![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
hybridshadeTitle: Devil's Disciples
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: nc17
Genre: AU, supernatural, action
Warnings: violence, some gore, explicit sex, vampires (kind of), bloodplay, transformation, mention of childhood traumas
Word count: >35k
Summary: When Dean is lifted from the precipice of death by a strange figure that may not be entirely human, he finds himself thrust into a dark world of manic vampire-beasts, the warrior brothers that fight them, and Sam. There's also the matter of the newly kitted-out body he's in. It's strong, resilient and hyper-aware, but there's a couple of extra features that could still send him to an early grave.
A/N: Written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
spn_j2_bigbang Based very loosely on the Black Dagger Brotherhood novel series.
Super-duper amazing art by![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
thruterryseyes
Prologue.
Dean runs.
Usually these circumstances are in the reverse and he's the one doing the chasing – it's his job to take down killers, after all. But it doesn't take a genius to know that one against three isn't great odds, and being a relatively smart guy, Dean knows better than to try standing his ground against any more than two of these black-blooded douchebags.
He's alone in a dark alley, his current work partner having fucked off more than an hour ago, and these bastards are hot on his trail, purposely gunning for him for no apparent reason. Sure he's taken them down before – hell, he took down another two of them, one after the other, hardly ten minutes ago – but not once in all the months he's been hunting them has he ever encountered more than two on a single occasion. He'd always assumed they travelled in pairs for whatever reason, and his theory had held true until just a few minutes ago.
He ducks behind an out of place dumpster and swings a hard left down another alley, this one barely wide enough for his shoulders. He doesn't slow even as he nearly trips and stumbles into an open and deserted laneway, but he does take a moment to focus on the sounds trailing him. There's one, two… three… fucking hell, there's four lots of footsteps coming up from behind, and while he might be able to get the jump on the first couple, by the time he's hacked them up enough to keep them dead the latter two will be all over him.
Dean spies an abandoned warehouse up ahead and is in the beginning stages of debating whether he could lead them through there in order to separate them, when one of the things spits out an inhuman growling noise comparable to tin on gravel, and somehow gains on him as if they'd barely been running to begin with. He curses shamelessly, knowing he's likely lost his chance to control the situation, and whips out the two long-bladed daggers he hides down the side of his uniform trousers, one on each side.
The snick they make as each length of steel leaves its leather sheath triggers something in Dean. It's something vicious and primal that runs bone-deep, something he hasn't yet grown the balls to confront head-on, but it still brings about a feeling of naturalness and rightness every time he feels the weight of those blades in his palms. It's as if they're extensions of his hands, made of his own flesh and blood rather than the sharply hewn steel they've been crafted from. And while it admittedly scares the shit out of him that he feels this way, so as long as they do what they're supposed to he just goes along with it.
It's not like the daggers are anything special, either. He figured out early on that guns were useless against these whatever-they-were and that knives (or cutting implements of any kind) were the way to go. These particular two he'd picked up from a local store that sold rifles and hunting goods. He'd only intended to walk out of there with a single, ordinary hunting knife, but after he'd glimpsed the matching pair in a fancy glass cabinet up the back, it was like they'd practically called to him, entranced him and lured him over in a way that'd honestly been frightening. If he hadn't wanted them for the express purpose of killing needle-toothed creatures that bled motor oil – the whole thing screamed ridiculous and fantastical at best – he would've smacked himself upside the head and hightailed it straight back out of that creepy shop.
But now he has them, clutched tight in his unexpectedly-capable hands, and when the first creature attacks he's ready for it.
It lunges at him, teeth bared, fingers curled up like the claws of a wildcat. Dean smoothly plunges one of the blades through the centre of its forehead, black goo immediately spurting from the wound and spilling down its face. It roars and tries to take a swipe at his stomach, but Dean leaps back easily, wrenching out the blackened dagger from its face and swinging the other one to the side, separating the creature's hand from its arm.
The second beast comes at him from the side, looking to knock him down like a human-sized bowling ball. Dean ducks down and kicks out a leg, swiping the thing's feet out from under it and sending it face-planting onto the concrete. With one smooth arc he draws the blade across its neck and decapitates it, black ooze flowing out in a single, immediate burst.
One down.
The first creature is still attempting to reorient itself, goo still pouring from its head wound and blinding its eyes, so Dean makes easy prey of it, again taking the head from its body with a lone slash.
Adrenaline is pumping through his veins with a steady throb, and the thirst to see black blood paint the ground is stronger than ever. It's just one more item on the list of things he can't quite bring himself to question – the insatiable desire to bring death to these beings he knows nothing about (not even their name), and the skill and intensity with which he does it. He knows deep down that there's still something undetermined simmering away beneath the surface of his skin, waiting to be let loose, but so far he's managed to keep it in check for fear that once he lets go there's no coming back.
Two down.
The third and fourth are already standing there in the laneway, waiting.
Dean feels his hackles rise – these two are different somehow, he just knows it. Physically they appear no different from the former two, yet both creatures seem bigger in some way, impassive strength radiating off them in waves. Dean postures himself, ready to strike at any time, and a strange, grating sort of noise emits from the things' mouths. It almost sounds as if… as if they're laughing.
"Nice costume, Wingman," one of the creatures hisses, a smug grin on his face.
Not once has Dean ever heard one of the things speak, and the shock of it along with the cryptic comment itself is enough to distract him, just long enough for one of them to get the drop on him.
He grunts as something swipes at his side, pain instantly spiking through his waist. He doesn't have to look to know that there's now a neat tear in his uniform, blood spilling out from the wound behind it. Twisting around, he strikes out with one of his blades, getting lucky and landing a long slice across the creature's chest. The thing reels back and Dean has just enough warning to dodge a punch from the second one, his feet skating smoothly along the ground like a dancer. Frustrated, but still confident, Dean moves in for the attack, feinting to the left before launching out with his right side, catching the creature in the jaw and in turn receiving a splatter of black blood across his arm.
The creature wipes the goo from its own face and grins, its fangs sharp like razors and awash with yet more blackness. Dean expects the fist that comes at him, redirecting it to his shoulder rather than his throat, but the hit that comes from behind he never sees coming. Five taloned fingers sink into the flesh of his back and squeeze, and as Dean's knees buckle under his weight he curses himself for taking his eyes off the second creature.
He swings wildly with both arms, his limbs suddenly feeling ten-times slower than they had moments before, and notes that neither of his blades struck their targets. The thing still standing before him just carries on staring and grinning with those foul teeth, and Dean snarls, kicking out behind him, knocking the second creature back several steps.
He's about to launch himself at it while it's still trying to rebalance itself, but the first creature decides that it's precisely the right moment to end his staring game and put a boot into Dean's ribs. The air rushes from his lungs and Dean finds himself on all fours, coughing and gasping for breath. He'll be surprised if he doesn't have at least one broken rib, but it's hardly the time to dwell on his injuries.
The daggers had fallen from his hands, so he makes a grab for them as he rolls onto his back and away from the creatures, allowing him just enough time to scramble back onto his feet. The two things stare intently at him, as if they're starving and Dean's a steaming hot steak dinner. They both come at him simultaneously for the first time, and Dean pushes his own pains to the back of his mind, twirling the blades in his palms and striking with two hands. He feels a fist slam into the side of his head and another claw cut into his left shoulder, but neither of the creatures gets away clean, Dean landing a stomach wound on one and a bone-deep gash on the thigh of the other.
The thing with the leg wound immediately has troubles staying upright, so Dean takes his chance to attack the less-injured of the two, barrelling into its chest and sending them both tumbling to the ground. He lands yet another stab to its middle, getting black goo all over his ripped-up uniform, but the thing gets a hold of his left shoulder and squeezes, talon-like nails slicing into his flesh and wrenching the bone from its socket with a horrid crunch.
Dean screams, the blade dropping uselessly from his left hand. His adrenaline spikes and he pushes back against the creature, flipping it onto its back. He has just enough time to open its bowels with his knife before the second creature takes hold of his bad shoulder from behind and sends him skidding along the concrete ground. He groans pathetically, his whole left side paralysed with pain, and Dean wonders for the first time how, or rather if, he's going to get out of this with his life.
The second creature hobbles over to him, its injured leg all but unusable, and it collapses down on top of Dean, its filthy, tar-smelling breath puffing over his face. He tries to bring his knife up but finds his arms pinned by the thing's knees, and quick as a flash the creature stabs in-and-out of Dean's chest with its talons. There's a moment of complete stillness as the creature waits for Dean to realise what it's done, and as the blood begins to well up and soak the front of his uniform the thing smiles with glee.
Dean struggles and kicks, the pain in his left arm worse than ever, but the creature just continues to stab him like a child with a new toy, shallow little starbursts of gashes appearing all over his chest and stomach. He can feel himself getting light-headed from the shock and blood loss, and he knows he's running out of time to still put his lone dagger to use. But that feeling that he's always tamped down on, the craving to let it loose and kill in a way that he can't even fathom, it rears its ugly head right then in Dean's time of need, taking over his body and mind as he starts to weaken in earnest.
