Wanted Dead Or Alive (Fiore & Hannibal Lecter)

[NightmareMoon]

Fiore & Hannibal Lecter are permitted to post here only.

​

 

[NightmareMoon]

Dean Winchester

"Mercy? I didn't spare you 'cause you're my brother, Sam. I let you live. I told you to let me go, but you didn't listen. I don't want to be saved, Sammy. Consider this your last chance. 'Cause once I walk out those doors, you won't see me again."


Three months passed since encountering his bitch-faced younger brother, Sam. During his fight with a vengeful man, or Cole, Sam doused him with holy water. It should of distracted him completely, but Sam underestimated his reflexes. Before Sam cuffed him, Dean disarmed his brother, subduing him. Instead killing Sam, like he wanted, Dean spared his life. Similar to Cole, sparing him was a worse punishment than death. After learning Sam's intentions, Dean vanished. Not even the King of Hell could locate him. Weeks later, Dean surfaced from the shadows, moving to New Orleans. A hot spot for partying, drinking, and vampires.


The song, Cherry Pie, reverberated inside a dark, classy bar. A plethora of people, human and vampire, mingled inside the extravagant establishment. A young man in his thirties sat at the bar, nursing a glass of bourbon. He scanned his surroundings, inspecting clusters of grinding bodies and mindless chatter. He downed his drink, slapped his glass on the table, and motioned the bartender for a refill. His transition heightened his high alcohol tolerance. A familiar hypnotic call whispered inside his mind. Kill, kill, kill, it said. Lately, he neglected his mark's call. New Orleans satisfied his hedonistic thirst for partying, alcohol, and unattached sex. The party never ended. It provided a variety of victims, ripe for the picking. However, neglecting his mark made him unpredictable. He proved to be charismatic and down-to-earth, charming everyone around him. Yet, simple things, like disobedience, triggered his aggressiveness. After three months, the mark consumed him, darkening his personality. He became violent, ruthless, and bloodthirsty. He killed without remorse. Eventually, his volatile behavior earned him the nickname, The Bar Ripper. For the past two weeks, he visited several bars. Sometimes, he left unscathed. Other times, unfortunate souls suffered his mark's wrath. Every single bar contained vampires, members of Marcel's circle. The self-proclaimed King of New Orleans wasn't happy. Two days ago, he ordered his night walkers to track down the Bar Ripper and bring him back alive.


"The Bar Ripper ... quite the reputation you earned," a smooth, accented voice drawled.


Dean glanced at the stool on his right. An attractive man with curled dirty blonde hair and dark blue eyes reclined on his seat, sipping a glass of whiskey. His pearly white skin contrasted with his deep blue eyes He appeared in his twenties, but an ancient aura surrounding him suggested otherwise. He downed his bourbon and placed his glass on the table, flagging down the bartender. "Awesome ... a groupie," he snarked. After the bartender filled his glass, he tipped it back, swallowing a large gulp. He welcomed the burning sensation in his throat. "And you are?" he added.


His lips curled with amusement. He ignored the previous comment. "Klaus," he introduced.


If he recognized the name, Dean didn't let it show. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and placed his glass on the table. "You here for an autograph?" Dean mocked.


His jaw tightened. "Rousseau's ... interesting choice. Fancy some ripping?" Klaus countered.


A smirk plastered on his face. "I'll rip your throat out ... with my teeth," Dean promised.


Despite his previous annoyance, a fleeting laugh escaped his lips. "I like you," Klaus commented. He downed his whiskey and requested another glass. "Does the Bar Ripper have a name or do you enjoy your imposing nickname?" he inquired.


"Dean," Dean answered gruffly.


His grin widened. "Well, Dean. I believe we have a lot in common," Klaus announced. He shifted his position, facing the feared killer. After learning the Bar Ripper's existence, it piqued his interest. Marcel requested his assistance tracking down the bar-hopping killer, but Klaus had no intentions delivering the Bar Ripper to his former protégé. If Dean proved his usefulness, he would be a powerful asset to his (Klaus's) plans conquering New Orleans.


Dean arched an eyebrow. "That so?" he drawled.

