Chapter Text
CHAPTER 1
The warehouse is chaos. An absolute blur of blood, adrenaline and a sinking feeling once again that this might be how he goes out. He never gets used to it no matter how much he rehearses that part in his head. No matter how many times he tells himself: *It is what it is. I was born to do this.* He always thinks he is ready for it. Has accepted it. Welcomes it even. And then the fear crawls up his throat. It tastes like metal and desperation. He swallows it down and swings his blade in blind survival.
Vamps everywhere. Screaming metal. Gunshots echoing too loud in the enclosed space. Too many, too fast. Can't keep up. Can't...
Dean loses his blade when one of them slams him into a steel support beam. His head cracks back. Stars burst in his vision. A whiteout flash where nothing matters because he isn't coherent. Suspension in time. He hopes it'd last. Then panics. *No, no, no.*
The vampire grins, fangs descending.
Dean scrambles, reaching for the knife at his belt -but in the struggle he wrenches it wrong. The blade slices across his own side as it’s knocked from his grip.
Hot pain blooms. He barely registers it. Focused entirely on the sharp teeth gleaming in the dark of the warehouse. *I'm going to die.* The thought is sudden and as terrifying as a dark pit.
The vamp shoves him hard against the wall, forearm crushing his throat. He tries to inhale as his hands claw uselessly at the arm crushing his windpipe. Eyes wide he musters all of that air into loud and jagged plea.
“Dad!” Dean shouts, panic breaking through the bravado. “Dad, don’t you freakin' let it kill me!”
Across the warehouse, John is locked in a fight with two others. He glances over — sees the position — fires once but misses. The shot echoes like a dead sentence.
“Get it together!” John barks. “Figure it out!”
The vamp’s mouth is inches from Dean’s throat now.
Dean’s vision blurs. He tries to twist, tries to knee it off —
The shotgun blast is deafening.
The vamp jerks violently and collapses, dead weight sliding down Dean’s body before hitting the floor with a meaty thud.
Dean sucks in air like he’s been underwater. His vision swims at the edges and his blood rushes back in, causing him to wobble.
A hand grips his shoulder.
“Easy,” a low and gravelly voice orders.
Dean looks up.
Broad chest. Solid stance. Salt and pepper streaks ghosting the dark hair. Taller than him. Older than him. Shotgun still raised. Calm eyes scanning for additional threats before settling on him.
The man grips Dean’s arm and hauls him forward out of the splatter zone. Their bodies collide briefly in the movement — The stranger's hand firm at Dean’s waist to steady him. His heart skips a beat. *The adrenaline* he figures even as he feels heat crawling up his cheeks.
“You with me?” The man asks.
Dean nods automatically, even though his head is ringing white static. He is trying to catch his breath and orient into the fact that he was just saved by this person. Who the hell is this guy?
Footsteps approach.
John arrives, breathing hard, jaw tight. His eyes are stormy and sharp. The way they get increasingly often nowadays. Dean's shoulders tighten reflexively even as he hunches over, pain grating his side.
The stranger looks at his father and steps back giving them space. His calloused hand leaves Dean's side. Cold air replacing the brief contact. Reality sets back in.
“You let it get the drop on you,” John snaps immediately. “Always watch your six.”
Dean stiffens. “I was handling it—”
“You were pinned.”
The broad man's eyes flick between them.
“Cutting it a little close, don’t you think?” The man interjects evenly. Dean's eyes dart to him. He is not used to anyone criticizing his father out loud. There’s no accusation in the tone — but there is concern.
John’s mouth flattens. “He’s fine.”
The stranger looks back at Dean.
Dean sways. Just slightly. The man's gaze drops to Dean’s side. Blood is soaking through his shirt.
“That don’t look fine,” He says grimly.
Dean follows his line of sight like it’s the first time he’s noticed. “Oh,” he mutters. It’s deeper than he thought.
John exhales sharply through his nose. “You lose your blade?”
Dean nods once.
John shakes his head. Disappointed. Always disappointed. “Careless.”
It hits harder than the wound.
The older man doesn’t say anything for a second. Then, quietly: “He held his ground against a turned vamp long enough for backup. That ain’t careless.”
Dean’s head snaps up. No one talks about him like that. Not to John. John’s eyes narrow slightly, measuring the man. Measuring the situation.
Then he notes: "Well we weren't exactly expecting backup." John smiles just barely and continues; switching the subject: "Not an old friend like Joel Miller at least."
Dean is suprised at the seeming recognition. His father works alone, prefers it. Not even an acquintance. A FRIEND. He looks from one man to another. Then carefully through his throbbing pain he ventures disbelievingly: "You two know each other?"
John smiles an actual smile. A proud one. A rare sight. Like witnessing a goddamn miracle after a war. It doesn't fit. Something that is not reserved for Dean and he feels a pang of jealousy. Ridiculous but raw. John recollects: "Seattle. Some trouble with ghouls. It got more hairy than I'd like to admit. I would be dead without this guy."
Joel shrugs and says simply: "Not just ghouls. Some people too. Story for another time."
The next words he directs at Dean urgently: "That can wait until we handle that." He refers to the nasty wound seeping sticky red through Dean's flannel. Soaking him.
Dean is lightheaded. Not from the concerned voice, he thinks. The bloodloss. Definitely the bloodloss. *Get it together, Winchester.*
“Some of them got away,” John says finally. “We’ll regroup.”
Joel nods. “We’re gonna need to stitch him up first."
Dean straightens instinctively despite the bloodloss. Shame is bubbling inside his stomach. Twisting and turning. The hunt is a bust. The vamps gone in the wind. He failed and it cost them. Ain't no way he is going to let someone coddle him on top of that. “I can do it myself.”
John’s attention shifts back to him. He gives Dean a disinterested sweep. Then decides: “You cut yourself. Fix it.”
The tone is clipped. Final.
Dean swallows. “Yes, sir.”
It’s automatic. He doesn't think. He conforms, obeys and settles. He is used to this pattern.
He presses a hand harder against the wound to stop the bleeding and maybe to punish himself for being inadequate. Again.
Joel watches that exchange carefully.
Watches the way Dean’s jaw tightens.The way he doesn’t argue. The way he bleeds and apologizes at the same time.And something in Joel’s expression shifts.
They head outside. John moving fast and decisive. Dean dragging behind as quickly as he can. Leaving a bloody trail on the dirt. He can feel Joel's attention on him. The man hovering a few steps behind him. No doubt keeping an eye on him in case he falters.
Dean grimaces and bites down on something murky that emerges from deep within him. Warm safety. Disgust at himself. Both tangling inside. He files the feelings away as inconvenient. He opens the car door with a creak, very aware of Joel's steady presence beside him. The smell of salty rust and piney aftershave mix in the air as he climbs into the backseat of the Impala. Joel follows close behind.
When the car engine roars to life and they peel off into the dark of the night Dean lets out a painful hiss. The wound hurts. His ego hurts more.
Joel's dark eyes lock onto his instantly. His expression unreadable. Dean feels it in his bones and his eyes drop involuntarily. Joel's lips are chapped. Dean closes his eyes and leans back on the seat grumbling in pain. He can feel the heat of the broad body next to him. It feels comforting. He hates that.