Encounterlogs
Deans Odd Encounter Sr Isaiah 240916
Dean's tranquil morning dive off the lighthouse pier is abruptly interrupted when a group of hunters arrive, intent on capturing him for sport. Fully equipped with an array of weapons, the hunters' presence instantly shifts Dean into survival mode. Deciding against a covert escape, Dean transforms into a golden eagle, his supernatural speed allowing him to momentarily evade their attacks. However, the hunters, revealed to be a pack of supernaturally enhanced wolves enslaved by collars that restrict their abilities, manage to keep pace, their intent clear through their strategic and cruel pursuit. Despite Dean's agility and ferocity, the hunters, led by a butch woman with a challenging demeanor, are prepared for his every move, forcing Dean into a difficult situation.
Dean, now in his wolf form, finds himself facing off against the hunters in a tense standoff. The hunters, determined to capture him, reveal themselves as a family bound by more than just the hunt; they are fighting to protect each other under dire circumstances. Despite their resolve, Dean's overwhelming strength and cunning allow him to grasp a tactical advantage, capturing one of the younger hunters, Kleo, as leverage. In a heartbreaking moment, the matriarch of the hunters pleads for her daughter's life, showcasing the depth of her love and the desperation of their situation. Dean, moved by this display of familial bond yet unmoved from his path, ultimately decides to retreat, leaving behind a damaged but still breathing Kleo as a message and a warning. The hunters, burdened with their wounded, retreat with a solemn understanding that their encounter with Dean might not be their last, leaving Dean to contemplate the complex emotions and ethics of survival and power in their hidden world.
(Dean's odd encounter(SRIsaiah):SRIsaiah)
[Sun Sep 15 2024]
At the lighthouse pier
It is morning, about 60F(15C) degrees,
(A group of supernatural hunters is out to get your target. Maybe for sport, maybe from ideology, in either case they need to survive for long enough that their allies can come and help them deal with the threat.
)
Early morning is the perfect time for what Dean is doing. He's decked out in full gear - and in the absence of him, the schools of fish have repopulated. It isn't exactly legal, per say, that he's dive-fishing out by the rickety pier - but it is what he does. Fully encased in neoprane, with a helmet, a small tank, and a speargun in his hands while he drifts on the surface, in between the occasional kicks of his fins to keep himself propelled. The quiet in of the waves lapping around nearly drowns out external sound - but Dean isn't far from the pier. Drifting close by, letting the ebb and flow carry much of his weight in his underwater search.
The early morning mist clings low to the water's surface, turning the lighthouse pier into a ghostly outline on the horizon. The sky above is muted, still in the process of waking, with faint streaks of pinks and oranges barely breaking the cool gray. The rhythmic lapping of the waves against the old, creaky wooden pier is Dean's only companion. Fully suited in his neoprene wetsuit, he drifts just beneath the surface, his speargun in hand, fins gently propelling him forward. Fish schools scatter around him, darting in and out of sight. The world down here is calm, serene even, and the tension of life back on land feels distant, almost forgotten in the gentle pull of the current.
But beneath that calm, Dean can probably sense something's wrong. The familiar tranquility of the pier is disrupted, even if only slightly- a subtle shift in the air, a pressure that makes Dean's senses prickle beneath the surface. It's not a sound, not exactly, but a deep instinctual feeling that something, or someone, is watching him. The faint smell of gasoline wafts into his senses, carried on the current, cutting through the floral scent of the roadside blooms- something isn't right. This isn't the same smell as his redhead companion, either- the Alpha should know the smell of Hunters when they're near.
Then he spots them; a small group, four maybe five figures, standing at the piers edge. Their silhouettes are dark against the water's surface, their faces obscured, but there's no mistaking the telltale glint of weapons. They've come prepared, too- crossbows slung over shoulders, rifles strapped to backs, and silvered blades hanging at their sides. They're Hunters, all right, the kind who target his kind and others not for justice or necessity, but for sport. He could dive now, disappear beneath the water, but they'd catch sight of him- wetsuit or not, the shimmering surface won't hide him for long.
He could let the waves carry him back towards the underside of the pier, allowing the aged wooden beams to act as his cover, perhaps? Would he have time? Their low murmurs are barely audible from where he drifts. They're scanning the waters, clearly expecting him to surface. Allies aren't far, but they'll need time to reach him if he calls out, and for now, it's just him against them. But when have unfair odds ever stopped this supernatural force of destruction and carnage?
The Hunters begin to fan out along the pier, their steps careful, deliberate. One of them pulls out a flare gun, firing it into the sky with a sharp crack, the flare's red light cutting through the mist like a beacon. A signal for backup, no doubt. Dean knows he's got minutes, maybe less, before more of them arrive.
Every time.
That's the first through that rings through Dean's head. Maybe he should change his fishing spot - or leave less of them alive next time. The sight of what hangs at the pier isn't even distorted to him through his mask, and he sinks to the bottom of the ocean's floor with a series of bubbles that catch and refract the crimson sight streaking across the sky. The last group was prepared - these, no doubt the secondary force more prepared for his advances, they're even more so. He waits in the depths - not out of sight, fishing, really, it isn't even an act. His gaze travels over at his weapon, the speargun - barely worth anything in such a scenario when he's essentially unarmored and unarmed.
But yes, when has that ever stopped him.
Quietly, that streak of bubbles that signal there is something breathing, living down there subsides. Dean removes his mouthpiece - fins slipped off, tank left behind. It's used as a weight for what he sheds, leaving himself in only tight, restrictive neoprane that keeps his body warm in spite of the cold morning ocean aided in its frigid hues only by the approaching, swift end of a summer already long gone. Then, he kicks. Up - not away, straight to the waters edge and seeking to surface.
What surfaces isn't Dean, or a wolf - but a bullet. A speeding, deft creature of feather and talon and burnished gold. An eagle that's oversized, not by much but enough to dominate, enough to seem unnaturally large among its kindred, propelling himself to the sky and above with a level of haste that makes the sound of his wings terrifying as he takes to the air. A blurring streak.
Too fast for human eyes to detect at first, Dean(golden eagle) pierces the water's surface +
Dean(golden eagle) is too fast for normal human eyes to detect as that eagle pierces through the calm waves rippling the water's surface, a golden bullet in a spray of fine, salty mist that glitters like diamonds in the rising sunlight. Regal perfection, majestic speed, and yet another one of those red flares goes off- closer this time as the group of four women and one man take off after him down the sands of the beach. They're too fast- something is wrong. There's no possible way that these Hunters can be normal humans when they're running at breakneck speeds to keep up with a bird of prey, and not only that, but keeping their sights on him, eyes glinting metallic when the light catches.
