"First things first..." John Winchester had told his oldest on that day he had decided Dean was of age to join the family business. "Know what you're hunting. Because then – and only then – will you know how to track it and how to kill it."
Dean had nodded earnestly; had hung on every word his father had said even as he had turned to check on his little brother; to make sure the kid hadn't been listening to their grownup conversation.
But Sam had remained asleep; had lain small and quiet on the mattress, tucked under the covers mere inches away from Dean as he had sat on the edge of the motel bed, facing their father.
"Know what you're hunting," John had said again; the intensity of his gaze and the hard edge of his tone having relayed the importance of that message.
And it had been good advice.
It had been the foundation for everything else Dean had learned since then; had been the first thing Dean had told Sam when his kid brother had joined the hunt several years later; and had saved his ass – and Sam's – more than he could count.
Know what you're hunting.
But now...
Dean swallowed against his dry throat; his hands reflexively fisting at his side; having no fucking clue what he was facing as he watched the red glowing eyes beyond the trees slowly draw closer but knowing he wasn't going down without a fight.
Because it seemed a hunter's job was never done; not really.
The hunt was always out there. It just seemed to change locations.
"Know what you're hunting," Dean whispered to himself, desperately searching his memory for what kind of creature hunted in packs – because there was obviously more than one of these sonsuvbitches closing in for the kill – and what kind also had those red glowing eyes...and growled like that...and would be that height.
Dean's first impression was "werewolf", and he could remember Sam telling him – his little brother reading to him from one of Bobby's old books as the kid had sat shotgun in the Impala – about how certain types of werewolves infected with a demonic virus would sometimes possess red glowing eyes.
"Huh..." Sam had mused after he had read that description and then had looked over at Dean as the Impala had rumbled down the highway. "That's...disturbing." He had paused. "Ever seen one?"
"Nope," Dean had answered. "But it sounds like one badass mofo."
Sam had laughed. "Yeah."
"Definitely not something I want to meet up with in the woods..." Dean had further remarked.
And as usual, Dean had been right.
"Sonuvabitch," Dean swore harshly; because as best as he could tell, that was exactly what was clearing the tree line – werewolves of the demonic variety.
Dean felt his heart hammer in his chest as he slowly reached behind himself and pulled his gun from the waist of his jeans; immensely grateful it had remained with him during his trip to Purgatory.
"If it bleeds, you can kill it," Dean quietly reminded himself; repeating John's words from over the years; repeating what he himself had told Sam just a few months ago about killer clowns.
If it bleeds, you can kill it.
Dean nodded his agreement – his encouragement – to himself and raised his weapon; thankful for his years of experience in shooting with no more than a full moon to light his target...and thankful that his gun was loaded with both silver and iron bullets; a "just in case" measure he always took these days to cover his ass.
Because any kind of bullet could kill a human; and most supernatural creatures could be brought down with either silver or iron.
Tilting his head, Dean took aim at the werewolf leading the pack – the alpha, no doubt – and fired; holding his breath as the silver bullet sailed through the dark distance and slammed into the creature's chest.
The wounded werewolf offered no reaction to being hit; no howl, no blink, no flinch.
And Dean wasted no time firing again; knowing the next shot would be an iron round since he had loaded his gun with alternating bullets – silver, iron...silver, iron.
The second bullet produced the same reaction as the first – nothing.
"Shit," Dean hissed in panicked frustration but then narrowed his eyes as the werewolf drew closer.
Because even though the red-eyed creature did not seem to notice being shot twice...it was definitely bleeding; the rush of blood from both bullet wounds shining wet and dark in the moonlight as it coated the fur of the werewolf's chest, shoulders, and front legs.
Dean smiled at the sight, even as the pack continued to advance in his direction.
Because if the werewolf was bleeding, that meant it could be killed; that meant they all could be killed.
Dean just had to figure out how and with what.
And he had to figure out both details pretty fucking soon.
"Okay..." Dean sighed harshly, instantly dropping his gun to the leaf-covered ground. "Plan B..."
