Dean Winchester

[OOC]
This is the permissions list for OOC (out of character), activity.

Backtagging: Yes, forever!
Threadhopping: Only if everyone involved is okay with it.
Fourthwalling: I'd rather not.
Offensive subjects (elaborate): If the offensive stuff is IC for the character, I can usually roll with it. Being offensive for the sake of being offensive bugs me.

[IC]
This is the permissions list for IC (in-character), activity.

Hugging this character: Close relationships: Sure, go for it! Strangers: You can, but he will be uncomfortable if you're a living thing with a heartbeat because you'll likely smell very tasty.
Kissing this character: See above.
Flirting with this character: Yes. A thousand times yes.
Fighting with this character: Go for it. He fights dirty and is generally armed.
Injuring this character (include limits and severity): No permanent disfiguring without discussion first. Anything up to that is generally okay.
Killing this character: Only with discussion first.
Using telepathy/mind reading abilities on this character: Discussion first. He's a dead thing, so his brain works in different ways from the living.

Warning: This version of Dean has the ability to glamour the living. Basically it's a form of mind control. He can also implant thoughts, ideas, and memories. If you'd like to opt out of being affected by this, please comment here and let me know!

This is Dean. Leave a message.

The old theater building is two stories tall and square. ( Very square. )

Dean watched Sam emerge from the bathroom after his shower. Definitely not the scrawny kid he'd been last time Dean saw him. What were they feeding him at Stanford? Jesus. He shook his head a little.

While Sam was showering, he'd looked through Dad's journal again and read the articles Sam pulled up on the laptop. He nodded at the question. "Looks like Dad's sort of thing. Figure if I drive all night, we can be in Colorado in another two days, tops. Maybe less."

Not ideal, but it was the best he could do. Unless... "Unless you wanna break into a morgue somewhere and grab us a body bag. Guess I could ride out the day in the trunk while you're driving..."

Jesus, fuck, he didn't want to do that. He would, but it kind of felt like a nifty game of Russian roulette.


((Continued from here.))

Life began to suck in 2002. That's literal and figurative. Literal, because it was the year the vampires of the world “came out” of the closet or the coffin or whatever their party line is. I'm telling you, having one enormous subset of monsters – that you previously thought didn't even exist – come out to the public and start clamoring for rights as citizens? Makes the life of a monster hunter all kinds of complicated.

It was also the year Sam left us and went to Stanford. That was the figurative suck. My geeky, brainy, pushy, rebellious, little brother got himself a full ride to one of the most prestigious colleges in the country. Our family never recovered. Dad had never been much for worrying about our education. Whether Sam became a unmitigated geek-nerd because of genetics or just to spite the old man, I'll never know. All I could do growing up was try to get between them and give Sam the room he needed to do his thing. It wasn't easy, not with the life we lived. Dad was determined to keep us alive by any means necessary and that meant sacrificing just about everything to 'the life'. To hunting all the bad things that go bump in the night.

It was never Sam's life, though. So, off he went.

Not long after Sam left, Dad starting taking more solo cases. We'd worked together almost all my life, but all of the sudden, I was apparently old enough and experienced enough to hunt alone, full time. It was one of the moments I'd expected to be most proud of in my life and I couldn't be more depressed. Sam was long gone and Dad was all but gone. I was on my own.

Still, I kept hunting. I had a job and I was good at it. I helped people. Saved them. Most of them never even knew it, but such is the gig. All the while, Dad and I took turns looking in on Sam at Stanford. Every once in a while, we'd cross paths, exchange notes on the kid, on the hunts, have a few beers, then part ways again. It wasn't the family I wanted, but it was what I got, you know? Gotta roll with the punches in life or learn to love ass-kickings.

That's not to say I didn't get my ass soundly kicked a time or two. Every once in a while you just hit a case that reminded you how awesome it used to be to have backup. One of those cases... my last case, in fact... began in 2004, not long after my birthday. I was 25, I was alone, and I was reckless. If Dad was here, I'd get such a lecture for walking blindly into a situation like I did without regard for the risk. In my defense, though... how could I have predicted any of this?

That's ahead of my story, though. Back up to my birthday.

I got just one call. My adopted uncle Bobby Singer gave me a ring and a good-natured argument about something stupid. I can't even remember what it was, now. The argument wasn't important; I knew it was staged for my benefit. Under the gruff exterior, Bobby's made of marshmallows, baby ducks, and dryer lint... all the squishy, soft things in life. He just wanted to remind me, in his own way, that he cared, and I appreciated it. Not as much as I should have, but who does appreciate what's in front of them? Never do until it's gone. If I'd known how soon I'd lose him, too, I'd have picked another fight. Hell, if I'd been smart, I'd have gone straight to Sioux Falls as soon as I hung up with him. Then again, nobody's ever accused me of being smart...