Each force the Hunters send after Dean(golden eagle) is stronger than the last, typically- more honed to deal with him, more equipped for a clean bag and tag- these are no different, and yet, yes, something is just *wrong*. This monster that stalks Haven's streets is an Alpha, and he knows his own when he sees them; which makes this interaction all that much more harrowing, perhaps, because even the faintest glimpse at the group of humanoids following him, the faintest scent of them on the wind reveals two things: One, they are all wearing collars of some kind that somewhat neutralize their supernatural abilities. Two: they're a Pack of Wolves, enslaved to their human masters, forced to hunt down their own kind on the whims of the ruel; or perhaps they are the cruel, doing this for fun. For sport.
someone "There he goes- he went through the grease!!" calls out a voice that, while feminine, is butch, a cigarette hanging from her mouth as she pulls a crossbow bolt from her quiver, touching it to her cigarette. It bursts into flame as a response, smouldering, dipped in some flammable substance of its own and then loaded into her weapon as the others do the same and aim down their sights at the golden beauty of that eagle roaring through the skies. "Aim!!" she instructs. "... Fire! Now! Don't miss!"
Dean(golden eagle) is too fast for normal human eyes to detect as that eagle pierces through the calm waves rippling the water's surface, a golden bullet in a spray of fine, salty mist that glitters like diamonds in the rising sunlight. Regal perfection, majestic speed, and yet another one of those red flares goes off- closer this time as the group of four women and one man take off after him down the sands of the beach. They're too fast- something is wrong. There's no possible way that these Hunters can be normal humans when they're running at breakneck speeds to keep up with a bird of prey, and not only that, but keeping their sights on him, eyes glinting metallic when the light catches.
Each force the Hunters send after Dean(golden eagle) is stronger than the last, typically- more honed to deal with him, more equipped for a clean bag and tag- these are no different, and yet, yes, something is just *wrong*. This monster that stalks Haven's streets is an Alpha, and he knows his own when he sees them; which makes this interaction all that much more harrowing, perhaps, because even the faintest glimpse at the group of humanoids following him, the faintest scent of them on the wind reveals two things: One, they are all wearing collars of some kind that somewhat neutralize their supernatural abilities. Two: they're a Pack of Wolves, enslaved to their human masters, forced to hunt down their own kind on the whims of the ruel; or perhaps they are the cruel, doing this for fun. For sport.
"There he goes- he went through the grease!!" calls out a voice that, while feminine, is butch, a cigarette hanging from her mouth as she pulls a crossbow bolt from her quiver, touching it to her cigarette. It bursts into flame as a response, smouldering, dipped in some flammable substance of its own and then loaded into her weapon as the others do the same and aim down their sights at the golden beauty of that eagle roaring through the skies. "Aim!!" she instructs. "... Fire! Now! Don't miss!"
It's impossible. That whole, monstrous form is collected and contained into the feeble guise of an eagle. Whereas he lacks brawn in this form, it is all sacrificed in for speed, for agility. Dean(golden eagle) operates on a different level of perception, and green eyes dart while he spins through the air, catching the sight with the perfect gaze of an eagle, keen and ruthless. Somehow, he looks angry. Furious, even, and his wings crack. A ferocious dart that leads him off the water's surface, fly above land in heightened speed.
Every bolt, flammable surface that flies towards him in myriad force - Dean(golden eagle) weaves through them with an acute sense of control over every fiber of what makes him, him. Just to twist at the end of the onslaught, and start bulleting down this time. It's the woman he targets, that butch sound - talons extended, gleaming, while his eyes only command one emotion; trepidation. It isn't merely commnded - it is demanded, forced, Dean(golden eagle) pulls it out of every seam of her being, a primal fear of being a target, the sort that freezes the very blood in someone's veins before the impact that should claim her eyes and let Dean(golden eagle) bounce off of her back into the air.
Brunette's and brown eyes are so under appreciated- so unloved. They're beautiful, really, chocolaty hues in the direct sunlight, flickering even towards pumpkin orange if the brown of the iris is light enough. Not enough people appreciate brown eyes for what they are; dark and mysterious, but warm and inviting. Understated beauty. But Dean(golden eagle) appreciates them. Dean(golden eagle) watns them. That's why he's speeding towards the face of that brown-eyed butch with claws extended and ready to grasp the moment he can feel those slippery marbles betwixt his talons. Brown eyes are a collector's item, especially when they quiver with fear the way that butch woman's do. She's a force on that team, bulky in build despite being half-pint in size, a red and black flannel left unbuttoned to reveal the power cording her abdomen, revealed by a simple black tube top cropped over the midriff. She's sun-tanned and battle-hardened, and though she look to be in her mid to late twenties, it's very clear that she has years of battle scars piled up on her flesh to prove her worth; her mettle. But all of that commanding presence bundles up on itself in the blink of an eye when emotions not her own are forced upon her, big brown doe eyes staring up at Dean(golden eagle) with sheer terror as her muscles lock up. Oh yes. He'll have those eyes. Just a little bit closer...
Until just before impact, that singular male of the group swings a baseball bat towards Dean(golden eagle), striking that bird in the chest with a resounding *plink* of metal onto breastbone that not only halts the creature, but sends it careening backwards, shooting the bird right back up into the air like he were a homer run ball at a Yankees game, and feeling all the weaker for it the moment that baseball bat strikes his flesh.
Silver.
The man adjusts his grip on the leather that wraps the sports equipment's handle, rolling it in his wrist a few times as he dead-eyes Dean(golden eagle), no emotion behind his stare as he sets himself into focus mode. The crossbows of the other three women lift up again, more flaming bolts locked and loaded- then fired.
The force of the silver baseball bat hits Dean(golden eagle) like a brick. Or, a baseball bat. It's painful, staggering, and that bird has absolutely none of the grace he had seconds ago when he was a made bullet seeking to claim and devour the eyes of another wolf with ruthless vigor. But, he is conscious - and compared to all of them, Dean(golden eagle) is still a monster. Uncontained. He doesn't have the time to dodge the bullets, or avoid crashing into the ground. Intelligence glimmers within Dean(golden eagle)'s eyes, and then -- the bolts pass through nothing but mist and air.
He's pathing, disoriented, but he is, and for once - Dean(golden eagle) takes a tactical retreat. Where he's gone to isn't clear, pathing doesn't exacly leave a scent -- but they don't have to search for him. Dean(golden eagle) appears behind that butch woman -- not an eagle, not a /human/. What that streak of light translates to is a horrendous beast, large, dominating -- and suddenly crashing that whole weight, with a paw for the baseball-bat wielding wolf, to push him into the earth and crush him -- while Dean(golden eagle)'s maw split in that inhuman- unwolf? way. A gleam of the abyss, rapidly approach the butch hunter from behind with the singular intent to devour her, chomp her in half.
