Until Proven Innocent, a Prison Break + Supernatural Crossover fanfic

Series: Lost Legacies (Sentinel School)
Title: Until Proven Innocent
Fandoms: Prison Break, Sentinel, Supernatural (though Sentinel is only obliquely referenced)
Pairing: Dean/Michael
Summary: Dean finds a kindred soul in his Guide, but circumstances complicate matters.
I'm sure this mangles all sorts of timelines, but it's set in the brief period in season 2 Prison Break when Michael leaves Sucra, but hasn't met up with Linc yet. For Supernatural it's also season 2, some time after the bank job but before the finale.

Thanks as always to Moon, who makes me clarify my rather convoluted thoughts.

Until Proven Innocent:

"It says here that five men have died in the last month. They all showed signs of trauma and bite marks consistent with an animal attack, probably some kind of dog, but no definite cause of death," Sam said as he scanned the newspaper articles he'd managed to dig up. They were few and far between for such unusual murders, but that wasn't surprising. In Sam's experience people tended to ignore things which made them feel vulnerable or uncomfortable.

"Mmhmm," Dean hummed in agreement because Sam would get pissy if he didn't answer, even if he wasn't listening. His eyes were glued to the TV screen. Michael Scofield's mug shot took up half the screen and the intrinsic presence and intensity of even a photograph overwhelmed the rather plain looking psychologist taking up the other half of the screen.

"There are many people with undiagnosed antisocial personality disorder who prosper in business and as professionals. It's theorised that in a competitive environment antisocial behaviour may even be adaptive. This is almost certainly what happened in Michael Scofield's case. His studies and short career as an architect were both challenging and competitive, and provided him with an outlet which was ultimately disrupted by his brother's incarceration," the psychologist stated.

Dean snorted dismissively and changed the channel. As fascinated as he was with the story he wasn't going to sit through some idiot's account of the situation when it was doubtful that he'd even interviewed Scofield. Not that the quacks could get things straight even with an interview. Dean had had more than enough experience with well meaning shrinks and social workers when he was a kid and he knew that more often than not they saw what they wanted to see. Dean knew there was more going on, if only because Scofield had requested the prison where his brother, Lincoln Burrows, was and that both had managed to escape before Burrows was executed. Dean had to admire that if nothing else.

"Why the interest?" Sam asked, surprised that his brother was so fascinated by a case that didn't have even a hint of the supernatural in it.

Dean looked thoughtful for a moment, as though he was actually considering Sam's question then shrugged. He wasn't the type who endlessly evaluated his motives and angsted over what he was doing. With a few notable exceptions, he tended to make a decision and leave it at that.

"Guns, murder and conspiracy. What's not to like?" he said eventually with a grin. Sam rolled his eyes and returned to his research. He'd fill Dean in later. Not that there was much to tell him. As far as the police were concerned all that had happened was an animal attack.

"Would you go to prison to break me out?" Dean asked curiously after almost thirty minutes of channel surfing.

"No."

Dean watched Sam for a long moment before he smirked. Sam simply stared back with his nonchalant little brother look that he'd never quite managed to grow out of.

"Liar."

"If you ended up in jail it'd be entirely your own fault," Sam told him without sympathy.

"Hey," Dean objected, "the skinwalker was not my fault. Neither was the bank… sort of."

"No, but being caught would be."

Dean opened his mouth to argue, then paused as he thought about it for a moment and shrugged.

"Besides, it's not like you would go to prison for me," Sam added absently as he returned to researching. A conspicuous lack of mocking made him look up again. "Dean?"

"Dude, don't you dare go all chick flick on me," Dean warned as he glared at his younger brother.

"If it's any consolation I'll bring you cigarettes when you get arrested," Sam said with a grin. Trying to have an emotional conversation with Dean was like poking a rattlesnake. You could only get away with it for so long before you either suffered for it or had to shoot the damn thing. Some days Sam leaned towards to latter.

" 'When'? Your confidence in me is astounding," Dean drawled.

Michael was careful to keep his head lowered so that the hood shadowed his features as he picked out some energy bars and bottles of water. It wasn't much but it would be enough to keep him going for a few more hours. Just long enough to get out of town and find some place out of the way to pull over and get some sleep. He couldn't remember the last time he'd slept well.

He watched the cashier out of the corner of his eye and hoped that the cashier eyeing him in the same manner had more to do with the late hour than Michael's escaped convict status.

The TV took up half the cashier's attention and Michael would have been grateful, except for the fact that it was a report on him. Evidently it was another one of the ones that tried to explain who he was and why he was that way since they'd dug up his yearbook photo from somewhere and a picture of his old school was shown briefly.

He'd seen a few of the reports just to see how much they'd managed to work out and what exactly he'd be dealing with. There'd been a little curiosity too, but that had been quashed by disgust. He'd had better profiles on most of the Fox River inmates and he hadn't had access to half the material the reporters and law enforcement officers did. Not that that had hindered him too much.

Michael heard a noise at the back of the small shop and he turned to see a teenage girl staring at him with wide eyes. The phone she held to her ear was all but forgotten as her eyes flicked towards the TV. It was entirely too obvious that she had recognised him.

The sound of sirens quickly approaching confirmed that fact and Michael dropped what he was holding and raced for the door. The girl made no attempt to stop him and neither did the cashier who still seemed unaware of the situation.

