Unexpected Destinies Chapter 7
Title Unexpected Destinies
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: up to and including Exile on Main St., AU from the end of season 5
Warnings: AU, slash
Word Count: 2,068
Summary: "You've seen what's starting to emerge from the shadows."
PAST
Dean cursed loudly as the bullets hardly slowed the charging werewolf. Yeah, he knew that they weren't silver, but just a bit more of an effect would have been nice. He wasn't asking for much, just enough so he could double time it back to the Impala and actually get some silver bullets to fire at the damn thing. But no, it didn't seem like the werewolf was going to cooperate.
And really, a werewolf on the new moon? The hell was up with that anyway? Dean had never heard of anything like that happening before and he'd been caught completely off-guard as a result. Yeah, all of the victims had been mutilated like a werewolf might do, but only one had been on a full moon and thus he'd discarded that option. It made sense to do so, damnit!
It was pure instinct that made Dean twist and drop to the ground. He sent off silent thanks for his quick reactions as a second werewolf lunged overhead. It would have had him if something hadn't alerted him to its presence. Kicking up at the last second, he managed to hit its hind leg, sending it sailing into the first werewolf and both of them went sprawling onto the tarmac. Not planning on wasting the opportunity, he leapt to his feet and sprinted back to the Impala.
Of course there were two of them, it made sense given the number of victims. Only he'd thought he was dealing with a rugaru instead and, with its greater appetite, there would only have been one of them. Therefore it hadn't immediately occurred to him that the werewolf could have a mate nearby.
"Smooth, Winchester, real smooth. Stupid, rookie mistake."
The snarling behind him picked up as the werewolves untangled themselves and took up pursuit. At least Dean could be thankful that they were in a deserted business district as the last thing he needed now was for somebody to come investigate the noise. As if on cue, one of the two werewolves howled.
"Fuck!"
He hated that sound. It sent a chill up his spine and he fought the urge to turn around and fire at them. He'd already seen how futile that gesture was and there was no point wasting valuable ammunition like that. Fishing his keys out of his pocket, he slid to a halt beside his baby and used the time he opened the trunk to glance behind him. He cursed some more as he ejected his clip, grabbed one of the ones loaded with silver bullets, slammed it home and turned. He managed to fire at one of them before the second was on him.
Claws tore into his right arm and shoulder but Dean swallowed the cry of pain as he focused on using the gun as a club. It was a clumsy attempt, but it knocked the teeth that were aiming for his throat aside. There was a thrill of panic at the thought of being bitten, being infected, but it was shoved aside as his training guided his movements. Later, afterwards, he would send thanks to his father for the endless drills and sparing sessions as a child as they were the only thing that allowed him to keep the monster's teeth away from himself long enough to bring the gun to bear. He fired, hitting a limb and the werewolf howled, the silver doing its job even if it hadn't been a lethal shot.
Dean managed to shove the creature off of himself enough to pull himself underneath the Impala, kicking at the werewolf's mouth when it snapped at him. Safely beneath his baby, he paused to catch his breath before the Impala rocked above him. There was the cringing squeal of claws on metal and Dean felt fury come to life within him. It was scratching his baby's paintjob! Oh, he was definitely going to kill the son of a bitch now.
A quick glance back the way he'd come showed Dean the motionless body of the werewolf he'd shot. He could be sure that one was staying down as werewolves didn't know how to play possum, so it was just the one on top of his baby now. Since the Impala was lower to the ground on the left, he carefully rolled out from underneath her on the right, gun at the ready. His actions went unnoticed and he was able to rise to his feet and fire before the creature realized what was going on. That was the one good thing about werewolves, they weren't Mom's best and brightest.
Now that the danger had passed, Dean suddenly felt the pain from his wounds. Looking down at his arm and shoulder, he cursed violently at the four inch long gashes that started at his shoulder and went down from there.
"Great, just great."