"Dammit!!" shouts the chestnut-haired maleas that massive paw comes crashing down on top of him, the only thing stopping him from becoming a squished bottle of ketchup being his own supernatural resilience, and the quick reflex to juxtopose that silver bat between his torso and the pads of Dean(wolf)'s massive paw. That deosn't stop the earth from cracking from the effort, though, a crater forming as the earth splinters beneath the pressure, his teeth gritting together hard, his limbs shaking from the strain of keeping himself alive to fight for a few more moments. The Alpha can smell adrenaline overcoming the man's fear and pain, a sweet and succulent shove to predatory, territorial even, senses that might make Dean(wolf)'s instincts go wild, especially so close to the full moon. Delicious fear.
"Andrew!!" screams a bustier, more curvaceous woman who had been mostly silent up until now, her long white waves cascading down to ample breasts as she quickly hooks her own crossbow onto a utility belt- starting to dart towards the downed man until equally brown eyes spot the split of Dean(wolf)'s maw as it hovers over the butch. "JOLENE!!" she screeches instead, skidding to a halt in Kill Bill block-heeled sandals only to bolt towards the flannel-wearing femme, quickly drawing a katana that she shoves into Dean(wolf)'s gaping maw. It isn't verticle- it doesn't pierce the top of his mouth. It's horizontal, and it gets wedged up against the gumline, right between cuspids and bicuspids as an immense amount of strength is put into keeping that ebon-furred Wolf from chomping down on the awe-struck masc-female. "Piper!! Get Andrew out!!" she barks out her instruction, a similar-looking brunette shaken out of a fearful reverie only to silently nod and run towards the male. Dean(wolf) can recognize the presence of another Alpha when he sees one, and with the curvaceous woman's long white hair, there's no mistaking her age- it's not bleached. It's natural, and she's ancient, and there's a fire to her eyes that yields to him no quarter despite knowing in singular combat, she'd be the weaker of the two.
The fifth member of this group also has that brown hair- cut into a bookish bob- and brown eyes, smaller, more petite, shivering in a turtleneck sweater in the background as she hurriedly fiddles with some kind of home-made cogwork contraption, tears streaming down her face. "Oh God, oh God, oh God," she can be heard saying before the white-haired Alpha shouts to her: "Pulls yourself together for the family, Kleo! This is real! Get your head in the game!!"
Silver or not, a katana is only a katana, and a bat is only a bat. Even worse, in that, it is a mallable metal. Even if the man and woman behind all that force can resist the half-ton wolf, they can't resist the strength of it, and surely their weapons, too. His jaw tilts, splits even wider, as if he's not a wolf but a hyena- or a snake with an unhinged maw. It twists with ferocity, snags the blade to crack it in half the pieces spill with vitriolic spittle and venom of his kin- of course it is nothing any of them should fear. They're already wolves. Before any interception, the baseball bat caves in under his claws, and the man beneath it is forced to endure the decrepit burn of Dean(wolf)'s force crashing him into the ground, cracking him, too.
Suffer, just as Dean(wolf) suffers the acrid burn of silver in his mouth, its suffocating taste. Yet, those green eyes, still beholden to intelligence, albeit a malevolent one, and this close to the fullmoon, they track over at the Alpha of this group. He snarls - as much as a challenge in the brief din of battle, as much as a demand. The butch-fem is ignored in favor of Dean(wolf) standing high, tall, proud and resilient. Dean(wolf) waits, paws the ground, and starts to circle. He demands singular combat - as much as they have the odds against him out of one. He can have his advantage only one way- and he knows. If only they were all to shift.
It is exactly then that his senses spread out. A primal fear, just like the one he inflicted upon his initial target - now seeking the root, the firmament of everyone here. It's a reflection of his own emotion, the thirst to feel blood between his fangs, the desire for violence. The void is projected, the hunger, lack of instability in sought after resolution to his opposition. He'll break them one by one, as wolves, if he can.
The brunette with shoulder-length waves- Piper, she's called, bolts to Andrew's side far too late. That baseball bat is silvered, but with a steel core, and yet still it bends beneath the immense pressure of Dean(wolf)'s weight until it touches, then crushes, the chestnut-haired male's ribcage, caving it in partially as the man coughs up blood all over his own face, and Piper screams with agony as she drops to her knees beside him, cradling his head in her hands as tears, too, stream down her face. "Momma!!!" she screams at the white haired woman, whose katana suffers a similar fate. It doesn't quite shatter into pieces, but it bends and warps before snapping at its center, leaving her about six inches worth of 'functioning' blade to work with. "Focus! He's alive! We'll get him out!!" she vows, even as the crumpled form of what can now be assumed as her son lies in a paw-shaped crater upon the ground, arms curled in on his form like a dying cockroach. Jolene snaps out of her fearful state in time to be simply brushed aside by the motion of Dean(wolf)'s body, causing her to topple over, though she quickly withdraws a massive maul from her side, styled not unlike the fabled Mjolnir, and wields it in both hands. She's about to charge Dean(wolf) with full-force when the white-haired she-wolf holds out a hand to stop her, chocolate-brown eyes intently focused upon Dean(wolf)'s vitriolic green hues. "Get Kleo together, help her with her gadget- I'll keep him distracted for a while," she instructs, her voice firm in a way that only an Alpha's can be: no room for argument or insubordination. Her body turns slowly with Dean(wolf)'s circular prowl, but she doesn't shift; she doesn't cast away her ruined weapon. In fact, she grips it tighter as she non-verbally agrees to Dean(wolf)'s challenge, at least for now.
Meanwhile the bookish girl called Kleo stares up at her mother in abject horror, leaping to her feet only to be snagged back by Jolene as she bellows: "Momma, no!" There's a moment where walnut-hued fur starts to sprout over her pale, sunless skin, only for the collar around her neck to crackle before sending bolts of blue electricity zapping all through her body, making her scream and then go limp, sobbing from the pain. She can't shift- none of them can. Not with those collars around their necks preventing them from doing so in the worst of ways. The White Wolf, too, dons one, and it sizzles with static electricity as, while she doesn't try to shift, she does let some of that primal instinct drive her body. She's determined. She protecting her family- her Pack- perhaps something Dean(wolf) can respect, perhaps. It's clear that whoever these people are, they're not doing this on a whim- they're being forced, leveraged somehow, controlled, manipulated, something, anything, but /choosing/ on their own.
The Alpha, the Mother, she's going to protect her pups from something that is, apparently, far more fearsome, far more dangerous than Dean(wolf).
