Chapter Text
“Shit!”
Dean ran through the woods, uncaring of the branches scratching at his skin and tugging on his clothes, he was much more worried about the claws closing in from behind him. A werewolf. A freaking werewolf was on his tail. While Dean knew that the world was a weird place, it still felt surreal. If his life wasn’t actively in danger, he probably would’ve laughed right then and there. He felt like an extra in a cheesy B-list horror movie. Unfortunately for him, extras tend to die in said movies.
A sharp, loud bang echoed through the woods as John took his second shot at the beast. Since Dean could still hear growling and stomping, it was safe to assume that John had missed…again. Dean kept running, following the trail that John had shown him earlier. It was meant to appear random when in actuality it allowed John to have a clear shot of the werewolf as Dean led it through, all Dean had to do was play bait. Dean liked to think that he was doing a pretty good job at it, that is, until he tripped.
He didn’t even bother putting his arms out to try and break his fall, rather he deftly twisted his body. Dean landed on his back and brought his arms up just in time to protect his neck from the deadly swipe of claws that would have surely ripped through skin and tendons. Instead they ripped through skin and sleeves.
‘Damn, I liked this jacket.’
With his now bloodied arms, Dean tried desperately to push the werewolf away from him, or at the very least, away from his face. His hands were fisted in the ragged beast’s shirt, it’s jaws snapping wildly as spittle splattered across Dean’s face. Its claws were digging even further into his arms and slashed across his chest. Every scratch soaking Dean’s clothes further in his own blood, droplets flying from the vicious claws rained down on the forest floor.
If Dean were a human, he would for sure be dead by now. Thankfully, he wasn’t. Dean knew that while every slash into his skin burned more than hell fire, once this was done, he would heal. He would be fine. He just needed to hold on a little longer. Just a little more pain.
Another gun shot cracked out, and Dean got a close up of its destruction. Mid-snarl, a small silver streak went through one side of the thing's head, then came out the other accompanied by dark red chunks of viscera and brain matter. Dean stared into its eyes as they went wide at the sound, then blank at the hit. For a moment, Dean could have sworn he saw a spark of humanity, of consciousness, before the werewolf went limp. Dean’s arms gave out, allowing the body to flop down on top of him. He took a breath that had a revolting metallic taste, then rolled the body off of him.
Dean stared into the face of the creature who had only recently been chasing him with the intent to kill. Its once barred fangs fit neatly back into its human mouth. Its feral red eyes had turned green and empty. His claws were no longer present, instead, coated in Dean’s blood, were the hands of an old man, wrinkly from age and calloused by hard work.
His name was Clay McCarrey. He was 54 years old with a wife and two daughters. From what John could figure out, he was normal three months ago, but then came back different from a camping trip. In McCarrey’s words, he had been attacked by some kind of Coyote or maybe a mountain lion. In reality, it was something much worse. His first full moon was two months ago, and thus began a string of brutal ‘animal’ attacks that brought the Winchesters to town.
Dean stared into Clay’s unfocused eyes, a stray tear somehow falling from his glassy green gaze. It rolled slowly down his weathered cheek, before hiding in the dead man’s grey hair. Dean had heard that people looked at peace when they were dead, almost like they were resting. Dean thought Clay looked scared. His mouth was still open as though mid scream, his eyes wide, and his whole face contorted in fear, maybe due to the bullet he could hear heading towards his skull, or maybe, maybe he was scared of what he had become. Clay looked terrified. Terrified and dead.
Dean lay on that forest floor, subconsciously aware of the itchy sensation caused by his skin knitting itself back together. He’d tell dad later that the wounds just bled a lot, that it looked worse that it was. John wouldn’t question it. Till then, Dean lay there, still and staring.
It was night time of course, but the summer air was still warm on Dean’s sweaty skin. If anything, he’d prefer a cold breeze to rush by after that peaceful frolic through the woods. The bugs were of a particular nuisance. They had been silent all evening as Dean crashed through the branches and leaves, allowing Dean to really focus on the horrifying sounds following closely behind him. Now that he felt entitled to a moment of peace and quiet, the bugs began their cacophony of chirps and squeals. Dean’s face scrunched up in annoyance. Clay’s face remained petrified.
Dean heard John’s heavy foot falls make their way towards him, twigs snapping under each stomp. He even heard the soft clicks of metal his dad’s long distance rifle made as it was jostled during his approach. Dean slowly pushed himself up, wincing. Even though he healed most of the damage, he wouldn’t be walking away unscathed. If he did, John would swiftly turn his gun on him without hesitation.
With that thought, Dean turned to see John stop a few feet short of him.
“You okay?”
“Yeah, just a little scratched up. Nothin’ rubbing alcohol and band-aids can’t fix.” John gave him a hard look.
“You get bit?” It was tense for a moment before Dean responded.
“No, just scratched up,” Dean held up his arms as proof.
John looked him over a few seconds more before finally closing the distance. He got down on one knee and grabbed Dean’s outstretched arms. He inspected the scratches, twisting his arm this way and that, before moving on to the other arm. After both appendages were looked at, John peeled away the scraps of fabric that was once Dean’s shirt. After a couple more seconds, John let out a hum and nodded his head.