He paused momentarily in the lights of the patrol vehicle only long enough to take in the features and uniforms of the men inside, then he was off. He dodged into a narrow alley as he heard car doors slam behind him and booted feet in close pursuit. He turned down several more alleys and crossed a street crowded with drunken young men and women and probably more than a few illegal teenagers too. The music, which seemed loud even on the street, probably meant that there was a club or bar somewhere nearby, but the last thing he wanted was to be cornered in unfamiliar territory. The streets might be more open, but they offered far more escape routes.

Michael ducked into another alley further along and crouched down behind some bins. The music was distant enough so that it wasn't so much heard as felt and he focused his attention on listening for the patrolmen.

Michael remained in place for several hours before he deemed it safe enough to move once more. The night was cold and his fingers ached, as did the foot from which his toes had been cut.

He began to make his way warily back to his car. The car was two blocks from the shop but Michael was unrepentant in his paranoia and preparedness. He couldn't afford to lose the car, not after all the other setbacks, and stealing another car would only bring too much additional unwanted attention.

Dean looked around the study where the most recently murdered man had holed himself up. There was still a dark red stain on the carpet where the man had been mauled, but not nearly enough to kill him. Dean waved the EMF detector around, but there was hardly a spike. Maybe enough to indicate that something heavy had passed through some time ago, but then again it could just as easily be normal interference.

"Nothing much this end," Dean said into his phone.

"The latest victim looks terrified," Sam told him, voice subdued.

"Guess he was scared to death."

Sam sighed but made no comment. Dean grinned.

"I'll let you know if I find anything else," Sam told him before he hung up. Dean put the phone in his pocket as he continued to look around the room. He was in the middle of looking through the drawers in the desk when he heard the front door knocked in.

Without hesitation he pulled the window open and dived out. He rolled and was up and running within moments. As he came around the front of the house he spotted a police officer covering the front. The officer turned to see him and then took off after him calling back to his partner.

As Dean ran he could hear the officer catching up to him and he cursed the fact that he managed to find an officer who was actually fit. Moments later another pair of footsteps joined the first and Dean pushed himself a little harder.

"Freeze," one of the officers yelled and Dean just knew that he'd pulled a gun. He wasn't entirely sure that he wanted to face death for a third time.

A quick look around showed Dean that there weren't going to be any convenient escape routes. He slowed to a stop and raised his hands. With a sigh he sank to his knees.

"Hands on your head," one of the officers ordered.

Dean did as he was told and winced as hands pulled at him roughly, first to cuff him and then to bring him to his feet.

"You have the right to remain silent," the officer began.

"Yeah, yeah," Dean muttered, allowing them to push him towards the car. Sam was never going to let him live this down.

Michael drove carefully, his entire body tense. He had a peak cap pulled down low over his face even though it was some time before dawn and still dark enough that a cap was pointless. He also made sure to follow all the road rules. The last thing he needed was to be pulled over. He wasn't willing to stick around in an attempt to wait out the alerts either. Mahone was close on his heels and he couldn't afford to hang around for a few days.

A dark shadow moved in front of Michael's car and he slammed on the brakes, swerving to avoid it. He pushed open the car door with such force that it strained the hinges and springs. Michael looked back down the road but didn't see anything. The shadow moved once more, this time it skulked along the sidewalk, and Michael turned to see a large black dog.

The dog cocked its head to one side and Michael couldn't help the trembling fear that started in the pit of his stomach and threatened to weaken his limbs. He'd never been particularly afraid of dogs and he couldn't understand this sudden fear, because despite the dog's size it had made no threatening moves.

Michael gradually began to hear the baying of a number of dogs. He wasn't entirely certain when the noise had appeared or when he had identified it as dogs, but he couldn't help his heart beating rapidly or his breath catching in his throat. He scrambled back into the car and tried the ignition several times but the car would only sputter and die.

Michael looked up, feeling a shiver, and saw what appeared to be a swiftly approaching mist, within which he could see more figures, though this time they were white with hints of red. He could make out more dogs and what appeared to be horses and creatures he couldn't hope to name. Michael clambered over the seats and pushed open the passenger side door, which was further away from the approaching horde.

In moments he was on his feet and running. He didn't dare pause long enough to look over his shoulder. They might still be some distance away but he could hear the footsteps and hoof beats draw closer, along with guttural shouts and what might have been commands, but they weren't in any language Michael recognised.

Michael turned the corner, stumbling and barely regaining his feet as he went. He saw steps leading up to a church and he hoped that the scant bits of legend and folklore that he'd picked up were right. He staggered as much as ran up the stairs and flung the door open only to slam it shut behind him.

He moved to the pews and sank down, fragmented prayers flitting through his mind for the first time in a long while. He had never quite believed in a god of any kind, but then he'd never believed that whatever was out there was possible either.

The silence lasted for almost twenty minutes before there was a loud bang at the door. Michael half rose as he turned towards the door. He paused, alert, as he waited. Finally there was another loud bang, too loud for someone simply knocking.

Michael jogged down the centre aisle towards the back of the church. There was a sharp crash as the door cracked. Michael looked back once to see it splinter and he raced to a side door. He opened it quickly and shut it behind him.

He paused a moment to take a deep, calming breath and then he was off again. He hadn't even gone a few metres when he heard them break through the side door. He glanced behind him but saw that they had slowed in following him.

He could kick himself for blindly panicking, something he'd never been prone to, and forgetting to evaluate his surroundings. He'd always been able to rely on his rationality and clarity. It'd been what had gotten him through his ordeal at Fox River. Despite all his planning he hadn't been nearly prepared for what happened, but he'd been able to think clearly. All his life the only thing he'd been able to count on was his mind.