There is a moment. As there is always one.
Dean(wolf) stops in his tracks while someone topples into the ground with the futility of their change, unable to power through the force of their collars. He could do it, he feels it - just a second, a split act, he'd path here, appear there and swallow the girl up, and yet, Dean(wolf) doesn't. Not because all of him is intently upon the other Alpha, but because he knows their predicament. The sight of those collars is a fearsome reminder, and it is fueling an anger, a wrath unlike any other while he starts to growl again.
His head begins to lower to the ground inch by inch- and in reaching close to the someone. Deliberation in how he huffs a lungful of hot air at her collar, but he doesn't move to snap it off of her. He could try, he would - but then, orders or not, they're also probably kept in other ways. Dean(wolf) retreats, draws his head back --
Then he's gone. Melt into the shadows - gone from view, out of sight.
What erupts is an earthquake of a sound as the swirl of mist, now spread and dissipating among the more tangible, disappears in the real mist that had started to gather. He erupts underneath the toppled woman, jaw unhinged, just as unhinged as he is as he breaks the demand of singular combat to catch the bookish girl, her torso captive in his grasp, squeezing, breaking bone - arms asunder, and she's kept there. Leverage as he waits, unafraid completely that they may do anything when her life is within his means to snuff out. Literally.
There is a moment. As there is always one.
Dean(wolf) stops in his tracks while someone topples into the ground with the futility of their change, unable to power through the force of their collars. He could do it, he feels it - just a second, a split act, he'd path here, appear there and swallow the girl up, and yet, Dean(wolf) doesn't. Not because all of him is intently upon the other Alpha, but because he knows their predicament. The sight of those collars is a fearsome reminder, and it is fueling an anger, a wrath unlike any other while he starts to growl again.
His head begins to lower to the ground inch by inch- and in reaching close to the white-haired femme. Deliberation in how he huffs a lungful of hot air at her collar, but he doesn't move to snap it off of her. He could try, he would - but then, orders or not, they're also probably kept in other ways. Dean(wolf) retreats, draws his head back --
Then he's gone. Melt into the shadows - gone from view, out of sight.
What erupts is an earthquake of a sound as the swirl of mist, now spread and dissipating among the more tangible, disappears in the real mist that had started to gather. He erupts underneath the toppled woman, jaw unhinged, just as unhinged as he is as he breaks the demand of singular combat to catch the bookish girl, her torso captive in his grasp, squeezing, breaking bone - arms asunder, and she's kept there. Leverage as he waits, unafraid completely that they may do anything when her life is within his means to snuff out. Literally.
"KLEO!!" is a shout in unison from every member of this family, save for poor Andrew, who has gone quiet and limp as the fever dream of adrenaline takes him some place far away where broken bones and pierced lungs can't hurt him- alive, but barely, his big brown eyes gazing up towards the sky wear seagulls caw overhead and fluffy white clouds drift lazily over the backdrop of cyan blue. Well, it also excludes Kleo herself, who is currently nabbed in Dean(wolf)'s mouth like a corndog fresh out of the grease, squirming between teeth as her dainty hands grasp at whiskers, pulling upwards and yanking but only succeeding in shifting around his upper lip a bit. But Mother can path too, and she does, the blink of an eye seeing a streak of white zip through the air before she is at Dean(wolf)'s jawline, forcing hands and arms into his mouth as she attempts to pry them open, straining her muscles- she's strong. Very strong. But unshifted as she is, Dean(wolf) is stronger, no matter how she tries. "Please no," she begs of him, teeth piercing her limbs from the amount of pressure she applies all on her own to free what seems to be the youngest of the group. "Not my baby- not any of them. Kill me, let them go. They'll listen if I tell them to go," she swears to the disdain of each conscious child she has remaining. And each child freezes in place with reluctance and mourning, but obedience, trapped in a place where no matter what they do, the believe a part of their family will be gone forever. They're not going to move an inch regardless- it's clear they understand that if they do, Kleo will be dismembered, and their mother, their Alpha, will lose her arms. Silence falls over the collared Pack.
Unrelenting, the single touch on Dean(wolf)'s jaw by the other alpha results in a tighter vice. Dean(wolf) clamps harder, digs those palm-sized fangs into the poor flesh of his captive. Pierce her abdomen for a better grip. Any more, and she'd be severed in half - and the white-haired fem would find her hands coated in the blood of her child. A scene so touching, it possibly would've shook the resolve of anyone that isn't Dean(wolf), maybe. If only they weren't here to kill him. In spite of the agony, the raw strife thick in the air that he draws to his lungs like the fresh scent of a kill - draining the very essence form them by sheer fear, Dean(wolf) starts to backtrack. Step by agonizing step as green eyes glow, keenly stare and pierce the begging woman while he retreats towards the edge of the treeline.
Then, his jaw clenches tight. Tighter than ever, than before. The crunch is sickening, more so for them as the pain of their sibling, of a daughter, reverbates across the pack bond in searing speed- and he uses it to show them all. The woman he now drops like a wet, but barely alive, sack of potatoes? She doesn't have long to live. Dean(wolf) gives them an opportunity with it; fight to the end, risk the two lives nearing the end of their thread -- or retreat, and save them. Dean(wolf) doesn't wait for an answer either way, that massive form seeks to blend into the treeline, disappear in it if their answer isn't to recklessly pursue him further.
The intoxicating scent of mutual agony fills Dean(wolf)'s nostrils to the brim as the Pack suffers as one, Kleo crunched, then dropped, and the rest of her family seem to follow suit, wailing in mourning in their own ways as they drop to their knees, crumpled, defeated, and accepting that defeat. They don't move, they just wait for Dean(wolf) to disappear into the treeline, and once he's a safe enough distance away, they bolt to collect their fallen. Andrew has moments before he's going to die if he doesn't get to a hospital, and Kloe's spine has clearly been broken; she'll heal, but she won't be the same. Not for a long, long time. The family eventually darts away into the distance, carrying their siblings, daughter and son, brother and sister, deeper into town towards the bridge, not bothering with vehicles as they are, instead, rushed to White Oak for treatment. The ebon-furred Hell Wolf is safe for now, escaping predation as easily as it comes upon him, but there is the lingering sense that this isn't the last he's seen of Kleo, Piper, Andrew, Jolene, and Momma.
