#hunterfated

「 ,.., — 𝓓. 𝓢𝓪𝓵𝓿𝓪𝓽𝓸𝓻𝓮: @hunterfated 」

     — Damon HATED the nearly extinct species of vampire that hunters tended to find more often than his own (which there was an overabundance of). The nests, the hierarchy; they were like animals more so than the humans they once were and now impersonated. It was disgusting. And they reminded him of piranhas to boot with their nasty teeth.

He had seen Dean taken. The fight. The hunter knocked unconscious. Like hell he was going to intervene. Everything had to eat. But why was the human so familiar to him?

By the time Damon realized WHO it was, they were long gone.

Luckily not too far.

Damon tore through the nest with ease, overpowering and decapitating one after the other with a simple karate chop of his hand backed by the inertia of his Power— luckily for Dean he had fed on that pretty shopkeeper earlier in the afternoon.

Dead. Dead. DEAD. All five of them.

Damon easily destroyed the restraints binding the hunter with disgust, one arm going around the other male's waist to support him. "Easy buddy," he cooed, "You gotta stay with me. I'm gonna get you out of here. Just stay with me." he urged, propelling the other out of the warehouse and toward the waiting Camaro.

          It started when she was late. Margo was never late. Her cycle was so wrapped up with the moon that her coven used to joke she was secretly a wolf. But she was late now and she couldn’t deny that she was scared. Her life, Dean’s life...they were not on a safe path. She still has nightmares, she still has the fire of vengeance in her blood and she knows those aren’t the things that make for a good mother. Hell, it wasn’t like she could look to her own mother for a good example either. That woman craved power more than anything and Margo suffered for it as a child. No. No she couldn’t be.

          Sitting on the counter of the dingy motel, Margo hears the timer on her phone ding and knows she’ll have to face reality now. With shaking hands she picks up the stick and promptly throws it against the wall and pulls another out of the three pack she’d bought. It gives the same result and there’s one last one her hope hangs on. And again it betrays her. She’s pregnant and doesn’t know how to feel beyond fucking terrified. Normally in times like this she’d turn to vodka, but that’s no longer an option.

For a little bit less than week now, she’d seen him lurking around. And if there was one thing that Mystic Falls had taught her above anything else it was that new people didn’t just show up. They weren’t there on vacation, they weren’t passing through, they weren’t visiting their long lost cousin. The last time someone new had come to town? It had been an Original. Then a few witches. Vampires. Hunters. You name it, they had it. So overly attractive, grimace guy who seemed to be almost as permanent of a fixture at the grill bar as Damon was? Definitely not good news. 

Caroline slipped through the small crowd of people, eyes focused intently on his back as she moved towards the bar to claim the seat next to him. “Hi.” A smile slipped onto her face and she cocked her head to the side, giving him a somewhat curious look. “Caroline Forbes. My mom’s the Sheriff so basically that makes me the small town welcoming committee, and you are?” Her eyebrows rose and her gaze got a little bit colder as she regarded him, trying to figure out what he was before it became too obvious. He didn’t seem like a werewolf. Vampire, maybe. But his pulse was more human than a vampire’s. He didn’t have that usual witchy herbal smell. So that left hunter, probably. Or some unfortunate minion that was far too disposable for his own good.

    It had been months without Dean. Painful, excruciating months. There was a hole in his chest which Sam wasn't sure would ever heal; and he'd have been unable to endure it for so long if there hadn't been anything akin to hope regarding Dean. He could be dead, for all Sam knew, but he still had   h  o  p  e .  It kept the search alive after Dean had been pulled into another universe by the same hooded woman that had almost made them dinner & dessert to some unearthly beast.

    Even with the help Sam had enlisted -- a deal with a figurative devil -- they hadn't been able to uncover the woman's identity. There was no way to track her in a universe where she wasn't known. A universe where there was no record of her. She was a ghost. Hunting her had taken all of Sam's intellect and would probably cost him more than any other hunt he'd ever been on. It didn't matter. The only thing that mattered was finding his brother alive and well. Everything else was secondary.

    Sam had just been pouring over a volume about opening an interdimensional rift using Enochian magic when he'd heard the knock. Sam froze, listening. He felt a modicum of safety inside the bunker that he'd never felt anywhere else, but, he still always kept a weapon nearby. Always. Sam would have reached for it if he hadn't been certain that it was Dean's voice he'd heard. Sam heard the banging again and knew the second time around that it was his brother's voice that called to him.