Suddenly it's as if Dean is watching from the outside, his consciousness somehow detaching itself from the rest of his body, yet he can feel and sense every moment of it like he's in two places at once. His arms take on strength he shouldn't have the ability to possess, and they pull themselves free of the creature's hold, hands closing around the thing's neck and squeezing until something goes crack. The creature's eyes bulge, and it starts to flail with its arms, pulling and scratching at Dean's hands. But Dean just pulls the thing even closer to his face, staring it straight into its haunting red eyes and he sucks in a long, deep breath of that fetid air.
The creature goes stock still, body rigid as a board. Dean simply takes another deep breath, his lungs expanding in a way that aches but still feels natural, as if he's stretching a little-used muscle. Slowly, the thing's jaw drops open and a whisper of black smoke floats out, like an exhaled puff from a cigarette.
It starts as the size of a small thread, crawling out in a thin, airy stream, but the thread just keeps pulling forth and unravelling into Dean's mouth, escalating until the smoke is teeming out, thick and fast. Dean knows he should be choking – sucking in so much air shouldn't have been possible to begin with, let alone this foul, black muck – yet here he is doing just that, inhaling this essence from inside the creature.
With a loud snap the smoke comes to an end, the thing's body going limp like a ragdoll – drained. Dean finds himself thrust back into full control of his body again, and there's a beat of motionless quiet before the pain of all his injuries pummels back into him like a ton of bricks. He barely manages to toss the creature's torso to the side, but its legs are still tangled on the ground with Dean's, and Dean can't find the strength to move an inch. His left side feels like every bone there has been crushed, and there's a cold, sticky sensation where the wound on his waist continues to bleed. The notion makes his head spin and his vision threaten to fade. He should've known it would happen eventually – that he would die cold and alone in an alley, after chasing down these mutant vampires that the world at large is completely ignorant of. With the reckless way he's been living his life, the reckless way he's been spending his work (and after-work) hours, he should've seen it coming.
The last moments that penetrate through his waning consciousness are of a shadow-cloaked man walking toward him and crouching down at his side. Some kind of death omen, perhaps? He has to be hallucinating.
The man is dressed all in black with heavy, laced-up boots, and floppy, dark brown hair masking half his face. He's a fucking mammoth of a man, all impossibly long limbs and broad, muscled shoulders, though Dean being flat on his back while this guy is hovering above him probably skews his perspective somewhat.
The man grabs firmly onto Dean's right arm – the not-broken one – staring down at him with a single hazel eye. Even as Dean drifts into the darkness, the man's few words echo through his mind.
"I'm here, Brother."
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It was September, the summer's warmth still present, but waning. Dean was on beat as usual, his dark blue uniform neat and tidy looking, his utility belt sitting snugly around his waist. His new partner Garth was still sitting in the passenger seat of the squad car while Dean was hangin' about outside. He didn't blame the kid, really – this was the graveyard shift, after all. This was the time when all the crazies were out and about on the city streets, and in this part of town you had to know how to look after yourself if you wanted to get by unscathed. Dean could probably lift Garth with one hand if he wanted to, the kid was so fucking scrawny. He wondered what would happen when something serious eventually came along – Garth had that 'deer in the headlights' look already, and he was only on his second day of night-shift, and only two hours in.
"Dean, you wanna get back in the car?"
Garth's voice sounded shit-scared. Dean grinned.
"What? You scared or som'thin', buddy? And this is a quiet night."
The kid swallowed audibly.
"Fine. Whatever."
He went back to typing something on his phone, and Dean shook his head with distaste. He had no idea why Captain Singer kept sending these rookies out with him when he knew how Dean liked to work, but he liked to think he was getting a chance to test them, see how they'd perform when they had the fear of God slap them in the face. And if there was one thing Dean knew he was good at, it was breeding fear – in criminals and cops alike.
That wasn't to say all his temporary 'partners' went running for the hills. He'd had a few that obviously knew what they were doing and were in this career for the right reasons, naturally smart enough to figure out the Captain's intentions for sending them out to patrol in the dark of night. Still, they never stayed long, always transferring out after a handful of weeks or months once their training was done. Many of them even left comment on how reckless and irresponsible a cop Dean was.
Again, he didn't blame them at all; he knew his methods weren't for everyone, even if half the time he did it deliberately just to see how the kids would react. Captain Singer insisted he was doing it on purpose, probably to push people away so he wouldn't have to start compromising or communicating and thus didn't have to deal with the commitment of a real partnership. It freaked Dean out a little sometimes, how well the Captain saw through his façade and understood him, but better it was the Captain than anyone else. At least he knew what Dean responded best to and how to use him to the force's advantage, not to mention that he knew Dean's limits likely better than Dean did, and didn’t push him into situations he'd flip out over.
Case in point being Dean's former partner – his proper partner, Benny. They'd been on beat together for years. They'd known each other inside and out, strengths and weaknesses, fears and loves. The precinct had had no better crime-fighting team than Dean and Benny, corny as that sounded.
They'd been on the hunt for a killer when things had gone horribly wrong. Sure, they weren't detectives per se, but the cops that patrolled the downtown area like Dean and Benny had all been brought in on the loop – they were on the lookout for a serial murderer, someone who'd gone 'rogue vampire' on them and was ripping victim's throats out left, right and centre and bleeding them dry. Problem was, no one had any kind of description of the culprit bar that they were 'tall-ish and dressed in dark clothes'. It could have been anyone in the whole fucking city, male or female, of any ethnicity.
So Dean and Benny had gotten serious about it. They'd been instrumental in helping detectives solve cases before, and they'd figured they could do it again. Their advantage came in the form of their rapport with people on the streets – homeless, prostitutes, junkies and the like. Within two weeks they'd had more information on the aptly-nicknamed 'Shadow Slasher' than the detectives had amassed in over two months.
For whatever reason, things had gone quiet for a long stretch of weeks after that – no sightings, no more bodies, nothing. They'd figured that maybe their culprit had realised how high profile he was becoming and had either decided to tone things down or move on to another hunting ground. That was until they were called to a disturbance near Chinatown at 2am one morning.
After making quick work of some drunkard douchebag who'd been taking his fists to his wife, Dean had been getting the guy comfy in the back seat of the squad car ready to drive him back for booking, when Benny had reacted to some far-off noise, hands automatically bringing his gun up at the ready. Trusting his partner's instincts, Dean had locked their prisoner securely in the car and followed Benny out into the dark alleyways around them, looking for anything that might have roused Benny's suspicions. They'd been slinking about for near ten minutes before they finally saw it.
Neither of them had known what to make of the sight before them. Halfway down an otherwise empty alley was a man – except, not a man – crouched over what was clearly a lifeless, bloodied corpse. The not-man had his knees bent out at awkward angles, reminiscent of how a frog sits, and he was bent over the body on the ground, long claw-like fingers picking at a large, open wound on the corpse as if it were plucking the peas out of a beef stew. It discarded something onto the ground before leaning all the way down to the body and chomping down on its neck, happily gnawing away at the dead flesh.
Dean remembered tasting his own dinner again as it rushed all the way back up his throat, but Benny had given the signal to cover him, so he'd forced himself to swallow it back down and focus. He'd kept an eye on Benny as the other cop had tip-toed his way down the alley, just a few steps at a time, and as quietly as he could Dean had taken his phone and texted their location to their Captain, knowing he'd get the message. He hadn't wanted to risk using the radio which would have made too much noise.
Content that backup was on the way, Dean had followed his partner's lead and moved in on the alley, darting from doorway to dumpster in order to stay out of sight. His breath had caught in his throat once Benny had gotten within twenty feet of the not-man, and as Benny had set up the shot he hadn't even dared to blink. They'd made an agreement in the beginning that should they ever come across the 'Shadow Slasher' they would shoot first and ask questions later. And Dean had been damn glad of it, too, because whatever the fuck was going on with that dude, it wasn't normal.
The sound of three successive gunshots had echoed through the narrow alley, and all had gone quiet. Dean and Benny had shared a look of anticlimactic resignation between them, and had moved to put their guns away as they stepped out into the open. But no sooner had their boots crunched down on the gravel, than the nowhere-near-dead body of the not-man had leapt up to its feet from where he'd been slumped atop the corpse, growling from deep in its throat. Across its shoulder and chest had been three blackened holes visible through the dirty grey shirt it had worn. Benny clearly hadn't missed, but nor had the not-man seemed fazed by the injuries in the least.
Benny had raised his gun again and shot their target clear in the eye, and blood so dark it looked black had spilled from the socket, dripping down its face and neck. His partner had looked as shocked as Dean felt, but the further injury only appeared to enrage the not-man even more, its arms flexing as it had readied itself to attack.
Sirens became audible in the background, and Dean had estimated they were still several blocks over. At any other scene he would have been thankful or relieved, but right then all he'd been able to think was that by the time backup got there it might've been too late already.
Dean had raised his own gun and taken steady aim when Benny gave the signal to stay back. Taking the cue, he'd leaned against the edge of a dumpster and used it to angle his gun and keep his arms stable, while Benny had tucked his gun back in his belt and retrieved his nightstick and a Taser, at a loss for what other weapon might work. Dean had watched on in near-panic as the not-man had stalked over the corpse and into Benny's space, his partner bending into a fighting stance and striking out with the nightstick.
