WOLVES AMONG SHADOWS

"What makes an Alpha different from other wolves?" a young boy, sitting between his mother's legs, asked as he curiously lifted his eyes to look at his mother.

"That's a wonderful question, Dean." She responded as she kissed his forehead lightly.

"It is called the scent of leadership. A trait that comes from deep within the hearts of those willing to face hardship as a sacrifice for those they care for. The first to face the storm, and the last to seek shelter from it," she continued.

"So you have to be a good guy to become an Alpha?" Dean turned to face his mother.

"No, my dear. Being good isn't enough. It takes more than a good man to become an Alpha. You also have to be strong and fearless." She tickled him and blew on his stomach as he giggled playfully.

"I am strong and fearless!" Dean raised his hand to flex his (non-existent) muscles.

"Yes, you are," his mother lifted him by his armpits into the air. "And you will become the strongest Alpha there is." She spoke with a gentle smile while he smiled with all his teeth showing.

A sound of a door opening caught both their attention.

"Dad's home!" an excited Dean rushed towards the exit of the room.

“Theodore!” his mother called out for his father.

They heard the sound of footsteps shuffling downstairs, but there was no response. His mother immediately became cautious, her expression changing as she raised her nose and sniffed, trying to use her enhanced senses to identify whoever might have just entered the house. Not recognizing the scent, she rushed to catch Dean and then told him to hide in the standing cupboard they had, one they normally used to play hide and seek. It was dry and slightly musty because it had been a while since it had been used, but Dean went in, able to tell from his mother’s anxious expression that this was no joke.

“Who is there?” his mother shouted fiercely as she took a defensive position at the entrance to the room.

Dean could barely see what was happening through the tiny slits of the cupboard but noticed someone shrouded in dark clothing walked into the room, and there was an exchange that Dean could not quite make out. There was a moment of silence before a large crash.

Dean woke up with a start. This was probably the longest sleep he had had in a while. He always kept waking up to the same nightmare: his mother’s death. One would have thought that after some 15 or so years he would have gotten over it, but it still felt fresh each time. The fear, the panic, the helplessness, the regret—it always felt new. He had gone over that night so many times over the decade, thinking about what he could have done differently. What if he had come out of the cupboard against his mother’s instruction? Could he have stopped her death? The pain, anguish, and disappointment on his dad’s face when he returned home that day did not help in the slightest. He could still remember his father’s voice, clear as day, shouting at him, “Why didn't you do anything? This is all your fault. It should have been you that died. Leave my sight!”

All harsh words that carried with him throughout his childhood. But he wasn’t a child anymore, he thought to himself as he looked in the bathroom mirror. “Not too shabby,” he thought to himself as he washed the sleep off his face. He had the physical build of an NBA player and, at 6’3”, he actually had the height for it. He had turned twenty-eight a couple of months back, no longer the helpless kid who could do nothing while his mother was killed in front of him. Of all the memories that stuck with him that night, one stood clearer than the rest: the scent of his mother’s killer, always persistent at the back of his mind as he thought of nothing else besides revenge for his mother. He entered the bathroom shower stall and proceeded to take his bath. Coming out, he grabbed a towel and dried his dark black hair, one of his more generic features. He heard his phone vibrate over on the bed and he went to take a look. It was a message from Sam.

“Wake up, sleepy head…,” Dean rolled his eyes, “…location confirmed, Neon Nights across 53rd Avenue, I'll be there.” Dean dropped the phone and went over to his wardrobe. He picked out a pair of black jeans and reached for his favorite go-to hoodie but then remembered that the day promised a little more excitement than usual and he would definitely not want to lose his hoodie in the process. He and Sam had been hunting down a werewolf pack that had apparently just returned to town, and their departure date coincided with the month his mother was killed. Dean found out about the existence of werewolves when he was a little over 10 years old. The excitement at the confirmation of their existence was second only to when he found out he was one. He remembered his dad demonstrating his partial morphing ability as proof and explaining how it all works. Dean was barely concentrating, overcome by the excitement of potentially being able to do these things himself.

“Can we fly?” he remembered asking his dad while his dad was trying to explain what powers came with it. His dad started lamenting about how werewolves were getting misinterpreted in movies and series and wondering where they got their silly concepts from while his mom burst out laughing. Those were the good old days, when they were still a family. Shortly after his mom died, his dad abandoned the clan and left the city. Dean had not heard from him ever since. He put on his kicks and headed out, but not before he looked at himself in the mirror one more time. His expression turned serious, "This time for sure," he whispered to himself.

Dean got to the location and saw someone standing outside the bar, simply dressed in a pair of shorts and a t-shirt with The Avengers logo on it. It was Sam. He walked and stopped as soon as he was beside him.

“Neon Nights, huh? Quite shabby for a bar. You sure this is the right place?” Dean asked as he read the signboard over the bar, which ironically enough was not in neon lights and was open during the day. It was a run-of-the-mill type bar, a single story with apartments above it. There was no security outside, which was normal for a werewolf hideout. Anubis pity the person that tries to cause trouble in a bar filled with werewolves.

“And a good day to you as well," Sam responded with a smirk. Dean glanced at him with a side-eye before the two chuckled at the inside joke of the moment.