So, it was not long after my birthday I got wind of a nearby case. Possible case, anyway. According to the locals, someone was stealing their cats. Not really my kind of gig, until you looked closer at the details. This person or thing, whatever it was, was stealing only cats, no other pets, and the bodies were being found later, completely exsanguinated. Weirder still were the few, fleeting eye-witness descriptions of the... petnapper...

Dude, Elvis Presley was killing cats for some kind of ritual blood sacrifice or something in Louisiana, land of freaky shit. How could I resist? I considered the case my birthday present to me.

Enter Benton, Louisiana. It's a town famous for exactly nothing. The town's entire area measures around two square miles. It's a postage stamp. A postage stamp well inside vampire country. After the Great Revelation, most hunters had kept well clear of Louisiana, especially New Orleans. The vampires were in honest-to-god talks with the American government for recognition as full US citizens and, depending on how jazzed the local population was about the whole thing, an honest monster hunter could find himself on the wrong side of a murder charge for staking one of the damn things if he wasn't careful.

Yeah, I said staking. Turns out that works, but that's jumping ahead, too.

So, in spite of the obvious danger, I headed on over to Benton to have myself a look at the local Elvis impersonator gone wrong. Benton's not far from the Louisiana border with Texas, so I figured if I ran into vampire trouble, I could always make a break for the Lonestar state and hope they were a little less enthralled with the country's new Anne Riceian dream. Seriously, Texas kills everyone else. Why not vampires? This was probably my first mistake, unless you count the part where I didn't bother to inform anyone of where I was going. I figured I'd look into it and see what the deal was before I presented the case to my Dad and Bobby would just call me an idjit for even setting foot in the state. He'd have been right, too.

I rolled into town about noon that day and set myself up at the only motel in town. It made Motel 6 look like a five star place, but it would do for the two, maybe three days I planned to be there. I did my due diligence on the case. Checked the local newspaper (tiny), the local library (even tinier), and talked to the 'victims' owners. PETA makes a great cover for animal related cases, by the way. Everyone knows who they are and everyone talks. The supporters talk for obvious reasons and the anti-PETA folks talk to get rid of you. I was just finishing up my last interview on the other side of town when it started to get dark and I figured... what the hell? May as well scout around and see what I could find.

My money, at that time, was some sort of demented shapeshifter. Demented, not just because he was killing cats like it was going out of style, but also because, if you're going to impersonate Elvis, why pick fat Elvis? Every impersonator worth his salt knows the only Elvis worth playing is Comeback Tour Elvis with the black leather.

What? I love Vegas.

So, there I was in a woodsy knot of near-swap land, slapping mosquitoes and trying to remember if you're supposed to run from an alligator or climb a tree, when I found my target. And I hesitated, not gonna lie. The dude was a dead ringer for Elvis Preslesy. I'm talking Elvis Presley when he's at home. Dressed down in a black t-shirt and Army issue khaki pants, sitting on a fallen log, singing “Memories” like he was on a Vegas stage crooning to a theater full of adoring fans. One of these things is not like the others, I'll admit, but the incongruity didn't stop me from being a little bit hesitant to pop silver bullet in him. The guy could sing.

I told you. I love Vegas. And maybe Elvis. Sue me.

“Dude, nice pipes,” I told him when the song ended. My gun was still in hand, but pointed at the ground. Even so, the sight of a gun in someone's hand is usually enough to send most people into a panic. He just looked at me and gave me one of those trademark Elvis smile-sneers that, if I had been possessing of a second X chromosome, might have had me flinging panties at him. Fortunately, I'm a professional. I grinned back and approached, making the second most colossal mistake of my life. I decided to talk to him. Dad would have been so pissed.

“I knowed you was there,” he told me frankly as I tucked the gun into the front of my jeans and circled around to see him from the front. “I smelled you comin'.”

Uncool. Sure, I'd been on the road a while to get here and maybe I could have showered before I started the case, but still. It wasn't like I'd been crawling through a sewer or something. “I'll lay off the Old Spice next time, then.”

“You smell different from cats, don't worry. Not as good.” He smiled and, if I hadn't been a little disturbed by the comparison, I might have smiled back. He sure seemed to think that statement was supposed to set me at ease.

“You're taking cats because you like the smell of them?” I asked, feeling a little like an owl with my head cocked so far to the side, but the situation just seemed to require confused-dog-head-tilting.