 

[Hannibal Lecter]

Elijah Mikaelson

"Over the course of my long life, I have come to believe that we are bound forever with those we share blood, and while we may not choose our family, that bond can be our greatest strength, or our deepest regret."

​

Family was difficult - Elijah Mikaelson knew this better than anyone. When to love, when to say yes and praise, and when to reprimand. It seemed as though he should have been more firm with the latter, at least in terms of his baby brother, Niklaus. Yet, despite it all, Elijah was still at his brother's beck and call, ready to defend and protect even in conflicts that Niklaus had brought on himself. After returning to New Orleans, returning to the French Quarter, there had been nothing but trouble amongst not only him, but also Niklaus and Rebekah and the other vampires currently residing in New Orleans.


Don't get him wrong, though; New Orleans belonged to them. They had been there long before Marcel's disciples' grandparents had even been old enough to crawl. Marcellus had still been in his youth - as far as vampirism goes, anyhow. They were Originals. There wasn't much that could impede them from reaching their goal other than a few vampires and the pesky witches. And, well, also a pregnant werewolf who claimed she'd been baring Klaus' child. That could put a bump in anyone's plans. Especially if said werewolf had been in the hands of the aforementioned witches. The brunt of that was passed them and they'd gotten the werewolf, Hayley, back, and now they were able to focus on taking back their city. One small step at a time, of course. Blitzkrieg was more his baby brother's style, where he was more thought out and meticulous. For the most part, though, it was safe to say that it normally worked out. For now.


There were about a thousand different scents in the bar, anywhere from the potent pheromones being given off from various participants in risque activity to the pungent smell of alcohol. There was vanilla, too. Vampires. And then faint traces of sulfur. The last didn't surprise Elijah. Not as much as one might have thought. He had heard of Marcellus' orders to find and capture the source - a demon. One that had racked up quite the reputation, and earned the nickname The Bar Ripper in his short time in the area. Elijah didn't take to killing people or vampires the way that others seemed to. He killed when necessary; to feed or when he was protecting his family. He didn't take joy in it, unlike his brother Klaus. Or at the very least, not nearly as much. What did surprise him was the sweet scent laced with the sulfur that almost made the odor bearable; leather. Gunpowder that wasn't potent enough to be fresh, but more ingrained into the smell. The smell was so unique, it was almost alluring.


The man's mouth settled into a thin line as he watched his brother cross the room and seat himself right next to the Bar Ripper. Tuning in, Elijah strode over, straightening out his suit and smoothing his hair. He practically glided over the floor, maneuvering through the crowd with ease and slowing when he approached the bar.


"Niklaus," Elijah clapped a hand on his brother's shoulder, an easy smile on his face. He looked from Klaus to the man he had been conversing with, Dean, as he'd overheard from the other side of the room. The man was attractive, with aesthetic features. What jumped out at him the most were the green eyes - looking so dark in the dim lighting of the bar, but when a flare of light from the crowd would hit them just right, they were the color of lush spring grass - emerald, even. Freckles were sprinkled sensibly over his nose and cheeks, like the galaxy of stars above them - above this establishment - this very minute. Dirty blonde hair styled back in a way that seemed to amplify the man's cocky demeanor. "You're not bothering this poor man, are you?" His tone remained light, an undertone of warning for his brother. Klaus tended to make enemies faster than friends. They couldn't afford having someone like the man in front of them being their enemy.


"Oh Elijah," Klaus greeted and simply smiled, gesturing to the man in front of him. "Look who I found."


"Yes. Uhm, Dean, was it?" Elijah inquired, though he knew the answer, it was just a courtesy. "Elijah." He introduced, bowing his head some politely, compensating for the inability to shake the other's hand - the situation seeming a bit inappropriate to do so.


"I was just in the middle of having a conversation with him when you arrived, Brother."


Elijah detected the warning behind his brother's words. A subtle back off. He didn't back down so easily - not even from his hybrid brother. He was the elder of the two, after all. And less explosive - even more stable, if you will. "I apologize for the intrusion, then."


"Yes, well, no harm done," Klaus continued smiling, his tone dismissive.


Always having to be the one in control. . . Elijah thought absently, mentally shaking his head. His brother would never change.


