It Followed Me Home

[winchester_lost]

Dean just knocked off a few demons that had been intent on trying to turn a small town in North Dakota into a blood-soaked birthday present for Lucifer. He was back at his crappy motel room now, but something didn't feel right. That feeling of being watched, followed, something to how the curtains moved. He stripped out his coat, tossing it over

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[iustiviri]

It had caught the Winchester's scent, followed, padding on silent invisible feet. Remembered him from the soul's time in the Pit. Its favourite chew toy. Following, following, it moved into the motel room when the door was opened, closing behind the human as it waited, watching, from the corner of the room, for the right time to pounce. It was pleased to know the human, Dean, noticed it's presence even if the man wasn't quite sure what it was he was feeling. All the more fun.

It snuffed softly, taking the Winchester's scent, savoring it on it's tongue, it's throat, salivating at the chance to taste that skin again, sink it's teeth in and hold on. Patience though, it waited for the right moment, the right time and then Dean stood.

It pounced.

The weight of it pressing Dean into the rough, musty carpet of the motel room. It's large paw holding the man down as it leaned it's head down and pressed it's muzzle against the back of Dean's neck, suffling, large wet tongue dragging across the skin to taste.

[winchester_lost]

Dean had only just kicked off his second shoe when suddenly there was movement to the air. It was his only warning, and he couldn't possibly react fast enough, not enough time before he found a large weight slamming into his body, knocking him to the floor. Dean struggled, trying to go for the gun tucked into the back of his waistband. Needed a weapon, that need to fight, to get away

[iustiviri]

The fear, memory, was palpable and it tasted good, better than before. It growled when Dean began to struggle, writhe, squirm, get away. But it wouldn't let him, not now. Not until it got what it came for and this time it wasn't death. It had orders to leave Dean alive, why though, it had no clue.

It's paw pressed harder, firm, claws digging into skin through his shirt and then it dragged, ripping, ripping, tearing the material away. It wanted skin. It eyed the gun peeking out from Dean's jeans and lowering it's head it scraped it's sharp pin prick teeth along Dean's back and snatched the gun from it's place.

Then it was tossed into the air and large, bony flesh rotted, powerful jowls snapped around it, swallowing the weapon into oblivion, the sound viscious and sharp. Its other paw drug at Dean's pants, shredding them down until there was nothing but tattered strips clinging to his naked, trembling body.

[winchester_lost]

Dean's breath caught as that paw on his back pressed down harder, invisible claws digging into skin, and he braced himself for pain straight from the Racks. Even if it was taking its time, Dean wasn't expecting this to end any way aside from a ruined body on the motel floor. There was a jolt of surprise, when that paw pulled back, and there was the sound of ripping and tearing, but the only real casualty was his black tee-shirt. Red claw marks in his skin were mostly superficial, almost seemed accidental, and Dean liked that thought even less. He wasn't going to think about Hell.

He wasn't going to think about Alastair (who was dead, but never really felt dead). He wasn't going to think about Hellhounds, about humiliation, about just what sort of creature he'd turned into with ten years under Alastair. There was a low curse as teeth scraped at the small of his back, pulling his gun from his pants and then it was gone, leaving Dean with nothing but a number of inconveniently located lock picks that wouldn't even annoy the thing