always_enduphere | (no subject)

He's too tired to to be embarrassed for being caught, even if he could have done without Derek's immediate understanding of the place and what Dean's doing here in front of it. Dean sighs and deflates against the wall holding him up, explaining in the tones of a man who's had to say this many times before, "It's not like that for me." He closes his eyes and sighs. Obsidian's been about release in just about every way but the one most expected of him, but Dean doesn't go there for sex. He probably never will.

"And he's really, really not, so I'd appreciate if you didn't say anything."

"Yeah, I guessed that. You've never smelled like anyone but him." Derek just holds his hands up in surrender at the last bit. He's not one to go around spilling secrets.

Derek doesn't know much about Dean's past. Or anything, really. But apparently he feels like there's something that he needs to be punished for and if anyone can understand that, it's Derek. "Hey man, I get it. Trust me."

Edited 2013-06-15 05:40 (UTC)

It takes Dean a moment to get Derek's meaning, and when he does he snorts and shakes his head. "No, I don't...not to discount this werewolf nose you've got going on, or whatever, but I don't think you do."

Dean straightens up, trying to recover some scrap of the dignity he can feel rapidly draining out of him. "I just need to get out of my head sometimes. That's all."

"This has nothing to do with my werewolf nose, Dean." He rolls his eyes and leans against the wall next to him, brick scraping up his back. "I know the look on your face, is all. I see it all the time."

He doesn't say "in the mirror" because he's not that much of a cliche, but he assumes Dean will catch his meaning. "If it's not about the sex it's about the other thing. And you already implied that it wasn't about the sex."

He shrugs, trying to show that he doesn't judge. "If the thought of strangers touching me didn't make me want to wig out, I probably would have ended up in the same place. Some messed up clubs in New York."

It's not exactly easy to talk about this stuff with Dean, but it's not that hard either. Derek decides not to try to read too deeply into why that is and just go with it.

Dean turns his head to look at him, whatever smart remarks he might have made quelled by the quiet look on Derek's face. Dean doesn't exactly talk about this stuff either, not even with the people he scenes with, but he feels something in his chest loosen.

"I never did 'til here," he admits. "For all the fucked up shit that happens here, most of the time it's quiet. There's too much room to think." And too damn much to dwell on.

"So what do you do?" Dean finds himself asking. "When you're after 'the other thing'?"

"Uh, well. Recently, there was someone trying to kill me at every turn and I got my ass kicked on a regular basis, so that kind of helped." He shrugs and looks over him. "But uh, before that. When I was in New York with my sister, she was my alpha. She could usually calm me down just by telling me to be calm."

His chest aches with how much he misses her. She was so good at being alpha. She was born for it, even if it was thrust upon her too early. Derek is a joke compared to her.

"We sort of belonged to this pack in the city. Technical bullshit since we were on their territory." He rubs the back of his neck and furrows his brow. "Some of the guys would fight each other near the full moons, just to get rid of some of the excess energy. I'd join in sometimes."

It ought to be terrifying, and on the narrow level where Dean still cares, it is, the thought of creatures as powerful as that going at each other, but mostly the thought tugs at his lips.

"You do werewolf fight club to blow off steam?" he asks, turning towards Derek with a tiny smile. "Is there anything left standing?"

Derek smirks at that, biting back a bit of a smile. Laura would just roll her eyes at him when he came in at dawn, smelling like blood and exhausted.

"Werewolf fight club. Yeah, I guess it was. They were all alright guys, for the most part. We'd set up a place where no humans would come across us and just kind of go at it." His fingertips itch as he remembers it. "Then we'd heal up and go get a beer, even though we can't get drunk."

He looks over at the club again, and he couldn't imagine walking inside. It goes against his every instinct to submit to anyone, especially now that he's the alpha. "There's gotta be a better way." He jerks his head at the club. "Than submitting to strangers."

"He's not a stranger," says Dean, and he's not inside Obsidian, but he's close enough to talk about it, apparently. He considers what Mike is to him, swallowing around the new ache in his throat. "As close to a brother as I have left in this place."

Looking away from the club, he studies Derek with a clinical eye. "Heal up, huh? The werewolves in my world didn't do that. How strong are you?"

Derek inclines his head in a silent apology for misunderstanding, and then looks up to give him a cocky smirk. "We heal almost instantly from most injuries. You'll forgive me for not giving you more details than that, I'm sure."

