So...er...sorry for the wait? I can only write when my muse hits me over the head with a frying pan; otherwise, it all ends up as crap. Not saying this doesn't contain some crappy parts because...you know, Dean and all his glory is hard to grasp (...I don't know what went through your mind, but that isn't what I meant). Not to mention, I haven't watched the show and trying to understand all that angsting and what not is really hard.
In simpler terms, I tried my best and I is sorry in advance.
Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural or its corresponding characters.
Enjoy.
part·ner
a person who takes part in an undertaking with another or others
There are no such things as second chances. No mistakes are allowed. The first time the guardians had told them this was after an accident and they'd been left with the tortured remains of a classmate. The second time, the transgressor had been possessed and the guardians had killed him themselves. Those words were branded into her brain, a warning against carelessness. She should have paid closer heed to them.
She'd severely miscalculated the numbers and strength of the pack, sustaining injuries that drained her ability to focus. Although she'd managed to kill most of them, the two remaining werewolves had cornered her. They managed to further tear up her upper right arm and shoulder before throwing her against the crumbling wall. The ripped flesh spanning her chest gives a throbbing jab of pain and she coughs, feeling her throat clench at the sensation. There's a rush of air as they lunge again, claws barely missing her neck as she twists to the side, slipping past them and back into the first room where her back slams against the far wall. She can't keep this up for much longer; blood is making her torn clothing stick to her skin and her legs are beginning to go numb. At this point, the wall is really the only thing holding her upright. The werewolves are circling again, regrouping for their last attack. This time, she knows they'll get her. Well, she supposes her luck had to run out sometime; the guardians did tell them that their present normal life expectancy didn't extend past twenty.
Her fingers brush against something soft. A dead werewolf, one she'd killed previously, is slumped against the wall next to her. And there's a silver stake buried in its flesh. Adrenalin crackles in her veins and her fingers scramble to find purchase on the blood slickened metal. She yanks. Hard. There's a satisfying squelch as the stake slides free and she turns just in time to sink the sharp point deep into the chest of the first werewolf. This is her last kill; her legs give under the extra weight and she slides to the floor. Warm, crimson liquid coats her arms from fingertip to elbow as the dead creature's head lolls to rest on her shoulder. Her body doesn't scream in pain anymore and she should probably be worried, but the only sense she has is the vague feeling of self reproach. Loose ends are terrible; she should have at least been able to rectify her stupidity by finishing the kill. The guardians would be disappointed. A warm trickle slips along the curve of her jaw and she looks up to stare at the second werewolf. Black dots are swallowing her vision as the blurry image of the remaining creature's claws came crashing down. Except they never make it to her. She's conscious enough to recognize the sound of a gunshot before she slips over the edge and her vision fades to nothing.
An acrid smell makes her open her eyes. For a few disorienting moments, her brain scrambles to piece what happened into a coherent picture. Light is coming in from a window, rough sheets cradle her body and her clothes aren't torn or bloody. In fact, she's pretty sure they aren't her clothes. Memories click just as the scenery sharpens into focus and she shoots up into a sitting position on the bed. Immediately, her body scolds her for the movement; dizziness slams into her like a wave and she tips backwards to lie on the bed again. When the room stopped spinning her jumbled senses picked up on the second presence lingering quietly against the wall farthest away from her. She sits up again, this time bracing an arm on the bed to keep herself steady. It's a man, she notes, a rather tall man. Well built too. His right hand is curled around what looks like a Colt. The stranger's face is cautious, but the gun is lowered to his side so she knows he isn't planning on killing her yet. They stare at each other for another few moments before he breaks the tense quiet.
You okay?
Of all the questions he could have asked, he chose that one? She'll never understand the reason behind asking obvious questions. Her wounds have been stitched and bandaged and, providing her assumptions are correct, he's probably the one that treated her. He should know better than her whether or not she's okay having actually assessed the injuries. Briefly she considers the possibility that the stranger might be hiding ill intentions under the guise of talking, but dismisses the idea almost immediately. She's not dead, for one and he hasn't moved at all from his wary stance from the wall. His presence is clean as well. Human. But it still isn't wise to stay here. Blind trust was equivalent to suicide, after all. Although death doesn't bother her, maximizing her life is preferable. It'll give her more time to kill the things walking amongst the living that weren't supposed to be there. She should leave now. As if sensing where her thoughts are going, the man narrows his eyes.
You'll tear the stitches if you push yourself too much and I am not going to watch an hour of my time go to waste, he pauses, green eyes scrutinizing her face, Where are your parents? Why are you hunting alone?
She frowns at the question, tilting her head to one side as she considers the enigma standing in front of her. According to the guardians, she doesn't have a mother or a father; the subject itself wasn't important either so it had only been briefly brought up once. And she's always done her hunting alone, save for the couple instances where she'd known it would be suicide without a companion. So, she settles for staring at him blankly, wondering to herself if all humans were incapable of asking for actual information. This one sided conversation has done nothing but reinforce the guardians' comments that normal humans made terrible hunters.
They aren't dead, are they? These words are...different. Softer. The air that carries them to her ears presses against her skin. She thinks the question is supposed to hold immense weight of some kind, but she sees nothing special about it. Creatures died all the time.
I suppose they are. Hunters die earlier than most.
The air crackles at her flat answer and she catches a flash of green fire in the man's eyes. Instinct has her muscles tense and senses on alert even as the moment passes to simmer back into calm.
