The room Dean got kidnapped to was jam packed, like every hunter in the states had been shoved in there. Dean was pissed. What kinda monster just teleported you from your motel bathroom to a room with no windows or doors and a bunch of angry armed hunters? And Dean didn’t even have his pants, dammit, just a fucking towel.
Some idiot hunter with boots (Why’d the monster hafta kidnap Dean when he was fucking barefoot? He was jealous as shit of those boots.) was trying to kick down the obviously rock wall. That shit wasn’t budging. Another idiot hunter was shooting up the rock ceiling. It wasn’t doing much, just making Dean’s ears ring and wasting bullets. If he had a weapon he’d save it for when it was actually fucking useful.
A dude in all white popped into the room. The lucky hunters with guns shot him. Dean just stood there awkwardly holding his towel in place around his waist. Those hunters weren’t so lucky, though. The guy clenched his fist, and everybody who’d shot at him started shrieking and fell to the floor. It was kinda painful to watch. Least the guy was bleeding. His fancy white clothes were red all over, even if it didn’t seem to affect him. If it bleeds, you can kill it. Dean would figure some shit out.
A hunter tried to stab the guy, but a flick of the dude’s hand and that hunter was screaming on the ground too. So guns and knives wouldn’t work. Didn’t matter; Dean didn’t have those anyway. He coulda had a gun, a silver knife, and pants if he’d just not showered that morning, but oh well. Fists were always worth a shot. Dean attacked.
His fist was almost to that hood covered monster face when he got hit with this super pain nightmare shit. It hurt worse than anything he’d ever got hunting. Brutal, splitting pain tearing through his head, his body. It was like he’d taken a bath in wasabi paste and had taste buds all over. He was burning, dying. He couldn’t think. Was he screaming? It was over.
“Holy fucking shit!” Dean said. He was shaking, panting. Stinging everywhere. Were there fucking tears in his eyes? He brushed them away. Reflex tears. Dean was no wuss.
Shit. His towel. Dean grabbed it and put it around his waist. He realized he’d fallen right at the fucking monster’s feet. Not cool. He sat up, but felt nauseous and didn’t try to stand.
Some dumbass on the ground picked up his gun again and tried to aim it at the monster. That fist clenched, and the hunter screamed and screamed, dropping his gun and shaking on the ground. It was sickening. Somebody peed themselves. It was a long time before the screams stopped.
A whole bunch of hunters were all talking at once: questioning, demanding, yelling, threatening. Dean scooted away from the monster. Several feet away he struggled up to his feet. He was Dean Winchester, pain sure as hell wasn’t keeping him down. He just needed a smart way to attack again.
The monster pushed his hood back. He didn’t look monstery, or evil. He was just a kid. 22? 23? Couple years younger than Dean, at least. Warm hazel eyes, a strong jaw, hair that shoulda been girly it was so long, but somehow came across all dominant and shit. He was hot. Not that Dean paid attention to hotness in guys or anything. Just like, in a general sense Dean could tell he was hot.
Those hazel eyes turned yellow, and Dean’s brain froze.
Yellow eyes. Yellow. The yellow eyed demon. Fire, choking, panic. He’d run out of the house all those years ago. Dad came out after a while, but Mom, Sammy: they didn’t make it. It was all down to Yellow Eyes. These yellow eyes?
Gunshots, more screaming, quiet. Dean didn’t notice, his brain a mess of panicked thoughts as he tried to figure this out. The yellow eyed demon. The yellow eyed demon. Here? How was he supposed to do this with his dad dead? How was he supposed to do this at all? Even with two of them, all they’d done was get their asses kicked and Dad killed.
“My father was Azazel,” the boy with the yellow eyes said, “You might have heard of him as the yellow eyed demon. He’s been ruling hell for a long time. I killed him.”
Not the yellow eyed demon? Not the demon who’d killed Mom, Sammy, Dad? Dean’s brain struggled.
“So you’re the king of hell now,” a hunter said.
“Yes.” The yellow eyed boy smiled. “As I said, I want to make a deal with all you hunters. You’ve noticed the increase in demonic activity over the past three weeks since I killed my father. You’re overwhelmed. I could kill all of you, right here, right now.”
“Why don’t you fucking get on with it, then?” Dean asked.
“All this bloodshed and fighting, where does it really get us?” Yellow said, “If all of you stop interfering with deals where the person freely agreed to go to hell, then I’ll have my demons stop killing and tempting the rest of America. It’ll be just deals. I’ll even make sure the meat suits get out alive.”
“We don’t deal with your kind, you freak!” a hunter yelled.
Yellow clenched his fist again, and that hunter dropped, screaming.
“Did I mention that I can kill you all and leave this lovely country completely vulnerable to every kind of monster?” Yellow’s voice dripped with sweetness and made Dean’s hair stand on end. He wanted to gank this son of a bitch, but he didn’t want all that pain and it wouldn’t help anyway. There had to be a way out of this.
“So you just want us to ignore demon deals,” a hunter said, her voice resigned.
“Yes,” Yellow said, “We’ll need something a little stronger than a kiss to seal this deal. Something that binds a hunter to me, forever.” His eyes locked on Dean.
“What the fuck,” Dean said.
Yellow approached. He was taller than Dean, and sort of intimidating. Dean clutched his towel and stuck his chin in the air. Yellow’s hands were warm on the sides of Dean’s face. Those yellow eyes were creepy as fuck, and Dean wanted out of there, ASAP.