Michael scanned his surroundings to see what had changed. There'd been the church, but that hadn't held them for long. He didn't know the rules, didn't know what worked and what didn't, but he figured that if the church couldn't stop them then it wouldn't really slow them down.

He looked around once more before he realised. It was so obvious that he was bothered that he hadn't noticed it before. It was lighter. At some point during the time in which he'd sought refuge in the church dawn had broken. It seemed that they still had some strength in the shadows.

Michael sprinted the last few steps into a bright patch of sun between two buildings. He backed away several steps as the horde charged at him but remained in the middle of the patch of sunlight. He ignored the car that hooted at him and the police car that happened to be patrolling. Instead he watched the horde draw closer until they reached the sunlight where they faded and disappeared as though they'd never been there at all.

"Sir," one of the police officers asked, approaching Michael. "Are you alright?"

Michael looked around to see several people watching him. He realised that none of them had seen the horde. As he looked around he wondered if perhaps he'd finally succumbed to the stress, if being on the run had caused him to devolve into psychosis.

"Oh shit," the officer said, getting a good look at him. "You're that Fox River guy."

Dean looked up as the cell next to his opened. He'd been placed in his own cell simply because he was considered too dangerous to be placed with the others. Apparently the same went for the guy who'd just arrived. The man looked up and Dean was surprised to see Michael Scofield.

"Dean," he said by way of introduction once the officer was gone and Scofield had settled onto the cot.

"Michael," was the soft response. His voice was soft and even and not at all what Dean had been expecting from one of America's Most Wanted.

"I know," Dean told him with a grin. "I'm a big fan."

Sharp blue eyes evaluated him and Dean couldn't help but feel that he'd been found wanting. His grin faded.

"They say you went to prison to break your brother out," Dean continued, because the story had fascinated him from the very beginning and he needed some sort of resolution. All he got was a blank look that revealed nothing. Dean decided to take that as a challenge.

"I bet he doesn't even realise what you've given up for him, sacrificed for him, over the years," Dean said, watching Michael closely. He was rewarded with a hint of attention.

"You gave up your life for him, but that's just how it ended. It started with little things like the last bowl of his favourite cereal and a TV program you wanted to watch."

"You've been watching too many television psychologists," Michael commented with deceptive nonchalance. He looked vulnerable and oh so tired before he turned away, folding his arms as he leaned back against the wall. Dean empathised, but he carried on regardless.

"You gave up dreams and friends you might have had because he needed you, he needed someone to watch out for him. You lied for him too, but he'll never know because even with all you've done he doesn't realise what you'll do, how far you'll go, to make sure it stays that way."

Michael turned his face away from Dean, but Dean caught the open and vulnerable expression before it was hidden. He watched Michael's chest heave as he took a deep breath and turned back to Dean, expression inscrutably calculating once more.

"You don't know anything about me," Michael told him, his voice carefully neutral. Dean shrugged.

"I know you. I am you."

Michael raised a condescending eyebrow as he looked Dean up and down. Dean simply smirked and gave Michael a provocative look.

"Like what you see?" Dean asked, resorting to clichés to cover his own vulnerability. He hadn't meant to expose himself that much.

"You're not my type," Michael replied dismissively.

"Liar," Dean said, voice low and teasing. Dean grinned victoriously when a blush began to colour the pale skin but there was renewed distance in Michael's expression and Dean figured he'd remembered their situation.

"He's innocent," Michael confessed softly, as though he needed justification, as though he needed absolution.

"Your brother?"

Michael nodded, eyes snapping back to his. Dean had never had anyone focus solely on him the way Michael did. As though, for as long as Michael held his gaze, reality was narrowed to just the two of them and Michael could see through all his masks and performances. Dean felt a little like an ant under a magnifying glass. It was going to destroy him, but for the moment he was the centre of everything.

"So am I," Dean admitted with a self-deprecating smile, taking Michael's word as fact. He could count the number of people who actually believed that on one hand. Burrows was probably in a similar situation.

Michael nodded once more, accepting his claim. He didn't know why he felt so relieved that Michael believed him.

"I think it's about time to get out of here," Dean said, shifting emotional gears, as he stood up. Michael watched him curiously. "I don't know about you but there's an FBI agent I'm not too keen on meeting."

Dean went up to bars of his cell that edged the hallway and leaned against them, looking as far as he could down the passage.

"Hey! Hey, I want my phone call!"

Dean turned to Michael and grinned when an officer came towards them.

Michael looked up when several officers led two men dressed in cheap suits, FBI most likely, to their cells. He watched as Dean was cuffed and handed over to the two agents. Dean had planned something when he'd made the phone call but he'd neglected to tell Michael anything more than that they wouldn't be there for too much longer.

Michael understood. It was too easy for them to be overheard, but he'd been at the centre of things for so long that it made him uncomfortable to be left out of the loop.

Dean didn't seem too upset by the FBI agents, though Michael wasn't entirely sure he would be able to tell if Dean actually was upset. He seemed the type to cover up what he was feeling then bury it down deep. Still, Dean didn't seem too worried, so Michael decided to follow his lead.

There was something about Dean that made relaxing his guard alright, and contrary to everything he knew Michael wasn't too eager to fight it. Trusting Dean was almost instinctual, on a level beyond any rational opposition his brain could come up with. The strength of his feelings surprised and worried Michael, who was used to compartmentalising everything, but it had been so long since anyone had taken him at face value, since he hadn't had to justify every thought and action. It was nice, he decided, uncomplicated. Dean's easy acceptance tempted him in ways that were far too alluring.