“An' the taste of 'em. Better'n humans any day.” Man sure sounded proud of himself. Alrighty then.

“So, uh, who are you, anyway?” No way was I going to suggest the obvious. My cheese is firmly on my cracker, thank you very much.

His hand shot out so fast I jumped and damn near drew my gun before I realized he just wanted to shake. His face was crinkled up in a huge, kind of dopey smile. Apparently this impersonator took the Elvis role to the hilt, going the extra mile and getting completely stoned. “My name's Bubba. Pleased to meet ya.”

“Bubba. Okay.” Mistake number three. I reached out to shake his hand. I couldn't help it! He was so damn likeable for a cat-eating, potential monster. Part of me was hoping he was just a garden-variety, cat-eating human so I wouldn't have to kill him. “I'm Dean.”

Then I touched his hand and felt those cold, dead fingers wrap around my hand. Before my brain could completely think the word vampire, I was sitting on the log beside him with a cold arm slung around my shoulders so tight I couldn't move, and a live rendition of “If I Can Dream” going in my ear. Uncomfortable? More than a little. I was struck by the dual, instantaneous thoughts that... this guy can really sing, and I'm totally gonna die. Turned out, I was right on both accounts.

***

Gratitude's a strange thing. Everyone expresses it differently. Some people with words, some people with money or favors. Some people show their appreciation by turning you into one of the undead. Myself? I'd have preferred the money, but it's hard to reason with a guy who's been perpetually stoned for the last twenty-seven years.

Let me tell you a story... when I was about fourteen, my father walked in on me one night jerking off and, if that wasn't embarrassing enough, he caught me doing it using a pair of ladies panties I stole from our very attractive, divorcee neighbor's clothesline. He then made me wash, return them, and apologize for taking them. He didn't make me tell her why I took them, but you could tell she knew.

I mention it because that had been the most awkward situation of my life. Right up until I found myself waking up in a grave beside Elvis Presley. Apparently it's vampire tradition or custom or some such bullshit to lay in the ground with the dead human you've just turned for three or four days until they rise. I don't know if it's just bloodsucker superstition or if it's really part of the process, but whatever the case, there I was. Rising from the dead. Very little can prepare you for such an event and I like to think I handled it well, although to be fair, I don't remember a lot of the details of the first moments. Just dirt, panic, clawing fingers, and that first breath of air that I later discovered I hadn't actually needed. I just thought I did.

Bubba was already hauling himself out of the hole when my head emerged and there's a birthing metaphor in there somewhere, but I'll be fucked if I'm going to make it. Suffice it to say, there was a little bit of aggravated, somewhat terrified shrieking going on and it wasn't from the bystanders.

I've since come to discover that bystanders aren't standard for newborn vampire emergings, but Bubba, well... he's special. Nobody ever figured on him even knowing how to make a new vampire, let alone actually taking the initiative to do it. When I came crawling out of the dirt, howling my head off at the injustice of it all, I came face to face with two pale faces with expressions of varying states of agitation.

The woman and man were staring at me with such stillness, it put a pause on my squawking and then the blonde woman accurately summed up all our thoughts on the situation with her proclamation, “Well, fuck.”

Amen, sister.

Bubba greeted them cheerfully enough and showed me off proudly, like I was some new toy or pet. He meant well, I imagine, but at the time I was feeling none too charitable toward the guy. “What the fuck did you do to me?”

I knew, of course, but I was desperately hoping someone would yell gotcha! and tell me it was all a joke or a dream. No such luck. I just earned myself some more blank stares.

“Well,” the blond man started, glancing at his female companion. “What do we do with him?”

“Hello! I'm right here!” I waved a hand at him, but he continued to ignore me. I got the feeling he did that to a lot of people.

“I imagine we feed him, unless we want to make missing persons headlines,” she answered back reasonably.

Right up until that moment, I'd been chalking all my agitation up to anger, but it turned out that when I really focused I could tell I was hungry. Not just missed lunch kind of hungry, either. I'm talking, haven't eaten in days and would kill and eat the first living thing that crosses my path kind of starving. An unpleasant feeling at the best of times, and this was most assuredly not the best of times. I knew what the hunger was right away and there was no way I was gonna go through with it. Of course, up to that point, the only way I knew to kill vampires was to cut off their heads. I was fresh out of machetes right at that moment and had no idea how I'd get my own head off, anyway.

