These things I do, that others may live.

USAF Pararescue motto

Silver Creek, Minnesota, 1994

Ron regretted this, he really did. Poor John, losing his wife to a demon and now his eldest boy to that thing.

It was pretending to be helpless, sniffling in the woods as if Ron didn't know exactly how much evil it contained. Looking harmless and human one minute and then, in the next instant, a ravenous beast.

Werewolves, Leshies, Skin-walkers or Kitsune, they were all the same. They tricked you into caring for them and then tore out your heart.

He knew the pain of it, was intimate with the grief of having your child become something other, something foul. So he knew what he had to do. John was still in denial, thinking he could save the boy from the monster in his skin, but Ron knew better. Dean Winchester was already dead and a monster was walking around in his skin.

The boy was nestled in a root hollow about 300m away from where Ron stood concealed by the foliage. He raised his rifle, taking a moment to appreciate the irony of a Winchester being pointed at a Winchester, before clicking the safety off. He sighted down the rifle scope, directly into a pair of bright green eyes that were suddenly meeting his gaze.

Damn, he thought pulling gently on the trigger. The chest he'd been aiming at had already moved as the naked teen dove to the side and rolled. Instead of a silver bullet to the heart all the monster got was an inch long wood chip in the shoulder and then he was up and sprinting away through the woods.

Ron followed the mad dash, skidding down the slight incline from his vantage point to the flatter ground his prey had already covered.

Dean ran through the wood, weaving through the dense trees. He could hear the man behind him, booted feet and panting breaths.

The rough ground was cutting into his bare feet but he couldn't slow or stop. The footsteps were too close behind him, the gunshot still ringing in his ears. He dodged behind a clump of saplings, thin branches whipping against his face and chest.

He lengthened his stride putting on a burst of speed, desperate to get enough distance to safely change before instinct overtook him and he turned anyway. For a moment he wondered if this was how the wendigo had felt. Desperation and fear and the frantic pounding of his heart.

There had been a split second when he'd heard the click of the safety when time had seemed to elongate, when he'd looked straight into the eyes of the old Hunter and seen his own death staring back at him with clear blue eyes. An instant when he knew, there would be no mercy, no kindness, and no reprieve. Then, as he read the intent in the old man's eyes, he'd lunged to the side, leapt to his feet, and run.

Fire burned Ron's lungs, his legs ached and his heart battered against his ribs. The monster was fast, its preternaturally enhanced speed allowing it to gain space as they careered through the trees. But all Ron needed was the right angle, a single shot with a silver bullet could end the monster for good.

He hadn't been able to save his family but one silver bullet could save countless people and this particular bullet had the name Dean Winchester written on it in flowing cursive.

Of course, Ron himself probably wouldn't live long past this Hunt. Not with John Winchester the way he was, John couldn't believe that Dean was already dead so he'd come after Ron for certain. And John was a damn fine Hunter, too good for Ron to take out if he even wanted to. Which was why he'd used the sleeping draught in the first place. Seven drops in the holy water he'd used to test John and he'd been down immediately, leaving Ron a good eight hours to complete the Hunt.

Ron had it all figured out. He'd finished up all his business and set out on his last Hunt. His life wasn't too big a sacrifice to stop this one bit of evil. A 'walker with all the skills of Dean Winchester was a terrifying prospect. One that couldn't be allowed to survive no matter what the consequences to himself.

John would understand that eventually and be a better Hunter for it. Ron checked his watch as he pounded through the wood, four hours until John woke up and came after him. He had to make this quick.

Dean wasn't sure how long he'd been running. He could hear the panting breaths of the man behind him, Eldridge, he frowned, not quite sure where the name came from but certain that it's right. Ron Eldridge, Werewolf Hunter Extraordinaire. Damn! Dean only had to go and bump into the best in the business.

He racked his brains as he ran, dredging up information gleaned in dribs and drabs from hundreds of conversations he'd eavesdropped on over the years. Eldridge was a legend, he went after pretty much anything that changed shape, which explains why he's after you, idiot.

Ever since his werewolf daughter had killed her mom and two younger brothers he'd been on a one man mission to eliminate every 'shifter, were or 'walker that crossed his path. He was damned successful too. So successful that other Hunters told stories about him like ordinary guys in bars told stories of Babe Ruth, Prefontaine or Ali.

Now, if only Dean could remember those stories he might still get out of this alive.

Three and a half minutes later everything changed. Dean was in the zone. Loping through the wood was almost hypnotizing despite the pain in his bare feet. Then, all at once, he became aware of the lack of panting behind him. The shadowing footsteps had stopped and he wasn't quite sure when.

Suddenly, as the hair on the back of his neck stood up, all the stories of Eldridge came back to him. Ron's modus operandi… Traps.

Too late, Dean skidded to a stop, digging in his heels in a frantic bid to pivot away from what he knew was waiting. He felt it even as he wrenched away, the cord snaking against his calf and tightening around his ankle. Then he was airborne as the snare hauled him up, the silver threaded rope digging into his flesh.

He screamed as the force jerked his hip. His arms flailing as the world span lazily, a blur of greens and browns.

"Well," the voice like worn gravel floated from the nearby trees, "that was actually a little disappointing."