FIN
Just beyond, further away, Dean(wolf) still hasn't looked way. He watches the others - how they depart, their suffering and pain as they rush. The blood on his maw is licked clean, and somehow, there is a sense of loss to him. A hanging emotion like that of guilt, but far from it - not entirely. There is assessment with it - of the Alpha, of the way she carries her young, her pack. It makes him grind that wolven jaw, snarl under his breath. He doesn't like the coddling - no matter how strong she can be, she's weak if her pack is weak. Dean(wolf) was the proof of it - and now, he turns, leaves for the rest of his attire, underwater - submerging as a wolf, rising back as a neoprane clad man out the pier. It's barely there, seen, but he limps towards his bike.
No catch, today.
Dean, now in his wolf form, finds himself facing off against the hunters in a tense standoff. The hunters, determined to capture him, reveal themselves as a family bound by more than just the hunt; they are fighting to protect each other under dire circumstances. Despite their resolve, Dean's overwhelming strength and cunning allow him to grasp a tactical advantage, capturing one of the younger hunters, Kleo, as leverage. In a heartbreaking moment, the matriarch of the hunters pleads for her daughter's life, showcasing the depth of her love and the desperation of their situation. Dean, moved by this display of familial bond yet unmoved from his path, ultimately decides to retreat, leaving behind a damaged but still breathing Kleo as a message and a warning. The hunters, burdened with their wounded, retreat with a solemn understanding that their encounter with Dean might not be their last, leaving Dean to contemplate the complex emotions and ethics of survival and power in their hidden world.
(Dean's odd encounter(SRIsaiah):SRIsaiah)
[Sun Sep 15 2024]
At the lighthouse pier
It is morning, about 60F(15C) degrees,
(A group of supernatural hunters is out to get your target. Maybe for sport, maybe from ideology, in either case they need to survive for long enough that their allies can come and help them deal with the threat.
)
Early morning is the perfect time for what Dean is doing. He's decked out in full gear - and in the absence of him, the schools of fish have repopulated. It isn't exactly legal, per say, that he's dive-fishing out by the rickety pier - but it is what he does. Fully encased in neoprane, with a helmet, a small tank, and a speargun in his hands while he drifts on the surface, in between the occasional kicks of his fins to keep himself propelled. The quiet in of the waves lapping around nearly drowns out external sound - but Dean isn't far from the pier. Drifting close by, letting the ebb and flow carry much of his weight in his underwater search.
The early morning mist clings low to the water's surface, turning the lighthouse pier into a ghostly outline on the horizon. The sky above is muted, still in the process of waking, with faint streaks of pinks and oranges barely breaking the cool gray. The rhythmic lapping of the waves against the old, creaky wooden pier is Dean's only companion. Fully suited in his neoprene wetsuit, he drifts just beneath the surface, his speargun in hand, fins gently propelling him forward. Fish schools scatter around him, darting in and out of sight. The world down here is calm, serene even, and the tension of life back on land feels distant, almost forgotten in the gentle pull of the current.
But beneath that calm, Dean can probably sense something's wrong. The familiar tranquility of the pier is disrupted, even if only slightly- a subtle shift in the air, a pressure that makes Dean's senses prickle beneath the surface. It's not a sound, not exactly, but a deep instinctual feeling that something, or someone, is watching him. The faint smell of gasoline wafts into his senses, carried on the current, cutting through the floral scent of the roadside blooms- something isn't right. This isn't the same smell as his redhead companion, either- the Alpha should know the smell of Hunters when they're near.
Then he spots them; a small group, four maybe five figures, standing at the piers edge. Their silhouettes are dark against the water's surface, their faces obscured, but there's no mistaking the telltale glint of weapons. They've come prepared, too- crossbows slung over shoulders, rifles strapped to backs, and silvered blades hanging at their sides. They're Hunters, all right, the kind who target his kind and others not for justice or necessity, but for sport. He could dive now, disappear beneath the water, but they'd catch sight of him- wetsuit or not, the shimmering surface won't hide him for long.
He could let the waves carry him back towards the underside of the pier, allowing the aged wooden beams to act as his cover, perhaps? Would he have time? Their low murmurs are barely audible from where he drifts. They're scanning the waters, clearly expecting him to surface. Allies aren't far, but they'll need time to reach him if he calls out, and for now, it's just him against them. But when have unfair odds ever stopped this supernatural force of destruction and carnage?
The Hunters begin to fan out along the pier, their steps careful, deliberate. One of them pulls out a flare gun, firing it into the sky with a sharp crack, the flare's red light cutting through the mist like a beacon. A signal for backup, no doubt. Dean knows he's got minutes, maybe less, before more of them arrive.
Every time.
That's the first through that rings through Dean's head. Maybe he should change his fishing spot - or leave less of them alive next time. The sight of what hangs at the pier isn't even distorted to him through his mask, and he sinks to the bottom of the ocean's floor with a series of bubbles that catch and refract the crimson sight streaking across the sky. The last group was prepared - these, no doubt the secondary force more prepared for his advances, they're even more so. He waits in the depths - not out of sight, fishing, really, it isn't even an act. His gaze travels over at his weapon, the speargun - barely worth anything in such a scenario when he's essentially unarmored and unarmed.
But yes, when has that ever stopped him.
Quietly, that streak of bubbles that signal there is something breathing, living down there subsides. Dean removes his mouthpiece - fins slipped off, tank left behind. It's used as a weight for what he sheds, leaving himself in only tight, restrictive neoprane that keeps his body warm in spite of the cold morning ocean aided in its frigid hues only by the approaching, swift end of a summer already long gone. Then, he kicks. Up - not away, straight to the waters edge and seeking to surface.
What surfaces isn't Dean, or a wolf - but a bullet. A speeding, deft creature of feather and talon and burnished gold. An eagle that's oversized, not by much but enough to dominate, enough to seem unnaturally large among its kindred, propelling himself to the sky and above with a level of haste that makes the sound of his wings terrifying as he takes to the air. A blurring streak.
Too fast for human eyes to detect at first, Dean(golden eagle) pierces the water's surface +
Dean(golden eagle) is too fast for normal human eyes to detect as that eagle pierces through the calm waves rippling the water's surface, a golden bullet in a spray of fine, salty mist that glitters like diamonds in the rising sunlight. Regal perfection, majestic speed, and yet another one of those red flares goes off- closer this time as the group of four women and one man take off after him down the sands of the beach. They're too fast- something is wrong. There's no possible way that these Hunters can be normal humans when they're running at breakneck speeds to keep up with a bird of prey, and not only that, but keeping their sights on him, eyes glinting metallic when the light catches.