“I'll get 'im a cat!” Bubba announced eagerly and disappeared before he registered the twin looks of uncomfortable disgust on the faces of the two blonds. I got the very distinct impression that I'd just been turned by the vampire community's version of a crazy uncle.

Just my luck.

***

My new un-life was going just peachy. Thing One and Thing Two convinced Bubba that newborns shouldn't eat cats – and that was a fun conversation, let me tell you – and I was treated to a long drive full of stony silence and a lukewarm bottle of synthetic blood. That was the big industry, now that vampires were mainstream. One company in Japan made a synthetic blood vampires could live on and then almost overnight there were four or five competitors. I dunno who was first, but it looked like TrueBlood was pulling out ahead. I kept up with vampire news like most hunters, but suddenly the 'blood brand war' was much more relevant to my interests.

The primary result of the acquisition of the bottled blood was that I was no longer contemplating how to cut off my own head. No, now I was pretty much just trying to figure out how to get to my father so he could do it for me. Maybe see Sam once before... no, probably not.

The digital sign on a local bank chain we passed informed me of the date and I realized that I must've been in the ground for three days. Chances were very good that Dad was already out looking for me. We might separate for weeks or months at a time, but I always checked in by phone every couple of days. Always. He had to know something was wrong by now. If not him, Bobby certainly. Him I talked to damn near every day.

We arrived in Shreveport about half an hour later. The way Thing One drove, we'd have been there much sooner if not for the emergency stop for TrueBlood. Shreveport was significant, I discovered, because the blond pair owned a nightclub there called Fangtasia.

Isn't that adorable?

Inside the club, in the plush back office, we joined up with three more vampires. The two standing ones looked bored and irritated. The one sitting between them looked terrified. I wasn't asked to sit or given any direction, and as I was still lacking significantly in the vampire-killing weapons department, I pushed myself up against a wall and tried to blend in with the scenery. I must have done a pretty good job of it, too. Nobody gave me a second glance.

Thing Two approached Bubba and, after some sweet talking, convinced him to take a walk with her. I guess there were some stray cats around or something. I really didn't want to know. Once they were gone, Thing One took his place behind the big desk and eyed the trembling vampire in the chair. He hadn't been much to look at when he was human. Mousey looking dude with twitchy eyes and too thin frame. As a vampire, he was all that, just more pale.

“You had one job to do,” Thing One began in slightly accented English. “And you failed. Catastrophically. What could you possibly have to say for yourself?”

“I only left him alone for...”

“Long enough to sire a newborn,” Thing One interrupted, waving a disgruntled hand in my direction. I started to say something in response, but thought better of it. I was sorely outnumbered and I kind of got the impression that I was only surviving so well this far because I hadn't been a lot of trouble, yet.

“Do you have any idea how embarrassing this is for us? For me?” He continued, leaning forward with steepled fingers and a piercing glare that, I admit, I was glad wasn't pointed at me.

Mouse looked at him, looked at me, and back to him. “It can be handled. No one has to know. Better one missing person than a nationwide embarrassment?” He smiled hopefully and that hopeful smile slowly withered under Thing One's deepening glare.

“Great pains have been taken these last twenty-odd years to keep him calm and out of trouble. How do you suppose... handling... his one and only child would cause him to react?” If looks could kill, Mouse would be toast. “Never mind that it is a very serious thing to kill another vampire. He was not intended, but he is now one of us.”

Well, ain't I just the lucky one?

“What... what will we do, then?” Mouse asked, sinking a little deeper into his chair. He seemed to have some idea. I was curious.

“I've spoken to her.” The significance he put on the word her made it clear it was someone powerful, someone they were both subservient to. “She has decreed that as punishment for your grievous lapse in duty, you're to be given the true death.”

If a vampire can go pale, this one did. I watched the life, or what passes for it, drain right out of the little mousey guy. It sounded to me like someone was about to get machete'd. One down, six to go, in my opinion. Yeah, I was counting myself in the number. I still wanted out, but I wanted out on my terms. I didn't get to choose to come into this, but I was hoping I could pick my way out. The two looming vampires each grabbed an arm and hauled Mouse out of the office. He must have decided to go quietly. That or he was too terrified to yell. Either way, I never heard another sound out of him.

Once the door closed behind the trio, Thing One finally turned his eyes on me. I guess because there was no one else left in the room to look at. “Have a seat.” He gestured to the now vacated chair and after a second's hesitation, I took the seat.

“My turn for the true death?” I asked and he looked surprised for a second before he chuckled and shook his head.

“Sadly, no. You are here now and now we must determine what to do with you.” I found myself on the receiving end of a lower-wattage version of the stare the previous occupant of this chair had received. “You are... in a unique situation.”

