Hellhound (Supernatural #1)

15; Point of Origin

Identity, noun.

1. The condition of being oneself or itself, and not another.
2. Condition or character as to who a person or what a thing is; the qualities, beliefs, etc., that distinguish or identify a person or thing.

***

"Stay here," Dean told me before he stepped out of the fog and went over to Tate.

He hadn't needed to tell me to stay; where would I have gone? He was my ride home. Even if he hadn't been I would have been unable to walk away from what I had just witnessed. My eyes were still glued to the now lifeless body of Eddie the drug dealer. They followed Dean as he went to the body, briefly putting a hand on Tate's shoulder as he passed his little brother. Dean checked for pulse, though all of us already knew he wouldn't find one. Then he turned back to Tate and spoke. I picked up nothing of what was being said.

My eyes were on Tate. He took the handkerchief his brother held out for him and wiped the blood of his hand. Though Dean spoke to him almost nonstop, Tate never once looked up. His eyes remained on the ground, his shoulders hunched. He shook his head, probably in response to a question his brother asked. I saw his mouth move as he said something and then he went back to being silent again. Clearly, he hadn't liked what he had done. Watching him work - because that's what it was for him, wasn't it? - I wouldn't have guessed that he was uncomfortable with any of it. Now, I could see how deeply it had affected him.

Observing him now from within the fog, I felt the urge to go to him and hug him. Tell him he had done great, that he had nothing to beat himself up over. Who cared about the body at his feet that would create more unsolvable mysteries for Dad? All that mattered was that Tate was okay emotionally.

"Here," Dean said, suddenly speaking louder. In his hands, he held something dangling, which he then handed to Tate. The car keys. "Go home. I'll clean up, and I'll make sure no one finds him this time." When Tate looked up, no doubt in surprise, Dean only shrugged. "The girl had a point. We don't want humans involved but we always leave the bodies around for them to find. I doubt anyone will miss this one."

Tate didn't move at first but then nodded and left his brother at the scene of his crime. He came straight for me in the fog. Seeing him clearly from the front for the first time, I noticed how tired he actually was. Like he hadn't slept in days. His eyes seemed a little out of focus, not really paying attention to where he was going. There was a palpable change in the fog when he entered. I wasn't sure how to describe it; it was like some of the tension had eased.

I stood there, not sure what to say. Tate was running a hand through his hair when he finally looked up. The second he saw me, he froze. His eyes went wide; the fatigue making him look vulnerable. He looked like a deer caught in the headlights rather than a big bad hellhound.

"Sawyer," he said, surprise coloring his voice. "What are you doing here?"

"Believe it or not, this is me trying to get your brother off my front porch," I shrugged, attempting the joke. It sounded hollow.

"Dean brought you?" Still more surprised. Then he closed his eyes. "Of course he did. Son of a bitch." He opened his eyes again like he suddenly remembered I was still there. "How much of that did you see?"

"When we got here, Eddie was curled in a ball against the wall and you looked like you were waiting backstage for your cue."

"So most of it," he sighed. "Look, Sayer, I'm sorry you had to see that. I had no idea you were going to be here."

I found myself shrugging. I didn't really care about what I had seen him do; my brain refused to send me into panic mode. Why was I okay with it though? Maybe it was the look of utter fright and sadness in Tate's eyes. To him, it must seem like this would ruin our friendship forever, if it had still been salvageable to begin with. To me, it was more like this make it easier to forgive him for not explicitly telling me about his previous murders himself. Then, because he still stood there like a hurt little boy, and I stepped up to him and wrapped my arms around him. He was surprisingly warm, despite being soaked from the rain. Resting my head on his chest, I hugged him for a while. Eventually, his arms came around me too. He was shaking. I held him because that was all I could do; I waited for him to get himself together. I waited for the shaking to stop. Once it did, I stepped back and looked at him.