A quick glance at his watch showed that he had only a few hours to get rid of the bodies and clear up the Impala before folk started showing up for work. For the first time in years, Dean felt like simply leaving the bodies where they were (well, after rolling the one off his baby) and going back to the motel. It was tempting, oh so tempting, but he knew better. Not only would his ammo raise all kinds of questions he didn't want raised, but who knew what could happen if the bodies weren't disposed of properly? He was pretty sure werewolves couldn't become ghosts, but he really didn't want to test that particular theory either.
"God hates me," Dean concluded.
It was the only explanation that made any sense.
/
Dean woke up screaming, the phantom agony from his nightmare shifting smoothly into the actual agony of his shoulder and arm. Without thinking about it, he was already reaching out for the bottle of cheap whiskey beside the bed. The alcohol burned a path down his throat and he savored it slowly, letting the pain in his shoulder die down from having wretched it as he woke. He once again cursing the damn werewolves and made a mental note to look into the lore surrounding the creatures to see if he could figure out how they'd managed to change on a new moon. Perhaps that had been what his grandfather meant when he'd mentioned things emerging from the shadows.
Dean took another long swallow of whiskey as soon as the thought crossed his mind. He'd purposefully avoided thinking about that little trip with Cas and had no intention of doing so now. Knowing he'd have to look at the wounds again, he drank some more before starting to undress. He'd stitched the wounds up the night before had and only pulled a shirt back on to accept the food he'd ordered, not wanting to scare the delivery boy. He'd tried a few bites of pizza before giving up and collapsing on the bed, fully dressed. While he was at it, he kicked off his blood speckled jeans as well. He'd just taken the makeshift bandage off the wound when he heard the flutter of wings behind him.
"Hey, Cas," Dean said, not turning around.
"Dean."
"I got you some more minutes for the phone, so it should work again. You still have my number?"
"Yes," Castiel replied, coming to stand beside him. "You're injured."
"Yeah, werewolf."
Castiel frowned. "I did not think it was a full moon in this part of the world."
"It wasn't. You ever heard of werewolves being able to do that?"
"Only once, a very long time ago. It is not a good sign, especially with the other odd occurrences."
Dean looked up from examining the stitches. The work was sloppy as he'd been close to drunk, but it looked like they'd all hold. "Other odd occurrences?"
"Yes, we need to talk."
"And here I thought you'd popped in for my sparkling personality."
"Personalities do not sparkle, Dean."
It sounded like anything else Castiel might say, but something about the tone had Dean looking up and he caught a hint of laughter in the angel's eyes.
"Ha, ha, you know what I mean."
"And what's this?"
The question was followed by an unexpected touch to his lower back and Dean jumped.
"Sorry," Castiel said, stepping back.
Dean bit back the little noise of pain that wanted to escape him from his jarred shoulder. He tried to focus on Castiel's question instead of the skin the angel touched as it still burned from the brief touch and he half wanted those fingers back, trailing across his skin.
"What's what?" Dean finally asked.
"Those darker areas on your skin."
"Darker areas?" Dean got to his feet and walked to the mirror for a look, confused as nothing hurt. "Oh, that, it's 'cause I fell asleep in my clothes. It's where the jeans pushed into my skin. It'll fade in half an hour or so."
"It doesn't look comfortable."
"No, it's not."
It said a lot for Castiel's progress when it came to humans that he even thought of something like that.
"Take the thread out," Castiel instructed.
"What?"
"Take the thread out of the wound."
"I can't, it's not healed yet and that's all that's holding the skin together."
"I will heal it, but I don't think it's good for you if the thread is there when I do so."
"You sure you can't get into trouble for doing this?" Dean asked, reaching for the knife he kept under the pillow.
"I was resurrected and promoted for following you and-"
"No, that happened because you did what was right."
Castiel paused and tilted his head, assessing him before continuing and Dean got the distinct impression that he was being humored.
"I don't like seeing you in pain."
"So you said before."