“No kidding.” Sarcasm. Useful for so many situations. He seemed to take it in stride, though. Maybe he expected hysterical screaming or something?

“Your sire--”

“Is he really...?”

“Yes.” Thing One rubbed his forehead as if the thought pained him. “Presumably you've avoided saying that name to him thus far. Continue to do so. It... upsets him.”

“Right. Bubba it is.” I shifted in my chair. That gnawing hunger was returning and something about the atmosphere was making it worse. I wanted out of there. “So if you're not gonna kill me, what's the plan?”

“Let us begin at the beginning. My name is Eric. I am the sheriff of this area of Louisiana.” Suddenly I was picturing this viking looking dude in a ten-gallon hat and a tin star. Something must have shown on my face. He gave a surprisingly tolerant sigh and tipped his head to one side a little. “The over-seer of this area. It is my task to keep the local vampires in order and obeying the rules.”

“Bang up job with that, Wyatt Earp,” I countered, hiking a thumb at the door Mouse had been dragged through.

He inclined his head in acknowledgment of the point. “The problem has been handled.”

“I'm not the problem?”

I got an icy smile for my effort. “You are a symptom. Of the now treated issue or an entirely new one, I've yet to decide.”

I mirrored his previous nod. Touché.

“Either way,” he continued. “You're not to be killed. It would upset Bubba and possibly cause a bigger issue. For now, you're to remain here as a ward of my area as your sire is most likely unable to see to your proper training.”

“Ward? What are you, Batman? I don't need a parent.” I crossed my arms over my chest and fixed him with my best glare. It didn't even dent his smile.

“You are,” he checked the expensive watch on his wrist and then flicked his gaze back to me. “Approximately three hours old. Were I to let you walk out of here on your own, you would most likely begin a killing spree that would not only make all the nationwide papers, but probably upset your still very human, delicate sensibilities.”

“I'm--”

“Already feeling the hunger again, are you not?” I squirmed under his unblinking gaze. “The club outside this office, slowly filling with humans? You must smell them, hear the blood rushing in their veins. The beating hearts...”

“Enough.” I leveled a look at him that would have sent a human scurrying. He just smiled in quiet triumph. He was right and we both knew it. To leave on my own, I'd have to pass through a sea of bodies. Each one was screaming out to me with their warm, soft skin and the blood pulsing just beneath. Fucking hell.

“I'm told, by those more interested than I, that only about 20% of newborn vampires survive their first year. Trust me. You're better off here, where we can look after you.”

He didn't get to say anything else. Apparently responding to my inner turmoil, Bubba burst through the door in a frenzy. The man formerly known as The King stood between me and Eric, snarling like a vicious animal. For the first time, I saw Eric exercise a little nervous caution. He lifted his hands in a show of surrender, quirking an eyebrow at his blonde friend when she appeared right behind Bubba.

“What're you doin' to my youngin'?” Bubba demanded.

Youngin'. God, save me from the south.

“Nothing, I assure you. We were merely talking, weren't we?” He leaned to peer around Bubba at me. The look was clear: Rein in your crazy daddy, kid, before the neighbors call the police. My life was suddenly a daytime soap opera.

“I'm okay,” I spoke up, reaching out to touch one pale elbow. He felt much less cold to me now, than he had before. Because we were both the same temperature, I guess. Creepy. “I was just worried about my car and my clothes. They're all still back in Benton. I don't know how to get back to them.”

Bubba gave them an expectant look and if he was a human, I'm sure Eric would have sighed before he nodded his head. “Pam will make arrangements to get him back to retrieve his belongings, provided they're still there.”

Thing Two had a name. I eyed her and was met with a look that was equal parts hostile and sexual. I got the impression that hate sex was kind of her thing. That should not have been as appealing as it was. I really needed to focus.

A knock at the office door made us all pause. Pam opened the door and stepped aside to allow the visitor to enter. He was a few inches shorter than me with dark hair and the most amiable expression on a vampire I'd seen yet. With the exception of poor, dopey Bubba who was all smiles now and greeting the new vamp like an old friend.

A hand on the back collar of my shirt snatched me out of the chair and suddenly I was being shaken in the new vampire's direction by a beaming Bubba. “Bill! This here's my youngin', Dean. Dean, this is Bill.”

“Nice to meet you,” I deadpanned in the driest possible tone of voice.

If I looked as much like an angry kitten being held up by the scruff of the neck as I felt, Bill had the courtesy not to show it. He extended his hand with a polite smile. “And you as well, Dean. Welcome.”