always_enduphere | (no subject)

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derek

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It helps to know the place is there.

Dean's been standing outside of it for the better part of an hour. Not close, and not where anyone who might recognize him might see him. Just near enough to see the small, nearly invisible sign, hanging there for only willing eyes to notice.

He won't go in. But it helps to know that if he had to, if he really needed to, he could.

Shuffling deeper into his jacket despite the warm night air, Dean looks down at his boots, tongues at the blankness between his ears, the cotton stuffing up his chest. He can stay here, still and quiet, and not think.

It only lasts a moment more before he hears feet beating hard against the pavement, turning the corner and moving fast.

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"That was...actually almost a line from Fight Club," Dean can't help but note as he shrugs out of his jacket, though his posture is more uncertain when he turns to face Derek. He's big, even if he was only a human Derek's impressively large, and all muscle by the looks of it.

"I nearly died a month and a half ago," says Dean. "Technically, I did die. I was possessed for a long time, and demons aren't exactly kind to the host." Dean clears his throat. It's as close as pride will let him come to asking Derek not to laugh, and Dean looks down at his own hands, aware of how pitifully human they are.

But he survived the apocalypse and then some, and his body has no qualms about a fight, falling into the right stance as easy as breathing. Dean looks at Derek, thinks about Sam and his own 'pretty face' and Castiel's blistered, ruined back, and decks him across the cheekbone as hard as he can.

Derek frowns a little as Dean tells him his story. It's something he'd like to learn more about, later, when the wound isn't so fresh. He thinks of Stiles first, as he does so often, and wonders if he's in danger.

He doesn't have time to think more about it before Dean strikes him, head snapping to the side with the force of it. He stretches his jaw to the side and turns back to him, nodding a bit. "Not bad for a dead guy."

He looks at Dean, trying to find any clue that this isn't what he wants. His heartbeat is even, not scared, and that's good enough for him. He rears back and clocks him on the jaw, matching the force of Dean's punch.

Dean's body jerks with the force of the blow, but long years of fighting mean he keeps his feet, mouth open in reflex against the sudden bloom of pain.

Straightening up, he smiles a little, shaking his shoulders out against the desire to tense up. "Well, we've clocked each other one. You pissed off enough to fight me yet, or do I have to call you furball or something?"

Derek smirks, circling him a little, movements smooth and predatory. "Trying to get my hackles up?"

He lunges forward, eyes flickering red as he aims his second punch for his jaw.

He moves like exactly what he is - a predator, silent and purposeful, and Dean feels his heartrate speed up in challenge even before those eyes flash red. He dodges, testing a lifetime of reflexes against inhuman speed, and just manages to evade another hit. Leg lifting, Dean kicks out hard, aiming a blow at Derek's knee to bring him down.

Dean's foot makes contact with his knee and Derek stumbles a bit but doesn't fall, growling as he regains his balance. He smirks as the pain fades and lowers himself into a crouch as he throws out a kick of his own, aiming to sweep Dean's feet out from under him.

Dean dodges, and this is all well and good, but he's fighting a werewolf, and the advantage of all those years of training will only help as long as he can manage to stay out of reach.

"If you were gonna kill me," he says, knees bent and eyes wary, "What would you do?" Might as well make this a learning experience, as well as a cathartic one. "Throat or belly, claws or teeth?"

The question aggravates Derek enough that he throws out a blur of a punch, aiming for his mouth in a motion so quick that it would be hard to dodge even with werewolf speed.

"Contrary to what you might think, I've never thought about killing a human for fun." He stalks a circle around Dean, eyes flashing as he lets out a low rumble of a growl. "But I could snap your neck faster than you could blink. Tear out your throat with my teeth if I didn't mind making a mess."

Which yeah, this probably doesn't help prove his point when he says he's not dangerous, but he's so goddamn tired of being seen as an animal by anyone, especially hunters.

Dean swipes at his mouth, leaving a smear of red that streaks the length of his forearm. "Never said a word about fun," he replies when he's sure he still has all his teeth.

"That the reputation back home?" he asks, even as he rushes in. He doesn't have much hope, now, of landing the blow he's aimed at Derek's kidneys, but it's good exercise all the same.

The smear of blood makes him contrite enough that he lets the punch land, bending forward and knocking Dean back by the shoulder, heart racing with adrenaline. "A hunter set my family's house on fire while all of them were inside for fun. But we're the monsters. Tell me how that's fair?"