His eyes never leaving the approaching threat, Dean bent to pick up a large tree limb he had spotted earlier near his feet; because his only other weapon was a knife tucked in his boot – and since a silver bullet hadn't worked, it was a good bet a silver blade would be just as useless.
As they drew closer, the werewolves tossed their heads and snapped at each other – clearly communicating in some way – and then tightened their circle around their prey; red eyes narrowing as they sniffed the air and bared their teeth.
Dean swallowed and tightened his grip around the stick he held; feeling like a jogger planning to fend off a pack of rabid dogs with a twig. But at least he was armed with something to physically strike with when the creatures made their move.
"Hi, fellas..." Dean greeted casually, his gaze sweeping the circle; counting at least five werewolves within inches of him. "I'm Dean. I'm new here."
The werewolves growled in response and crouched; seconds away from pouncing on their next meal.
Dean lifted the tree limb – holding it at the same angle he would hold a baseball bat – and waited; the muscles of his arms trembling with anticipation.
Another snarl was the only warning Dean got before the lead werewolf launched itself in his direction; a disorienting blur of blood-matted fur and sharp claws; of snapping teeth, foamy saliva, and those red glowing eyes.
Dean clenched his jaw – inexplicably hoping in that instant that at least Sam was safe wherever the kid was – and swung the tree limb at the attacking werewolf.
But before the limb struck its target, something else whistled through the air with deadly accuracy; striking the werewolf behind its shoulder and plunging its sharp tip deep into the creature's heart.
The werewolf cried out – its piercing howl echoing in the darkness – and then instantly dropped to the ground in an unmoving heap; the red fading from its lifeless eyes.
Enraged by the death of their alpha – and realizing their threat now came from behind – the remaining four werewolves simultaneously turned from Dean and focused instead in the direction from which they had come.
Dean swallowed, following their gaze; just as confused by the sudden turn of events...but so fucking thankful for whoever – or whatever – was out there in the shadows saving his ass.
Because while it was clear the pack's predator was hiding among the trees, it was also clear that Dean was not a target...or else he knew he would already be sprawled on the ground beside the alpha werewolf with an arrow protruding from his chest as well.
So what did that mean?
As he continued to stand in the middle of Purgatory's moonlit woods, Dean could only think of one possibility – Cas.
The fall from earth had seemed to jar loose the angel's childlike insanity – judging by the return of his familiar growly voice and impersonal bluntness. But it was still unlikely that Cas was hiding among the trees and showing off his never-seen-before archery skills.
Especially given Cas's prompt departure at the first sign of werewolf trouble only moments ago; the angel undoubtedly winging away to save his feathered ass...or to contemplate whatever insects Purgatory had to offer.
Either way, surely Cas was not out there in the darkness wielding a bow and arrows?
And as far as Dean knew, he had no other allies in Purgatory.
So...
Dean swallowed again and then held his breath; not daring to move as he continued to hold the massive tree limb in a defensive position and watched the pack, waiting for the werewolves' next move while also scanning the tree line for signs of whoever – or whatever – was playing hero.
After several seconds of collective growling, one of the werewolves – undoubtedly the beta taking over for his deceased alpha – stepped forward...only to receive an arrow in the center of its broad chest.
Dean's eyes widened as the beta dropped and then was quickly joined in death by a third member of the pack.
One of the remaining werewolves whimpered in distress, leaning down to sniff the bodies on either side of it, but earned a sharp snap in its face from the other living werewolf; a clear warning to keep its head in the game.
Because as Dean was quickly learning – in Purgatory, it was either kill...or be killed.
It was as simple – and as terrifying – as that.
The red-eyed werewolves circled each other, growling warningly; both wanting dominance over the other...but both ending up dead as two arrows came whistling out of the darkness and then seemed to magically split at the precise time and distance needed to hit their targets.
Dean blinked at the suddenness with which the two werewolves dropped, and then stood in the silence that followed; his hands cramping from how tightly he continued to hold the tree limb as he listened intently for sounds of movement among the trees.
But there was nothing to hear.