Each force the Hunters send after Dean(golden eagle) is stronger than the last, typically- more honed to deal with him, more equipped for a clean bag and tag- these are no different, and yet, yes, something is just *wrong*. This monster that stalks Haven's streets is an Alpha, and he knows his own when he sees them; which makes this interaction all that much more harrowing, perhaps, because even the faintest glimpse at the group of humanoids following him, the faintest scent of them on the wind reveals two things: One, they are all wearing collars of some kind that somewhat neutralize their supernatural abilities. Two: they're a Pack of Wolves, enslaved to their human masters, forced to hunt down their own kind on the whims of the ruel; or perhaps they are the cruel, doing this for fun. For sport.
someone "There he goes- he went through the grease!!" calls out a voice that, while feminine, is butch, a cigarette hanging from her mouth as she pulls a crossbow bolt from her quiver, touching it to her cigarette. It bursts into flame as a response, smouldering, dipped in some flammable substance of its own and then loaded into her weapon as the others do the same and aim down their sights at the golden beauty of that eagle roaring through the skies. "Aim!!" she instructs. "... Fire! Now! Don't miss!"
Dean(golden eagle) is too fast for normal human eyes to detect as that eagle pierces through the calm waves rippling the water's surface, a golden bullet in a spray of fine, salty mist that glitters like diamonds in the rising sunlight. Regal perfection, majestic speed, and yet another one of those red flares goes off- closer this time as the group of four women and one man take off after him down the sands of the beach. They're too fast- something is wrong. There's no possible way that these Hunters can be normal humans when they're running at breakneck speeds to keep up with a bird of prey, and not only that, but keeping their sights on him, eyes glinting metallic when the light catches.
Each force the Hunters send after Dean(golden eagle) is stronger than the last, typically- more honed to deal with him, more equipped for a clean bag and tag- these are no different, and yet, yes, something is just *wrong*. This monster that stalks Haven's streets is an Alpha, and he knows his own when he sees them; which makes this interaction all that much more harrowing, perhaps, because even the faintest glimpse at the group of humanoids following him, the faintest scent of them on the wind reveals two things: One, they are all wearing collars of some kind that somewhat neutralize their supernatural abilities. Two: they're a Pack of Wolves, enslaved to their human masters, forced to hunt down their own kind on the whims of the ruel; or perhaps they are the cruel, doing this for fun. For sport.
"There he goes- he went through the grease!!" calls out a voice that, while feminine, is butch, a cigarette hanging from her mouth as she pulls a crossbow bolt from her quiver, touching it to her cigarette. It bursts into flame as a response, smouldering, dipped in some flammable substance of its own and then loaded into her weapon as the others do the same and aim down their sights at the golden beauty of that eagle roaring through the skies. "Aim!!" she instructs. "... Fire! Now! Don't miss!"
It's impossible. That whole, monstrous form is collected and contained into the feeble guise of an eagle. Whereas he lacks brawn in this form, it is all sacrificed in for speed, for agility. Dean(golden eagle) operates on a different level of perception, and green eyes dart while he spins through the air, catching the sight with the perfect gaze of an eagle, keen and ruthless. Somehow, he looks angry. Furious, even, and his wings crack. A ferocious dart that leads him off the water's surface, fly above land in heightened speed.
Every bolt, flammable surface that flies towards him in myriad force - Dean(golden eagle) weaves through them with an acute sense of control over every fiber of what makes him, him. Just to twist at the end of the onslaught, and start bulleting down this time. It's the woman he targets, that butch sound - talons extended, gleaming, while his eyes only command one emotion; trepidation. It isn't merely commnded - it is demanded, forced, Dean(golden eagle) pulls it out of every seam of her being, a primal fear of being a target, the sort that freezes the very blood in someone's veins before the impact that should claim her eyes and let Dean(golden eagle) bounce off of her back into the air.
Brunette's and brown eyes are so under appreciated- so unloved. They're beautiful, really, chocolaty hues in the direct sunlight, flickering even towards pumpkin orange if the brown of the iris is light enough. Not enough people appreciate brown eyes for what they are; dark and mysterious, but warm and inviting. Understated beauty. But Dean(golden eagle) appreciates them. Dean(golden eagle) watns them. That's why he's speeding towards the face of that brown-eyed butch with claws extended and ready to grasp the moment he can feel those slippery marbles betwixt his talons. Brown eyes are a collector's item, especially when they quiver with fear the way that butch woman's do. She's a force on that team, bulky in build despite being half-pint in size, a red and black flannel left unbuttoned to reveal the power cording her abdomen, revealed by a simple black tube top cropped over the midriff. She's sun-tanned and battle-hardened, and though she look to be in her mid to late twenties, it's very clear that she has years of battle scars piled up on her flesh to prove her worth; her mettle. But all of that commanding presence bundles up on itself in the blink of an eye when emotions not her own are forced upon her, big brown doe eyes staring up at Dean(golden eagle) with sheer terror as her muscles lock up. Oh yes. He'll have those eyes. Just a little bit closer...
Until just before impact, that singular male of the group swings a baseball bat towards Dean(golden eagle), striking that bird in the chest with a resounding *plink* of metal onto breastbone that not only halts the creature, but sends it careening backwards, shooting the bird right back up into the air like he were a homer run ball at a Yankees game, and feeling all the weaker for it the moment that baseball bat strikes his flesh.
Silver.
The man adjusts his grip on the leather that wraps the sports equipment's handle, rolling it in his wrist a few times as he dead-eyes Dean(golden eagle), no emotion behind his stare as he sets himself into focus mode. The crossbows of the other three women lift up again, more flaming bolts locked and loaded- then fired.
The force of the silver baseball bat hits Dean(golden eagle) like a brick. Or, a baseball bat. It's painful, staggering, and that bird has absolutely none of the grace he had seconds ago when he was a made bullet seeking to claim and devour the eyes of another wolf with ruthless vigor. But, he is conscious - and compared to all of them, Dean(golden eagle) is still a monster. Uncontained. He doesn't have the time to dodge the bullets, or avoid crashing into the ground. Intelligence glimmers within Dean(golden eagle)'s eyes, and then -- the bolts pass through nothing but mist and air.
He's pathing, disoriented, but he is, and for once - Dean(golden eagle) takes a tactical retreat. Where he's gone to isn't clear, pathing doesn't exacly leave a scent -- but they don't have to search for him. Dean(golden eagle) appears behind that butch woman -- not an eagle, not a /human/. What that streak of light translates to is a horrendous beast, large, dominating -- and suddenly crashing that whole weight, with a paw for the baseball-bat wielding wolf, to push him into the earth and crush him -- while Dean(golden eagle)'s maw split in that inhuman- unwolf? way. A gleam of the abyss, rapidly approach the butch hunter from behind with the singular intent to devour her, chomp her in half.
