipe tears away.
The sun had almost risen when Dean's stomach clawed painfully at him, reminding him that he still needed to eat. He struggled to his feet, the rational part of his brain noting that his wounds had completely healed, the only remainder a twisted white scar snaking across the golden-brown skin of his shoulder. Monster. He shuddered, trying to push away the memory of the night before. You're not my son anymore. Dean swallowed hard and stood.
A wave of dizziness swept through him, black spots dancing in his vision before fading away completely. He looked around and recognized nothing except the way he came from. Dean frowned. It was almost as if the world was in high definition. His vision was sharper, his nose was bombarded with unfamiliar scents, and he could hear things he had never thought of before, like the scratching of a squirrel climbing a tree, or the crunch of some rodent gnawing on bark. He could even hear the roar of cars on the highway that he and John had come from. The highway was over five miles away. A laugh escaped from him, distinct and loud among the woodland sounds.
This is going to be so useful during a hunt. The thought stopped him. Hunting. The laugh died out. He would never be able to hunt again. At least, not with his family. Stay away from me and my family. That part of him, that mindset screaming 'protect your family' was over. And it would never come back.
Hunting had become more than a job, Dean realized. It had become his entire world, and now that it was gone, he didn't know what he would do with his life.
Sammy. The thought came, unbidden, into his mind. It steadied him. He needed to tell Sammy. Straightening his shoulders with a newfound determination, Dean started walking in the direction of the highway. From there, the motel.
John Winchester flung open the motel room door, arranging his face into an expression of sorrow. Sam's head whipped up, and he stared at John with wide eyes before relaxing a fraction of a second before he noticed something was wrong. His eyes flicking rapidly from John's face to the empty doorway behind him, his initial look of shock was quickly replaced with confusion.
"Dad? Where-where's Dean?" Sam asked hesitantly, closing the book he was reading.
John sagged in his chair with his hands on his temples, staring blankly at his journal, trying futility to block out Sam's heartrending sobs. John hadn't told the boy that his brother was a monster-he couldn't do that to him. Besides, if Sam knew, he would immediately go to find what he thought was still Dean-and he would hate John forever. The bond his sons shared-or used to share-was one that easily surpassed whatever love Sam had for John, and the boy would never forgive John. Never. So John kept his mouth shut.
Where's Dean?
He-he's gone. The werewolf killed him.
No- Dad- you can't- he's not- why didn't you stop it?
I tried. I got there too late. He was already dead.
What happened to his-to his body?
There-there wasn't much left of him. I buried him.
Did you-did you kill the werewolf?
Yes. We're leaving here tonight.
What? But Dad-
I'm not arguing with you. We're leaving. And we're never coming back.
Dean opened the door of the motel and crossed the lobby in a few quick strides. He rang the bell at the desk, the high-pitched sound piercing. He grimaced in distaste. A harried, balding man rushed hastily to the desk, watery blue eyes catching Dean's.
"Can I help you, sir?" the man asked, holding a pen in his fingers.
"Hi, yes, I seem to have lost the key to my room." Dean lied easily, trying to look as embarrassed as he could.
The man nodded absently. "Can I see some I.D?" he asked.
"Yeah, sure." Dean replied. Thank god for tight pockets. He tugged out his wallet, still thankfully in the pocket of his jeans and pulled out his I.D card.
"Dean Johnson?" the man said, squinting at his card. "Room number?" the man asked.
"221." Dean said curtly. The man nodded, fingers moving across the keys of the computer.
"Oh-um, I hate to say this sir, but your room appears to have been signed out of." the man hesitantly said.
"What?" Dean started, hand dropping limply from the counter to his side. I should have known. he told himself, but that didn't lessen the pain of being left behind. Don't come near me or my family. He blinked when he realized the man was obviously waiting for him to say something. "I-I'm sorry, what?" Dean said, his voice cracking.
"Would you like to rebook the room?" The man repeated, a hint of exasperation in his eyes.
"Um, sure. I'll stay for a night." Dean said.
The man handed him the key.
Dean opened the door to the motel room and looked around the empty room.
He lifted his head. He could smell them, he realized. He could pick up faint traces of beer, deodorant, and a shitload of sweat. But they weren't there.
The beds were stripped, the walls were bare, and nothing in the room had a hint of either Sam or John.
They were gone. And they weren't coming back.