He stood back up with a grunt and a gruff “Lets go,” before making his way East. The woods came right up to the edge of the motel they were staying in. This way, no one would see their car peeling away from a murder scene, and they might be able to get away with a day of rest before police inevitably come to investigate the outsiders. Once at the motel, John would probably write in his journal then clean his gun. Maybe get an hour or two of sleep, maybe down a bottle or two right before. Dean would need to take a shower, then treat the wounds that littered his body. If he’s lucky, he’ll be able to get through it all without waking Sammy. Dean would prefer it if his brother never saw him like this.
Dean got up from the forest floor and brushed off the clingy leaves and dirt from the back of his pants. He took a few steps in the same direction as his father before stopping. He looked back at Clay McCarrey. He saw the deep red, almost black puddle of his own blood drenching the fauna underneath. Clay McCarrey tried to kill him. Clay McCarrey was a monster. But he was human. He was born a human, he lived a human, and because of some cruel twist of fate, he died a monster. Looking at him now though, he looked pretty human to Dean. He felt his stomach twist and his eyes grow hot but he wouldn’t cry. After all, humans don’t cry for monsters. But Dean wasn’t a human.
It doesn’t matter how many times Michael assured him that he wasn’t a monster, that he was in fact something divine, Dean knew there was something wrong with him. When Dean would ask about all that he could do, Michael would hesitate, as though even he didn’t know the answer. When Dean asked about the other angels, Michael would brush away the question before quickly changing subjects. Dean trusted Michael with his life, but he was starting to realize something, the man…angel wasn’t always honest with him.
Dean looked at Clay McCarrey with sorrow and sympathy. Who knows, maybe one day he won’t be able to hide his inhuman nature. One day, he may be hunted down by humans for something he can’t control. One day, he may find himself stepping right into a trap, stuck on the other side of his father’s gun. He hopes that John wouldn’t pull the trigger, but staring into Clay’s green eyes, he knows the truth. He turns away from the man’s body and continues to follow his dad home, a few stray tears falling from his scared green eyes.
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Years passed in this manner. Dean playing the perfect son, Michael being the only one to praise him. Dean knew that John wasn’t the best father, that Dean would probably be safer away from the man, but he stuck around. He stayed for Sammy’s sake. Someone had to take the kid to school, teach him how to ask out girls and how to shoot a gun. He stuck around for Sammy.
But then Sammy left. Not just John, Sammy left Dean, and Dean…Dean stayed.
Dean could have left too, could’ve run, could’ve disappeared. He would never have to hide his true nature, never have to fake sleep and hunger and pain just to avoid a bullet to the back. But he couldn’t. Michael gave him love and encouragement. He was a rock for Dean’s mental well-being and, frankly, the father Dean preferred. But he wasn’t here. Michael existed in a world separate from Dean’s own. He was only a visitor, someone who could drop by when Dean called but never stayed. John at least was physically there, maybe not always by Dean’s side, but he existed in Dean’s world here, on Earth.
After one particularly rough hunt, with an even worse argument afterwards, Dean asked Michael about heaven. He asked if Michael could ever just…take him with. If Dean could live up there, away from everything bad going on down here. It didn’t have to be forever, just for a little bit, just enough for Dean to feel sane again. Before hearing an answer though, Dean felt Michael’s hesitation and panic. He didn’t even bother listening to the angel's excuse, emotions already shutting down.
‘He’s probably ashamed of me. Not that I could blame him’
Dean followed John simply because he was the only one he could follow. Dean went on hunts, took the brunt of John’s anger, and hid away anything that made him ‘other’. He played the good soldier so he wouldn’t get left behind. But then, one day, he was. The motel had been emptied out, every call went straight to voicemail, Dean had lost John. No, John left Dean.
'Did he do something wrong, was John suspicious of him, was he preparing to hunt him down, was he already on the hunt?!'
Dean’s thought spiraled until he finally called out to Michael, needing guidance, comfort, something! Instead, all he got was silence.
‘No, no no no no no no no! This can’t be happening. They’re both gone. They both left me. They’re tired of me. They hate me. I deserve this. I deserve to be alone. I’m a monster. A monster. I deserve this. Oh god, please. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Please, I’ll fix it, please, come back! I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry-’
Stop. Breathe. Think.
A disappearing act from John isn’t out of the ordinary but…Michael? Dean checked the Michael link to find it…fuzzy? Muffled? Did…did Michael shut him out?
‘No! No. Michael wouldn’t shut him out, the guy practically sulked whenever Dean didn’t talk to him, he wouldn’t avoid him.’
Yes. Michael loved him. His affection had never been transactional like John’s, it was unconditional. Michael may never want Dean in his world but Michael craved being in Dean’s. He wouldn’t just abandon him. Also, the timing…it can’t be a coincidence that they both went quiet. Something happened, or it’s happening, and whatever it is, it’s big. But what does he do, where does he start? He needs help, he needs someone, he needs…
Sammy.