Kings of the Night (Epilogue)
epilogue
The moon was high in the sky, casting a silver glow across the earth below.
The underbrush was alive with the sounds of night; crickets and grasshoppers chirping somewhere out of sight, the faint rustle as rabbits and mice shot through the dense coverage of the plant life. Owls hooted in the trees, and there was a distant yelp of a fox chasing its littermates through the densely packed trees.
Dean Winchester crouched beneath the cover of a low-hanging tree, green eyes glowing faintly with the reflection of the moon’s rays. His tawny fur glistened with the heady dew that promised morning would be coming soon, and his muscles were tense, every part of him prepared for whatever action was needed.
He waited patiently, green eyes locked on the small opening on the other side of the clearing, eager for the first hints of movement.
Next to him, his father shifted his weight slightly, one still-human hand tangled into the fur on the back of his oldest son’s neck, thick-soled biker boots leaving dark imprints in the earth. Dean instinctively shifted his own weight in response, settling into a more comfortable position and pressing his claws into the earth, feeling the pleasant stretch in the muscles of his forelegs as he did so.
For a moment, the world seemed still and silent, and then an Owl screeched viciously and the small clearing descended into chaos.
A small family of rabbits shot into the open, eyes wide and terrified; birds took to the air, startled from their resting places, and down below, a large canine shape shot forwards, a slightly smaller one on its tail.
The black dog was twice the size of any werewolf; black fur and amber eyes, it stunk of blood and death and decay. Sam couldn’t have been more of a contrast if he’d tried - he emerged just a split-second after the best, eyes locked on the vulnerable skin of it’s ankles as he pushed it forwards, urged it into fleeing for its life.
His coat was golden and soft-looking, eyes bright with intelligence and amusement, and Dean itched with the urge to follow him. John’s fingers tightened in his fur for a long moment, and then relaxed.
“Come on, son,” he grinned, eyes locked on the trampled foliage marking his youngest son’s trail. “We’ve got work to do."
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