La-la-la-la-lee. More weirdo fic.
I have NO idea why I'm writing this. It's not even that good. I suppose that, as always, I hope to make more room for the stuff I *want* to write, by churning out the dreck.
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3 / ?
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Dean wearies quickly of reading the musty old books in the library. There’s a mystery there, but not one that he has the patience to solve.
He returns to what he’s good at -- fighting -- and leads his first sortie against the Lycans when he’s been with the coven for less than a year. It goes badly, because the Lycans are both better prepared and better fighters than Dean has been led to believe, and he loses most of his team.
Furious and bleeding, he retreats to the rooftops to glare down at the three victorious survivors, and he notices something peculiar: they appear to be following someone. A human someone.
Dean’s lips pull back in a soundless snarl. Unlike vampires, Lycans are living, breathing supernatural creatures with no need to drink blood to survive. They eat normal food and pass easily among humans, although they're sloppy and rather thuggish. If they are stalking this man, it can only be for sport, and Dean won’t allow that.
He’s killed his own kind for breaking vampire law and hunting humans: he’s not about to permit filthy animals to violate the unspoken amnesty that protects them all. If it weren’t enough that savaged bodies will bring the human police into their carefully balanced world, it’s simply unsporting.
No human, no matter how well trained or armed, can hold his own against the strength and speed of a vampire or a werewolf. It will always be an unfair advantage to the supernatural, and something in Dean can’t abide the unfairness.
The human must be tall, because he’s eating up the ground at an exceptionally fast rate, though he doesn’t appear to be walking quickly. Dean can’t get a good look at him, not with the distance and bundled up against the cold as the human is. One of the Lycans is dropping behind rapidly, probably injured and unable to keep the pace.
Dean ignores the weak one and launches himself across the rooftops. He’s lost enough blood that it’s a struggle, but he makes the leap and spares a moment to be grateful that they’re in the old part of the city, where buildings are relatively low, no more than six or eight floors. He’s in no mood to climb skyscrapers.
The human keeps lifting his head and gazing at the edifices, as if he somehow senses Dean’s presence, yet he doesn’t seem to realize that he’s being stalked by something just as dangerous.
Dean wonders if the man is one of those human psychics. He’s often suspected that they are a waste of time, tuned as they often are to only one frequency. This one must be able to sense death, and he’s picking up on Dean’s aura. It still doesn’t explain the Lycan hunt, though. They have even less use for psychics than vampires do.
It doesn’t take long for the perfect moment to present itself, as the foolish human turns down the proverbial dark and deserted alley and the Lycans break into a trot. Dean swoops down from out of the night, leather coat flaring like dark wings, guns blazing. He’s smart enough to land between the human and the werewolves, and yells, “Get down!” over his shoulder as his silver nitrate rounds take down one of the Lycans.
The other, a massive wall of muscle topped with dreadlocks, opens his mouth and snarls as he begins to change. He’s on Dean too fast for him to reload, and he barely gets his hand on his knife before the Lycan shreds through leather and cloth and claws Dean to the bone.
It’s impossible not to scream with the pain, a white-hot blaze of agony like nothing he’s ever known, but his good right hand comes up beneath the claws and sinks a blade deep into the Lycan’s ribs.
The howl is satisfying, the crunch as Dean is dropped to the pavement rather less so, and it’s quite possible he’s hallucinating the dumpster that seems to fly across the alley and pin the Lycan to the brick wall.
He know he’s not imagining the human, though, warm and fervent by his side. “Oh, Jesus, Dean . . . holy hell, Dean, it’s you, it’s you, fucking hell, it’s you --- I should’ve known it would be you, I can’t fucking believe it’s you!”
Dean struggles to open his eyes. Vampires can die if the blood loss is massive enough, but they will more commonly go into shock and remain unconscious until their bodies recover enough to allow them to wake. There’s a shaggy, chestnut-haired head hanging over his face, big hands hovering as if uncertain where to touch.
“Who the fuck are you?” Dean rasps out, and then he’s staring into hazel human eyes and he thinks he might say out loud, “I know you.”