He made sure to stand clear and have his hands in view at all times when the officers entered his cell. It was a little disturbing to realise that only a few hours in a cell brought back behaviours he'd learned at Fox River. He ducked his head, not meeting any of the officers' eyes while they were in his cell. He let them push him around just a little. Realistically he knew that he'd picked up the skills and behaviours he'd needed to survive, but he couldn't help but feel that he'd been cowed.

He and Dean followed the two men outside, both acting as listless and apathetic as defeated men were supposed to, though Michael had to quash a smile when Dean raised his head a little and winked at him

They climbed into a van that looked official enough that Michael gave Dean an uncertain look. Dean grinned and settled onto the hard metal bench. Michael mirrored his movements.

"I thought you said you wouldn't break me out," Dean said smugly once they'd gone several blocks. Michael looked at him strangely.

"Shut up, or I'll change my mind," Sam replied and he glanced back through the grating to look at Dean.

"I'm all for kinky, but I'd really like the keys now."

Dean lifted his hands to show the cuffs, though Sam had turned to face forward once more.

"You'll have to wait a few hours when we reach the next town. You can have the keys then," Bobby told him.

"Which reminds me," Dean said, leaning back and trying to make himself as comfortable as he could. "How the hell did you get here so fast?"

"Working on a possession just a few towns over," Bobby answered.

Dean nodded, figuring it must be one hell of a possession, no pun intended, for Bobby to make the trip himself. Michael allowed himself to relax a little. If Dean trusted the two men posing as FBI agents then he was willing to go along with it. He only had to work out why he felt like he could trust Dean. It wasn't anything specific, like Dean's looks or affable nature, though Dean had both. Michael had never allowed that to sway him before. Michael shifted his gaze away when Dean smirked at him.

They slowed to a stop in an alley and Sam jumped out, going to the back doors immediately while Bobby wiped down the van. In less than a minute both Dean and Michael were out of the cuffs. Dean rubbed his wrists absently.

Michael glanced around, taking in the fading light. He'd spent just over eight hours locked up and another several hours travelling. He needed to get on the move again, and soon, because Mahone was on his way.

"It was good seeing you boys again, but I've gotta get back to that demon," Bobby told them, clapping Sam on the shoulder. He jogged down the alley towards where his own car was parked a block away.

"The car's around the corner," Sam said. Dean grinned. They started to make their way toward the Impala, but Dean stopped and turned when he realised that Michael wasn't following.

"Thanks," Michael murmured before he pulled the hood up on his sweater and began to walk down the street in the opposite direction.

"Hey wait," Dean started, not entirely sure what he wanted to say or even what he wanted from Michael. He paused when he saw the large black dog standing in the middle of the street watching them.

Sam saw his expression and tensed. "What is it? Cops?"

He made his way towards the car and the trunk which doubled as an armoury. Dean shook his head when he noticed the mist and shadowy figures approaching.

"Black dog," he corrected. It had to be a black dog, an omen of the death that the Hunt both contained and wrought. Dean raced to Michael's side and grabbed his wrist, pulling him back. "We need to get out of here. Now."

"Your car won't start," Michael said, watching the approaching mist. Dean nodded, taking him at his word.

"Sam, it's the Hunt. We need to split up. I'll meet you at the motel."

They'd passed through the town on the way to investigating the murders, so Dean knew where the motel was.

"I don't see anything," Sam argued.

Black dogs only appeared as a warning of death, they weren't actually part of the Hunt, though they did tend to gravitate to the spirits that made up the Hunt and the deaths that inevitably occurred.

"Just trust me," Dean growled back. They could argue all they liked once they were safe.

Sam hesitated, uneasy about leaving Dean with a stranger. Finally he threw Dean a gun and an extra clip. He took a gun for himself and slammed the trunk shut. Dean went down the alley, Michael close on his heels while Sam took off down the road.

"It's too long until sunrise," Michael said as they ran. Dean shot him a sidelong glance that promised he'd be following up Michael's knowledge of the occult later.

"The motel's just a few blocks away, if we can make it there we'll be safe."

"This thing isn't stopped by walls and doors," Michael argued.

"It's a good thing we can do better than that then," Dean said with a smirk. The sound of hooves and baying grew closer and Dean pushed himself as far as his body would allow. Dean cast an anxious glance at Michael, but at the same time couldn't help but feel relief that the Hunt hadn't followed Sam.

If he'd had the breath for it, Dean would have laughed with relief when he saw the motel. He glanced to make sure that Michael was still with him and then the door opened and they barrelled into the room. Sam slammed it shut behind them and poured salt across the threshold. He tossed a stick of chalk to Dean who began to draw symbols on the window frame while Sam repeated the same symbols on the door.

They had just finished when there was a thunderous knock on the door and it shuddered in its frame but held. Dean sank onto one of the beds and tried to catch his breath now that he had a chance.

"The symbols," Michael began, curiosity peaking despite the situation. "What are they?"

"Protection symbols. Should hold until morning," Sam said.

"And then what?" Michael asked.

"Then we find out how to kill it."

"You can't kill the Wild Hunt," Sam told Dean, collapsing onto the other bed. Dean smiled grimly.

"Well I'm all for giving it a try," he replied, expression set with determination.

"You saw the Hunt, Dean," Sam said, desperately trying not to sound as lost as he felt.

Dean simply nodded, knowing that Sam hadn't seen it or the black dog that foreshadowed its arrival, that he wouldn't be able to fight the Hunt, that he wouldn't be able to have Dean's back. Despite all that, Dean sent a silent thanks to every god they'd ever even vaguely heard of that the Hunt wasn't after Sam. He just had to find a way to save Michael.