"Dammit!!" shouts the chestnut-haired maleas that massive paw comes crashing down on top of him, the only thing stopping him from becoming a squished bottle of ketchup being his own supernatural resilience, and the quick reflex to juxtopose that silver bat between his torso and the pads of Dean(wolf)'s massive paw. That deosn't stop the earth from cracking from the effort, though, a crater forming as the earth splinters beneath the pressure, his teeth gritting together hard, his limbs shaking from the strain of keeping himself alive to fight for a few more moments. The Alpha can smell adrenaline overcoming the man's fear and pain, a sweet and succulent shove to predatory, territorial even, senses that might make Dean(wolf)'s instincts go wild, especially so close to the full moon. Delicious fear.
"Andrew!!" screams a bustier, more curvaceous woman who had been mostly silent up until now, her long white waves cascading down to ample breasts as she quickly hooks her own crossbow onto a utility belt- starting to dart towards the downed man until equally brown eyes spot the split of Dean(wolf)'s maw as it hovers over the butch. "JOLENE!!" she screeches instead, skidding to a halt in Kill Bill block-heeled sandals only to bolt towards the flannel-wearing femme, quickly drawing a katana that she shoves into Dean(wolf)'s gaping maw. It isn't verticle- it doesn't pierce the top of his mouth. It's horizontal, and it gets wedged up against the gumline, right between cuspids and bicuspids as an immense amount of strength is put into keeping that ebon-furred Wolf from chomping down on the awe-struck masc-female. "Piper!! Get Andrew out!!" she barks out her instruction, a similar-looking brunette shaken out of a fearful reverie only to silently nod and run towards the male. Dean(wolf) can recognize the presence of another Alpha when he sees one, and with the curvaceous woman's long white hair, there's no mistaking her age- it's not bleached. It's natural, and she's ancient, and there's a fire to her eyes that yields to him no quarter despite knowing in singular combat, she'd be the weaker of the two.
The fifth member of this group also has that brown hair- cut into a bookish bob- and brown eyes, smaller, more petite, shivering in a turtleneck sweater in the background as she hurriedly fiddles with some kind of home-made cogwork contraption, tears streaming down her face. "Oh God, oh God, oh God," she can be heard saying before the white-haired Alpha shouts to her: "Pulls yourself together for the family, Kleo! This is real! Get your head in the game!!"
Silver or not, a katana is only a katana, and a bat is only a bat. Even worse, in that, it is a mallable metal. Even if the man and woman behind all that force can resist the half-ton wolf, they can't resist the strength of it, and surely their weapons, too. His jaw tilts, splits even wider, as if he's not a wolf but a hyena- or a snake with an unhinged maw. It twists with ferocity, snags the blade to crack it in half the pieces spill with vitriolic spittle and venom of his kin- of course it is nothing any of them should fear. They're already wolves. Before any interception, the baseball bat caves in under his claws, and the man beneath it is forced to endure the decrepit burn of Dean(wolf)'s force crashing him into the ground, cracking him, too.
Suffer, just as Dean(wolf) suffers the acrid burn of silver in his mouth, its suffocating taste. Yet, those green eyes, still beholden to intelligence, albeit a malevolent one, and this close to the fullmoon, they track over at the Alpha of this group. He snarls - as much as a challenge in the brief din of battle, as much as a demand. The butch-fem is ignored in favor of Dean(wolf) standing high, tall, proud and resilient. Dean(wolf) waits, paws the ground, and starts to circle. He demands singular combat - as much as they have the odds against him out of one. He can have his advantage only one way- and he knows. If only they were all to shift.
It is exactly then that his senses spread out. A primal fear, just like the one he inflicted upon his initial target - now seeking the root, the firmament of everyone here. It's a reflection of his own emotion, the thirst to feel blood between his fangs, the desire for violence. The void is projected, the hunger, lack of instability in sought after resolution to his opposition. He'll break them one by one, as wolves, if he can.
The brunette with shoulder-length waves- Piper, she's called, bolts to Andrew's side far too late. That baseball bat is silvered, but with a steel core, and yet still it bends beneath the immense pressure of Dean(wolf)'s weight until it touches, then crushes, the chestnut-haired male's ribcage, caving it in partially as the man coughs up blood all over his own face, and Piper screams with agony as she drops to her knees beside him, cradling his head in her hands as tears, too, stream down her face. "Momma!!!" she screams at the white haired woman, whose katana suffers a similar fate. It doesn't quite shatter into pieces, but it bends and warps before snapping at its center, leaving her about six inches worth of 'functioning' blade to work with. "Focus! He's alive! We'll get him out!!" she vows, even as the crumpled form of what can now be assumed as her son lies in a paw-shaped crater upon the ground, arms curled in on his form like a dying cockroach. Jolene snaps out of her fearful state in time to be simply brushed aside by the motion of Dean(wolf)'s body, causing her to topple over, though she quickly withdraws a massive maul from her side, styled not unlike the fabled Mjolnir, and wields it in both hands. She's about to charge Dean(wolf) with full-force when the white-haired she-wolf holds out a hand to stop her, chocolate-brown eyes intently focused upon Dean(wolf)'s vitriolic green hues. "Get Kleo together, help her with her gadget- I'll keep him distracted for a while," she instructs, her voice firm in a way that only an Alpha's can be: no room for argument or insubordination. Her body turns slowly with Dean(wolf)'s circular prowl, but she doesn't shift; she doesn't cast away her ruined weapon. In fact, she grips it tighter as she non-verbally agrees to Dean(wolf)'s challenge, at least for now.
Meanwhile the bookish girl called Kleo stares up at her mother in abject horror, leaping to her feet only to be snagged back by Jolene as she bellows: "Momma, no!" There's a moment where walnut-hued fur starts to sprout over her pale, sunless skin, only for the collar around her neck to crackle before sending bolts of blue electricity zapping all through her body, making her scream and then go limp, sobbing from the pain. She can't shift- none of them can. Not with those collars around their necks preventing them from doing so in the worst of ways. The White Wolf, too, dons one, and it sizzles with static electricity as, while she doesn't try to shift, she does let some of that primal instinct drive her body. She's determined. She protecting her family- her Pack- perhaps something Dean(wolf) can respect, perhaps. It's clear that whoever these people are, they're not doing this on a whim- they're being forced, leveraged somehow, controlled, manipulated, something, anything, but /choosing/ on their own.
The Alpha, the Mother, she's going to protect her pups from something that is, apparently, far more fearsome, far more dangerous than Dean(wolf).
There is a moment. As there is always one.
Dean(wolf) stops in his tracks while someone topples into the ground with the futility of their change, unable to power through the force of their collars. He could do it, he feels it - just a second, a split act, he'd path here, appear there and swallow the girl up, and yet, Dean(wolf) doesn't. Not because all of him is intently upon the other Alpha, but because he knows their predicament. The sight of those collars is a fearsome reminder, and it is fueling an anger, a wrath unlike any other while he starts to growl again.
