Chapter Text
1 a.m.
The fire is crackling happily, spitting sparks at the backpackers' feet. Despite the cold wind blowing around them, hitting their red cheeks with sharp fingers, they barely notice it. Sitting on small logs, they listen to the guide with wide open eyes and mouths.
The man, Greg, talks while moving his hands in the air, his eyes illuminated by the flames. Every word he whispers makes the walkers shiver, and it is definitely not because of the cold. A few minutes later, the guide stops, takes a deep breath. He takes a sip of his coffee and observes the men and women facing him. He laughs a little at their frightened faces, their nervous moves, and the way they get closer to each other, like it could protect them.
They are just some middle-class, pathetic, hypocritical people. They were bored, and the husband probably suggested some holidays. The wife probably approved, and that was done. Once they got rid of the kids, and threw them into their aunts' arms, they drove, but not for too long.
The place was not bad, the city was nearly pretty. But since a few months, the tourists were rushing to the town, a merciless desire of novelty running through their veins. Because that is what they were all looking for: the thrill of danger, the call of darkness.
Like everyone, thought Greg. Even him was mysteriously attracted by the woods these days. Apparently, the police found corpses here and there, all savagely torn to shreds, their blood painting every leaf, every rock around. They assured it was the work of a human being, since the bodies, or what was left of them, were deeply scarred by some kind of knife or blade.
If the story would make anyone shiver, it was not keeping the crowd away. Stories and legends began to appear and flew through the whole state. People were talking about a demon, a monster, that would violently murder the poor souls wandering into the woods once the sun was out of sight.
Of course, the forest was forbidden to anyone at night, but that wasn't keeping Greg from doing his business. Once in a while, he would organize excursions into the woods, taking the money of credulous fools. He would take them walking for a while, then tell them a bunch of stories and then it was over. They would shiver a little and walk to their tent, glancing nervously around them. Then, in the morning they would shrug and go back to their expensive cars, aching and cold.
Everyone was happy: they got their thrill and Greg would hold warm dollar bills against his chest. Some of them would fly each month into the cops' palms and they would close their eyes on his little trips.
He blows on his coffee and covers the walkers with a wide smile. ''So, who heard about the stories goin' about this bastard?''
A frail, pale woman raises a shaking hand. Her boyfriend seems as impressed as her, and it's quite a show to see him holding her hand like it would keep him from falling of his seat.
“Yes, the lady over there?” Greg asks, ready to hear a new twisted version of the story that kept shifting each time.
The woman clears her throat. ''Well, I heard... I heard it was the ghost of a man haunting the forest.''
Greg raises an eyebrow. Well, that's new. He moves his hand and invites the girl to keep going. She shivers, again.
“They say that many years ago, there was a killer in this town. He would run into the woods and he would tear apart anyone who dared to stand in his way. One day, he was caught by the police and shot by a bullet in the heart. But when they came to bring his body back, he stood up again, and killed them all. Since that moment, he kept running to bring despair in all the country, holding a blade of bone. But now, he's back here, in this city, and he is ready to kill like he used to.”
She stops, swallowing hardly, blinking quickly. Greg cannot help but feel a disgusting bile moving inside him, burning his throat. He shifts on his seat and tries to smile.
''Well, the little lady is right. Some people say they saw him runnin' near the road, covered of blood, wearing guts aroun' his neck like a freakin' trophy. The woods are his home, he knows them better than anyone else. Every tree, every trail. He will spare no one.''
Greg gets up and his shadow covers the walkers, who raise frightened eyes to look at him. The guide starts to walk slowly around them.
''If you dare to enter his kingdom, he will come and find you.'' He brushes against a jacket. ''If you try to run, he will come and he will tear you to pieces.'' He takes a strand of hair, twists it around a finger. ''He will open your chest, BOOM!''
The walkers jump and Greg can see the fear growing inside them as their eyes widen with horror.
''He will rip your heart, cut you into little pieces, drink your blood like cheap wine. He will sit on your bones and wear your skin, and he will destroy you.''
Shiver, shiver, shiver. The fire is not bright enough, the woods are coming closer, the wind blows and roars, the moon appears above them, huge, incredible, monstrous.
Greg smiles again, with all his teeth, but inside, an acid fear started to rain on his guts. ''But you wanna know the worst of all?''
Despite their hearts beating like drums in their chests and their blood flowing in their ears, the walkers nod silently, too afraid of speaking.
Greg leans to look at them. ''Some say that he walks among us, that he leaves the woods and acts like a human. Maybe you saw him.'' A woman gasps, and puts instantly a hand on her mouth, breathing loudly, holding her husband's hand so tight their fingers turn white.
Greg is proud. Sure this trip will get him a lot of cash, these idiots are living the night of their life.
''Maybe he was in your motel, maybe he slept next to you. Maybe he held you the door and you thanked him. Maybe he was sittin' right next to ya, and he smelled you, already dreamin' of you like a piece of meat.''