Dean concentrated on getting the thread out and making sure he bled onto his ruined shirt instead of the sheets. He didn't want to think about that sentiment too much. The last person who'd cared that much was Sam and... yeah not thinking about that.
As soon as he'd gotten the last stitch out, Castiel touched his head and the three wounds closed up as if they'd never been. He'd never get any scars if they kept this up. Well, apart from the really obvious one. It made Dean feel kinda naked in an odd sort of way. The scars had been trophies of a sort almost, something some of the chicks had loved. They were a living record of the creatures he'd been up against and survived. Though, if this was the price he had to pay to not have the scars from the hellhound's attack, then he'd take it.
As he wiped the blood off his arm, Dean realized something else and scowled. "Dude, you mojoed me sober!"
"Inebriation is a form of disharmony of your system. It is not healthy."
"I worked hard for that disharmony!" Dean complained, grabbing the bottle and taking a good, long swig straight from the bottle. He didn't bother with glasses anymore. It wasn't like there was anyone to complain about it.
"You were the one who told me I shouldn't drink so much."
"Yeah, well, that's different."
"Why?"
"'Cause you're an angel."
"You also said my Father wasn't worth it."
Dean merely shrugged. He wasn't going to apologize for that, not when he still felt it was true.
"Have you considered that maybe Sam isn't work it either?"
Those words took a few moments to sink in, but when they did... "What?!"
"If my Father isn't worth it, then how is Sam? They both abandoned us without a word."
"No, that's- I don't want to talk about it."
He brought the bottle back to his lips and he would have just drained it if Castiel hadn't not grabbed it from him.
"Hey!" Dean protested, watching it vanish into thin air. "What the Hell did you just do with it? Give it back!"
"No."
"Cas!" A warning growl.
"You have had enough."
"I'll be the judge of that!" Dean shoved the angel aside and made for his duffel and the spare bottle he'd picked up the day before. "And if you don't agree, you can just fuck off!"
"We need to talk."
"About what? We have nothing to talk about."
"I don't think the Apocalypse is as done as we thought it was."
Chapter 8
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: up to and including Exile on Main St., AU from the end of season 5
Warnings: AU, slash
Word Count: 2,068
Summary: "You've seen what's starting to emerge from the shadows."
PAST
Dean cursed loudly as the bullets hardly slowed the charging werewolf. Yeah, he knew that they weren't silver, but just a bit more of an effect would have been nice. He wasn't asking for much, just enough so he could double time it back to the Impala and actually get some silver bullets to fire at the damn thing. But no, it didn't seem like the werewolf was going to cooperate.
And really, a werewolf on the new moon? The hell was up with that anyway? Dean had never heard of anything like that happening before and he'd been caught completely off-guard as a result. Yeah, all of the victims had been mutilated like a werewolf might do, but only one had been on a full moon and thus he'd discarded that option. It made sense to do so, damnit!
It was pure instinct that made Dean twist and drop to the ground. He sent off silent thanks for his quick reactions as a second werewolf lunged overhead. It would have had him if something hadn't alerted him to its presence. Kicking up at the last second, he managed to hit its hind leg, sending it sailing into the first werewolf and both of them went sprawling onto the tarmac. Not planning on wasting the opportunity, he leapt to his feet and sprinted back to the Impala.
Of course there were two of them, it made sense given the number of victims. Only he'd thought he was dealing with a rugaru instead and, with its greater appetite, there would only have been one of them. Therefore it hadn't immediately occurred to him that the werewolf could have a mate nearby.
"Smooth, Winchester, real smooth. Stupid, rookie mistake."
The snarling behind him picked up as the werewolves untangled themselves and took up pursuit. At least Dean could be thankful that they were in a deserted business district as the last thing he needed now was for somebody to come investigate the noise. As if on cue, one of the two werewolves howled.
"Fuck!"
