Unidentified? Dean’s curiosity only increased. Was this kid some new kind of monster? He didn’t look threatening, but maybe he was like vampires - he looked perfectly human except for something hidden. Or maybe he just looked human and had super strength or something else along those lines. But how would they know, if he looked perfectly human? Had he done something? Dean’s father chased after monsters that way - he saw the news, and he ran to capture the thing that had hurt or killed someone. Could that be how they’d gotten this kid? He didn’t look like he’d done something, and that was a look Dean was proud to say he knew very well, He looked… Innocent. Scared, but innocent. And he looked much too young to have ever done something truly bad in his life. The kid was, however, Dean reminded himself, a monster, and monsters could never be trusted. Maybe he wasn’t even all that young, maybe his species just looked younger.
Cautiously, Dean sat himself down next to him, trying to get a good look at his face. Maybe, he thought to himself, he was going too far. Maybe it was better for him to stop, keep his distance from this child. But he was sitting down next to a monster and the monster seemed to be afraid of him. That alone made Dean want to burst with excitement, wishing that his father was here to see him be taken seriously by a monster. It was as if he were a real hunter, and he loved it. He couldn’t wait to grow up and go on hunts by himself, bring in his own monsters to FREAK Camp. It was going to be awesome, he just knew it.
For the time being, however, Dean was still a child, and if his father said that he couldn’t go on hunts by himself, he couldn’t go on hunts by himself, which meant that talking to this little monster was the most exciting thing Dean had to do. Talking to him, however, really was quite exciting, and the fact that the child sparked his curiosity made everything even more interesting.“What did you do? Why are you here?” Dean questioned him, picking a few of the millions of questions racing through his mind to ask. “You don’t really seem like a monster.” Dean admitted, moving to try to see the boy’s face.
Once Dean descends, the smaller boy's shoulders huddle to keep himself lower, submissively daring to glance, a nervous fleeting one through the curtain of messy bangs. Knees draw inwards defensively, feeling the weight of the attention, hair on-end, fear charging down his spine and holding his muscles taut, knotted at the base of his spine. Too anxious to dare relax. His shadowed eyes rivet over the ground, searching for a proper answer, knowing too well a lie might mean the difference between life and death. Scouring his brain, reaching back as far as he can, back to another life, when he always had water, and food, and he thinks --thinks it was good.
So long ago, flashes of red decorating the walls, porch, sun beating down on his neck like a hammer, sunburn agonizing compared to the boot that would crush him to the searing hot ground some indiscernible hours later. The shouting and beating, the wailing of a woman, and his mind's an abstract painting, lesioned by white-out and childhood's loose grip on the notion of time. Into focus, he finds the bite of handcuffs, blindfolded, jostled violently in a dark place, and led rather roughly into his new home. Again, he tries to revisit b e f o r e ; ( nothing ) and he wets his lips, fearful, eyes pricking, but he swallows the terrified lump.
"I - ... It was a long time ago, sir. I think-- There was blood. I probably--" Sam doesn't know whether the other wishes to hear his assumption, his guess, so he clamps his mouth shut and shakes his head. The blood, the yelling, and his dislocated shoulder, how the violet, sickly-green color spread, liquid fire throbbing from his collarbone, outward until Rebecca popped it into place. There's only one explanation. He must have. "I'm sorry. I -- hurt someone. I might have killed them. Sir."
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