For every hit the not-man took, it'd thrown one back just as hard, catching Benny in several places with its claws. Dean hadn't even known why he was still holding his gun, since clearly bullets were nothing to the not-man, and he'd desperately wanted in on the fight – two against one would surely have been better odds. But he honoured the agreement he'd made with Benny way back in the day, that your fight was your fight, no interfering unless things went seriously south. So he'd carried on watching as Benny got more and more scratched up and bruised. He'd been on the verge of calling bullshit on their agreement when he'd heard several more cop cars pulling up just on the other side of the alleyway.
He'd looked away for less than a moment, and in turning back he'd heard a shriek so high and piercing he'd reflexively cupped his hands over his ears. He'd noticed then that Benny had used the Taser, and the not-man clearly hadn't liked it, but once the electrical charge had worn down it simply pulled the leads from its body and launched itself at Benny with even more ferocity, its teeth snapping like a gator and viciously ripping a chunk of flesh from his partner's throat.
Benny had gone down like a lead balloon, clutching at his neck to stem the torrent of red blood flowing from the wound. The not-man had hightailed it out of the alley down a side street, but Dean nearly tripped over his own feet to get to Benny. He'd pulled the radio from his belt and practically screamed for someone to get a medic in there stat, and he'd immediately heard the footsteps of other cops running into the maze of backstreets to find them. He'd seen straight away that Benny was losing too much blood too quickly, and he'd tried to stop his partner from talking but Benny had just waved him off, gurgling and choking as he'd screeched for Dean to go after the killer.
Dean had been about to smack him when Benny'd suddenly passed out, and the image of him lying there (as good as) dead had sparked something fearsome inside Dean that he'd never known was there – a thirst for revenge. He'd leapt to his feet and run faster than he ever had before – he wasn't going to let a killer like that get away, not a chance. Without even knowing where he was going, Dean had let his instincts kick in, leading him through the labyrinth of alleys at top speed.
He'd lost count of all the rights and lefts he'd taken by the time he caught sight of his target. The not-man seemed to sense he was closing in and had ducked into an empty warehouse through a backdoor, but Dean had been quick enough to spot him, and had followed the killer inside.
The warehouse had been totally abandoned, only a few crates and some small machinery left behind. The not-man was hiding somewhere out of sight, but Dean had been able to sense it, scent it, even. There was a distinct smell about the not-man, a mix of old blood, motor oil, and something oddly metallic like rust. It had drawn Dean forward towards a pile of rotting, wooden boxes, and just as he'd been about to move round the side, the not-man had leapt out first, throwing punches haphazardly in every direction.
Dean had kept up the best he could, managing to land a few punches but not nearly enough to have slowed the thing down. After taking one particularly heavy hit to the stomach, Dean had found himself careening backwards into a wall. In glancing to the side he'd seen a faded red box attached to the wall, and he'd scrambled over to it, immediately thrusting his elbow through the protective glass and pulling out the tarnished axe hanging there.
He'd come out swinging then, more confident once he'd armed himself with a weapon that might finally be of use. The not-man had reared back, wary of the axe, but Dean had advanced on it quickly, continually wielding the weapon back and forth. They'd danced around each other for several moments before the not-man had tried to strike again. And that time Dean had been ready for it.
With one fell swoop he'd lopped the not-man's head clear from its body, the torso and limbs tumbling to the ground with a dead-sounding thump. Black-coloured blood had sprayed onto the concrete floor, flowing thickly from the remains and filling the area with the stench of rusted metal and rotting flesh. Dean had no idea how long he'd stood there for, just staring at the decapitated body, the axe still gripped limply in his right hand. It had felt like forever, yet at the same time it had felt like no time at all.
Eventually other cops and forensics people had swarmed on the scene, photographing everything and prying the axe from his hand. Captain Singer had been the one to finally escort him from the warehouse, slinging an arm over his shoulder to direct him back through the alleys to his and Benny's car. He'd been about to ask after Benny's wellbeing when he'd spotted the medical examiner's van across the way. Even as everyone had passed by with their too-easy back-pats of mixed congratulations and condolences, Dean had felt something die off inside himself, an unfamiliar, but blinding hot rage rising up to take over the empty space.
The Captain had subsequently ordered him off duty for no less than a month, which Dean had spent the majority of in a haze of alcohol, cigarettes and Italian take-out. He'd returned to the office to a wave of melancholy applause from his peers, medal commendations in both his and Benny's name having been left in the centre of his desk. The Captain had then called him to his office and introduced him to a man known only as Rufus, who in turn had offered Dean a chance to 'move up' in the world.
Apparently there'd been a bunch of other superiors from other law and government-related agencies who'd been impressed with his and Benny's work and wanted him for their own respective teams. But Dean had (through Captain Singer) told them all to go fuck themselves, with all due respect. No doubt the Captain had rephrased his refusals with a more restrained manner.
It wasn't until he'd been back on the job for a week that he'd been informed of the Shadow Slasher's body having somehow vanished from the coroner's office before they'd even started on an autopsy. According to the reports, nearly the whole precinct had been in on the job of finding the body and/or who'd taken it, but they'd come up empty from every angle. Even the security feeds of the coroner's office had come up blank.
For Dean, that had been the last straw.
Thankfully the Captain hadn't pushed a new partner on him straight away, and he'd been allowed to patrol on his own for several weeks at the start. In that time Dean had established some new procedures for himself, starting with carrying a knife with him at all times, concealed either in his boots or down the side of his pants, wedged under his utility belt. He was also a slight bit more negligent toward his usual beat-cop protocols, and was somehow even more of an ass towards his peers than normal. The Captain had side-eyed him on more than one occasion, but considering Dean's stupidly good track record for catching the bad guys, he'd let Dean off with little more than a warning.
The time on his own had also allowed him a chance to investigate a hunch he'd developed while he'd been lounging around in his apartment in a four-week-long drunken stupor. It had seemed an impossible conclusion at first, but the more alcohol he'd imbibed, the more it became a viable solution. It may have taken a while to confirm his suspicions, but once he had, it was like the crack in the dam that turned from a drip to a torrent.
The not-man hadn't been a lone anomaly. The not-man had been just one of some kind of mutated species that fed on blood and human flesh.
The more Dean had gone out patrolling - hunting - on his own, the more he got a feel for how these unknown beasts moved around the city, and when and where they preferred to go snacking. It had taken him a whole six weeks to fall upon the first one, which had been about to start feasting on a man still in the throes of dying from a stab wound. Dean had called for help for the victim and taken off running after the creature, but lost it amongst the myriad of dank, urine-stained alleyways.
That hadn't been the last he saw of the things by a long shot. Eventually he started coming upon them nearly every night, always either about to feed or still in the process of stalking their dinner. It'd occurred to him then that after he'd decapitated the first one all those weeks ago no more bodies had been found. Thus he'd hypothesised that these creatures had somehow taken to 'cleaning up' once they were done.
That single notion had led Dean to think that perhaps there was someone or something behind the appearance of these creatures. Dean had kept an eye out for clues after that, though admittedly he hadn't pursued that avenue of thought quite as diligently as he pursued the beasts themselves. He'd quickly developed a delight in the killing of them, freely spilling their black-as-oil blood, and disposing of the remains for certainty's sake – in an old incinerator he'd discovered in an abandoned factory down by the docks. He'd gotten into a rhythm of it, as it were, and something about the whole process felt inexplicably right in a way he couldn't explain. So even when the Captain had started offloading rookies onto him as temporary partners, he still made time after his shift ended at 3am to go do a little hunting.
Here and now with Garth, though, it was still early (by his standards) and they had official police business to tend to before he could go out playing mutant-killing vigilante. More and more it crossed his mind whether there were other people out there who knew about the not-men, and even more so if there were others out there who hunted them.
Of course, he knew for certain that there were some people who knew of the creatures, but smack-junkies weren't exactly what one might call credible witnesses. Unless you were Dean, that is. There were two particular guys he was 'friendly' with, both of whom were nearly impossible to locate at any given time since they moved around so much. But in their chaotic back-and-forthing across the city, Ash and Balty saw all manner of weird and wonderful things. Their appearances were so scrappy and their brains so chemically fried that no one felt threatened by them in the least, but if you knew the right questions to ask and how to interpret their seemingly-nonsensical answers, you could find out just about anything.
It was only because of them that he and Benny had collected so much info on the Shadow Slasher case all those months ago. And the two were always more than happy to help, especially when Dean brought them 'treats' in the form of cigarettes or cans of beer.
"We just gonna sit here all night? Not that I mind…"
Pulled from his thoughts, Dean found Garth looking up at him from inside the car, a half-eaten donut in his hand – so much for stereotypes.
"Why? You bored already, kiddywinks?"
Dean smirked when the kid made a face, and moved to get back in the driver's seat. He'd actually been waiting for one of his informants to show, but he figured she must have scored a john and was off working somewhere. It wasn't a big deal though; he could circle back around later on to see if she was there.
Besides, if they got busy, the quicker the time would pass and the sooner he could be free of Garth and head off hunting. He usually made it home by around 7 in the morning, when he'd sneak into his apartment building through the basement door and pass out with exhaustion the moment he'd kicked off his boots and landed on the bed.
Some would probably think that he worked too hard, crashing out like he did – and that wasn't to say that he didn't work hard, because when he had a job to do no one busted their ass to get it done quite the way Dean did. But the way daylight hours seemed to sap his energy, Dean maintained that he simply had some kind of aversion to the sun in general. Maybe a freaky allergy or something. It had always been that way, even growing up.