He dug into his bag and tossed a pair of sweats at Michael. "Better get some sleep. I've got first watch."

Michael started awake barely two hours after he'd managed to drift off. Images of Mahone leading the Hunt as he chased Michael down and a hawk wheeling overhead faded as Michael took in his surroundings.

Clothes and papers were strewn haphazardly about and Michael wondered if it was a natural habit or something borne from living in motel rooms. His fingers twitched as he fought the urge to neaten things up. He'd never dealt well with untidiness or chaos. Both of which accompanied Dean in droves.

Dean was sitting at the table with the chair at an angle that allowed him to watch the two sleeping men and the door. He glanced briefly at Michael before going back to cleaning his guns.

Michael tossed off the blankets and climbed out of bed. He was too tense to even think about going back to sleep. He grabbed his clothes from the day before and headed to the bathroom. Twenty minutes later he stepped out wearing only his jeans.

"You got an extra shirt?" he asked softly, not willing to wake Sam. Dean looked up again and froze. It took Michael a moment to realise that his tattoos were all on show. He narrowed his eyes but refused to break eye contact, though Dean's expression wasn't the blatantly staring one he usually got. There was heat there and the shadow of something Michael couldn't identify. Dean cleared his throat and blanked his expression.

"In the bag," he said with a jerk of his head. Michael nodded and rummaged through the bag and took the first top he found. He pulled it on, trying to ignore the fact that Dean's shirt on his skin made him prickle with awareness and that he was reminded of the man with every breath, as Dean's smell settled around him.

To make it worse, he was forced to distract himself from the strangely erotic sight of Dean disassembling and cleaning his guns by looking over the ammunition. The first thing he noticed was that none of them were typical. The second, that not all of them were entirely metal. One shell was filled with what seemed to be some sort of salt.

"What do you do with this stuff?" Michael asked curiously, gesturing to the array of weapons.

"I hunt ghosts, demons and supernatural creatures," Dean answered bluntly, looking challengingly at Michael. The last time that question had come up he'd been too invested in the other person, it was far better to get it out of the way first. Michael simply nodded and Dean couldn't help but feel a little offended at how easily Michael had taken the news, despite that being something approaching the reaction he'd wanted.

"I tell you I hunt ghosts and all you do is nod?" Dean asked. Michael smiled a little at Dean's affronted tone and shrugged. After being chased by the Wild Hunt as Dean had called it, Michael was willing to believe that there were people who hunted those sorts of things.

Dean's eyes raked over Michael once more before he came to a decision. He reached for one his knives, flipped it over so that he was holding the blade and offered it to Michael. He then handed Michael a whetstone.

"I could use some help," he offered. Michael settled in the chair opposite Dean, sure that Dean had just given him an astonishing show of trust. He immediately got to work. He'd recently had a lot of experience sharpening the edges of things that weren't nearly as well made as the blade he'd been entrusted with. They looked at each other for a moment, sharing an understanding.

"You said you were innocent," Michael finally ventured, trying to learn a little more about the man he was obviously going to be spending some time with. He had no way of fighting the Hunt and these two clearly knew something about how to do that. "What do they think you did?"

"Bank robbery," Dean answered with a smirk that faded quickly, "credit card fraud, breaking and entering, theft, grave desecration… murder. Some of those crimes I actually committed."

There was something fragile in Dean's expression as he listed his crimes, something brittle and broken. Michael thought about Linc and the front he'd put up in prison. He thought about himself and the lengths he'd gone to to ensure Linc's freedom. He wondered if his expression was the same. It had been so long since he'd even thought about looking in a mirror. He hadn't looked like himself for so long that he was afraid he wouldn't recognise himself. Michael wasn't sure what he was supposed to say. He didn't know Dean well enough to know what he needed.

"Grave desecration," Michael volunteered finally, "that's an interesting one."

Dean snorted, and the brittle expression disappeared like it had never been there, but Michael knew it had, knew that it was still there just below the surface, like everything else about Dean. Michael didn't know Dean well, but he knew enough to think that Dean was like liquid; the way he moved, the way he slipped through shades of meaning, and especially the way his eyes didn't always mean what his mouth said.

"Comes with the hunting."

"How did you start hunting?" Michael asked. It seemed a strange sort of business to fall into.

"There's this demon," Dean said as he absently rubbed his chest. "It killed my mom. So now we're hunting it."

They were silent for a long while, Dean determinedly not thinking about his mother, or his father's response to that loss. Michael's thoughts drifted to losing his own mother, and ultimately Linc as well. There really wasn't anything he could say that could come close to consoling something like that.

"I could never go back," Michael said suddenly, just as surprised as Dean that he'd offered anything of himself.

"To prison?"

"To being like everyone else," Michael corrected. He could go back to prison and survive. He knew he could because it was the only time in his life that he'd felt alive, that he'd felt real and whole. He'd sometimes been lost and terrified and hurt, but he'd been more himself than he'd ever been before. What he couldn't go back to was the hollow mask of expectation and sophistication that he'd never even realised he'd been wearing.

"Normal's overrated anyway," Dean said with a quick grin. Michael found himself smiling back. "How did you know about the Hunt disappearing at sunrise, anyway?"

Michael looked uncomfortable. He hated feeling out of his depth. The Hunt made him distinctly uncomfortable, not because it was after him, though that was part of it, but because he didn't know how to deal with it.