Dean may be an alright guy, but he's still a hunter. "Silver bullets, though? That's bullshit."

As for his strength, well. Derek has always been a fan of showing off. He looks around, since it would be a bad idea to punch through a wall, and takes a few steps over to a car parked on the curb. He grabs the front bumper with one hand, lifts it a few inches off of the ground, and sets it back down lightly.

"Pretty strong," he says when he comes back over. "But I'm good at controlling it. Haven't accidentally broken anything since I was a kid. It's just kind of like, I don't know. An extra muscle that I only flex when I need it."

Dean figures there's no reason to hide the surprise on his face, and he doesn't try, shaking his head as Derek makes his way back over. "And how often is that?" he asks, "You know. Apart from the fangs and claws and the strength, you really are a hell of a lot different than the wolves at home. They only turned with the moon, and when they did..."

Dean sighs, remembering Madison, and worse - what the memory of Madison did to Sam. "Total blank come sunrise. No idea, and no control over any of it."

Derek listens while Dean talks, brows furrowed as he considers it. "I'm not gonna lie and tell you that we're all content little lap dogs. The moon does have a pull over us, and it can make some of us go a crazy. Especially the new ones. There was this kid back home, got bit by a rogue alpha." It's so much easier to talk about it when it's just a story he's telling, like he's not involved at all.

"I did my best to keep an eye on him, help him out. Stiles helped a lot. He's got a handle on it now." He rubs the back of his neck and looks over at him. "But I'm a born wolf, was raised by a pack. I learned how to control it early. I can get antsy on the full moon but I don't even have to shift if I don't want to."

He wants to ask Dean what hunters like him would have done if they discovered a peaceful pack of wolves who never harmed anyone, if they would have given them a death sentence as well. But he doesn't.

"So." He jerks his chin towards the club and raises a brow. "You gonna resist temptation, or should I drag you off by the scruff?"

Caught up in absorbing Derek's account of his own world, Dean snorts for the last. "I think I'm like," he says, considering, "A decade older than you. I don't have any damn scruff."

He does give Obsidian a last look though, sighing as he pushes away from the wall. "Guess I'm blowing off steam the old fashioned way today," he says. "Shouldn't be too hard to find a barfly dumb enough to fight."

"Nah, you need someone who gets it and doesn't pull any bullshit." He considers for a moment, and then shrugs. "I'll go a few rounds with you, if you trust me not to bash your pretty face in."

He grins, showing off his teeth. It'd be good to blow off some steam, and it'd be nice to get a few swings on a hunter. Even if it's one he kind of likes.

But really, he'd rather have Dean take his frustration out on him than some idiot that has no idea what's going on.

Dean feels something slipslide down his spine at the sight of those teeth, a reckless, eager longing he hasn't felt in a long while, yet a welcome change from the dull weight in the pit of his stomach.

"I got groundrules," he says, and doesn't miss that they're very nearly the same as his rules inside Obsidian. "No permanent marks, no broken bones, no ruptured organs. And however it is you turn people in your world - none of that."

"I'm not going to fight you like a wolf, Dean. No claws, no teeth." He considers, tilting his head a bit. "Might see my eyes flash red, but that's an adrenaline thing."

He pushes away from the wall and looks around. "A bite from an alpha turns you. Which I am, but I wouldn't give it without consent. Most wolves wouldn't Where are we going to do this?"

He's a bit excited to feel a rush of adrenaline again. He and Dean are in this for the same reasons. Drastically unhealthy reasons, but same nonetheless.

"Don't need to go far," says Dean. Obsidian is on the edge of town, and most that pass by wouldn't bat an eye at the sounds of a struggle coming from an alleyway. "Anybody hears us, it won't be too far off what you hear in Obsidian anyway."

Cracking his neck, Dean starts walking deeper into the alley. "You done this before? Sparred with a human?"

"Not like this, but I've fought with humans. Hunters, mostly. But they were usually trying to shoot me at the time."

He follows Dean down the alley, hiking his shorts up over his hips. "Why don't you hit me as hard as you think you can take it, and I'll match it. You look tough. I don't think I'll break you."

He stops once they reach an open space and stands there, arms at his sides and chin out.

Edited 2013-06-16 07:48 (UTC)

"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."