Only silence.
Dean narrowed his eyes and turned a slow, tight circle; scanning the surrounding woods.
But there was nothing to see.
Only trees and darkness.
There was no visual or auditory trace of anyone – or anything – having been there mere seconds before; which was the mark of a truly gifted, lethal, experienced hunter.
Dean frowned, confused by what that implied.
Was there another human – another hunter – in Purgatory with him?
The idea – the possibility – was both exciting and alarming.
Because who the hell would be here besides him?
Dean sighed, his attention darting to each werewolf – all five lying motionless on the ground with a single arrow protruding from their chests – and then felt his frown deepen.
Because neither silver nor iron had made these supernatural creatures react, yet they were all felled by a simple arrow; as best Dean could tell, just a stick that had been shaped and sharpened into a weapon and then had been expertly aimed and fired.
Dean shook his head – because something wasn't adding up – and then glanced back at the tree line; unsure of his next move...whether to let his guard down, to call out, to cross toward the trees...or to just maintain his position.
"Dammit," Dean muttered to himself; hating when he felt uncertain and deciding to at least lower the tree limb before his muscles cramped any more than they already had.
And that's when he saw it; first the moving shadow...and then the actual thing itself.
Dean felt his heart instantly beat faster as the figure emerged from the woods, and he lifted the tree limb again; briefly wondering if he should grab his gun instead.
But there was no time to switch weapons.
The thing drew closer; the full moon making it clear that whatever it was, was walking on two legs...had a bow in one hand, an arrow in the other, and a quiver strapped to its back...was about Dean's height and build...and possessed no outward supernatural feature – no claws, no fangs, no glowing eyes.
In fact, if the approaching figure resembled anything, it resembled a human...and looked unnervingly familiar.
Dean swallowed and shook his head at the realization of who was coming towards him...because surely he was hallucinating; the fall into Purgatory and the resulting demonic werewolf attack too much for his brain to handle.
But the figure only chuckled good-naturedly at Dean's disbelief; stopping a few feet from him and allowing Dean to process what he was seeing.
Dean clenched his jaw in response; taking in the dark features, the scruff of beard, the confident stance...even the silver wedding band on its left hand.
Whatever this was...it was good; had every detail down.
"I suppose you want me to believe you're really him..." Dean speculated, barely resisting the urge to beat the hell out of whatever was standing in front of him.
Because after everything he had been through today, Dean didn't have time or patience for shapeshifting bullshit.
"No," came the reply.
And it was delivered in that deep voice that Dean would know anywhere; a voice roughened by loss and whiskey and years spent on the road; a voice that had always been more likely to deliver a sharp reprimand to a mouthy kid – a dissident solider in the middle of a hunt – but could just as easily offer gentle comfort to a sick child.
Dean swallowed against the emotion that clogged his throat and continued to stare at what stood before him.
"I expect you to want proof," the thing told Dean and actually smiled its approval of that expectation.
Before Dean could nod his agreement – because that was exactly what he wanted...and he wanted it right fucking now – the probable shifter looped its bow over its shoulder, tucked the extra arrow into the quiver on its back, and pulled a knife from its boot; cutting a slice across the exposed skin of its left forearm and showing no reaction as blood pooled around the silver blade.
Dean nodded his acknowledgement of the non-sizzling flesh as the not-a-shifter looked at him – holding its gaze in guarded hope – and then watched as it wiped the blood from the blade and slid the knife back in its boot before removing a flask from the back pocket of its jeans.
"Holy water," it told him and took a drink; showing no reaction to that either before capping the thin container and sliding it back in its pocket.
There was a beat of silence.
"If you've got salt, you can throw at it me," it offered. "Or say 'Christo' if it makes you happy."
Dean said nothing but continued to watch the figure as it wiped its bleeding arm across the thigh of its jeans and then rolled down its faded green shirtsleeve, covering the self-inflicted cut.
"But all any of that is gonna do is continue to waste our time – 'cause I'm not a shifter or a demon or any other thing you might think. I'm me, Dean," John earnestly assured, his eyes shining with pride and love as he looked at his oldest. "And it is damn good to see you, boy."