In recent years though, since he continuously worked nights and slept days, his reaction was even more pronounced. He'd ultimately transformed himself into a wholly nocturnal animal, so much so that even entering into the bright lights of the precinct was occasionally bothersome for his eyes. Sometimes he questioned whether he honestly might have some sort of medical condition, but he always settled on the conclusion that he'd just unintentionally conditioned himself over time – Pavlov's dog eat your heart out.
Not that there was anyone around to complain about any of it. He'd had minimal contact with people outside the force to begin with, but after Benny had died he'd completely shut himself off from general social outings. He still ventured out to pick up once in a while, but the odd one-night-stand was as far as it got. It was just one more thing on the list of 'parts of Dean that are fubared now that Benny's gone'.
He clenched his teeth and beat his hand against the steering wheel as he turned over the engine, abruptly pulling the car away from the curb. Garth squeaked at his side, gripping the door handle for dear life, and just that small thing was enough to lessen the tension of his jaw, pulling his lips into a half-smile. Seeing how many ways he could freak the kid out was well becoming something of a little game to Dean – and that, at least, was a small spark of pleasure in his day.
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Pulling off his boots, Sam collapsed down on the edge of his bed with a tired groan. He was almost too weary to peel his leathers off, but he knew he’d regret it later if he didn’t. So he let his jacket slip from his shoulders onto the sheets, then unclipped the straps that criss-crossed over his chest to hold his daggers and throwing knives close to his body. They fell heavily on top of his jacket, the metal clinking together as the weapons landed atop one another – thankfully he'd already wiped them off, so at least he wouldn't have to worry about cleaning them later on. He then unbuckled his pants and struggled to push them all the way down, hissing as he had to bend past his knees, before kicking them the rest of the way off and onto the carpeted floor. Next came the hard part.
Taking a deep breath he plucked at the hem of his black t-shirt with gloved fingers, tugging up the soggy fabric until it caught under his armpits. He winced as he looked down. The right side of his torso looked like a five year old had taken a hack at him with a butcher’s knife. He had one long cut from the side of his nipple all the way down to the waistband of his pants; there was a second slicing across it from his sternum to the outer edge of his ribs, and another dozen shallow gashes in various locations in-between.
Luckily most of them hadn't bled all that much and the smaller wounds were already started to scab a bit, but he was still going to have to clean them up and play doctor - the two longer gashes were gonna hurt like a bitch later on. Steeling himself with another deep breath, he pulled the t-shirt up over his head and threw it in the general direction of his garbage bin, groaning when the sudden stretch re-opened a section of one of the wounds, a small drop of blood welling up on the surface and skimming down his stomach until it soaked into the elastic of his boxers.
He supposed he could still pay a visit to the Fount. It had been about three weeks since Sam had last fed from him, and just a small mouthful of the Fount’s pure blood would have him completely healed and restored in no time. Of course, that would also mean exposing the fact that he got hurt. Samandriel might have been an unreasonably nice guy and a good listener, but when it came to the Flock Superior he could never quite manage keep his mouth shut. And if their Superior found out he’d been injured and then not said anything… Well, being temporarily suspended from patrols would be the least of his problems.
Sam remembered the last time he’d not said anything about his troubles and then been found out. He had disturbing dreams often enough, had done since childhood, but every now and then they became increasingly more frequent and vivid until he just didn't sleep at all. Couldn't, in fact. And while being a Wingman for the Flock afforded him such capabilities as being able to go without adequate rest for an extended period of time, eventually there came a point where he either had to bend to his body's needs, or break. A few years back it had been the latter, and he'd nearly gotten himself killed for being so fucking stupid as to go out hunting without all his faculties in check.
Their Superior had retracted him from patrol duties for six months while he recovered and got a hold over his sleeping issues. Though, the cabin fever had nearly driven him mad all on its own. He supposed that now, at least, he had a better grasp of where his limits were, and when he needed to say the word and throw in the towel. He'd eventually reached the conclusion that he could only be all the better for knowing it.
As for earlier that night, he’d been out patrolling with Raphael, scouring the streets down by the harbour where they often found Hellions skulking about. The creatures had nests dotted all over the city, but finding them was nigh on impossible. They were like cockroaches – foul, sneaky little bastards that hid right under your nose.
Their hunt had started off slowly as it often did. Hours spent getting familiar with the microscopic variances between one back alley and the next. And despite the necessity for being alert and at the ready at all times, it did afford Sam quite a lot of time to think – something which he'd always done with great fervour. His most persistent observation of late was that the Hellions seemed to be more few and far between than he would otherwise expect. He hadn't mentioned it to any of his brothers, nor had any of them brought it up (if they'd even noticed such a thing), but Sam had noticed. It had become a frequent occurrence in recent weeks, that they would return to their shared home without the tell-tale spatter of oily blood on their boots and weapons, or their preferred leatherwear all torn to shreds by sharp talons.
Sam didn't know what to make of it, even several months after the thought had first crossed his mind. Should they be pleased that maybe their arduous patrolling was finally showing signs of paying off? Or should they be all the more worried that the Hellions were perhaps getting smarter, and hiding away until some devious plan of theirs came to fruition?
Now that particular thought made Sam's head throb forebodingly. He dropped his head into his hands just as harsh flashes of light and loud images like those of his dreams flickered before his eyes for a moment, before swiftly melting away. It was the second time that week he'd experienced a vision during waking hours, but still whatever he was being shown was too chaotic for him to make much sense of it.
He could always try to tell his brothers of his worries, but it was unlikely they would pay much attention. Michael in particular was ripe for always laughing at his 'feelings', often telling him that if he wished for something hard enough, he was sure it would come true! Raphael wasn't quite as provocative toward Sam, he was more the sort to 'tolerate in silence'. Of course, that hadn't stopped them splitting up as soon as they'd reached the harbour earlier – their chosen hunting ground for the evening. He knew for a fact that not all the Flock split up when they were out hunting, most of them always seemed to stay in their pairs, or such was Sam's impression whenever he heard them talking about it. He had to wonder if he was being paranoid, or whether he was in some kind of denial state and it was just him that they didn't stick around with.
Regardless, once Sam had caught sight of his first Hellion pair of the night and chased them down, he'd engaged them in fight without hesitation – as was expected of him. In his over-zealous need to end them he'd gotten sloppy, allowing one of them to get a hand inside his jacket and grasp after his throwing knives. Sam had kneed it back, but in the process the thing had somehow gotten itself caught on his chest harness and ended up with its claws buried in Sam's side. At first it had freaked, pulling and pushing to try and get itself free, but in hearing Sam's grunts of discomfort it had changed its mind and decided that being stuck was fun.
The creature had still been caught in the straps when its body – sans head – had slumped to the ground, the exposed stump of its neck spurting jets of black blood into the air.
Raphael hadn't shown himself until a handful of minutes later, when Sam had been crouching on the ground in rest, the amply dismembered bodies of two Hellions scattered around him, still leaking blood. Sam had given no indication he was hurt despite being hunched on the ground, and Raphael had made no move to help him up. He'd waited until the older Wingman had turned and headed off before he'd struggled to his feet, gathering the body parts into garbage bags he'd pilfered from nearby bins before dumping them down into the water. One of the plus sides of patrolling by the harbour – easy clean up.
Now though, Sam had to think about cleaning himself up.
After a quick shower to wash the dried blood and grime away, Sam stood in front of the bathroom mirror and inspected the entirely too-visible gashes on his torso, the two largest ones still sluggishly oozing blood. He estimated there'd be at least three scars among them to add to his collection – if he took no sustenance from the Fount and let the wounds heal on their own, he would scar in the same way a human would. That thought had him staring between the two points of his right eye and left hand, both currently exposed thanks to his slicked-back hair and lack of gloves.
Each area was patterned with dozens of thin criss-crossing lines, which looked not unlike that of a spider's web. Over his eye it continued all the way up to his hairline and then some, and it pinched the side of his eyelid in a way that it pulled a little every time he blinked. Thankfully his vision had remained adequate, but the odd shape of his eyelid sometimes irritated the surface and made it look like he hadn't slept for a week.
As for his hand, it was a bit of an anomaly. It was bad enough that the skin was so raised and puckered that it looked like the whole surface had been burned off, but ever since he'd been cursed to be this way, any person or thing he touched was at risk of dying a horrible and instantaneous death. It had taken the unfortunate demise of five people, plus the loss of several items of furniture and a dozen knives, before he figured out what the problem was and how to combat it. And since then he'd not once removed his left glove in the presence of other people. The fear and repulsion was simply too much for him to handle, even all these years later.
Thankfully, his hand never seemed to bring any harm upon himself. So as he retrieved the small first aid kit he kept under the sink and prepared items enough for him to stitch up his wounds, the only things he had to worry about were pointing the needle in the right direction and tying the thread up neatly.
He'd given himself nearly two dozen stitches by the time he was satisfied, and he could already feel the bruises blossoming around the edges of the cuts – goddamn Hellions and their vicious claws.
Sam took himself to bed without bothering to head down to the kitchen in search of any food or drink. Were he to run into anyone there would have been questions – he knew he looked like crap by now, and there was no way any of his brothers wouldn't notice. But if he stayed out of the way, it was less likely anyone would come looking.
The pained expression on his face and the hunched posture of his body were dead giveaways. He would have to sleep it off.