He hated that sound. It sent a chill up his spine and he fought the urge to turn around and fire at them. He'd already seen how futile that gesture was and there was no point wasting valuable ammunition like that. Fishing his keys out of his pocket, he slid to a halt beside his baby and used the time he opened the trunk to glance behind him. He cursed some more as he ejected his clip, grabbed one of the ones loaded with silver bullets, slammed it home and turned. He managed to fire at one of them before the second was on him.
Claws tore into his right arm and shoulder but Dean swallowed the cry of pain as he focused on using the gun as a club. It was a clumsy attempt, but it knocked the teeth that were aiming for his throat aside. There was a thrill of panic at the thought of being bitten, being infected, but it was shoved aside as his training guided his movements. Later, afterwards, he would send thanks to his father for the endless drills and sparing sessions as a child as they were the only thing that allowed him to keep the monster's teeth away from himself long enough to bring the gun to bear. He fired, hitting a limb and the werewolf howled, the silver doing its job even if it hadn't been a lethal shot.
Dean managed to shove the creature off of himself enough to pull himself underneath the Impala, kicking at the werewolf's mouth when it snapped at him. Safely beneath his baby, he paused to catch his breath before the Impala rocked above him. There was the cringing squeal of claws on metal and Dean felt fury come to life within him. It was scratching his baby's paintjob! Oh, he was definitely going to kill the son of a bitch now.
A quick glance back the way he'd come showed Dean the motionless body of the werewolf he'd shot. He could be sure that one was staying down as werewolves didn't know how to play possum, so it was just the one on top of his baby now. Since the Impala was lower to the ground on the left, he carefully rolled out from underneath her on the right, gun at the ready. His actions went unnoticed and he was able to rise to his feet and fire before the creature realized what was going on. That was the one good thing about werewolves, they weren't Mom's best and brightest.
Now that the danger had passed, Dean suddenly felt the pain from his wounds. Looking down at his arm and shoulder, he cursed violently at the four inch long gashes that started at his shoulder and went down from there.
"Great, just great."
A quick glance at his watch showed that he had only a few hours to get rid of the bodies and clear up the Impala before folk started showing up for work. For the first time in years, Dean felt like simply leaving the bodies where they were (well, after rolling the one off his baby) and going back to the motel. It was tempting, oh so tempting, but he knew better. Not only would his ammo raise all kinds of questions he didn't want raised, but who knew what could happen if the bodies weren't disposed of properly? He was pretty sure werewolves couldn't become ghosts, but he really didn't want to test that particular theory either.
"God hates me," Dean concluded.
It was the only explanation that made any sense.
/
Dean woke up screaming, the phantom agony from his nightmare shifting smoothly into the actual agony of his shoulder and arm. Without thinking about it, he was already reaching out for the bottle of cheap whiskey beside the bed. The alcohol burned a path down his throat and he savored it slowly, letting the pain in his shoulder die down from having wretched it as he woke. He once again cursing the damn werewolves and made a mental note to look into the lore surrounding the creatures to see if he could figure out how they'd managed to change on a new moon. Perhaps that had been what his grandfather meant when he'd mentioned things emerging from the shadows.
Dean took another long swallow of whiskey as soon as the thought crossed his mind. He'd purposefully avoided thinking about that little trip with Cas and had no intention of doing so now. Knowing he'd have to look at the wounds again, he drank some more before starting to undress. He'd stitched the wounds up the night before had and only pulled a shirt back on to accept the food he'd ordered, not wanting to scare the delivery boy. He'd tried a few bites of pizza before giving up and collapsing on the bed, fully dressed. While he was at it, he kicked off his blood speckled jeans as well. He'd just taken the makeshift bandage off the wound when he heard the flutter of wings behind him.
"Hey, Cas," Dean said, not turning around.
"Dean."
"I got you some more minutes for the phone, so it should work again. You still have my number?"
"Yes," Castiel replied, coming to stand beside him. "You're injured."
"Yeah, werewolf."
Castiel frowned. "I did not think it was a full moon in this part of the world."
"It wasn't. You ever heard of werewolves being able to do that?"