He knows those eyes for sure. He sees them every time he looks at his tattoo.
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3 / ?
************************
Dean wearies quickly of reading the musty old books in the library. There’s a mystery there, but not one that he has the patience to solve.
He returns to what he’s good at -- fighting -- and leads his first sortie against the Lycans when he’s been with the coven for less than a year. It goes badly, because the Lycans are both better prepared and better fighters than Dean has been led to believe, and he loses most of his team.
Furious and bleeding, he retreats to the rooftops to glare down at the three victorious survivors, and he notices something peculiar: they appear to be following someone. A human someone.
Dean’s lips pull back in a soundless snarl. Unlike vampires, Lycans are living, breathing supernatural creatures with no need to drink blood to survive. They eat normal food and pass easily among humans, although they're sloppy and rather thuggish. If they are stalking this man, it can only be for sport, and Dean won’t allow that.
He’s killed his own kind for breaking vampire law and hunting humans: he’s not about to permit filthy animals to violate the unspoken amnesty that protects them all. If it weren’t enough that savaged bodies will bring the human police into their carefully balanced world, it’s simply unsporting.
No human, no matter how well trained or armed, can hold his own against the strength and speed of a vampire or a werewolf. It will always be an unfair advantage to the supernatural, and something in Dean can’t abide the unfairness.
The human must be tall, because he’s eating up the ground at an exceptionally fast rate, though he doesn’t appear to be walking quickly. Dean can’t get a good look at him, not with the distance and bundled up against the cold as the human is. One of the Lycans is dropping behind rapidly, probably injured and unable to keep the pace.
Dean ignores the weak one and launches himself across the rooftops. He’s lost enough blood that it’s a struggle, but he makes the leap and spares a moment to be grateful that they’re in the old part of the city, where buildings are relatively low, no more than six or eight floors. He’s in no mood to climb skyscrapers.
The human keeps lifting his head and gazing at the edifices, as if he somehow senses Dean’s presence, yet he doesn’t seem to realize that he’s being stalked by something just as dangerous.
Dean wonders if the man is one of those human psychics. He’s often suspected that they are a waste of time, tuned as they often are to only one frequency. This one must be able to sense death, and he’s picking up on Dean’s aura. It still doesn’t explain the Lycan hunt, though. They have even less use for psychics than vampires do.
It doesn’t take long for the perfect moment to present itself, as the foolish human turns down the proverbial dark and deserted alley and the Lycans break into a trot. Dean swoops down from out of the night, leather coat flaring like dark wings, guns blazing. He’s smart enough to land between the human and the werewolves, and yells, “Get down!” over his shoulder as his silver nitrate rounds take down one of the Lycans.
The other, a massive wall of muscle topped with dreadlocks, opens his mouth and snarls as he begins to change. He’s on Dean too fast for him to reload, and he barely gets his hand on his knife before the Lycan shreds through leather and cloth and claws Dean to the bone.
It’s impossible not to scream with the pain, a white-hot blaze of agony like nothing he’s ever known, but his good right hand comes up beneath the claws and sinks a blade deep into the Lycan’s ribs.
The howl is satisfying, the crunch as Dean is dropped to the pavement rather less so, and it’s quite possible he’s hallucinating the dumpster that seems to fly across the alley and pin the Lycan to the brick wall.
He know he’s not imagining the human, though, warm and fervent by his side. “Oh, Jesus, Dean . . . holy hell, Dean, it’s you, it’s you, fucking hell, it’s you --- I should’ve known it would be you, I can’t fucking believe it’s you!”
Dean struggles to open his eyes. Vampires can die if the blood loss is massive enough, but they will more commonly go into shock and remain unconscious until their bodies recover enough to allow them to wake. There’s a shaggy, chestnut-haired head hanging over his face, big hands hovering as if uncertain where to touch.
“Who the fuck are you?” Dean rasps out, and then he’s staring into hazel human eyes and he thinks he might say out loud, “I know you.”
He knows those eyes for sure. He sees them every time he looks at his tattoo.