Dean Winchester (
always_enduphere) wrote2013-06-14 09:36 pm
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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.
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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"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.
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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.
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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?"
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He lunges forward, eyes flickering red as he aims his second punch for his jaw.
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"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?"
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"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.
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"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.
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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.
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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."
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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."
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"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."
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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."
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"She - " he says and stops. "It wasn't a hunter?"
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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."
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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?"
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Derek would understand either way. "You up for a drink? Won't do shit for me but I don't mind the taste."
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"Wait, really?" Dean asks. "You heal so fast...not even whiskey?"
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