"I am as sure as I can be about the details we are operating with. The timeline matches and their return is suspicious. New York is already filled with packs; why would anyone else want to come here?” Sam spoke out while cracking his fists.

“Fair enough. I really hope this is it. This is the third bar we are checking this week. At this point, I can probably comfortably write a tourist guide to New York, or better still a werewolf’s guide to New York: all hideouts to visit,” Dean joked.

"If only we could bust in transformed. It would give us that element of surprise." A slyish smile filled Sam's face.

“Yeah, but you know we are not allowed to display our powers in public. The council will have a field day with you if you are ever caught doing it. After getting a witch to wipe the memories of any humans that might have seen it, they will go to town on you, probably strip you of your position in the clan, maybe even attempt to restrict you from using your powers. I hear they have made progress in being able to strip a werewolf of his morphing ability,” Dean sighed as he began taking steps closer to the bar.

“Fine, fine, yeah, I hear you. No need to go into details about the how,” Sam interrupted while following him.

Despite having basically been preparing himself for this moment for the better part of his life, Dean was a bit anxious. This could be it; he could finally avenge his mother’s death and make the monster that killed her pay for its grievous crimes. Just thinking about it made him angry all over again. No more time to waste, time to face my fate..

The bar had one of those push-pull double doors. Sam pushed the first door while Dean pulled the second one, which led to them entering side by side at basically the same time. They walked up to the central table where the bartender was. He was a slightly older man with a cleaning cloth over his shoulder and a black shirt with a metal band Dean definitely did not recognize on it. He looked like the textbook picture of a werewolf in human form with a tough aura about him and a scruffy yet full beard that gave the image of someone you do not want to mess with while still carrying a different personality about him. He did not give off an extremely violent aura.

“Hey guys, what can I get you?” he asked.

“A diet soda, please,” answered Dean as he looked at Sam, waiting for his answer.

“I’ll have a Pale Ale. Would be a waste to enter a bar and not get a man’s drink,” Sam snickered with a short jab at Dean. But Dean knew that for what might occur today he would need his full wits about him; he could not allow any potential lapse in judgment or clouding of his senses.

“One diet Coke and one real man’s drink coming up,” said the bartender as he went to the back to refill the ice container for the drinks. Dean and Sam took a seat at the table as they awaited their drink.

“What is an Alpha doing so far from his pack?” Dean and Sam turned around to take a look at who said it. A young man who could not have been much older than both of them was walking towards them with a sneer on his face. The look of someone who was looking to stir up trouble. Unfortunately for him, violence was a part of Dean’s daily routine, one he had grown up learning to perfect.

Stillness in the bar as a chilling silence took over. Sam's claws began to creep out as his senses heightened, ready for whatever was coming. Dean, on the other hand, maintained a calm demeanor. The bartender soon brought their orders and placed them in front of them.

"Ignoring, are we? Don't want any trouble?" The young man inched closer to Dean, jesting in a fake British accent. A few goons in the bar began to laugh while others started leaving.

"Easy, Boy. You're scaring off my customers," the bartender said, trying to calm the young man now standing right behind Dean.

"Another failure," Dean hissed. He cracked his neck, completely ignoring the young man who was oozing bloodlust.

"All this heightened energy, and still nothing scents familiar.... It's another bust Sam," Dean added as he began drinking his Coke.

"Yeah..." Sam smirked as he began to drink his glass.

Irritated, the young man bared his fangs and placed his hand on Dean's shoulder. Before anyone could react, Dean stabbed his claws into the man's hand and twisted it, causing the man to bow. He roared in pain. Dean slid his glass slightly to the right, grabbed the man by the back of his head, and smashed his face into the glass, breaking it and enmeshed the shards deep into the man's face. The man fell to the ground unconscious, blood rippling from his wounds.

"It is rare to see a wolf both drunk and stupid, but I think your pack is the exception," Dean scoffed, turning to face those left in the bar with a deadly glow in his eyes. Six of them stood up and prepared to attack. Sam threw his beer bottle at one, then with his speed grabbed the second by the throat, lifted him, and slammed him through a table, choking him unconscious. Two dashed towards Sam, but Dean came from behind, grabbed their heads, and smashed them into each other. He lifted them by their feet and tossed them to opposite sides of the bar, smashing into the furniture.

Sam stood to his feet and with quick reflexes, evaded a claw strike, then jammed his claws into the guts of his attacker. As the man coughed out blood, Sam dragged his head into his knee before kicking him into a pile of chairs. The last two shivered at the sight of Dean and Sam and quickly scampered away. Dean laughed, "Today was still quite eventful." He cracked his fist. He was soon grappled by the bartender, who lifted and dragged Dean outside the bar. Sam was about to follow but soon received a message notification on his phone. He turned it on and paced around the bar, carefully stepping over the beaten men who were groaning in pain. He placed his left hand over his ear to dampen the sound of the fight outside while reading the message. He stopped and sighed as the noise died down. Dean walked in, completely unharmed and unfazed, dragging the battered and bloodied body of the bartender.

He took a look at Sam's face and he immediately understood. A real problem was knocking on the door. One he had been avoiding for quite a while