( He's got his rifle strapped to his back, but there's no time for him to swing it around before they start getting hands on her. Even if he could, he can't fire it in here — too high a chance he might hit her, or the bullet might slam into something that screws with the structural integrity that's already getting pretty goddamn precarious.
He doesn't go straight for the guy aiming for her — he knows she's a fighter, that she can handle herself for a second while he goes for the guy closest to him. Gotta get him out of the fight, because if they gang up on her it's gonna start getting way harder to manage. She's quick, but she's small. Raw power in confined spaces is more his forte, he thinks.
They grapple. The guy lands an elbow to his gut.
And that's about when he starts to feel it.
That draw, that desire. That hunger that hasn't been satiated in too long. For a split second, he wishes for the blade that pairs with this mark, for the brutality and efficiency he could get with it, but that's okay.
He'll still get something out of this.
Doesn't even think to fight it — why would he? Taking these guys out is what needs to happen. He needs to do this. It's natural, it's right.
So he gives in. The brand on his arm does not glow, but it does seem angrier. More fresh. More raw.
He's fast. One boot to the guy's knee, and a disgusting crack as it splinters under the force. He twists neatly under the hold the guy's got on his arms, weakened now from the blow. Uses it to swing an elbow up and break his nose. Blood starts flowing almost instantly, and it's satisfying. One of the others makes to help his buddy, just to get a knife to the side for his troubles.
(He doesn't even remember pulling it out of his boot.)
He snarls, adrenaline and rage overpowering pain for the moment — and that anger drives him to smartly target not Dean but the girl with him. Figuring if he can get her at knife point, this whole thing will turn in their favor. He reaches, and Dean's at his back in a second to slam his head into a beam.
The floor above them groans.
He doesn't hear it, doesn't process it yet. They're still alive, so it isn't important. )
no subject
He doesn't go straight for the guy aiming for her — he knows she's a fighter, that she can handle herself for a second while he goes for the guy closest to him. Gotta get him out of the fight, because if they gang up on her it's gonna start getting way harder to manage. She's quick, but she's small. Raw power in confined spaces is more his forte, he thinks.
They grapple. The guy lands an elbow to his gut.
And that's about when he starts to feel it.
That draw, that desire. That hunger that hasn't been satiated in too long. For a split second, he wishes for the blade that pairs with this mark, for the brutality and efficiency he could get with it, but that's okay.
He'll still get something out of this.
Doesn't even think to fight it — why would he? Taking these guys out is what needs to happen. He needs to do this. It's natural, it's right.
So he gives in. The brand on his arm does not glow, but it does seem angrier. More fresh. More raw.
He's fast. One boot to the guy's knee, and a disgusting crack as it splinters under the force. He twists neatly under the hold the guy's got on his arms, weakened now from the blow. Uses it to swing an elbow up and break his nose. Blood starts flowing almost instantly, and it's satisfying. One of the others makes to help his buddy, just to get a knife to the side for his troubles.
(He doesn't even remember pulling it out of his boot.)
He snarls, adrenaline and rage overpowering pain for the moment — and that anger drives him to smartly target not Dean but the girl with him. Figuring if he can get her at knife point, this whole thing will turn in their favor. He reaches, and Dean's at his back in a second to slam his head into a beam.
The floor above them groans.
He doesn't hear it, doesn't process it yet. They're still alive, so it isn't important. )