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Part Two-->
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: nc17
Genre: AU, supernatural, action
Warnings: violence, some gore, explicit sex, vampires (kind of), bloodplay, transformation, mention of childhood traumas
Word count: >35k
Summary: When Dean is lifted from the precipice of death by a strange figure that may not be entirely human, he finds himself thrust into a dark world of manic vampire-beasts, the warrior brothers that fight them, and Sam. There's also the matter of the newly kitted-out body he's in. It's strong, resilient and hyper-aware, but there's a couple of extra features that could still send him to an early grave.
A/N: Written for
spn_j2_bigbang Based very loosely on the Black Dagger Brotherhood novel series.Super-duper amazing art by
thruterryseyesPrologue.
Dean runs.
Usually these circumstances are in the reverse and he's the one doing the chasing – it's his job to take down killers, after all. But it doesn't take a genius to know that one against three isn't great odds, and being a relatively smart guy, Dean knows better than to try standing his ground against any more than two of these black-blooded douchebags.
He's alone in a dark alley, his current work partner having fucked off more than an hour ago, and these bastards are hot on his trail, purposely gunning for him for no apparent reason. Sure he's taken them down before – hell, he took down another two of them, one after the other, hardly ten minutes ago – but not once in all the months he's been hunting them has he ever encountered more than two on a single occasion. He'd always assumed they travelled in pairs for whatever reason, and his theory had held true until just a few minutes ago.
He ducks behind an out of place dumpster and swings a hard left down another alley, this one barely wide enough for his shoulders. He doesn't slow even as he nearly trips and stumbles into an open and deserted laneway, but he does take a moment to focus on the sounds trailing him. There's one, two… three… fucking hell, there's four lots of footsteps coming up from behind, and while he might be able to get the jump on the first couple, by the time he's hacked them up enough to keep them dead the latter two will be all over him.
Dean spies an abandoned warehouse up ahead and is in the beginning stages of debating whether he could lead them through there in order to separate them, when one of the things spits out an inhuman growling noise comparable to tin on gravel, and somehow gains on him as if they'd barely been running to begin with. He curses shamelessly, knowing he's likely lost his chance to control the situation, and whips out the two long-bladed daggers he hides down the side of his uniform trousers, one on each side.
The snick they make as each length of steel leaves its leather sheath triggers something in Dean. It's something vicious and primal that runs bone-deep, something he hasn't yet grown the balls to confront head-on, but it still brings about a feeling of naturalness and rightness every time he feels the weight of those blades in his palms. It's as if they're extensions of his hands, made of his own flesh and blood rather than the sharply hewn steel they've been crafted from. And while it admittedly scares the shit out of him that he feels this way, so as long as they do what they're supposed to he just goes along with it.
It's not like the daggers are anything special, either. He figured out early on that guns were useless against these whatever-they-were and that knives (or cutting implements of any kind) were the way to go. These particular two he'd picked up from a local store that sold rifles and hunting goods. He'd only intended to walk out of there with a single, ordinary hunting knife, but after he'd glimpsed the matching pair in a fancy glass cabinet up the back, it was like they'd practically called to him, entranced him and lured him over in a way that'd honestly been frightening. If he hadn't wanted them for the express purpose of killing needle-toothed creatures that bled motor oil – the whole thing screamed ridiculous and fantastical at best – he would've smacked himself upside the head and hightailed it straight back out of that creepy shop.
But now he has them, clutched tight in his unexpectedly-capable hands, and when the first creature attacks he's ready for it.
It lunges at him, teeth bared, fingers curled up like the claws of a wildcat. Dean smoothly plunges one of the blades through the centre of its forehead, black goo immediately spurting from the wound and spilling down its face. It roars and tries to take a swipe at his stomach, but Dean leaps back easily, wrenching out the blackened dagger from its face and swinging the other one to the side, separating the creature's hand from its arm.
The second beast comes at him from the side, looking to knock him down like a human-sized bowling ball. Dean ducks down and kicks out a leg, swiping the thing's feet out from under it and sending it face-planting onto the concrete. With one smooth arc he draws the blade across its neck and decapitates it, black ooze flowing out in a single, immediate burst.
One down.
The first creature is still attempting to reorient itself, goo still pouring from its head wound and blinding its eyes, so Dean makes easy prey of it, again taking the head from its body with a lone slash.
Adrenaline is pumping through his veins with a steady throb, and the thirst to see black blood paint the ground is stronger than ever. It's just one more item on the list of things he can't quite bring himself to question – the insatiable desire to bring death to these beings he knows nothing about (not even their name), and the skill and intensity with which he does it. He knows deep down that there's still something undetermined simmering away beneath the surface of his skin, waiting to be let loose, but so far he's managed to keep it in check for fear that once he lets go there's no coming back.
Two down.
The third and fourth are already standing there in the laneway, waiting.
Dean feels his hackles rise – these two are different somehow, he just knows it. Physically they appear no different from the former two, yet both creatures seem bigger in some way, impassive strength radiating off them in waves. Dean postures himself, ready to strike at any time, and a strange, grating sort of noise emits from the things' mouths. It almost sounds as if… as if they're laughing.
"Nice costume, Wingman," one of the creatures hisses, a smug grin on his face.
Not once has Dean ever heard one of the things speak, and the shock of it along with the cryptic comment itself is enough to distract him, just long enough for one of them to get the drop on him.
He grunts as something swipes at his side, pain instantly spiking through his waist. He doesn't have to look to know that there's now a neat tear in his uniform, blood spilling out from the wound behind it. Twisting around, he strikes out with one of his blades, getting lucky and landing a long slice across the creature's chest. The thing reels back and Dean has just enough warning to dodge a punch from the second one, his feet skating smoothly along the ground like a dancer. Frustrated, but still confident, Dean moves in for the attack, feinting to the left before launching out with his right side, catching the creature in the jaw and in turn receiving a splatter of black blood across his arm.
The creature wipes the goo from its own face and grins, its fangs sharp like razors and awash with yet more blackness. Dean expects the fist that comes at him, redirecting it to his shoulder rather than his throat, but the hit that comes from behind he never sees coming. Five taloned fingers sink into the flesh of his back and squeeze, and as Dean's knees buckle under his weight he curses himself for taking his eyes off the second creature.
He swings wildly with both arms, his limbs suddenly feeling ten-times slower than they had moments before, and notes that neither of his blades struck their targets. The thing still standing before him just carries on staring and grinning with those foul teeth, and Dean snarls, kicking out behind him, knocking the second creature back several steps.
He's about to launch himself at it while it's still trying to rebalance itself, but the first creature decides that it's precisely the right moment to end his staring game and put a boot into Dean's ribs. The air rushes from his lungs and Dean finds himself on all fours, coughing and gasping for breath. He'll be surprised if he doesn't have at least one broken rib, but it's hardly the time to dwell on his injuries.
The daggers had fallen from his hands, so he makes a grab for them as he rolls onto his back and away from the creatures, allowing him just enough time to scramble back onto his feet. The two things stare intently at him, as if they're starving and Dean's a steaming hot steak dinner. They both come at him simultaneously for the first time, and Dean pushes his own pains to the back of his mind, twirling the blades in his palms and striking with two hands. He feels a fist slam into the side of his head and another claw cut into his left shoulder, but neither of the creatures gets away clean, Dean landing a stomach wound on one and a bone-deep gash on the thigh of the other.
The thing with the leg wound immediately has troubles staying upright, so Dean takes his chance to attack the less-injured of the two, barrelling into its chest and sending them both tumbling to the ground. He lands yet another stab to its middle, getting black goo all over his ripped-up uniform, but the thing gets a hold of his left shoulder and squeezes, talon-like nails slicing into his flesh and wrenching the bone from its socket with a horrid crunch.
Dean screams, the blade dropping uselessly from his left hand. His adrenaline spikes and he pushes back against the creature, flipping it onto its back. He has just enough time to open its bowels with his knife before the second creature takes hold of his bad shoulder from behind and sends him skidding along the concrete ground. He groans pathetically, his whole left side paralysed with pain, and Dean wonders for the first time how, or rather if, he's going to get out of this with his life.
The second creature hobbles over to him, its injured leg all but unusable, and it collapses down on top of Dean, its filthy, tar-smelling breath puffing over his face. He tries to bring his knife up but finds his arms pinned by the thing's knees, and quick as a flash the creature stabs in-and-out of Dean's chest with its talons. There's a moment of complete stillness as the creature waits for Dean to realise what it's done, and as the blood begins to well up and soak the front of his uniform the thing smiles with glee.
Dean struggles and kicks, the pain in his left arm worse than ever, but the creature just continues to stab him like a child with a new toy, shallow little starbursts of gashes appearing all over his chest and stomach. He can feel himself getting light-headed from the shock and blood loss, and he knows he's running out of time to still put his lone dagger to use. But that feeling that he's always tamped down on, the craving to let it loose and kill in a way that he can't even fathom, it rears its ugly head right then in Dean's time of need, taking over his body and mind as he starts to weaken in earnest.
Suddenly it's as if Dean is watching from the outside, his consciousness somehow detaching itself from the rest of his body, yet he can feel and sense every moment of it like he's in two places at once. His arms take on strength he shouldn't have the ability to possess, and they pull themselves free of the creature's hold, hands closing around the thing's neck and squeezing until something goes crack. The creature's eyes bulge, and it starts to flail with its arms, pulling and scratching at Dean's hands. But Dean just pulls the thing even closer to his face, staring it straight into its haunting red eyes and he sucks in a long, deep breath of that fetid air.
The creature goes stock still, body rigid as a board. Dean simply takes another deep breath, his lungs expanding in a way that aches but still feels natural, as if he's stretching a little-used muscle. Slowly, the thing's jaw drops open and a whisper of black smoke floats out, like an exhaled puff from a cigarette.
It starts as the size of a small thread, crawling out in a thin, airy stream, but the thread just keeps pulling forth and unravelling into Dean's mouth, escalating until the smoke is teeming out, thick and fast. Dean knows he should be choking – sucking in so much air shouldn't have been possible to begin with, let alone this foul, black muck – yet here he is doing just that, inhaling this essence from inside the creature.
With a loud snap the smoke comes to an end, the thing's body going limp like a ragdoll – drained. Dean finds himself thrust back into full control of his body again, and there's a beat of motionless quiet before the pain of all his injuries pummels back into him like a ton of bricks. He barely manages to toss the creature's torso to the side, but its legs are still tangled on the ground with Dean's, and Dean can't find the strength to move an inch. His left side feels like every bone there has been crushed, and there's a cold, sticky sensation where the wound on his waist continues to bleed. The notion makes his head spin and his vision threaten to fade. He should've known it would happen eventually – that he would die cold and alone in an alley, after chasing down these mutant vampires that the world at large is completely ignorant of. With the reckless way he's been living his life, the reckless way he's been spending his work (and after-work) hours, he should've seen it coming.
The last moments that penetrate through his waning consciousness are of a shadow-cloaked man walking toward him and crouching down at his side. Some kind of death omen, perhaps? He has to be hallucinating.
The man is dressed all in black with heavy, laced-up boots, and floppy, dark brown hair masking half his face. He's a fucking mammoth of a man, all impossibly long limbs and broad, muscled shoulders, though Dean being flat on his back while this guy is hovering above him probably skews his perspective somewhat.
The man grabs firmly onto Dean's right arm – the not-broken one – staring down at him with a single hazel eye. Even as Dean drifts into the darkness, the man's few words echo through his mind.
"I'm here, Brother."
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It was September, the summer's warmth still present, but waning. Dean was on beat as usual, his dark blue uniform neat and tidy looking, his utility belt sitting snugly around his waist. His new partner Garth was still sitting in the passenger seat of the squad car while Dean was hangin' about outside. He didn't blame the kid, really – this was the graveyard shift, after all. This was the time when all the crazies were out and about on the city streets, and in this part of town you had to know how to look after yourself if you wanted to get by unscathed. Dean could probably lift Garth with one hand if he wanted to, the kid was so fucking scrawny. He wondered what would happen when something serious eventually came along – Garth had that 'deer in the headlights' look already, and he was only on his second day of night-shift, and only two hours in.
"Dean, you wanna get back in the car?"
Garth's voice sounded shit-scared. Dean grinned.
"What? You scared or som'thin', buddy? And this is a quiet night."
The kid swallowed audibly.
"Fine. Whatever."
He went back to typing something on his phone, and Dean shook his head with distaste. He had no idea why Captain Singer kept sending these rookies out with him when he knew how Dean liked to work, but he liked to think he was getting a chance to test them, see how they'd perform when they had the fear of God slap them in the face. And if there was one thing Dean knew he was good at, it was breeding fear – in criminals and cops alike.
That wasn't to say all his temporary 'partners' went running for the hills. He'd had a few that obviously knew what they were doing and were in this career for the right reasons, naturally smart enough to figure out the Captain's intentions for sending them out to patrol in the dark of night. Still, they never stayed long, always transferring out after a handful of weeks or months once their training was done. Many of them even left comment on how reckless and irresponsible a cop Dean was.
Again, he didn't blame them at all; he knew his methods weren't for everyone, even if half the time he did it deliberately just to see how the kids would react. Captain Singer insisted he was doing it on purpose, probably to push people away so he wouldn't have to start compromising or communicating and thus didn't have to deal with the commitment of a real partnership. It freaked Dean out a little sometimes, how well the Captain saw through his façade and understood him, but better it was the Captain than anyone else. At least he knew what Dean responded best to and how to use him to the force's advantage, not to mention that he knew Dean's limits likely better than Dean did, and didn’t push him into situations he'd flip out over.
Case in point being Dean's former partner – his proper partner, Benny. They'd been on beat together for years. They'd known each other inside and out, strengths and weaknesses, fears and loves. The precinct had had no better crime-fighting team than Dean and Benny, corny as that sounded.
They'd been on the hunt for a killer when things had gone horribly wrong. Sure, they weren't detectives per se, but the cops that patrolled the downtown area like Dean and Benny had all been brought in on the loop – they were on the lookout for a serial murderer, someone who'd gone 'rogue vampire' on them and was ripping victim's throats out left, right and centre and bleeding them dry. Problem was, no one had any kind of description of the culprit bar that they were 'tall-ish and dressed in dark clothes'. It could have been anyone in the whole fucking city, male or female, of any ethnicity.
So Dean and Benny had gotten serious about it. They'd been instrumental in helping detectives solve cases before, and they'd figured they could do it again. Their advantage came in the form of their rapport with people on the streets – homeless, prostitutes, junkies and the like. Within two weeks they'd had more information on the aptly-nicknamed 'Shadow Slasher' than the detectives had amassed in over two months.
For whatever reason, things had gone quiet for a long stretch of weeks after that – no sightings, no more bodies, nothing. They'd figured that maybe their culprit had realised how high profile he was becoming and had either decided to tone things down or move on to another hunting ground. That was until they were called to a disturbance near Chinatown at 2am one morning.
After making quick work of some drunkard douchebag who'd been taking his fists to his wife, Dean had been getting the guy comfy in the back seat of the squad car ready to drive him back for booking, when Benny had reacted to some far-off noise, hands automatically bringing his gun up at the ready. Trusting his partner's instincts, Dean had locked their prisoner securely in the car and followed Benny out into the dark alleyways around them, looking for anything that might have roused Benny's suspicions. They'd been slinking about for near ten minutes before they finally saw it.
Neither of them had known what to make of the sight before them. Halfway down an otherwise empty alley was a man – except, not a man – crouched over what was clearly a lifeless, bloodied corpse. The not-man had his knees bent out at awkward angles, reminiscent of how a frog sits, and he was bent over the body on the ground, long claw-like fingers picking at a large, open wound on the corpse as if it were plucking the peas out of a beef stew. It discarded something onto the ground before leaning all the way down to the body and chomping down on its neck, happily gnawing away at the dead flesh.
Dean remembered tasting his own dinner again as it rushed all the way back up his throat, but Benny had given the signal to cover him, so he'd forced himself to swallow it back down and focus. He'd kept an eye on Benny as the other cop had tip-toed his way down the alley, just a few steps at a time, and as quietly as he could Dean had taken his phone and texted their location to their Captain, knowing he'd get the message. He hadn't wanted to risk using the radio which would have made too much noise.
Content that backup was on the way, Dean had followed his partner's lead and moved in on the alley, darting from doorway to dumpster in order to stay out of sight. His breath had caught in his throat once Benny had gotten within twenty feet of the not-man, and as Benny had set up the shot he hadn't even dared to blink. They'd made an agreement in the beginning that should they ever come across the 'Shadow Slasher' they would shoot first and ask questions later. And Dean had been damn glad of it, too, because whatever the fuck was going on with that dude, it wasn't normal.
The sound of three successive gunshots had echoed through the narrow alley, and all had gone quiet. Dean and Benny had shared a look of anticlimactic resignation between them, and had moved to put their guns away as they stepped out into the open. But no sooner had their boots crunched down on the gravel, than the nowhere-near-dead body of the not-man had leapt up to its feet from where he'd been slumped atop the corpse, growling from deep in its throat. Across its shoulder and chest had been three blackened holes visible through the dirty grey shirt it had worn. Benny clearly hadn't missed, but nor had the not-man seemed fazed by the injuries in the least.
Benny had raised his gun again and shot their target clear in the eye, and blood so dark it looked black had spilled from the socket, dripping down its face and neck. His partner had looked as shocked as Dean felt, but the further injury only appeared to enrage the not-man even more, its arms flexing as it had readied itself to attack.
Sirens became audible in the background, and Dean had estimated they were still several blocks over. At any other scene he would have been thankful or relieved, but right then all he'd been able to think was that by the time backup got there it might've been too late already.
Dean had raised his own gun and taken steady aim when Benny gave the signal to stay back. Taking the cue, he'd leaned against the edge of a dumpster and used it to angle his gun and keep his arms stable, while Benny had tucked his gun back in his belt and retrieved his nightstick and a Taser, at a loss for what other weapon might work. Dean had watched on in near-panic as the not-man had stalked over the corpse and into Benny's space, his partner bending into a fighting stance and striking out with the nightstick.
For every hit the not-man took, it'd thrown one back just as hard, catching Benny in several places with its claws. Dean hadn't even known why he was still holding his gun, since clearly bullets were nothing to the not-man, and he'd desperately wanted in on the fight – two against one would surely have been better odds. But he honoured the agreement he'd made with Benny way back in the day, that your fight was your fight, no interfering unless things went seriously south. So he'd carried on watching as Benny got more and more scratched up and bruised. He'd been on the verge of calling bullshit on their agreement when he'd heard several more cop cars pulling up just on the other side of the alleyway.
He'd looked away for less than a moment, and in turning back he'd heard a shriek so high and piercing he'd reflexively cupped his hands over his ears. He'd noticed then that Benny had used the Taser, and the not-man clearly hadn't liked it, but once the electrical charge had worn down it simply pulled the leads from its body and launched itself at Benny with even more ferocity, its teeth snapping like a gator and viciously ripping a chunk of flesh from his partner's throat.
Benny had gone down like a lead balloon, clutching at his neck to stem the torrent of red blood flowing from the wound. The not-man had hightailed it out of the alley down a side street, but Dean nearly tripped over his own feet to get to Benny. He'd pulled the radio from his belt and practically screamed for someone to get a medic in there stat, and he'd immediately heard the footsteps of other cops running into the maze of backstreets to find them. He'd seen straight away that Benny was losing too much blood too quickly, and he'd tried to stop his partner from talking but Benny had just waved him off, gurgling and choking as he'd screeched for Dean to go after the killer.
Dean had been about to smack him when Benny'd suddenly passed out, and the image of him lying there (as good as) dead had sparked something fearsome inside Dean that he'd never known was there – a thirst for revenge. He'd leapt to his feet and run faster than he ever had before – he wasn't going to let a killer like that get away, not a chance. Without even knowing where he was going, Dean had let his instincts kick in, leading him through the labyrinth of alleys at top speed.
He'd lost count of all the rights and lefts he'd taken by the time he caught sight of his target. The not-man seemed to sense he was closing in and had ducked into an empty warehouse through a backdoor, but Dean had been quick enough to spot him, and had followed the killer inside.
The warehouse had been totally abandoned, only a few crates and some small machinery left behind. The not-man was hiding somewhere out of sight, but Dean had been able to sense it, scent it, even. There was a distinct smell about the not-man, a mix of old blood, motor oil, and something oddly metallic like rust. It had drawn Dean forward towards a pile of rotting, wooden boxes, and just as he'd been about to move round the side, the not-man had leapt out first, throwing punches haphazardly in every direction.
Dean had kept up the best he could, managing to land a few punches but not nearly enough to have slowed the thing down. After taking one particularly heavy hit to the stomach, Dean had found himself careening backwards into a wall. In glancing to the side he'd seen a faded red box attached to the wall, and he'd scrambled over to it, immediately thrusting his elbow through the protective glass and pulling out the tarnished axe hanging there.
He'd come out swinging then, more confident once he'd armed himself with a weapon that might finally be of use. The not-man had reared back, wary of the axe, but Dean had advanced on it quickly, continually wielding the weapon back and forth. They'd danced around each other for several moments before the not-man had tried to strike again. And that time Dean had been ready for it.
With one fell swoop he'd lopped the not-man's head clear from its body, the torso and limbs tumbling to the ground with a dead-sounding thump. Black-coloured blood had sprayed onto the concrete floor, flowing thickly from the remains and filling the area with the stench of rusted metal and rotting flesh. Dean had no idea how long he'd stood there for, just staring at the decapitated body, the axe still gripped limply in his right hand. It had felt like forever, yet at the same time it had felt like no time at all.
Eventually other cops and forensics people had swarmed on the scene, photographing everything and prying the axe from his hand. Captain Singer had been the one to finally escort him from the warehouse, slinging an arm over his shoulder to direct him back through the alleys to his and Benny's car. He'd been about to ask after Benny's wellbeing when he'd spotted the medical examiner's van across the way. Even as everyone had passed by with their too-easy back-pats of mixed congratulations and condolences, Dean had felt something die off inside himself, an unfamiliar, but blinding hot rage rising up to take over the empty space.
The Captain had subsequently ordered him off duty for no less than a month, which Dean had spent the majority of in a haze of alcohol, cigarettes and Italian take-out. He'd returned to the office to a wave of melancholy applause from his peers, medal commendations in both his and Benny's name having been left in the centre of his desk. The Captain had then called him to his office and introduced him to a man known only as Rufus, who in turn had offered Dean a chance to 'move up' in the world.
Apparently there'd been a bunch of other superiors from other law and government-related agencies who'd been impressed with his and Benny's work and wanted him for their own respective teams. But Dean had (through Captain Singer) told them all to go fuck themselves, with all due respect. No doubt the Captain had rephrased his refusals with a more restrained manner.
It wasn't until he'd been back on the job for a week that he'd been informed of the Shadow Slasher's body having somehow vanished from the coroner's office before they'd even started on an autopsy. According to the reports, nearly the whole precinct had been in on the job of finding the body and/or who'd taken it, but they'd come up empty from every angle. Even the security feeds of the coroner's office had come up blank.
For Dean, that had been the last straw.
Thankfully the Captain hadn't pushed a new partner on him straight away, and he'd been allowed to patrol on his own for several weeks at the start. In that time Dean had established some new procedures for himself, starting with carrying a knife with him at all times, concealed either in his boots or down the side of his pants, wedged under his utility belt. He was also a slight bit more negligent toward his usual beat-cop protocols, and was somehow even more of an ass towards his peers than normal. The Captain had side-eyed him on more than one occasion, but considering Dean's stupidly good track record for catching the bad guys, he'd let Dean off with little more than a warning.
The time on his own had also allowed him a chance to investigate a hunch he'd developed while he'd been lounging around in his apartment in a four-week-long drunken stupor. It had seemed an impossible conclusion at first, but the more alcohol he'd imbibed, the more it became a viable solution. It may have taken a while to confirm his suspicions, but once he had, it was like the crack in the dam that turned from a drip to a torrent.
The not-man hadn't been a lone anomaly. The not-man had been just one of some kind of mutated species that fed on blood and human flesh.
The more Dean had gone out patrolling - hunting - on his own, the more he got a feel for how these unknown beasts moved around the city, and when and where they preferred to go snacking. It had taken him a whole six weeks to fall upon the first one, which had been about to start feasting on a man still in the throes of dying from a stab wound. Dean had called for help for the victim and taken off running after the creature, but lost it amongst the myriad of dank, urine-stained alleyways.
That hadn't been the last he saw of the things by a long shot. Eventually he started coming upon them nearly every night, always either about to feed or still in the process of stalking their dinner. It'd occurred to him then that after he'd decapitated the first one all those weeks ago no more bodies had been found. Thus he'd hypothesised that these creatures had somehow taken to 'cleaning up' once they were done.
That single notion had led Dean to think that perhaps there was someone or something behind the appearance of these creatures. Dean had kept an eye out for clues after that, though admittedly he hadn't pursued that avenue of thought quite as diligently as he pursued the beasts themselves. He'd quickly developed a delight in the killing of them, freely spilling their black-as-oil blood, and disposing of the remains for certainty's sake – in an old incinerator he'd discovered in an abandoned factory down by the docks. He'd gotten into a rhythm of it, as it were, and something about the whole process felt inexplicably right in a way he couldn't explain. So even when the Captain had started offloading rookies onto him as temporary partners, he still made time after his shift ended at 3am to go do a little hunting.
Here and now with Garth, though, it was still early (by his standards) and they had official police business to tend to before he could go out playing mutant-killing vigilante. More and more it crossed his mind whether there were other people out there who knew about the not-men, and even more so if there were others out there who hunted them.
Of course, he knew for certain that there were some people who knew of the creatures, but smack-junkies weren't exactly what one might call credible witnesses. Unless you were Dean, that is. There were two particular guys he was 'friendly' with, both of whom were nearly impossible to locate at any given time since they moved around so much. But in their chaotic back-and-forthing across the city, Ash and Balty saw all manner of weird and wonderful things. Their appearances were so scrappy and their brains so chemically fried that no one felt threatened by them in the least, but if you knew the right questions to ask and how to interpret their seemingly-nonsensical answers, you could find out just about anything.
It was only because of them that he and Benny had collected so much info on the Shadow Slasher case all those months ago. And the two were always more than happy to help, especially when Dean brought them 'treats' in the form of cigarettes or cans of beer.
"We just gonna sit here all night? Not that I mind…"
Pulled from his thoughts, Dean found Garth looking up at him from inside the car, a half-eaten donut in his hand – so much for stereotypes.
"Why? You bored already, kiddywinks?"
Dean smirked when the kid made a face, and moved to get back in the driver's seat. He'd actually been waiting for one of his informants to show, but he figured she must have scored a john and was off working somewhere. It wasn't a big deal though; he could circle back around later on to see if she was there.
Besides, if they got busy, the quicker the time would pass and the sooner he could be free of Garth and head off hunting. He usually made it home by around 7 in the morning, when he'd sneak into his apartment building through the basement door and pass out with exhaustion the moment he'd kicked off his boots and landed on the bed.
Some would probably think that he worked too hard, crashing out like he did – and that wasn't to say that he didn't work hard, because when he had a job to do no one busted their ass to get it done quite the way Dean did. But the way daylight hours seemed to sap his energy, Dean maintained that he simply had some kind of aversion to the sun in general. Maybe a freaky allergy or something. It had always been that way, even growing up.
In recent years though, since he continuously worked nights and slept days, his reaction was even more pronounced. He'd ultimately transformed himself into a wholly nocturnal animal, so much so that even entering into the bright lights of the precinct was occasionally bothersome for his eyes. Sometimes he questioned whether he honestly might have some sort of medical condition, but he always settled on the conclusion that he'd just unintentionally conditioned himself over time – Pavlov's dog eat your heart out.
Not that there was anyone around to complain about any of it. He'd had minimal contact with people outside the force to begin with, but after Benny had died he'd completely shut himself off from general social outings. He still ventured out to pick up once in a while, but the odd one-night-stand was as far as it got. It was just one more thing on the list of 'parts of Dean that are fubared now that Benny's gone'.
He clenched his teeth and beat his hand against the steering wheel as he turned over the engine, abruptly pulling the car away from the curb. Garth squeaked at his side, gripping the door handle for dear life, and just that small thing was enough to lessen the tension of his jaw, pulling his lips into a half-smile. Seeing how many ways he could freak the kid out was well becoming something of a little game to Dean – and that, at least, was a small spark of pleasure in his day.
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Pulling off his boots, Sam collapsed down on the edge of his bed with a tired groan. He was almost too weary to peel his leathers off, but he knew he’d regret it later if he didn’t. So he let his jacket slip from his shoulders onto the sheets, then unclipped the straps that criss-crossed over his chest to hold his daggers and throwing knives close to his body. They fell heavily on top of his jacket, the metal clinking together as the weapons landed atop one another – thankfully he'd already wiped them off, so at least he wouldn't have to worry about cleaning them later on. He then unbuckled his pants and struggled to push them all the way down, hissing as he had to bend past his knees, before kicking them the rest of the way off and onto the carpeted floor. Next came the hard part.
Taking a deep breath he plucked at the hem of his black t-shirt with gloved fingers, tugging up the soggy fabric until it caught under his armpits. He winced as he looked down. The right side of his torso looked like a five year old had taken a hack at him with a butcher’s knife. He had one long cut from the side of his nipple all the way down to the waistband of his pants; there was a second slicing across it from his sternum to the outer edge of his ribs, and another dozen shallow gashes in various locations in-between.
Luckily most of them hadn't bled all that much and the smaller wounds were already started to scab a bit, but he was still going to have to clean them up and play doctor - the two longer gashes were gonna hurt like a bitch later on. Steeling himself with another deep breath, he pulled the t-shirt up over his head and threw it in the general direction of his garbage bin, groaning when the sudden stretch re-opened a section of one of the wounds, a small drop of blood welling up on the surface and skimming down his stomach until it soaked into the elastic of his boxers.
He supposed he could still pay a visit to the Fount. It had been about three weeks since Sam had last fed from him, and just a small mouthful of the Fount’s pure blood would have him completely healed and restored in no time. Of course, that would also mean exposing the fact that he got hurt. Samandriel might have been an unreasonably nice guy and a good listener, but when it came to the Flock Superior he could never quite manage keep his mouth shut. And if their Superior found out he’d been injured and then not said anything… Well, being temporarily suspended from patrols would be the least of his problems.
Sam remembered the last time he’d not said anything about his troubles and then been found out. He had disturbing dreams often enough, had done since childhood, but every now and then they became increasingly more frequent and vivid until he just didn't sleep at all. Couldn't, in fact. And while being a Wingman for the Flock afforded him such capabilities as being able to go without adequate rest for an extended period of time, eventually there came a point where he either had to bend to his body's needs, or break. A few years back it had been the latter, and he'd nearly gotten himself killed for being so fucking stupid as to go out hunting without all his faculties in check.
Their Superior had retracted him from patrol duties for six months while he recovered and got a hold over his sleeping issues. Though, the cabin fever had nearly driven him mad all on its own. He supposed that now, at least, he had a better grasp of where his limits were, and when he needed to say the word and throw in the towel. He'd eventually reached the conclusion that he could only be all the better for knowing it.
As for earlier that night, he’d been out patrolling with Raphael, scouring the streets down by the harbour where they often found Hellions skulking about. The creatures had nests dotted all over the city, but finding them was nigh on impossible. They were like cockroaches – foul, sneaky little bastards that hid right under your nose.
Their hunt had started off slowly as it often did. Hours spent getting familiar with the microscopic variances between one back alley and the next. And despite the necessity for being alert and at the ready at all times, it did afford Sam quite a lot of time to think – something which he'd always done with great fervour. His most persistent observation of late was that the Hellions seemed to be more few and far between than he would otherwise expect. He hadn't mentioned it to any of his brothers, nor had any of them brought it up (if they'd even noticed such a thing), but Sam had noticed. It had become a frequent occurrence in recent weeks, that they would return to their shared home without the tell-tale spatter of oily blood on their boots and weapons, or their preferred leatherwear all torn to shreds by sharp talons.
Sam didn't know what to make of it, even several months after the thought had first crossed his mind. Should they be pleased that maybe their arduous patrolling was finally showing signs of paying off? Or should they be all the more worried that the Hellions were perhaps getting smarter, and hiding away until some devious plan of theirs came to fruition?
Now that particular thought made Sam's head throb forebodingly. He dropped his head into his hands just as harsh flashes of light and loud images like those of his dreams flickered before his eyes for a moment, before swiftly melting away. It was the second time that week he'd experienced a vision during waking hours, but still whatever he was being shown was too chaotic for him to make much sense of it.
He could always try to tell his brothers of his worries, but it was unlikely they would pay much attention. Michael in particular was ripe for always laughing at his 'feelings', often telling him that if he wished for something hard enough, he was sure it would come true! Raphael wasn't quite as provocative toward Sam, he was more the sort to 'tolerate in silence'. Of course, that hadn't stopped them splitting up as soon as they'd reached the harbour earlier – their chosen hunting ground for the evening. He knew for a fact that not all the Flock split up when they were out hunting, most of them always seemed to stay in their pairs, or such was Sam's impression whenever he heard them talking about it. He had to wonder if he was being paranoid, or whether he was in some kind of denial state and it was just him that they didn't stick around with.
Regardless, once Sam had caught sight of his first Hellion pair of the night and chased them down, he'd engaged them in fight without hesitation – as was expected of him. In his over-zealous need to end them he'd gotten sloppy, allowing one of them to get a hand inside his jacket and grasp after his throwing knives. Sam had kneed it back, but in the process the thing had somehow gotten itself caught on his chest harness and ended up with its claws buried in Sam's side. At first it had freaked, pulling and pushing to try and get itself free, but in hearing Sam's grunts of discomfort it had changed its mind and decided that being stuck was fun.
The creature had still been caught in the straps when its body – sans head – had slumped to the ground, the exposed stump of its neck spurting jets of black blood into the air.
Raphael hadn't shown himself until a handful of minutes later, when Sam had been crouching on the ground in rest, the amply dismembered bodies of two Hellions scattered around him, still leaking blood. Sam had given no indication he was hurt despite being hunched on the ground, and Raphael had made no move to help him up. He'd waited until the older Wingman had turned and headed off before he'd struggled to his feet, gathering the body parts into garbage bags he'd pilfered from nearby bins before dumping them down into the water. One of the plus sides of patrolling by the harbour – easy clean up.
Now though, Sam had to think about cleaning himself up.
After a quick shower to wash the dried blood and grime away, Sam stood in front of the bathroom mirror and inspected the entirely too-visible gashes on his torso, the two largest ones still sluggishly oozing blood. He estimated there'd be at least three scars among them to add to his collection – if he took no sustenance from the Fount and let the wounds heal on their own, he would scar in the same way a human would. That thought had him staring between the two points of his right eye and left hand, both currently exposed thanks to his slicked-back hair and lack of gloves.
Each area was patterned with dozens of thin criss-crossing lines, which looked not unlike that of a spider's web. Over his eye it continued all the way up to his hairline and then some, and it pinched the side of his eyelid in a way that it pulled a little every time he blinked. Thankfully his vision had remained adequate, but the odd shape of his eyelid sometimes irritated the surface and made it look like he hadn't slept for a week.
As for his hand, it was a bit of an anomaly. It was bad enough that the skin was so raised and puckered that it looked like the whole surface had been burned off, but ever since he'd been cursed to be this way, any person or thing he touched was at risk of dying a horrible and instantaneous death. It had taken the unfortunate demise of five people, plus the loss of several items of furniture and a dozen knives, before he figured out what the problem was and how to combat it. And since then he'd not once removed his left glove in the presence of other people. The fear and repulsion was simply too much for him to handle, even all these years later.
Thankfully, his hand never seemed to bring any harm upon himself. So as he retrieved the small first aid kit he kept under the sink and prepared items enough for him to stitch up his wounds, the only things he had to worry about were pointing the needle in the right direction and tying the thread up neatly.
He'd given himself nearly two dozen stitches by the time he was satisfied, and he could already feel the bruises blossoming around the edges of the cuts – goddamn Hellions and their vicious claws.
Sam took himself to bed without bothering to head down to the kitchen in search of any food or drink. Were he to run into anyone there would have been questions – he knew he looked like crap by now, and there was no way any of his brothers wouldn't notice. But if he stayed out of the way, it was less likely anyone would come looking.
The pained expression on his face and the hunched posture of his body were dead giveaways. He would have to sleep it off.
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Part Two-->
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Date: 2013-07-27 03:43 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-07-28 08:07 am (UTC)