"They chased me last night, but faded in the morning."

Dean's eyebrows shot up.

"You faced the Hunt and survived?" There was a trace of admiration in his voice that made Michael duck his head. "That blade should be sharp enough. This one could use some work," Dean continued as he picked up another knife and handed it to Michael. Their fingers brushed and lingered. Dean opened his mouth to say something, but snatched his hand away as Sam shifted in his sleep. Both men avoided eye contact.

Sam had gone to get coffee and breakfast once the sun had risen and then disappeared off to the library. Dean and Michael had stayed in because the police and the FBI would undoubtedly be looking for them. Two escaped felons in one afternoon was hardly good PR. It may not be the same town, but likely all towns in the vicinity were on the lookout, and they couldn't take the risk. None of them had slept well and Sam, at least, had a lot ahead of him today. There was little Dean and Michael could do stuck in a motel room.

Once Sam had left something in the dynamic had changed, though both men tried to ignore it for their own reasons. Dean and Michael had spent most of the morning watching TV or neatening things up respectively. Dean had tried napping, but had been unsuccessful. Finally he'd taken to pacing.

Michael had been acutely aware of Dean's presence the entire time. Prison had made that sort of awareness necessary, but this was different. Dean made Michael aware of himself, and his responses to others, in a way that Michael was usually able to tune out.

"I hate waiting," Dean growled as he spun and walked the room once more.

"Dean," Michael murmured, from where he leaned against the wall. Dean stopped in his tracks and turned to face Michael. "There isn't anything we can do but wait for your brother to get back."

"I know," Dean said, dropping his eyes from Michael's face. He caught sight of a sliver of tattoo showing above the collar of the shirt Michael wore. Dean reached out, much as he'd wanted to do the night before, and brushed his fingertips over it. Michael seemed to tense and shiver at the same time. Dean raised his eyes to meet Michael's once more.

Michael remained still, staring into Dean's eyes, as Dean's hands dropped to Michael's waist. There was something in Dean's eyes that stilled Michael's breath, something dark and shadowed and heartbreakingly understanding.

"This is how you broke you brother out of prison, isn't it?" Dean asked.

Michael nodded, surprised when Dean's lips pressed against his. A hand in the small of his back pulled him closer and Michael relented after a moment, allowing the warmth and safety he seemed to feel around Dean to infuse him.

Dean tugged at the bottom of Michael's shirt, pulling it over his head. Michael complied, not entirely sure why. Fingers began to trace the lines of his tattoos almost reverentially.

Michael moaned softly, slowly relaxing as Dean continued to explore his tattoos. Michael's skin burned in the wake of Dean's fingertips. His breath hitched when those nimble fingers brushed a nipple, and he opened eyes he hadn't realised he'd closed to see Dean smirking.

"So rescuing my brother turns you on?" Michael wondered idly. Dean grinned and stepped into Michael's space. He raised a hand to cup Michael's head and brought them together in a kiss that quickly deepened and left them breathless.

"Just what it says about you," Dean said as he pulled Michael into another kiss. He edged them over to one of the beds. Michael stopped when his knees hit the side.

He knew all the reasons this wasn't a good idea, chief among them the fact that they were being hunted by both humans and the supernatural, and the fact that casual sex was something he just did not do, but there was something about Dean that made it all seem irrelevant. He'd never met anyone who could silence the constant barrage of thoughts running through his mind and he wasn't sure yet if that was a good thing or not. Making a decision, Michael sat on the bed and edged further on. With a grin, Dean followed.

Dean's expression faded to something gentle and almost reverent. He hesitated, hands at the button of Michael's jeans. He looked up, as though asking permission, and Michael knew this was something he had to give consciously, not something he could simply acquiesce to. He reached out and pulled Dean into a kiss, pouring more of himself into it than he'd ever given anyone.

Michael's mind stilled until there weren't any of the thoughts of plans and consequences that he was never fully able to let go. His world narrowed to Dean; the shift of defined muscles under his hands, the scratch of stubble against his skin, and the weight of Dean's body on his. Until even that didn't matter and all that was left was slow and hot and slick.

Michael woke to find Dean enveloping him. One arm was tucked under the pillow, probably gripping the knife Dean had hidden there when he was trying to nap, while the other was wrapped around Michael, hand resting above his heart. Dean's face was pressed into the back of Michael's neck. It was something that should have set him on edge, but he only felt safe and relaxed.

Michael knew the moment Dean woke up as he stretched extensively before pressing his lips to the back of Michael's neck and settling back into his original position.

"Afternoon, Sunshine," Dean murmured, fingers running absently along Michael's chest. Michael stifled a groan and shifted so that he was lying on his back.

"Your brother will be back soon and we need to get cleaned up."

"Want some company in the shower?" Dean asked. Michael didn't need to see Dean's expression to know he was smirking.

"Dean?" Sam called as he pushed open the door with his foot. It was late afternoon and he knew firsthand how annoying a bored Dean could be. He hadn't liked to leave Dean with Scofield, there was just something about the guy that set Sam on edge, but one of them had needed to do the research. Dean's wanted status had rather limited the options.

"Mm," Dean said, snatching one of the coffees Sam was carrying. He towelled his hair with the other hand.

"Are you only just getting up?" Sam asked with a sigh. Dean paused, glancing back towards the bathroom.

"Yeah."

There was something beneath the casual tone, but Sam had long ago given up trying to understand his brother's moods, especially the ones that weren't on the surface. He had enough trouble dealing with the ones that were.

"Where's Scofield?" he asked.

