Predators - SPN/Boondock Saints
The first time Sam lets Connor stick a cigarette in his mouth and takes a long drag (‘because you can’t be a fucking inmate and not fucking smoke’), they know something’s changed.
Hunters stuck in a cage for too long. Surrounded by enemies who bruise their bodies and break their bones.
(They gave worse than they got. They always gave worse than they got.)
It’s not enough. Limbs have been broken and brains have been smeared across the basketball court but there’s no thrill of the chase, no rush of the kill, no satisfaction in defending themselves like they’re someone’s fucking prey.
‘I’m nobody’s bitch’, Dean says in the constant shifting of his body, the roll of his shoulders.
Connor agrees in the opposite way. He goes quiet and still. He looks at them with a tilted head, considering. ‘We’re always open…’
Murphy stands next to him and vibrates. He fucking vibrates. They can all see it. He vibrates and breathes hard and talks loud, always smirking and blowing kisses and taunting them. ‘Come and get me fuckers!’
Sam holds out the longest but it ends with a cigarette and a long drag. He tilts his head back and blows out the smoke the way he’s seen Connor do it half a million times. When his head comes back down, his face has gone hard and his eyes have gone empty.
(Too fucking long and too fucking much and it was only a matter of time before they broke.)
(Too many bars and too little to do when their blood starts pumping too hard and too fast.)
(Too much of everything and nowhere to put it.)
Dean smirks, Connor straightens, Murphy hunkers down, and Sam grabs a nearby weight and swings.
Because they’re not the fucking prey.
They’re the predators.