One of the women started to shake, and she represses a sob. Greg sees they are ready to leave, that they want to run away from this place as fast as they can. But they are trapped. Without him, they cannot find their way through the forest, and after what they heard, they are not willing to get lost.
Greg sits again, lights a cigarette. He blows some cheap smoke at the walkers' faces. ''Some say that if you call him, he will come.''
''No!'' One of the women screams, standing up suddenly, tears rolling down her cheeks.
''C'mon, honey, you know this ain't true. Don't be an idiot!'' Her husband says as he forces her to sit down again. ''Do it.'' He adds, staring at the guide.
''Alright. Let's do it. And if this bastard comes, I'll take care of him myself.'' Greg says with a pat to his shiny gun. ''Repeat after me now. Monster.''
''Monster.''
''Demon.''
''Demon.''
''Abomination.''
''Abomination.''
There is a minute of silence and everyone holds their breath. Some of them glance around, trying to find a moving shadow behind the trees. Then, they start breathing again, all in the same move. Their hearts start to beat again, slowly, carefully.
Greg smiles, and takes another puff of his cigarette. ''See? Just a bunch of old' ladies losing their minds over some blood.'' He laughs.
Shiver, shiver, shiver. Blood is flowing and skulls are smashed. Screams, and screams and screams. Teeth and claws and evil eyes.
''Told you, it's just some sick bastard running around. I'm not believing this satanic bullshit.''
There is a small sound, a little, disgusting noise. Greg raises his head.
Like gentle bloody dolls, the walkers are still listening to him.
Their heads at their feet.
Greg's scream gets stuck inside his throat. His cigarette falls on the ground with a rain of ashes, and his whole body stiffens.
Behind the corpses, behind the necks that spit blood like fireworks, there is a man.
He stands behind them, he does not move. He wears nothing but a pair of dark jeans. His hands are covered of fresh blood, and in one of them, there is a white blade, shining under the moon, his bare chest is painted in red.
Greg tries to get up and run, but his limbs are numb and sore and his lungs are empty. He falls on his knees and he shakes, and even if he never had faith, he starts praying to whatever is in the sky.
The silhouette enters in the halo of the fire, and the flames cast shadows on his skin. Greg notices a dark mark on his left arm, sharp and swollen. In the darkness of the woods, the scar seems to shine bright like a bonfire.
''You called me.''
Greg jumps. The voice is strangely calm, and human. It is a soft melody, deep and low.
The man walks to him. ''Here I come.'' He whispers in the guide's ear.
The last thing Greg sees is two black eyes, two wells of suffering and despair, before the blood spurts out like a river to paint the trees, and the blade dives and dives into his flesh, emptying his body.
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Gunshots. Screams. Feet bruising the ground. Weapons shining under the moon. Quick breathing, finger on the trigger, eyes on the prey. BANG.
Dean screams of pain and he raises a hand to his wounded shoulder. Black blood flows through his fingers. His limbs are sore and he is tired. He tries to focus on where he is going but the pain grows inside him and his vision is shaking.
He stops for a second, leans against a tree. His arm and back burn, and he winces, tears coming to his eyes. The air feels like fire inside his lungs and his blood is like pure acid in his veins.
Shit. He tries to look at the wound on the back of his shoulder and sees that a silver liquid started to flow out of the hole. The bullet was powerful enough to rip out all of the flesh and bone, but still got stuck. Like it was not enough, the damn thing is now inside him, poisoning him slowly.
The Hunters were getting wiser, and stronger. And he was getting too confident. He already knew they were running after him, but he was sure they would never catch him. He was as fast as the wind, and he could rip out their hearts before they even saw him coming.
And yet, there he is, bleeding like a dog, crying like a child. He should have stayed at home, but no, the annoying voice of that old man flew to his ears and even if deep down, he knew it was a mistake, he ran. He bathed into their blood and he laughed to the moon.
But the Hunters were near, and before he realized, he was already running, a bleeding hole in his shoulder. They were smart, he had to admit, and their weapons were incredible. The bullet must be filled with some kind of spell and now, he knows Death is coming for him.
He takes a deep breath and a low growl fills his throat. It is been a long time since he suffered that much. He even forgot what it was like. Usually, he was the one who inflicted pain. Not the contrary.
But now he is the victim, the prey, the pig ready to be bled. Even if he finds his little home, the Hunters were after him and they would finish him. And after that? Maybe they would put his head on a pike and celebrate the whole night, getting drunk and high, dancing around his corpse.
Fate is a cruel thing. This morning, he woke up safe and filled with a burning energy. He went to the city and walked around for a moment. He went to the bar and drank. Always with an eye on the Butterfly.
The Butterfly, as he called him, was an odd-looking man. He was once walking the street and brushed against him, without even seeing him. Dean stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and his eyes followed the man until he was out of sight. Usually, people would step aside when he came in front of them.