"Hmm?" Dean murmured, pretending to be distracted by the TV. Sam sighed again, though he was forced to pause a moment when he saw Michael exit the bathroom. If he hadn't shaved his head Sam was sure that he'd have been towelling it off too. Sam opened his mouth, looked at Dean as though he'd never seen him before, then snapped it shut. Dean was determinedly ignoring him. That, if nothing else, was enough to confirm Sam's suspicions.

Sam had to take a moment to push the information to one side to deal with later. There were a whole lot of questions he needed to ask, about Dean and dad and more than ten years of lies, but now was not the time. Sam cleared his throat.

"I think I've got something," Sam said, laying down the papers he'd been carrying. "The victims we were investigating before. I think they're tied in with the Hunt."

Dean sipped his coffee and, carefully not looking anywhere in the general area of Scofield, looked at the papers Sam had brought.

"They're all criminals."

The Wild Hunt went after those who'd committed some sort of crime, typically something that harmed nature or those favoured by the fairies. It also explained the injuries, and the lack of a cause of death. Elfshot left no trace.

Scofield came to look at the papers then, hand resting casually on Dean's shoulder as he leaned forward. Dean's eyes flicked towards Sam then. There was a warning there and beneath that something exposed.

"They're alleged criminals who were let go. Some of the cases didn't have enough evidence, some were mistrials and some were declared innocent."

"But why would the Hunt go after men who weren't necessarily guilty?" Dean asked.

"It could be like that Reaper. Someone could be controlling it," Sam suggested. Dean looked a little pale and Sam couldn't blame him. He seemed to have a bull's-eye on his back when it came to the heavy hitters of the supernatural world. Even the demon who wanted to convert Sam had a vengeance kick against Dean.

"So we're dealing with a vigilante?"

"Or a cop," Michael said, finally speaking up.

Both Sam and Dean felt uncomfortable with that suggestion. They had made a life being on the run from the cops, but they also knew that generally cops were good guys, just a little misguided.

"Now we just have to survive the Hunt long enough to find out who's behind this," Dean said. Sam grimaced. There weren't any stories about anyone surviving a Hunt. Of course, there weren't any stories about anyone controlling a Hunt either.

"And afterwards?" Michael asked. "What about the Hunt?"

Sam and Dean exchanged looks.

"The Hunt doesn't generally go after innocent men," Dean said, as he looked at Michael. Sam couldn't help but notice the softening around his eyes, the unconscious curve of his mouth. He hadn't seen Dean like that since Cassie. Immediately Sam felt defensive on Dean's behalf. "It should stop once what's controlling it is destroyed. That's usually a talisman of some sort."

"Fairies don't like being manipulated and controlled, so this one will be pissed as hell when it's free. It should be more concerned with vengeance than with you. Especially since you're not actually guilty," Sam added. Michael frowned.

"Should?"

"Fairies aren't exactly what you'd call predictable," Dean said with a shrug.

Sam looked out the window at the darkening sky and frowned.

"We'll have to continue investigating tomorrow." He went to his bag to get a change of clothes. The library hadn't had air conditioning and it had been humid as hell. "I'll take a shower and then first watch," he told them, ignoring the way that Dean moved into Michael's space as Sam disappeared into the bathroom.

Michael started awake when Dean shook his shoulder. It was dark, past midnight since Sam seemed to be getting up from the next bed.

"The Hunt's here," Dean murmured. He pressed a gun into Michael's hand. Michael stared at it. He'd held a gun before, even fired one, but he was far from easy with them. Dean seemed to notice his expression. "When the time comes, flick that and squeeze the trigger." Dean handed him an extra clip as well. "Hold with both hands and aim a little off what you think you should. Recoil will take care of the rest."

"I thought you said it couldn't be killed."

Dean frowned, glancing back over his shoulder. Sam stood facing the door.

"It can't, but we might be able to slow it down enough to get a bit of a head start."

"Won't your protections keep it out?"

"They should," Dean said as he pressed one gun into the small of his back and checked the clip of another. "But this is the Hunt."

There was a loud bang and the door shook. Michael scrambled out of bed and stood at Dean's shoulder as they aimed their weapons at the door. There was another bang and door splintered. Dean glanced briefly at Sam, keeping the majority of his attention on the door.

"The protections are breaking much faster than they should."

"There's something else going on," Sam said.

Dean shifted his stance slightly and Michael was surprised to find Dean standing a little in front of him, guarding him from whatever was coming in the door. He had mixed feelings about that, but mostly he appreciated that someone was willing to put their life on the line for him. That didn't happen very often.

There was another loud bang and the door flung open, hitting the wall with a resounding crack. In the doorway stood a man. It took Michael a moment to realise that he was one of the cops who chased him on the first night the Hunt found him. Behind him was the ethereal mist and shadowy white-red forms of the Hunt.

"We have to get out of here," Dean said, edging back, though his eyes never left the man.

"Go, Dean," Sam told him in a bizarre echo of their father. "Now!"

Dean hated to leave Sam there to deal with the man alone, but Hunt wasn't after him, and if they stayed the Hunt would too. Sam could deal with one man.

"Michael, bathroom," Dean ordered. Michael hesitated, but obeyed. Dean was just stepping onto the tile floor when the man smudged the salt barrier. "Out the window." Michael was already opening the window as far as it would go. He wriggled out and then waited for Dean to follow. They took off into the night.

Sam glared at the man who threatened his brother's life. He covered his worry with a smug smile when the Hunt faded and disappeared into the night. He wasn't about to let worry for his brother show, it would only put him at a disadvantage.