Dean felt his own eyes sting with tears at that admission; somehow knowing the person standing in front of him was indeed his father; that unmistakable, unexplainable Winchester connection still intact and stronger than ever...even after all these years of separation.
"Oh my god..." Dean whispered, choking out in those three words the confusion and wonder and relief he felt as he finally dropped his guard – the tree limb hitting the ground with a solid thump – and stepped toward John.
John did likewise, closing the gap between himself and Dean; the bow still looped over his shoulder rattling against the quiver of arrows strapped to his back as he wrapped his arms around his oldest.
"You're here..." Dean stated, not knowing what else to say; returning his father's hug while also looking over John's shoulder for any potential threat; knowing John was doing the same over his shoulder; father and son watching each other's backs, working as a team as they always had.
And it felt so damn good; so damn right...even if they were both trapped in Purgatory.
"I escaped hell, and I wasn't in heaven," John recapped, his tone amused. "So where did you think I was?"
"I don't know," Dean admitted quietly. "I tried not to think about it."
John nodded his understanding – having plenty of things he tried not to think about as well – and heartily patted his son's back; a masculine display of love and affection.
Dean sighed as he and John simultaneously pushed away from each other and then stared at his dad; so many questions flooding his mind that he wasn't sure what to ask first.
John chuckled, seeming to know. "I'll explain everything," he assured. "But first, we need to clean up here and get back to camp. It's not safe out here in the open."
"Camp?" Dean shook his head, trying to imagine what that must look like in a place like this. "You have a camp?"
"Absolutely," John responded proudly. "It's not far from here and will give us somewhere to hole up and figure out what the hell we're gonna do about Sam."
"Sam?" Dean asked sharply, instantly on alert. "What about Sam? He's not here."
"I know," John quickly agreed.
Dean frowned. "How do you know?"
"Because if Sam was here, he would be with you," John replied, his tone slightly irritated at being made to explain something so obvious. "And he sure as hell wouldn't have vanished at the first sign of trouble and left you to fight five werewolves by yourself."
Dean arched an eyebrow at the implication, sensing John somehow knew he hadn't fallen into Purgatory alone.
"Unlike your angel friend," John coolly added, his opinion of Cas quite clear as he stepped around Dean and crossed to the nearest dead werewolf.
"You saw Cas?" Dean clarified, wondering how long John had been hiding among the trees; wondering if John somehow knew about Cas prior to seeing him just seconds before; wondering how much John knew about anything that had happened over the past few years.
John nodded. "Fucking angels," he growled and then shook his head disgustedly. "I hate the bastards," he declared, as if Dean couldn't already tell.
"I know that feeling," Dean agreed and glanced around the wooded area. "But I wonder where Cas went..."
John scowled. "Who gives a shit?" he asked sharply, though something in his expression implied that he knew exactly where the angel was.
Dean blinked at the raw hatred in his father's tone; sensing that John somehow knew what Cas had done...all of it.
But how?
Dean swallowed, wanting to ask how John even knew about angels but deciding to wait until later; his dad obviously pissed at the mention of them...and obviously in a hurry.
"Help me collect these," John ordered over his shoulder, gesturing to the arrows still protruding from the creatures' chests. "Half of Purgatory already knows you're here...and that I came out to get you...so, we need to move before something else gets our scent."
Dean nodded his understanding, casting a cautious glance around the wooded area, and then crossed to one of the dead werewolves. "How did you know?" he asked after a beat of silence.
"That you were here?" John clarified, jerking one of his arrows from a werewolf carcass.
Dean nodded, doing the same; examining the bloody arrow he had pulled from the beta's body and confirming what he had suspected – it was just a sharpened stick.
"Hard to explain," John responded. "If you've been here long enough, you just know – kind of a 'disturbance in the force' feeling when something or someone new arrives. Plus, there's other ways you'll see when we get back to camp."