Dean has nothing to do with the Argents; they don't even exist in his world. But he can't help but to look up at him desperately, like he can help provide answers.

Edited 2013-06-21 06:42 (UTC)

Dean huffs, and it's not laughter, but it's close, at least until he sees the look on Derek's face. Christ, he's young. "There's no fair," he says, hands on his knees to catch his breath. "A demon burned my house down when I was five, killed my mom. Killed my dad decades later, then as good as killed my brother. I spent my whole life thinking a demon had to be the worst thing, the most evil thing."

Dean stands, but he doesn't feel much like punching anymore. "But humans are just as bad. Vampires, werewolves, demons, djinn. Nobody's got the monopoly on being a monster."

Derek gives him a long, earnest look, eyes wide before he finally nods. It's like Dean is heads while he's tails, two sides of the same fucked up coin. "So basically, everyone is terrible."

The wind has gone out of his sails, adrenaline gone until he's left sagging. He doesn't want to fight. So instead he just holds out his hand. It's a symbol of something, maybe. A peace offering or an understanding. There are bad hunters and there are bad werewolves, and none of them can speak for the groups they belong to.

"I'm sorry about your family," he gets out as he waits to see if Dean will take his hand. He says it in a way that only someone who knows exactly how it feels could, brows furrowed a bit. "Mine's all gone too."

Sensing that the fight is over, Dean comes forward, clasping Derek's hand in a solid grip. There'd been a time when it would have been unthinkable, but Dean's been a lot of things he isn't anymore, and the world he occupies is a far different place than it was when he was twenty.

"Could come here," he says. "Your family." Dropping his gaze, Dean grits his jaw against a frown. "My brother was here until a few weeks ago."

The thought of seeing his family again makes his heart seize up for a moment, breath hitching as he squeezes Dean's hand hard than he means to. He winces apologetically and lets go. "Most of them died in the fire, that was a good seven years ago."

He wants to ask what happened to Dean's brother, but he doesn't think he'd much like to hear the question. Instead he just turns to sag against the brick wall next to Dean. "Lost my sister last year. She was - " He laughs but there's no humor in it, and he scrubs his hand over his face. "She would my whole world."

"She was the only one to make it out of the fire," says Dean, making some intuitive leaps. Sam had been like that for him, maybe even before Dad died. He's lost him before, and in worse ways than how Dean's lost him now, but it never gets any easier.

"She - " he says and stops. "It wasn't a hunter?"

"No, it was my uncle, the only other one to survive the fire." He sighs heavily, feeling like he's being dragged under with the weight of it all. "He killed her for her power, caused a bunch of havoc, and then I had to put him down."

He lets out a dark chuckle and sniffs, tipping his head back to let it thunk against the brick. "That's why I'm the alpha and I get to have all this power I don't even want."

Edited 2013-06-22 05:04 (UTC)

"Alpha means something a little different where I'm from," says Dean, working through it as best he can. "Sort of the first wolf, the original. All other werewolves are his kids, in a way. No offense," says Dean, mouth quirking just a little, "You don't look quite old enough."

"So there were no packs?" He thinks about what he's learned about the werewolves in Dean's world, mindless beasts that turn once a month and that's it. "I guess there wouldn't have been. Where I'm from, every pack has an alpha. A leader."

He chuckles a bit and pushes off the wall. "And I had a lot of siblings, but not that many." He holds out his hand for Dean again, tilting his head a bit. "Are we done here, or do I need to kick your ass some more?"

Dean touches at his sore jaw, considering, and it seems Derek's taken enough of the edge off. Dean won't sleep tonight, but he won't be climbing the walls, either. "S'plenty," he says, trying to think back to if he'd ever seen evidence of packs. "I don't think they were that organized in my world. There was no control. I think you must've had it a lot better."

"Sounds like it." He shrugs a little and wiggles his fingers in front of his face. "WAnt me to take some of the pain, or do you want to keep it all?"

Derek would understand either way. "You up for a drink? Won't do shit for me but I don't mind the taste."

"Hardly does shit for me either these days," grunts Dean, but it's another moment before he takes Derek's meaning. There's no trace at all of the punches Dean had thrown on his face, not the faintest bruise or even swelling.

"Wait, really?" Dean asks. "You heal so fast...not even whiskey?"

"Nope." Derek shrugs helplessly. "Tried chugging a bottle of everclear once, back in New York. I was drunk for about a minute."

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