His head begins to lower to the ground inch by inch- and in reaching close to the someone. Deliberation in how he huffs a lungful of hot air at her collar, but he doesn't move to snap it off of her. He could try, he would - but then, orders or not, they're also probably kept in other ways. Dean(wolf) retreats, draws his head back --
Then he's gone. Melt into the shadows - gone from view, out of sight.
What erupts is an earthquake of a sound as the swirl of mist, now spread and dissipating among the more tangible, disappears in the real mist that had started to gather. He erupts underneath the toppled woman, jaw unhinged, just as unhinged as he is as he breaks the demand of singular combat to catch the bookish girl, her torso captive in his grasp, squeezing, breaking bone - arms asunder, and she's kept there. Leverage as he waits, unafraid completely that they may do anything when her life is within his means to snuff out. Literally.
There is a moment. As there is always one.
Dean(wolf) stops in his tracks while someone topples into the ground with the futility of their change, unable to power through the force of their collars. He could do it, he feels it - just a second, a split act, he'd path here, appear there and swallow the girl up, and yet, Dean(wolf) doesn't. Not because all of him is intently upon the other Alpha, but because he knows their predicament. The sight of those collars is a fearsome reminder, and it is fueling an anger, a wrath unlike any other while he starts to growl again.
His head begins to lower to the ground inch by inch- and in reaching close to the white-haired femme. Deliberation in how he huffs a lungful of hot air at her collar, but he doesn't move to snap it off of her. He could try, he would - but then, orders or not, they're also probably kept in other ways. Dean(wolf) retreats, draws his head back --
Then he's gone. Melt into the shadows - gone from view, out of sight.
What erupts is an earthquake of a sound as the swirl of mist, now spread and dissipating among the more tangible, disappears in the real mist that had started to gather. He erupts underneath the toppled woman, jaw unhinged, just as unhinged as he is as he breaks the demand of singular combat to catch the bookish girl, her torso captive in his grasp, squeezing, breaking bone - arms asunder, and she's kept there. Leverage as he waits, unafraid completely that they may do anything when her life is within his means to snuff out. Literally.
"KLEO!!" is a shout in unison from every member of this family, save for poor Andrew, who has gone quiet and limp as the fever dream of adrenaline takes him some place far away where broken bones and pierced lungs can't hurt him- alive, but barely, his big brown eyes gazing up towards the sky wear seagulls caw overhead and fluffy white clouds drift lazily over the backdrop of cyan blue. Well, it also excludes Kleo herself, who is currently nabbed in Dean(wolf)'s mouth like a corndog fresh out of the grease, squirming between teeth as her dainty hands grasp at whiskers, pulling upwards and yanking but only succeeding in shifting around his upper lip a bit. But Mother can path too, and she does, the blink of an eye seeing a streak of white zip through the air before she is at Dean(wolf)'s jawline, forcing hands and arms into his mouth as she attempts to pry them open, straining her muscles- she's strong. Very strong. But unshifted as she is, Dean(wolf) is stronger, no matter how she tries. "Please no," she begs of him, teeth piercing her limbs from the amount of pressure she applies all on her own to free what seems to be the youngest of the group. "Not my baby- not any of them. Kill me, let them go. They'll listen if I tell them to go," she swears to the disdain of each conscious child she has remaining. And each child freezes in place with reluctance and mourning, but obedience, trapped in a place where no matter what they do, the believe a part of their family will be gone forever. They're not going to move an inch regardless- it's clear they understand that if they do, Kleo will be dismembered, and their mother, their Alpha, will lose her arms. Silence falls over the collared Pack.
Unrelenting, the single touch on Dean(wolf)'s jaw by the other alpha results in a tighter vice. Dean(wolf) clamps harder, digs those palm-sized fangs into the poor flesh of his captive. Pierce her abdomen for a better grip. Any more, and she'd be severed in half - and the white-haired fem would find her hands coated in the blood of her child. A scene so touching, it possibly would've shook the resolve of anyone that isn't Dean(wolf), maybe. If only they weren't here to kill him. In spite of the agony, the raw strife thick in the air that he draws to his lungs like the fresh scent of a kill - draining the very essence form them by sheer fear, Dean(wolf) starts to backtrack. Step by agonizing step as green eyes glow, keenly stare and pierce the begging woman while he retreats towards the edge of the treeline.
Then, his jaw clenches tight. Tighter than ever, than before. The crunch is sickening, more so for them as the pain of their sibling, of a daughter, reverbates across the pack bond in searing speed- and he uses it to show them all. The woman he now drops like a wet, but barely alive, sack of potatoes? She doesn't have long to live. Dean(wolf) gives them an opportunity with it; fight to the end, risk the two lives nearing the end of their thread -- or retreat, and save them. Dean(wolf) doesn't wait for an answer either way, that massive form seeks to blend into the treeline, disappear in it if their answer isn't to recklessly pursue him further.
The intoxicating scent of mutual agony fills Dean(wolf)'s nostrils to the brim as the Pack suffers as one, Kleo crunched, then dropped, and the rest of her family seem to follow suit, wailing in mourning in their own ways as they drop to their knees, crumpled, defeated, and accepting that defeat. They don't move, they just wait for Dean(wolf) to disappear into the treeline, and once he's a safe enough distance away, they bolt to collect their fallen. Andrew has moments before he's going to die if he doesn't get to a hospital, and Kloe's spine has clearly been broken; she'll heal, but she won't be the same. Not for a long, long time. The family eventually darts away into the distance, carrying their siblings, daughter and son, brother and sister, deeper into town towards the bridge, not bothering with vehicles as they are, instead, rushed to White Oak for treatment. The ebon-furred Hell Wolf is safe for now, escaping predation as easily as it comes upon him, but there is the lingering sense that this isn't the last he's seen of Kleo, Piper, Andrew, Jolene, and Momma.
FIN
Just beyond, further away, Dean(wolf) still hasn't looked way. He watches the others - how they depart, their suffering and pain as they rush. The blood on his maw is licked clean, and somehow, there is a sense of loss to him. A hanging emotion like that of guilt, but far from it - not entirely. There is assessment with it - of the Alpha, of the way she carries her young, her pack. It makes him grind that wolven jaw, snarl under his breath. He doesn't like the coddling - no matter how strong she can be, she's weak if her pack is weak. Dean(wolf) was the proof of it - and now, he turns, leaves for the rest of his attire, underwater - submerging as a wolf, rising back as a neoprane clad man out the pier. It's barely there, seen, but he limps towards his bike.
No catch, today.