"They're criminals," the man said. "I made it my job to put them away, but it doesn't change anything. They aren't punished."

Sam stared at the man, obviously a cop from his words and the badge on his belt.

"So you're using the Hunt?"

"My mother told me stories of the Gentry," the man told him stepping into the room. Sam kept his gun trained on the man, though he was reluctant to use it. It was one thing to shoot some sort of creature, another entirely to shoot a person, especially a cop. "The Hunt goes after the guilty."

"I can't let you do this," Sam said. A glint caught his eye and he noticed a chain wrapped around the man's wrist. Something hung from it and Sam hoped it was the talisman. If the cop kept the talisman with him then Sam had a chance of stopping him.

Without warning Sam lunged at the man, punching him in the jaw. It didn't take the man long to recover and go after him in return. Sam blocked the first punch, dodged the second, but the third hit him in the stomach. He coughed, trying to catch his breath. Sam gripped the man's wrist, blocking the next punch and ripped the chain from his wrist. Attached to the chain was a vial of some dark substance, too dark to just be blood. Sam dropped it to the floor and crushed it with his boot.

Dean and Michael turned into an alley, only to stop short at a brick wall. Dean spun around, taking the gun from the waist of his jeans. He moved in front of Michael, blocking him from harm.

He felt faint when he looked upon the leader of the Hunt. It wasn't just any Hunt leader, but Arawn himself, one of the death kings of the Otherworld. Dean was half terrified, half in awe when Arawn drew to a halt in the entrance to the alley. There was a sound that might have resembled amusement.

Dean looked into the deep, dark eyes and wondered if this was what Nietzsche meant when he said that if you gaze into an abyss, the abyss also gazes into you.

You have a great many enemies, little Guardian. Dean didn't see the mouth move, but the words were clear. He tensed in anticipation. Do not fear, I am not among that number. I must admit a certain curiosity in your ability to avoid the inevitable, but I suppose that is a natural result of my nature. The man seemed to smile, though there was nothing warm or earthly about it. I will be watching you and your shaman with great interest, little Guardian.

With that the Welsh fairy king whistled sharply, calling the dogs off. He nodded once at Dean before turning and disappearing into the darkness. It took some time before the baying of the hounds faded. Dean sagged back against Michael who automatically wrapped his arms around Dean's waist to support him.

"Shit."

"Are you alright?" Michael asked, to which the other man nodded. Dean straightened almost immediately, pretending that he hadn't shown even that small amount of weakness.

"We need to get back to Sam."

Dean and Michael arrived at the motel just after the Hunt. They watched as it swept into the room, filling the small space with eerie light that spilled out and made it all seem a little unreal. Dean's breath stopped somewhere in his throat. Sam was still in there.

He stepped forward, not entirely sure what he meant to do. The thought of Arawn still made his knees weak, but Sam was in there with him. Michael dropped a hand on his shoulder and Dean stopped short. Michael wasn't strong enough to hold him back, not alone, not when Sam was in danger, but there was something about the man that made Dean trust his judgment, possibly even above his own.

The Hunt seeped out of the room more than anything else. Dean could just barely make out a solid shape among the ethereal shadows and flashes of white and red. His hold on the gun grip blanched his knuckles but couldn't quite disguise the faint tremors. He knew that the Hunt induced fear and that it wasn't necessarily his own emotion, but that didn't make it feel any less real. The Hunt disappeared into the night and Dean felt the fear and tension drain out of him.

Dean rushed into the room to see Sam, wide-eyed and a little bloody, but otherwise no worse for wear.

"Dean," Sam breathed, grinning. "You're alright."

"I'm always alright," Dean said with his own bright grin. Belatedly, he flicked the safety back on his gun and stuck it in the waist of his jeans.

Dean raised a hand to trace Michael's jaw but dropped it long before it reached its target. He wasn't good at sentimental and he wasn't good at goodbyes. He also wasn't about to give Sam concrete proof of his suspicions.

"If you ever need me just give me a call," he said with a shameless grin.

Michael smiled, but didn't make any promises. They were both on the run from law enforcement and they both had their own problems. Dean had hunting and he had the Company to deal with.

"I have to get going," he said and Dean nodded, glancing back at Sam. Michael held out his hand and Dean shook it, wishing there was another way to express what they weren't willing to say, to express the affection they had begun to feel for each other that wouldn't get a chance to become anything more.

Michael nodded once when they parted, and Dean knew that he understood, and got in the rental car. After a moment the car started and drove away. There were times when Dean thought he'd been lying for so long that he'd stopped being real. There was something about the way that Michael focused on him that made him feel solid, like his presence impacted the world. He was going to miss that. Dean rubbed at his eyes tiredly and waited.

"Dean? Since when-" Sam trailed off.

"What?" Dean snapped. He remembered his father's initial reaction. No subsequent actions had ever really been able to erase that. That's why Dean had ignored his interest in men when he could and hidden it when he couldn't. It had never been much of an issue because there was usually any number of willing females that Dean was plenty attracted to anyway. After their father's death he hadn't been interested in anyone, male or female, so it hadn't been an issue. Still, he knew that Sam would never forgive him for hiding something like that, though he wasn't entirely sure what business it was of Sam's.

"Nothing," Sam muttered, climbing into the passenger seat of the Impala.

Dean wasn't sure whether to be relieved or disappointed. He dreaded having to explain himself, but it would have been nice not to have to pretend.

Sam folded his arms, closed his eyes and tried to get some sleep.