"Only once, a very long time ago. It is not a good sign, especially with the other odd occurrences."
Dean looked up from examining the stitches. The work was sloppy as he'd been close to drunk, but it looked like they'd all hold. "Other odd occurrences?"
"Yes, we need to talk."
"And here I thought you'd popped in for my sparkling personality."
"Personalities do not sparkle, Dean."
It sounded like anything else Castiel might say, but something about the tone had Dean looking up and he caught a hint of laughter in the angel's eyes.
"Ha, ha, you know what I mean."
"And what's this?"
The question was followed by an unexpected touch to his lower back and Dean jumped.
"Sorry," Castiel said, stepping back.
Dean bit back the little noise of pain that wanted to escape him from his jarred shoulder. He tried to focus on Castiel's question instead of the skin the angel touched as it still burned from the brief touch and he half wanted those fingers back, trailing across his skin.
"What's what?" Dean finally asked.
"Those darker areas on your skin."
"Darker areas?" Dean got to his feet and walked to the mirror for a look, confused as nothing hurt. "Oh, that, it's 'cause I fell asleep in my clothes. It's where the jeans pushed into my skin. It'll fade in half an hour or so."
"It doesn't look comfortable."
"No, it's not."
It said a lot for Castiel's progress when it came to humans that he even thought of something like that.
"Take the thread out," Castiel instructed.
"What?"
"Take the thread out of the wound."
"I can't, it's not healed yet and that's all that's holding the skin together."
"I will heal it, but I don't think it's good for you if the thread is there when I do so."
"You sure you can't get into trouble for doing this?" Dean asked, reaching for the knife he kept under the pillow.
"I was resurrected and promoted for following you and-"
"No, that happened because you did what was right."
Castiel paused and tilted his head, assessing him before continuing and Dean got the distinct impression that he was being humored.
"I don't like seeing you in pain."
"So you said before."
Dean concentrated on getting the thread out and making sure he bled onto his ruined shirt instead of the sheets. He didn't want to think about that sentiment too much. The last person who'd cared that much was Sam and... yeah not thinking about that.
As soon as he'd gotten the last stitch out, Castiel touched his head and the three wounds closed up as if they'd never been. He'd never get any scars if they kept this up. Well, apart from the really obvious one. It made Dean feel kinda naked in an odd sort of way. The scars had been trophies of a sort almost, something some of the chicks had loved. They were a living record of the creatures he'd been up against and survived. Though, if this was the price he had to pay to not have the scars from the hellhound's attack, then he'd take it.
As he wiped the blood off his arm, Dean realized something else and scowled. "Dude, you mojoed me sober!"
"Inebriation is a form of disharmony of your system. It is not healthy."
"I worked hard for that disharmony!" Dean complained, grabbing the bottle and taking a good, long swig straight from the bottle. He didn't bother with glasses anymore. It wasn't like there was anyone to complain about it.
"You were the one who told me I shouldn't drink so much."
"Yeah, well, that's different."
"Why?"
"'Cause you're an angel."
"You also said my Father wasn't worth it."
Dean merely shrugged. He wasn't going to apologize for that, not when he still felt it was true.
"Have you considered that maybe Sam isn't work it either?"
Those words took a few moments to sink in, but when they did... "What?!"
"If my Father isn't worth it, then how is Sam? They both abandoned us without a word."
"No, that's- I don't want to talk about it."
He brought the bottle back to his lips and he would have just drained it if Castiel hadn't not grabbed it from him.
"Hey!" Dean protested, watching it vanish into thin air. "What the Hell did you just do with it? Give it back!"
"No."
"Cas!" A warning growl.
"You have had enough."
"I'll be the judge of that!" Dean shoved the angel aside and made for his duffel and the spare bottle he'd picked up the day before. "And if you don't agree, you can just fuck off!"
"We need to talk."
"About what? We have nothing to talk about."
"I don't think the Apocalypse is as done as we thought it was."
Chapter 8