Maybe it was that strange aura he was carrying everywhere, and few people dared to get close. They could not help being attracted by him, their minds tied to his, but everytime they stepped inside that darkness, their hearts were suddenly taken by fear and they would step back, apologize, and walk away, as far as possible.
Few had the courage to get closer, and the ones who bathed in sweat and moans in his arms were not that lucky, for they never saw the sun rise again.
But this man, he did not even paid attention to him. When he brushed against him, his fresh, blue aura melt into Dean's darkness and he stood there, incapable of moving. This sensation, he would never forget it. It changed him.
That is why he decided the man had to die. This ghost, this butterfly that covered the ground with precious, careful steps. He did not walk, he was nearly floating above the pavement, dark hair on the wind, dreamy smile on his face.
Everyday, Dean would track him down, following the melody of his feet touching the ground. The man would often wander in the streets, the heavy cold wind falling on him, but he did not mind. He would often sat and observe the people walking, the dark clouds forming in the sky. He would walk into the night, and sleep never seemed to find him.
He would smile and smile, and show a heart of gold to everyone, and people would stop, breathless, everytime. There were sparkles fizzing in his aura, biting softly their skin.
Dean hated that. There were too much light coming out of him, a revolting kindness surrounding him. Dean would shake and imagine his blade diving into this tan chest, and his hands around this thin neck.
And yet, he was incapable of doing it. Once, on a cold evening, he hunted him down a dark alley, his knife warm in his hand. But when he was about to see the blood flow, his mind stiffened and his heart started racing. He hid quickly on the roofs, and the man turned around, giving the street a puzzled look.
Today, he was ready. He felt it, and he planned it all. The game was over. He would rip out his paper wings.
But on his way to the city, he heard the guide, and here he was. Destiny struck again, and instead of watching the blood go black under the moon, he is aching under the skies.
He is feeling weaker, and he hears the hounds coming closer. The Hunters' steps are heavy on the soil, and a thin drizzle started to fall, freezing him whole in a few seconds.
A deep lament starts to grow inside his lungs, and soon, he will be nothing more than a moth under the Hunters' boots.
He starts to run again, and his body hurts, begs him to stop. His blood is cold, his thoughts are fuzzy, his eyes are full of burning tears the rain cannot wash away. He stumbles, and the rocks are sharp under his feet, that are nothing but gaping, bleeding wounds.
Suddenly, he falls on his knees and he cannot stop the scream that follows the pain. He bites his lips and tries to get up, but his hands are shaking. He barely breathes.
Blurred shapes appear on the horizon and he blinks, sure the hallucinations began. But they are really here, the Hunters are coming and God knows what they will do to him.
He sits on the ground, holds his blade tighter, ready to fight. He knows the fight will not be fair: demon or not, he is dying. But if he can take one or two with him to Hell, well, he is ready to fight until his body falls to pieces.
Suddenly, one of the men points at him. ''He's right there! We got him!''
Dean tries to gather his strength. His eyes turn black again, a low growl rises in his throat. When thick blood fills his mouth, he spits it on the ground, and mixed with the rain, it turns into a small, morbid lake.
His knees are diving into the mud, and despite the fire running in his veins, he hears himself sobbing softly. He does not want to die.
The Hunters are coming closer. He can hear the dogs running, the men breathing. Dean lets out a wail. He cries and he screams. ''Come and get me if you can!'' He shouts at them.
He sees their knives, and their guns, machetes, baseball bats, chains, hooks. Everything is there to kill the Beast. It will be slow and painful, and maybe he will see the dawn, but at what price?
They are not far now, and he closes his eyes, tries to calm down, to ease the fear growing inside him. Nobody will come for him, because if the Devil was dying, who would want to save him?
He lets the wind rock him slowly. He remembers a lullaby his mother used to sing to him, when he was nothing but an innocent soul, when his fate was not written yet. He does not remember every word, but the melody is enough, and it soothes him. He tries to fall in his mind, and forget the dogs, the Hunters, the pain to come.
He is ready to feel hands around his neck and fists on his skin, bruises growing like flowers on his chest.
He breathes deeply, and he is empty. He dies.
Before the men can reach him, there is a flutter of wings, like a bird, and there is suddenly a sparkling, bright light around him. Two strong arms surround him, and he is held against a warm chest. Dean coughs and chokes on blood, and he cannot think anymore.
His eyelids are heavy but he fights against the slumber growing inside him, and he fights to raise his head. His eyes cross bright blue ones, bright even in the darkness.
Confusion and hope take him, and it is such a bittersweet feeling. There is a soft touch on his bare back, and his shoulders, and it feels like a warm and tender embrace.
His skull is heavy, and sleep is calling him. His head falls back on the stranger's chest.
''Butterfly...'' Dean murmurs.
A flutter of wings. The breeze blowing. A gunshot. A scream.
BLACK.