"Someone?" Dean paused, staring at John as his dad pulled another arrow from another werewolf. "What do you mean 'someone'? Other people are here?"
John nodded but offered nothing else.
"Who? How many?"
"Patience, grasshopper," John replied dryly. "You'll see soon enough."
Dean scowled; reminded of how much he used to hate when his father deliberately kept information from him.
It seemed some things never changed.
Dean sighed and snatched another arrow from one of the werewolves. "How long have you been here?" he asked; having a good idea based off the last time he saw John's ghost flicker out of sight in that graveyard after they had finally killed the yellow-eyed demon...but still wanting to hear his dad's estimation.
John shrugged. "Hard to say. Time doesn't exist here. It's one never-ending night. So it could be days just as easily as it could be years."
"Time doesn't exist?" Dean repeated, his thoughts once again returning to Sam; wondering how long his brother had been without him back on earth; hoping that no matter how much time had passed, Sam was still okay. "How's that possible?"
"Just is," John replied calmly, freeing the last arrow; a sickening squelch coming from the alpha's bloody side. "It's always night...and always a full moon."
Dean glanced up at the perfectly round, remarkably bright moon shining yellowish-white in the black, cloudless sky. "Supernatural paradise," he drawled as his gaze wandered over the dense brush and tall trees surrounding them as far as he could see.
John nodded. "Most monsters prefer to hunt at night...with a full moon...and lots of tress for good cover."
Dean nodded his understanding of that logic – of why Purgatory made the perfect homeland for all things supernatural – but then frowned, still confused about his new habitat. "So if it's always night, how do you know when to sleep?"
"We don't."
Dean handed the two arrows he held over to his father as John approached. "Never?"
"Never. There's no need for it," John told his oldest, sticking the arrows into his quiver; their bloody tips striking its bottom.
Dean swallowed, remembering the last person he had encountered who had no need for sleep...ever. "So..." He swallowed again. "Are we soulless?"
John cut his eyes at his son, seeming to know why Dean was asking. "No," he assured. "Our souls are intact and onboard."
"How do you know?" Dean pressed; not feeling any different but still needing reassurance that he was not operating on some kind of douchebag autopilot.
"I just do," John returned with the soothing confidence he always had. "In heaven and hell, the soul separates from the body and does its own thing – whether that's living out its best memories or enduring its worst nightmares. So a body ain't that important; just the soul. But here...here body and soul are bound together – even if your body was properly laid to rest back on earth."
"Which I guess explains why you're walking around here looking like...well...you," Dean finished lamely and smiled.
"Guess so," John agreed. "Seems to be the norm with the others, too; even if they were burned on earth, they're bound back with body and soul as soon as they arrive here." He paused. "Guess we're a nice little combo snack-pack for Eve's kids to munch on when they get tired of munching on each other."
Dean scrunched his face at the visual that description brought forth. "So, you know about Eve?"
"Who doesn't know that bitch?" John countered. "You boys did a damn good job sending her ass back home, but she's sure been pissed since she got back here. Been in the kitchen baking up fresh batches of hybrid creatures ever since."
"Nice," Dean commented dryly and shook his head. "So, how many are here?"
"Monsters?"
Dean nodded.
John shrugged. "Hard to keep track. At last estimation, there was well over a billion. And then there's all the Leviathans that have been coming back recently." He smiled. "Good work, boys."
Dean nodded; wishing Sam was there to share in the praise.
"Anyway..." John continued. "Doesn't really matter how many monsters are here 'cause about as fast as we kill 'em, Mommy Dearest whips up more."
Dean narrowed his eyes; not missing his dad's constant use of "we"...which implied more hunters.
But who?
Dean glanced at the dead werewolves scattered on the ground, reminded of how a simple stick had done what neither silver nor iron could. "How do you kill them?"
John smiled, knowing his son was disappointed that the usual defenses hadn't worked against the red-eyed werewolves. "You put up a good fight with what you had, Dean."
Dean snorted his opinion of that statement. "Maybe. But this sure didn't seem to have any effect on them," he observed as he bent to pick up his gun from where he had dropped it earlier. "It was like I was shooting blanks."
