Fort Douglas, Wisconsin -- 1994
The holy water burned going down, but not in a bad way. More like aged whiskey, warming me from the inside with a clarity that felt almost divine. I'd started carrying a flask of it after noticing how it made me feel stronger, more focused. More... right.
Pastor Jim had given me strange looks last week when I'd asked for a third blessing of my water flask.
"Most hunters can barely stand to drink the stuff," he'd said, watching me down it like spring water. But how could I explain that it tasted like summer storms and clean lightning? That each sip made the world sharper, clearer?
"This all the consecrated iron we have?" I checked our ammunition stock in the dim motel light, trying not to think about how the blessed metal felt warm under my fingers. Like it recognized something in me. Like it belonged there.
The rounds seemed to hum faintly as I loaded them, a resonance I'd started noticing more lately. Just like how silver burned cold for most hunters but felt like a missing piece of myself when I held it.
"Should be enough," Dad replied, cleaning his own weapons with methodical precision. "Shtriga's been spotted near the elementary school. Six victims already."
At fifteen, I'd been hunting long enough to trust my instincts. But lately, those instincts had been... different. Sharper. More certain.
Like last week in Rockford, when I'd known – just known – which grave belonged to the violent spirit, even though the headstone had worn away decades ago. Dad had questioned my certainty until we dug it up and found the cursed object we were looking for.
The motel room's single bulb flickered, drawing my eyes to the cheap crucifix on the wall. For a moment, it seemed to glow brighter, its light reaching toward me like a forgotten memory. That had been happening more often too, especially in churches.
Like the sacred spaces recognized something in my blood.
"Dean?" Dad's voice pulled me back. "You listening?"
"Yes, sir." I forced my attention away from the crucifix. "Shtriga's taken six kids. Only vulnerable when feeding. Consecrated iron rounds."
The words came automatically, but my mind was on other changes I'd noticed. How Latin prayers rolled off my tongue like a native language now. How the silver knife in my boot felt comfortably warm against my skin, no matter how cold the weather.
Sam sat quietly with his books, but for once, I wasn't focused on my little brother's oddities – his strange knowledge, his weather patterns, his careful secrets. I was too aware of my own mysteries.
Of how the priest last Sunday had stared at me during communion, how the holy water in the font had rippled when I passed, how the stained glass angels seemed to turn their heads to watch me walk by.
"We move at midnight," Dad was saying, but his voice sounded distant under the soft hum of blessed metal and holy water in my veins. "Dean, you'll take position here..." He pointed to a map, and I nodded, trying to focus.
But part of me was still caught on this morning's reflection in the bathroom mirror. For just a moment, between one blink and the next, I could have sworn I saw something else in my eyes. Something bright and terrible and beautiful.
Something that felt like destiny.
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The night air felt charged as I took my position outside the elementary school. Every shadow could hide our target, but I wasn't afraid. Instead, I felt... ready. Like I was meant for this.
The consecrated iron rifle sat perfectly balanced in my hands, its blessed metal warming under my touch. The school's small chapel was visible from my position, its cross gleaming brighter than it should in the moonlight. Like it was trying to tell me something.
"Got eyes on the west entrance," I reported into the walkie-talkie, my voice steady despite the strange energy humming through my veins.
"Copy that," Dad's response crackled back. "Remember-"
"Wait until it's feeding. I know."
I adjusted my position, noticing how the ground felt almost holy beneath my feet. That had been happening more lately – certain places, certain objects feeling sacred in ways I couldn't explain.
Like that old church in Minnesota last month, where the altar steps had seemed to glow under my boots.
The night grew colder, but the chill didn't touch me like it should. The holy water in my flask radiated warmth against my chest, and the silver knife in my boot sang softly against my skin.
Movement caught my eye – a shadow where no shadow should be.
The shtriga glided across the playground, its ancient form a darkness deeper than night. It paused near the chapel, as if sensing something, then turned toward the school's side entrance where we knew a janitor's son sometimes slept while his father worked.
I touched the cross Pastor Jim had given me last Christmas. It flared warm under my fingers, and for a moment, I could have sworn I heard wings.
