it drifts forward, lazy like the morning fog; a palpable tension that envelopes dean in its cold, cold embrace. the beast on their heels pauses, its maw already stained with blood, just a mere foot from the entrance to their safe haven—- close enough that dean can smell the rusty crimson and sickly fresh hint of gravedirt every hellhound seems to bear. his mind blinks back to his pistol; to the amateur fuck-up that separated man and weapon ( not that such a weapon exists to extinguish what life flickers within the spawn of hell; it’s merely familiarity that longs for his arms, for the extension of himself, for a tool that has yet to let him down ).
the query registers, but dean willfully ignores it, more pressing matters than the intrigue of the boy grasping for his attention. ( he won’t admit he doesn’t know, that he somehow doubts he can survive this, memories of a past encounter and the ripping and tearing of tendons and flesh resurfacing in the darkness—- of his own piercing screams, his brother’s pleading cries, the inevitable blackness that faded into decades of torture brimming dramatically upon the borders of PTSD—– )
“don’t worry about it. go, now,” he commands, just as the dog begins to move— gently, softly, but luckily, in the opposite direction, an opportunity dean won’t expect again. he gestures towards their exit, eyes trained on the black mass prowling through the night, teeth grinding together, worry seeping into the furrow of his brow.
Jude’s body goes cold, he takes note of the hairs that stand at a frigid alert along his neck, goosepimple flesh popping up beneath his skin. It’s as if he’s being WATCHED, either by someone in his immediate vicinity or . . . something bigger than that. Something he can’t explain ( not that he has any explanation for any of this, merely a desire to discover. ) He registers the man’s instructions, this time, though finds trouble acting upon them -- instructing his legs to move from their stationary position.
“ I’m worrying about it, ” he says bluntly, the character rising in his throat, tension building over the unresolved curiosity at his CORE. ( Like trying to hold in a sneeze, he has so many questions but no time to ask any of them. ) His breath hitches . . . & something tells him to move, to follow the man’s instructions & get out now. But what’s the point of the mentor - padawan relationship if he’s just to evacuate instead of LEARN ? He asks himself this question as two separate forces pull at his limbs from different directions: his eagerness, the unwavering desire to explore & SEE . . . & the reinforced instinct ( one that needs the man’s abrasive encouragement to put into motion; almost as if it’s lacking in his person . . . ) a body should possess, the knowledge of when to RUN.
He casts a glance backwards, sees nothing, before finally breaking through the metaphorical wall between them putting two & two together. If his extensive, nigh OBSESSIVE, research serves him any benefit ( which it does ), he has a good idea what’s after them. He isn’t ignorant. You don’t get a HELLHOUND on your tracks for just anything. “ Dean, ” his voice is low beneath gently suspecting brows, eyes focused on the man’s state, over-analyzing his every breath. “ What did you do? ”
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