    Ever the hunter, Sam checked the clip on his gun, took the safety off and grabbed a silver blade. This wouldn't be the first time some  m  o  n  s  t  e  r  had come looking for revenge and played on the Winchesters most well-known weakness. Each other.

                  "Dean," said Sam through the door.

      His throat was dry and he swallowed as he opened the door. His expression changed to horror as he saw the state his brother was in. It had to be him. Had to be. "Dean!" Sam holstered his gun and rushed forward to keep his brother from collapsing, making sure to be gentle with him. He needed help, even if Cas was away on a mission right now. Castiel would be able to heal Dean up in a second. Sam would have to make do with what he'd learned in Dean's absence. "I got you," Sam assured his brother. "I got you. Here, here, here." He gently helped Dean down to the ground, sure at least of one thing: Dean wouldn't make it down the stairs.

Sara’s eyes flew open as she heard the doors of her room on the time ship slide open with a soft swish and she quickly sat up, preparing for another face off with Rip after she’d held a knife to his throat earlier before he’d knocked her out and had Mick take her to her room and shut her up in there. But Sara was still desperate to save Laurel, to find a way, any way, to go back and save Laurel, because Laurel had risked everything to bring Sara back after Sara’s death and how could Sara not do the same for her sister.

She rose to her feet when Rip stepped into the room, prepared to plead her case once more, though this time she was thinking clearer and wasn’t holding a knife. “Rip please. I need to go back and save my sister. Please take me back so I can save her.” She begged, but then her eyes moved from Rip to the man who entered behind him, frowning a bit in confusion. She could see the pain and grief in this new man’s eyes and on his face and could tell he’d just suffered a terrible loss to, and even though she had no idea who he was yet she could feel her heart go out to him.

She reached up and wiped her eyes, feeling the wetness there from the crying she’d been doing, grieving for her older sister. When she focused on Rip again she frowned when the time master motioned the stranger closer, “Miss Lance, this is Dean Winchester. He will be joining the team. The two of you should get to know one another.” He said as he turned to leave the room, giving Sara no chance to once again beg for him to save her sister, instead she was now left alone with the new recruit.

Knowing it wasn’t Dean’s fault, Sara decided she should at least try to be welcoming and make friends, after all, right now she could use all the friends she could get and something told her that Dean could too. “I’m Sara Lance.” She said, introducing herself since Rip had only given her last name and she had no idea exactly what Rip had said about her to Dean, if anything. “So what brings you on board?” She asked after a short pause.

Eskel was not entirely sure that another person chasing after the same creature that he was chasing after was a good thing. But it seemed to be a good thing at the end of the fight when the witcher and the stranger were basically working as a team to take down a higher vampire.

The creature was almost done for, but its guards were still up, which was when the other man was thrown through a window. The angry war cry from the beast was cut short when Eskel effectively sliced its head off with one swing of his silver sword. And when he made sure the creature was dead, he went to aid the man that surely was badly injured.

A snort left the witcher at the answer, shrugging his shoulders as he cleaned his sword from the blood against a piece of cloth. "Sounds about right. You had quite a bad landing... Can you stand on your own?"

The words coming from the man had Eskel blinking once, twice, three times. And a fourth for good measure. An eyebrow arched and his eyes narrowed. In all of his years, this was probably the one and only time someone didn't think of his eyes as off-putting, nightmare-ish, or straight from hell as some who saw him without his contacts said.

"Uh... Not really. People are usually scared of them..." In his blank expression, there was the tiniest hint of confusion, since why was this man making such comments while on the floor badly wounded and why would he think such a thing. Although it came to his mind that he had a concussion. Probably. Which explained several things.

          A man on the run. That’s all Bucky seems to be nowadays. Fleeing from Hydra’s clutches while memories – both good and bad – return to him at an alarming rate. Memories Hydra successfully wiped from his mind in order to let the Winter Soldier come to light. He’s not fully gone. The brunet fears he may never be, which is why he keeps cautious. Not only for his own protection but innocent civilians as well. Who knew when Hydra’s asset might be woken up again?

          He’d visit bars every once in a while. Always making sure his article of clothing hid his metal arm from prying eyes. Starting a panic or riot is not the reason for his visits, after all. Bucky also chooses whiskey as his drink of choice for the evening. Mostly talking to himself until hearing the response given by the man just a couple seats down from him.

          Because he hasn’t returned home in nearly seventy years. He’s not the same man he once was in Brooklyn before fighting in the war. James Buchanan Barnes never returned home from fighting. Not really. Nevertheless, he knows better than giving the long answer.