Dean hurries out of his house, shivering slightly at the cold air that hits him and leaves him with chill bumps. When he turns his back to the door, the first thing he notices is how dark the junkyard is. On most occasions, the high wooden lamplights would caste a dull, yellowish glow across the sea of rusted junk metal and old cars. The lights must have been shattered by the same noise that had broken his house lights and his bathroom mirror. He's now grateful for the flashlight that he grabbed at the last moment as he was exiting.
He keeps his head up to stay alert for danger. His shotgun is moved into the crook of his right arm as he holds the flashlight in both hands, twisting the top of it until the light turns on with a quiet click. Then he directs the light in front of himself, using it to guide his way down the rickety porch steps and out into the junkyard. He keeps his sawed off shot gun loaded and ready in his other hand, just in case.
His worn out tennis shoes are nearly silent against the dirt ground beneath his feet. He makes his way through the area, peering down each turn in the dirt path as he goes. He listens carefully for any sound of movement that could lead to source of the noise that he heard earlier. This comes in the form of far off rustling, followed by a pain filled whine. Dean instinctively grips the shotgun tighter, making his way in the direction of the noise.
He slowly approaches a pathway that branches off to the right of the main route, fingers tightening on his gun. He turns the corner quickly, shining the light down the path and stopping in his tracks.
The beam of the flash light traces across the heaps of junk metal, landing on an abnormal figure about twenty feet away. It takes his mind a moment to process what it is that he is seeing. The first thing dean notices is an adult man curled over himself on top of one of the junk cars. He's flailing around as if in pain, and does not seem to notice Dean's presence despite the light that shines in his direction. There is something dark and large that jolts and moves inhumanly around the stranger's form. The hunter walks a bit closer to get a better look; that's when he sees them. Feathers. They are wings.
His eyes widen as he fumbles slightly with his gun, aiming it at the creature in front of him. He cocks the shotgun, causing the monster's head to snap over and look toward him. The monster squints his eyes in the light, confusion evident on his face.
Anticipating an attack from him at any moment, Dean keeps his index finger ready on the trigger of the gun, and the barrel pointed the creature's heart.
"Don't move!" The hunter's voice comes out rough and loud, echoing throughout the yard. This causes the half-man's eyes to widen as he stops all movement. He looks like a deer in headlights, frozen in his spot, shoulders hunched over and looking rather distressed all of a sudden.
Dean holds tight to the gun, the burn in his arm keeping him alert. He steps forward slowly, being careful to keep the gun leveled with the monster. He is racking his brain for any information that he might have absorbed at some point in his hunting career to prepare him for this. Throughout all of the books he has read on demons and monsters, he's never seen something like this creature. Most monsters are killed by special means, like a stake to the heart, silver, or sometimes beheading.
Dean seriously doubted that shooting this beast would kill it, or even harm it for that matter. However, there is no reason as to why he shouldn't give it a try.
The hunter is just about to pull the trigger when something quiet catches his attention. "D-Dean?" At first he thought he had imagined it, because of the low volume and incredibly weak human voice that comes from the bird man before him.
Dean's green eyes widen and his index finger lightens off of the trigger. "What?" he speaks in a barely audible whisper, utterly shocked and dismayed by that one familiar word.
The half man shakes and stares at Dean, desperation in his glassy blue eyes. His body and wings are shaking, making him seem weak and terrified. He speaks again quietly, in his low and gravelly voice, "Dean... Dean please... Don't-..." His voice goes silent as he trails off. All of a sudden, his eyes go out of focus and slide shut as his arms and knees give out causing him to collapse onto his side.
As he does so, only one of the large black wings fall with him. The other seems to be suspended in place. The hunter has to take a few steps closer in order to see why. Somehow, the creature had skewered its wing through a piece of long and jagged scrap metal. From the looks of it, he had been trying to free it, but to no avail. The wing is stuck in such a way that the creature would not be able to raise it high enough to remove the metal. When the light from the flashlight lands on the wing, a red liquid can be seen shining off of it. It's sickly and ripped to where Dean can see the torn flesh beneath the clumped and damp feathers.
The hunter redirects his attention back to the face of the barely conscious winged-man that lies helplessly before him. Could Dean really kill him in such a weak state; and with so many unknown variables? What is this thing? Where did it come from? And most importantly, how does it know his name?
The hunter could attempt to kill this being now, while he is weak, and be done with this entirely; or he could wait and figure out everything the creature knows before offing him.
As the monster's eyes slide shut, likely with another jolt of pain, the opportunity is perfect. Dean is left with a decision to make.