Author's Note: I do not own the characters of Dean, Sam or John Winchester, as they are the property of Eric Kripke. I do, however, own all of the other characters, therefore making them solely my property. Anyway, enough with the technical rubbish.
Summary: Dean Winchester is a wanted man. The exploits of the shape-shifter in Skin made him a fugitive, as well as dead to the world. In The Benders a police officer discovered his identity, but promised to keep it a secret. However, in Devil's Trap Dean was seen by many eye witnesses shooting an apparently innocent man in the head. He is thought to be dangerous, a criminal of the highest and most psychotic order. With the help of his father and his brother, Dean must evade not only the numerous police tracking him, but also something else, something far worse that has a dark history with the Winchester son and wants revenge.Fugitive
By Jonathan Newman
He watched secretly from the dark alley. Leaning against the rough, damp wall, he took a long, satisfied suck at the smoky air surrounding him. From his hand the cigarette burned menacingly, its fiery glow igniting his rough but still concealed features. He was a shadow, a dark and frightening apparition, looming up against the night sky.
The night was cold, cloudy, and misty. No light was present on the street but the occasional glimmer from the moon as it attempted to cleanse the ground. In battle with the light, the shadows were victorious, its oily claws erasing hope, peace, and those last vestiges of solitude. When the moonlight snaked across a waiting grid, the metallic structure spat out filthy, warped images on the walls. They were perversions, swastikas, so strange but also, not out of place. Dancing from place to place, these images floated steadily, corrupting all they touched. A sense of evil lingered in the foul air.
One image caught the figures brooding face, like the exposed wings of a gliding bat, igniting it momentarily. A flash of menace was present in those dark, murky eyes. They looked into darkness, and the darkness dared not look back. Rough, coarse, blade like bristles flickered over his neck, slicing his throat and then retreating up onto his face. No more could be seen, the light passed away, leaping terrified, and cladding the figure once more in total shadow.
From the alley his soulless eyes studied the entrance across the street. The warehouse was not overly large, but it still had the capacity for what he feared. An average sized square building, it loomed up like a great beast against the harsh night sky. Its solid steel doors twinkled mockingly at any that approached. But none did. Very few ventured to this side of the neighbourhood anymore. It was whispered by the very brave that people around there dealt in black magic and death. They were not the people one wished to anger.
Boring into the solid building, the hungry eyes sent messages back to the brain. The man smiled asmug but sinister smile. He could sense the evil at work within the warehouse, and he knew how to stop it. A moment to prove oneself, to show everyone up, he thought. The slight breeze was flicking his dark mane of hair over his eyes, hindering his vision, clouding his vision. Impatiently he swept the hairs aside and continued his surveillance.
Within the man's mind, his orders circulated again and again. Billowing around his shins, his long, dark ovecoat was caught in the wind and flowed. For a second it was as if he had spread his wings and become a true creature of the night, capable of swooping down upon his enemies and picking them off at will. He smiled at the thought. If only it were that easy..
Once more he exhaled long and hard on his cigarette. Its glow was fading. It was almost time. He flicked the smouldering ashes into the air. Some caught the wind and were carried away silently, others settled on the ground. With his boot, the man ground them out, extinguishing the last vestiges of light in the alley. A cloud had drifted in front of the moon. Now, all that remained was total, unrelenting, unforgiving, darkness. It painted the streets black and filled the air with a great sense of foreboding and danger. Only the night possessed this power, all other things lacked the power. The man respected the shadows for their stealth, for their power, for their ability to manipulate human life. They drew evil to them, those in need of solitude, searching for somewhere to hide, a place where the rest of the world no longer acknowledged them. For a time, the shadows could provide a person with peace. Until, however, the darkness takes them whole and destroys them from within.
His warmth lost, the man stood up straight, his full height pressed against the night sky. With a sickly snap he massaged his neck before moving forwards. Slowly, but purposefully, he made his way towards the warehouse. His steps created eerie echoes, which circulated menacingly around the street. The breeze caught his coat, and the bat stalked forward.
Without even attempting to open the doors, he knew they were solid, the man pulled himself up onto the first rung of the ladder hanging next to it. The metal was harsh and cold against his skin. Ignoring his discomfor, he began to climb. Tiny sounds of boot upon leather resounded serenely, making his head feel light. He hated it when he wasn't silent, it destroyed everything. Noise was so unneccessary.
Reaching the roof, the man strode across the brittle tiling searching for and entrance. Ah, he thought upon seeing a small hatch, perfect!
Hours later the dark and bloody figure emerged from the warehouse and staggered through the streets. One hand was clasped over his wounded shoulder, the other held out in front of him. He had yet again been arrogant and let his guard down. It had cost him. But not for long. How long...?
Dazedly, almost semi-conscious, the man blinked through the night until his eyes began to adjust. The night was of little hinderance to his vision. He was limping, but only slightly, as he drifted back down the dark alley from where he had first emerged. A steady mist rose like clouds around him, dropping a thin, smoky veil about his person. Steadily he grew less visible, his dark shadow, complete with swishing coat like wings, fading into the fog. And then, like a bat who had drifted in from the shadows to hunt, the darkness took him, and he was gone. Dean Winchester fled into the night.