"Alright, now…"
An insistent tapping near his head, intruding on his thoughts. Or dreams. Maybe dreams.
Dean's senses gathered themselves slowly, wandering in one at a time. Cold. On his face, something smooth. Or his face, on something smooth, cold. Stale beer. Smell that anywhere. Sweat, too. Reeking. Something else. Bit oily, slick. Varnish, maybe. Or wood cleaner.
He pried open an eye. Face leaning over him. Nice woman. Bartender. Tapping. Her fingernails. Or the first one, anyway. Right next to his face.
"Oh, good," came a wry voice, slightly hoarse. "He lives." More tapping. "Need ya to sit up. Closin' time."
The partially opened eye rolled up, tracking the voice. Cracked the other eye open, still couldn't see. His hands found his head, and the left one rubbed the aching spot behind his eyebrows while the right groped around for something. Missing. Something grabbed his right hand and he was hauled up, and the room shifted violently. Strong arms gripped his shoulders, and his vision swirled before finally focusing on the weathered brown face in front of him.
"There you are," the woman said, a lopsided grin deepening the creases at her eyes. He felt the world tilt again, but her hands kept him from slipping away with it. "Steady now. Can ya walk?"
Dean started to nod, instantly regretting it. Shrugging her off, he grabbed both bar and bar stool, and levered himself onto his feet, where he swayed, but stood. The bartender nodded her approval, and after a quick glance to the manager, hooked one arm into Dean's to guide him to the door.
The parking lot was deserted, except for the Impala and a boxy blue subcompact that looked like it had seen better days about fifteen years ago. Dean surreptitiously leaned against the nearest fence post, wondering if he was sober enough to take Baby back to the motel tonight. The bartender was looking him up and down, clearly assessing the same thing. She looked from him to the car and back again, a stern expression hardening her otherwise amiable face. "You're not driving home," she said, dangling his keys in her roughened hand.
Dean briefly considered protesting, but her determination was plain. "Naw," he drawled, concentrating so he didn't slur his speech too much. "My motel's just down the road. Mind if I leave her here tonight, come get her later?" The bartender gave a curt nod, and clapped Dean on the shoulder before giving him his keys. He tapped his forehead in a mock salute before slipping the keys in his pocket and turning down the sidewalk, away from the corner of the lot where the Impala was parked.
His thoughts, as halting and sporadic as his steps, wandered aimlessly through his mind. Good of her, he thought, making sure I'd be okay. Didn't have to. A crack in the sidewalk threatened to trip him, and he fell forward, but by some miracle his feet caught up to his body before he hit the pavement. Jesus, he thought as he steadied himself on a nearby tree, I'm still shitfaced. Sammy's gonna be pissed.
SAMMY.
Dean dropped to his knees, and the world fell away.
The gnawing emptiness that he'd tried to drown in alcohol came rushing back to the surface of his consciousness, and Dean stared down into its gaping maw, the fight drained out of him, unable to flee. Dead. Sammy. His brother, the only person he'd had left, who he was supposed to protect, gone. Just…gone.
And it hadn't even been over something important - just a werewolf hunt gone wrong. He'd been about to shoot the bastard, when his pistol inexplicably jammed. The creature had seen his opportunity, and had leaped for Dean's throat. It should have meant his death. Instead, his baby brother had shoved him aside, out of the path of the beast's wicked sharp claws, taking both the kill and the brunt of the attack. The werewolf had fallen in a headless heap at his feet, then Sam toppled, hands over his abdomen. Dean rushed to his side, but could only sit there, helpless, while his brother's face drained of color and life in a matter of seconds.
It was a hunter's death, one he could have wished for himself. But Sammy? Sam should have had better. More. A real life, not this endless series of adrenaline rushes and close calls.
A waste. That's what it was. A stupid pointless waste.
The urge to vomit brought Dean back to the wretched present. He heaved and retched until there was nothing left but bile. He sank down to the ground a few feet away from the mess he'd made and sat there, staring up at the night sky. It should have been deepest night, without a hint of predawn light, but the moon's glow was bright enough to throw shadows across the sidewalk. If he looked hard enough, it looked like the haunted forest in "Wizard of Oz," spindly trees on the near side of the sidewalk menacing him with gnarled branches.
It was then he noticed one of the shadows moving independently between the trees: the outline of a long, fanged snout and a set of curved claws fell across his path.
Dean froze. Years of training had honed his reflexes to fight (flight, not so much), but right now he was at too much of a disadvantage. He was on the ground, he had no idea what this creature was. All he had on him was a silver knife and a hip flask of holy water. Everything else was back in the Impala. A chunk of ice settled in his wrung-out stomach. He wasn't going to get out of this one alive.
Dean slipped the knife out of his pocket, a wolfish grin stealing across his face. He might not survive this, but he would by God take something with him when he went.
The rustling of the creature's passage was getting steadily nearer, a low growl gradually rising to cover the sound of crunching leaves and twigs. Dean rolled into a crouch, balancing on the balls of his feet, ready to spring the moment the creature cleared the trees. He heard the creature stop abruptly, sniff the air, and at once the rumble in the beast's throat erupted into a spitting snarl. Dean could smell it now, musk and wet fur not quite overpowering the odor of fresh blood on its breath. It was very nearly behind him. Sending up a silent prayer to no one in particular, Dean rose and spun in a single fluid movement, determined to give as much as he would get.
The smartass battle cry died on his lips as he came face to face with not one but two opponents in the clearing. The creature was unlike anything he'd ever seen: it was gaunt and sinewy, bipedal but bent forward, its long, clawed fingers almost trailing the ground. Its short, downy fur glimmered silver in the moonlight. It looked like the skin of Weimaraner had been stretched over a human frame. It wasn't even looking at him, but at a shadowy figure, hooded and cloaked but clearly in a defensive posture, just a few yards away.
Well, it hadn't been looking at him, anyway.
The beast whipped its head around, eyes narrowed and teeth bared. In an instant it was on him, claws boring through both leather jacket and tee shirt, just pricking the skin on his chest. It glared at him. There was a ferocious intelligence in those eyes, and it looked annoyed.
Before Dean could so much as struggle against its grasp, the creature was suddenly enveloped in red light. He saw the lights in its eyes go out, and it collapsed in a heap, mostly on top of Dean. There was a shout before the whole world went red, and Dean lost consciousness.
Author's note: The first chapter of this "new" story is not new at all, but was previously published under my drabble/plot bunny archive called "Prompts: A Collection". It's rated M for potential graphic images, and because Dean cusses a lot more than allowed for a T rating. Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoy!