( after a month of leads going dry, they finally know where michael is going to be — dean knows he hasn't been hiding, but he has been waiting, and that's probably worse. michael is methodical, does things with purpose, according to plan, whatever that plan might be (dean only knows the basics of it — enhanced monster army — but to what end exactly? there's a vital piece missing that they haven't quite been able to zero in on, so michael being this quiet makes him nervous, makes him even more anxious to hunt). now they're going to have to be patient themselves, which has never suited dean very well. he gets antsy. but he knows this isn't a fight they can just go in guns blazing.
he catches wind of a werewolf case out in omaha that might have ties to michael, might help them get the drop on him when the time comes — or it could just be another run of the mill monster job. either way, it's worth looking into, but he insists on leaving cas with jack because he doesn't wanna take the kid on a job so soon after getting him back (doesn't want to give him an incentive to burn off any pieces of his soul — he knows how much jack wants to help even at the cost of such a precious and finite resource; he's more like a winchester already than dean wants to admit). sam is off following up with rowena on some witchy business that might help them against michael, so dean's on his own for this one. it's probably better that way, he thinks. it'll give him a chance to burn off some of his nerves without any judging eyes.
when he finally tracks the thing down, he thinks he's too late: a body lies bloody and missing a heart outside what looks like an abandoned cabin. fuck. the wolf, if it's smart, is already gone, but dean checks the area anyway just to be sure. by the time he comes back to the body, ready to pull his phone out to call the police, he notices the hole in the man's chest is definitely not a hole anymore. instead of his phone, he reaches for his gun. waits. watches.
[ Booker has seen some very strange things in his long life thus far, and more than that, he's lived them. But men who turn into animals is a first, something he's only read in Gothic novels and seen on television. To see one is a sight on its own, but to be torn apart by one is something else entirely.
It's savage and emotionless, and it's admittedly one of the more terrifying experiences he can recall. He probably won't want a repeat of that again.
When he comes to, the pain isn't all that much different from a gunshot or a grenade being thrown in his direction, but there's a gun pointed in his face when he tilts his head to look up. And the man dressed in flannel, very American, looks like maybe he knows a thing or two about shooting things. Maybe he should worry about shooting werewolves instead of wounded men who cannot die.
Booker's laugh is empty of humour and sounds a little more like a cough near the end. He rolls over onto his back, stares up at the dilapidated awning of the old wood cabin instead. ]
As you can see, I am sadly missing the claws.
[ Yeah, he has had some time to check out the movies. And maybe read a comic or two. When you live this long —
He coughs again but already the hole in his chest has healed to nothing more than a red welt. ]
( not a lot of things can come back from the dead like that, so the list of things he's dealing with is, for once, pretty fucking short. frankly, it might be easier to cross off what he's not dealing with first — process of elimination tends to work in his favor in these particular cases.
so: definitely not a leviathan or an angel (no wolf, not even an alpha would have stood a chance against either of them); too soon to be a nazi thule bastard (they don't regenerate that fast); too old to be prometheus' kid (and wasn't that curse lifted when artemis killed zeus?) but he can't exactly rule demigod or any of the classical gods out of the question. could be a vampire if this was some kinda turf war, but surely a wolf wouldn't be stupid enough to go after a vampire without knowing how to kill one.
leaving ... well, not a lot. with all of the usuals out or at least very unlikely, he's starting to consider he might be dealing with something he's never seen before. which makes things a lot more complicated. and makes him far less inclined to lower his weapon. )
Nah, I don't think so.
( he stares down at booker, eyes narrowed. he doesn't like being in the position of not knowing how to kill something, especially something that can apparently revive itself from getting torn to shreds. he's probably not in a position to be making demands here, either, but dean has always been the type of man to vastly overestimate his own importance. )
You're gonna tell me what the hell you are and maybe I'll consider putting the gun down. ( but probably not. ) Wouldn't test your luck.
Of course. [ Booker's accent is thick, but the words are very, very dry; easy enough to get the gist of how very done he's feeling anyway.
He lets the last of the wound close, wincing as his skin stitches together on its own accord, and then he breathes out. It would have been a truly idiotic way to die his final death, especially knowing as little as he does about the thing that tore him up and tried to make its escape, so he's relieved about that at least. But the rest of him feels tired and a little resigned. What a curse to be brought back again. ]
You could shoot me but we both know there's no use in it.
[ It will hurt when he wakes up again, but he will wake up again, and he's going to be rather pissed off.
Merde. ]
May I at least sit up while you point that thing at me?
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he catches wind of a werewolf case out in omaha that might have ties to michael, might help them get the drop on him when the time comes — or it could just be another run of the mill monster job. either way, it's worth looking into, but he insists on leaving cas with jack because he doesn't wanna take the kid on a job so soon after getting him back (doesn't want to give him an incentive to burn off any pieces of his soul — he knows how much jack wants to help even at the cost of such a precious and finite resource; he's more like a winchester already than dean wants to admit). sam is off following up with rowena on some witchy business that might help them against michael, so dean's on his own for this one. it's probably better that way, he thinks. it'll give him a chance to burn off some of his nerves without any judging eyes.
when he finally tracks the thing down, he thinks he's too late: a body lies bloody and missing a heart outside what looks like an abandoned cabin. fuck. the wolf, if it's smart, is already gone, but dean checks the area anyway just to be sure. by the time he comes back to the body, ready to pull his phone out to call the police, he notices the hole in the man's chest is definitely not a hole anymore. instead of his phone, he reaches for his gun. waits. watches.
the man gasps.
dean points his gun clear at the man's face. )
Not so fast, Wolverine.
no subject
It's savage and emotionless, and it's admittedly one of the more terrifying experiences he can recall. He probably won't want a repeat of that again.
When he comes to, the pain isn't all that much different from a gunshot or a grenade being thrown in his direction, but there's a gun pointed in his face when he tilts his head to look up. And the man dressed in flannel, very American, looks like maybe he knows a thing or two about shooting things. Maybe he should worry about shooting werewolves instead of wounded men who cannot die.
Booker's laugh is empty of humour and sounds a little more like a cough near the end. He rolls over onto his back, stares up at the dilapidated awning of the old wood cabin instead. ]
As you can see, I am sadly missing the claws.
[ Yeah, he has had some time to check out the movies. And maybe read a comic or two. When you live this long —
He coughs again but already the hole in his chest has healed to nothing more than a red welt. ]
You should put that thing down.
no subject
so: definitely not a leviathan or an angel (no wolf, not even an alpha would have stood a chance against either of them); too soon to be a nazi thule bastard (they don't regenerate that fast); too old to be prometheus' kid (and wasn't that curse lifted when artemis killed zeus?) but he can't exactly rule demigod or any of the classical gods out of the question. could be a vampire if this was some kinda turf war, but surely a wolf wouldn't be stupid enough to go after a vampire without knowing how to kill one.
leaving ... well, not a lot. with all of the usuals out or at least very unlikely, he's starting to consider he might be dealing with something he's never seen before. which makes things a lot more complicated. and makes him far less inclined to lower his weapon. )
Nah, I don't think so.
( he stares down at booker, eyes narrowed. he doesn't like being in the position of not knowing how to kill something, especially something that can apparently revive itself from getting torn to shreds. he's probably not in a position to be making demands here, either, but dean has always been the type of man to vastly overestimate his own importance. )
You're gonna tell me what the hell you are and maybe I'll consider putting the gun down. ( but probably not. ) Wouldn't test your luck.
no subject
He lets the last of the wound close, wincing as his skin stitches together on its own accord, and then he breathes out. It would have been a truly idiotic way to die his final death, especially knowing as little as he does about the thing that tore him up and tried to make its escape, so he's relieved about that at least. But the rest of him feels tired and a little resigned. What a curse to be brought back again. ]
You could shoot me but we both know there's no use in it.
[ It will hurt when he wakes up again, but he will wake up again, and he's going to be rather pissed off.
Merde. ]
May I at least sit up while you point that thing at me?