Dean sat in the bar across the street, fingers toying idly with the half-full glass. Run. Run, and never come back. Well, Dean had come back, but his family had not stayed. They had left nothing in the hotel room, nothing but Dean's bag still stuffed under the bed he had slept in. Thank God I hid my bag. Everything he owned was in it-clothes, weapons, and a photograph of him and Sammy. All he had. Stay away from Sam. Dean downed the glass, the familiar burn of alcohol making his throat tingle. I'll kill you.
A piercing pain shot through Dean's head. He choked back a grunt of pain, standing unsteadily. He nodded weakly to the bartender, who was looking at him inquisitively.
"You all right, pal?" the man asked.
"Yeah. I'm good." Dean gasped.
"Too much to drink?" the bartender asked wryly, wiping his hands with a stained rag.
"Yeah. Yeah, I guess." Dean said, shaking his head to clear it.
"Well, you should head home. You think you'll make it there alright?" the bartender asked.
"Yeah. I'm just across the street, so I think I'll be able to walk there in one piece." Dean replied with a dry tone.
"Hmm. Well, it's a full moon tonight, so I'm sure you'll be able to see plenty fine." the man nodded, moving his attention back to the drinks.
Full moon. The thought cleared Dean's mind instantly, bringing along with it a sickening sense of horror. Full moon.
Dean stumbled into the motel room, fingers fumbling for the lock. A bolt of white-hot pain shot through his head, and Dean clenched his teeth. He whipped open the curtains, staring out the window at the moon climbing over the slopes of the Appalachians. He backed away from the window, glancing around the room for anything heavy enough to drag in front of the motel closet. His eyes settled on the bed. He couldn't... could he? He half-ran across the room, seizing the bed by its base and pulling with a strength he didn't know he had. The bed moved slowly across the floor, leaving deep gouges in the wood where it had once-rested. Dean dragged the bed in front of the closet, looking warily at the moon as it slowly ascended. Pulling a bungee cord from his bag, he wrapped it around the bedposts and backed into the closet, pulling the bed with him until it effectively blocked off the closet. Taking a shaky breath, Dean closet the closet door in front of the bed and waited.
Around five minutes later, a searing pain shuddered through Dean's body, starting from the middle of his back and spreading outward. He gritted his teeth and clenched his fists so hard his nails dug into his palms. Pain coursed through his body, and he barely noticed as his shoes split open at the seams, revealing feet and ankles rapidly growing thick tufts of light brown-almost blonde fur. Paws. Similar tufts ripped through Dean's skin on his shoulders and arms, and his fingers seemed to shrink into his palms even as blunt claws forced themselves out. The force of the Change tore through him, and he screamed in agony as his spine elongated, forcing him to bend over on all fours as the joints on his arms and legs straightened with a sickening snapping sound. The last thing he felt was the agonizing feeling of fangs tearing through his gums before everything went black.
Dean woke up with a start. He struggled to his feet from his hunched over position on the ground, noticing absently that he was completely naked. Then he looked around. He was still in the motel closet, he noted with relief, but it didn't look much like the hotel closet anymore. Scratch marks were gouged into the walls, and the door sagged on it's hinges, a ragged hole torn through it. Strips of what used to be his shirt and jeans were strewn around the floor around him. Dean turned over his arms, looking for any remnant of what had happened the night before. No fur. He probed his gums with his tongue. Nothing. No fangs. He pushed the door open with a creak, moving the bed out of the way.
He sighed heavily, sitting on the bed and putting his head in his hands. Monster. He sat there for an hour, struggling to push back the feelings of revulsion and shame. This was who he was now. This was what he was now, and nothing he could do would change that.
He stood unsteadily, grabbing his bag from under the bed. Leaving the motel room, Dean looked back at the damage he had done to the closet. A laugh bubbled up inside of him. He was stronger than he ever was, perhaps stronger than he would ever be- if he hadn't gotten bitten.
Paying the motel clerk, Dean headed across the street towards the bar. He would have a beer, and then he would try to track down his family. He pushed open the bar door and nodded to the bartender, who was in the process of serving a skinny woman with bright red lipstick, tattoos, and jet-black pigtails. Dean sat down next to her, and she turned to face him. Her eyes were a strange green-yellow. He grinned half-half-heartedly, not in the mood for flirting. She grinned back. Dean looked away, puzzled.
Something about her seemed...off. His newfound wolf instincts were on edge, telling him something that he couldn't decipher. The bartender handed him a beer, and as he reached for it, she laid a dainty hand on his wrist,. He sighed inwardly and turned back to her.
She grinned again, but differently. The fingers on his wrist prickled, and Dean glanced at them. They had grown claws. Dean jerked back with a suppressed yelp. Werewolf.
"So," she said, her eyes gleaming. "When were you Turned?"