Do you not care?
Should I? They weren't of importance.
There's shock in his entire posture. So you don't even know who they are. She cocks her head in assent and swings her legs over the side of the bed. The dizziness has abated and not even the disgusting stink of the run down motel can mask the cloyingly sweet odor blown in through the open window. The room is hindering her abilities, but she recognizes the scent as a trail. One she's compelled to follow.
Hey, you're in no condition to do anything. You've been unconscious for the past two days. You need to eat or something first, don't you?
She doesn't grace that question with an answer. In fact, she should have made to leave the moment the room stopped spinning. All of the previous words exchanged fell under useless conversation, one that used time and yielded nothing in return. Long fingers encircle her wrist, preventing her from reaching the door. Instinct acts before anything else; it's fortunate that he has supreme reflexes because the result would have been a broken nose otherwise. As it is, her hand only lightly grazes the side of his jaw. Emerald orbs glare at her reproachfully as she flicks her trapped arm, breaking his hold easily and continues on her path to the entrance without any acknowledgement of the incident.
I'm hunting with you then.
That makes her pause. She's inclined to refuse at first; there's a reason the guardians have told them to hunt alone unless a partner was absolutely necessary. Fewer mistakes happen when one person carries out one plan simply because miscommunications are eliminated entirely. But then he points out that he has a car, an arsenal of weapons, and information. And he knows how humans work. In this case, the benefits outweigh the hindrances; she can take advantage of the tools he's readily offered to her. Besides, by the cold, hard glint in his eyes, she'll probably end up fighting him every step of the way and end up using even more time than if she just agreed to this arrangement. In the end, there's nothing tying them together; once whatever good outcomes this partnership provided is exhausted, she'll just let it dissolve. So, she nods and watches as he slings his bag onto his shoulder. They're outside the building when he asks another question.
What's your name?
She stares blankly at the question. Name?
The hunter frowns. Yes. Name. His eyes become pensive, You have a name, don't you?
She blinks and he frowns, Let's try this. People call me Dean. That's my name. What do people call you?
Strange, he sounds concerned over the fact she might not have a name. She tilts her head at this; interesting, in all her years of training, the guardians had never mentioned names. Therefore, she'd always assumed that this concept wasn't important in the least to her job. The hunter is asking for it, though, and assuming that her intuition on his abilities is correct, there had to be a reason he so keen on getting a name from her. Maybe it has to do with fact that they're technically working together now. The soft sounds of rubber against asphalt stops and she looks up to see that her companion had spun around and was now staring at her expectantly. He's getting impatient, she realizes, she'll end up having more inquiries directed at her if she doesn't answer soon. Her mind flicks through memories, scanning through the countless titles she'd heard when one human addressed another; she hears him shift his weight and looks up to see that his frown has deepened.
Angela, she chooses quickly, liking the feel of the smooth roll of syllables, I am Angela.
Angela. He turns it over in his mouth, nose wrinkling slightly. The word seems to have dragged up memories he had no wish of revisiting.
You don't like it, she observes, That's fine. Call me whatever you want, I don't care.
His mouth compresses into a tight line, but he doesn't pursue the subject. She wonders if this was what normal humans called "considerate". Or maybe he simply doesn't wish to continue talk. Trying to read into the behaviors of humans gives her a headache and she gives up in favor of the trail she'd picked up. It's taken on a distinctive smell now that she's outside. Floral almost, like roses growing over a heap of rotting garbage, undercut with the coldness indicative of a supernatural creature. The scent's familiar, one that she's run across countless times already and her eyes automatically sweep her surroundings, looking for the tell tale wisps all supernatural beings left behind before she screws them shut. Her new companion wouldn't appreciate her leaving to track and she doesn't want to end up in another argument. But it's difficult not to focus on the trail and by the time the leather clad back in front of her came to a stop, she's already counted half of the fraying stitches holding the fabric together. She's focused so thoroughly on not focusing that her nose actually makes contact with the worn leather before she blinks the world back into focus. And stares. Considering the fact that he is a hunter, the pristine condition of the black Impala makes her gape. This man is either a really good mechanic or this is a 'borrowed' car; by the way he's running his hands over the exterior of the car though, the former is more likely. She slides into the backseat, running light fingertips over the cool leather as he starts the engine.
I've got some rules. Driver chooses the music. Shotgun shuts his cakehole. And above all else, be nice to my baby
There's a warning note laced into the words and she looks up to see his eyes watching her movements carefully but she chooses to ignore him for the time being. Now that she's fully situated in the car, the jumbled smell coming from it is clouding her senses. It stinks of old blood, sweat, and sex. Intertwined with those is a scorching odor reminiscent of fire; overlaying that is a more recent scent that has her tongue tingling with the taste of ozone. And that was just the one portion of the complex mess. She sneezes two minutes into the drive and opens a window. The twisting musk is clouding her senses and she frowns. She's used to the clarity of open air, unhindered by the foggy wisps of sentimentality and history. With all the clutter, the trail rippling out in front of her blurs and vanishes; it sets her on edge, being so blind, but at the same time, she's grateful. The dull ache throbbing against her chest disappears when her tracking senses are neutralized. He's rambling about something in the background and she ignores it in favor of tilting her head back against the smooth leather and closing her eyes.
Reviews? Advice (please? Especially from those who understand Dean as a character and can explain how to write him because I can't do it)?
Both are appreciated :D.