A child's cry pierced the night.
I moved without conscious thought, my body responding with an efficiency that felt almost supernatural. The shtriga had cornered the boy in the hallway, its dark form looming over its prey.
The consecrated iron round left my gun before I consciously aimed. It struck true, and the creature screamed – a sound that should have chilled my blood but instead fired something deep inside me. Something that felt like righteous fury.
"Dean, wait for backup!" Dad's voice came through the walkie-talkie, but I was already moving.
The shtriga turned to face me, and for a moment, its ancient eyes widened. Like it saw something in me that surprised it. Something that made it afraid.
Good.
The fight was unlike anything I'd experienced before. The shtriga moved with supernatural speed, but somehow I matched it. Each shot felt guided, each movement precise, like my body knew a dance my mind had forgotten.
When its claws caught my arm, something strange happened. The creature recoiled, as if my blood itself had burned it. Its ancient eyes widened with what looked like recognition – or fear.
The final shot took it between the eyes as it fed, consecrated iron blazing like divine fire. The shtriga didn't just die; it seemed to burn from the inside out, like something in me had added extra power to the blessed metal.
Dad found me standing over its smoking remains, the janitor's boy safely behind me.
"You disobeyed a direct order," he started, but stopped short. Maybe he noticed how the streetlights seemed brighter around me, how the night air hummed with something indefinable.
Or maybe he saw something in my eyes, because he took a step back before catching himself.
"Couldn't let it take another kid," I said simply, though simple didn't begin to cover how right it had felt. How natural. Like smiting evil was written into my bones.
Dad studied me for a long moment. "The shot you made... that was impossible at that angle."
I shrugged, not wanting to explain how it had felt like something else had guided my hands. How the consecrated iron had sung to me, how the chapel's cross had flared like a beacon during the fight.
The drive back to the motel was quiet. Dad kept glancing at me in the rearview mirror, probably adding this to his mental list of strange things about his sons. But for once, I wasn't worried about his scrutiny.
The cut on my arm had already stopped bleeding, healing faster than it should. Holy water cleaned it without the usual sting, feeling more like a blessing than medicine.
Sam was still awake when we returned, watching me with those knowing eyes of his. But for once, I was too distracted by my own mysteries to worry about his secrets.
That night, I dreamed of flying. Not the falling sensation of normal dreams, but true flight. Power thrummed through me, pure and terrible and right. I soared through skies that felt like home, wielding light like a sword.
I woke to find the motel's cheap crucifix glowing softly in the darkness, its light seeming to reach for me like a forgotten memory.
The holy water in my flask tasted of lightning when I took a drink, and somewhere in the distance, church bells rang with perfect clarity.
Something was changing. In my blood, in my bones, in my very soul. Like I was becoming something I'd always been meant to be.
I caught my reflection in the bathroom mirror and froze. For just a moment, in the space between heartbeats, I saw once more something else overlaid on my features. Something bright and terrible and beautiful, just beneath my skin.
Something waiting to be awakened.
The cross around my neck warmed like a promise, and the first rays of dawn painted the sky in colors that seemed more vivid than before. Like I was seeing the world through different eyes.
Whatever was happening to me, whatever I was becoming, one thing hadn't changed: I had a job to do. A family to protect. A brother to watch over.
The rest could wait.
But sometimes, in quiet moments between hunts, I couldn't help but wonder what that something else in the mirror had been.
What it meant that blessed weapons felt like extensions of myself, that holy water tasted of heaven, that sacred spaces seemed to welcome me like a long-lost son.
The morning sun caught the crucifix on the wall, and for a moment, I could have sworn I saw wings in my shadow.
Something was coming. Something big.
And somehow, I knew I'd been made for it.
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(Author note: Hello everyone! I hope you all liked the chapter!
Do tell me how you found Dean's perspective? Yeah, this fanfic is a bit AUish.
I felt that Dean also needed something special, to equal him to Sam, since I don't just want it to be the Sam show.
I want it to be the Sam & Dean show.
So, do tell me how you found it, and I hope to see you all later,
Bye!)