John nodded. "You were," he agreed and then paused. "See, on earth, we have our...tricks," he explained, referring to silver and iron and salt and all the countless other weapons and tools hunters used to combat the supernatural. "But down here, things in Purgatory can only be killed by things from Purgatory."
Dean arched an eyebrow, his gaze flickering from the dead werewolves to the quiver strapped against John's back; instantly understanding why his gun hadn't worked and why the arrows were nothing but shaped and sharpened sticks. Because those sticks had once been part of trees that had grown in Purgatory...that were from Purgatory...and that was why they could kill the demonic werewolves in Purgatory.
"Huh. Interesting loophole," Dean commented, tucking his gun back in the waist of his jeans.
John chuckled. "There's lots of those here."
"I'm sure," Dean agreed, already feeling overwhelmed with everything he had to learn to survive in this new environment. "Guess I'll need to be getting my own set of sticks."
"They're arrows, thank-you-very-much," John corrected, chuckling again. "We've got extras back at camp. And quivers, too..." he added.
"You make all of your weapons?"
John nodded. "Whatever we have here, we made with things from here. And then we also have whatever we were lucky enough to fall with...like our knives, flasks, rosaries; all the things a hunter usually has on him."
Dean returned the nod, still wondering about "we" but at least realizing now why he still had his gun and his knife...why John also had his own knife and flask and was apparently able to make holy water – because you got to keep what you fell with.
"Guess that's a Purgatory perk?" Dean ventured.
John snorted. "Yeah...the only one."
"Too bad Sam's not here," Dean mused. "We'd probably have a laptop."
John quirked a smile. "Who says we don't already have one?"
Dean gave a startled laugh; his mind buzzing with possibilities about who could be waiting back at camp...and with what.
Not that it mattered; not really.
Because the only person Dean wanted to see – needed to see – wasn't going to be there.
And while Dean was glad Sam hadn't been sucked into this mess, he still missed his brother; still worried about the kid and missed being able keep a watch over him.
It had been such a hard, hard year...and Sam didn't need to be alone.
Not now.
Dean sighed in the silence, feeling the crushing absence of his brother; that indescribable hole that only Sam could fill. "I hope Sammy's okay."
John cut his eyes at his oldest and nodded his agreement but said nothing; his expression unreadable.
Dean narrowed his eyes, renewed uneasiness washing over him. "Dad..."
"We need to get back to camp," John stated; his tone suddenly urgent as he turned away from Dean. "Stay close," he advised; his boots barely making a sound as he marched back toward the tree line.
Dean hesitated, hating when he felt like John was hiding something from him – especially if it was something about Sam.
But what could John know about Sam that Dean didn't?
Whether his dad realized it or not, John had been in Purgatory for at least five or six years; whereas Dean had seen Sam just a few minutes ago.
Or at least, it felt like just a few minutes ago.
Dean swallowed; panic spreading through his chest as he remembered John's explanation about time in Purgatory – it didn't exist.
So for all Dean knew, Sam could still be standing in the middle of SucroCorp's lab, only minutes having passed. Or his brother could be thousands of miles away from Leviathan headquarters...days or weeks or years having already clicked by.
At this very moment, Sam could be doing god knows what – or having god knows what being done to him – in his desperation to get Dean back...and there wasn't a damn thing Dean could do about it.
Dean swallowed at the realization – at the very real possibility – of Sam doing something really fucking stupid.
"Shit," Dean hissed and then sighed harshly, shaking his head; hating the anxiety that had freshly settled in his chest; the kind of anxiety that only Sam could produce.
"Dean..." John called, standing at the tree line.
Dean blinked at the sound of his name and nodded at his father; glancing around at the dead werewolves one last time before walking in John's direction.
"Just hang on, Sammy..." Dean quietly urged; hoping Sam would somehow sense his voice over time and space. "I'm coming," he promised his missing brother – uncertain of how he was going to keep that promise – and then followed John into Purgatory's moonlit forest.
TBC