"Checking up on Hayley seems like a good idea, why don't you-"


"Splendid idea. Why don't you go do that?" Elijah gave a small smile, barely a twitch of his lips. To that Klaus gave him a look, one of daggers. Good thing they weren't made out of white oak, or they would have a problem. Klaus seemed to get the idea that Elijah was getting at; you can lead, but I'm not letting you do it unsupervised. "I believe the last time I saw Hayley, Rebekah was helping her with maternity clothes. I'm certain they'll still be at it for hours to come."


With a defeated twist of his lips, Klaus gave an indignant smirk, jaw tense. "I suppose you're right," Klaus nodded, looking at Dean once again. "Very well then. Stay. Unless of course you mind if he does, Dean."

 

[NightmareMoon]

Dean Winchester

"Elijah."


A masculine voice washed over him. Dean shifted his position, spotting an older man approaching them. He appeared in his mid twenties, but an ancient aura surrounding him suggested otherwise. His dark brown hair was short and spiked, styled immaculately. His light olive skin highlighted his deep hazel eyes. His aristocratic wardrobe contrasted with Klaus's casual attire. "A pleasure," he drawled sarcastically. He swished his glass, watching the amber liquid swirl. He tipped it back, draining the glass dry. Dean wiped his mouth, slammed his glass on the table, and motioned the blonde bartender for another refill. She appeared disgruntled by his copious amount of drinking, but complied.


"Very well then. Stay. Unless of course you mind if he does, Dean."


Dean ignored his statement. By the time the bartender returned with his glass, the British accented man disappeared, leaving him alone with his impeccably dressed brother. "Whatever he wants, I'm not interested," he deadpanned. The moment Klaus approached him, Dean knew. He may be many things, but he wasn't blind. He downed his drink, welcoming the sharp burning sensation. He rested his glass on the table, slapped a few bills on the bar, and slipped off his stool. Without another word, Dean maneuvered around the plethora of people, heading toward the back exit. He exited the crowded bar, entering a dark alleyway. A frigid breeze sliced through him, but he ignored the feeling. Before he could move, traces of sulfur and brimstone assaulted his senses, capturing his attention. Another demon. He turned around, spotting a large man across the alleyway. His eyes flashed black, confirming his status. He unsheathed an angel blade, gripping it tightly.


"Winchester," the demon growled.


"I can't get a break around here, can I?" Dean snarked. He brandished the First Blade, pointing it at the demon. "You're persistent sons of bitches, I'll give you that," he acknowledged. Since he arrived in New Orleans, several demons tailed him. Followers of Abbadon. Some confronted him. Others lingered in the shadows, waiting to strike. Without Crowley's influence, the demons stalked him, seeking his demise. Instead avoiding his groupies, Dean welcomed the chase. None of them were powerful enough to defeat him. The single weapon that could kill him is the very blade in his right hand. He is the only demon capable wielding the First Blade. Without the Mark of Cain, the jawbone-like dagger is useless. Even if he killed himself, the mark resurrected him. It refused losing its host.


The demon lifted his angel blade. "Crowley can't protect you," he snarled.


He eyed the angel blade with disinterest. "How many times will it take for you to realize..." Dean vanished, materializing in front of the large man. His gargantuan frame dwarfed Dean's lean physique. "...that I can't be killed?" he finished. Without another word, Dean plunged the First Blade against the demon's heart. A familiar lightning-like crackle emitted from the demon's host, including a brilliant reddish-orange glow. Before his demise, the demon stabbed Dean against the chest. After the man collapsed, Dean stepped back. He removed the angel blade from his chest. The pain didn't faze him. Based from the influx of demons, Dean assumed Crowley declared open season. Despite this revelation, all his adversaries shared one thing: they were clueless about his twisted immortality. A Knight of Hell can only be killed by the First Blade.


Whoosh!


A total of twelve demons appeared in the dark alleyway, surrounding Dean. All of them wielded angel blades. "Winchester," they intoned in sync.


Ambush. Dean scanned his surroundings, inspecting his opponents. He adjusted his grip on the First Blade. "All of you don't know when to give up," he commented. He crouched defensively, preparing for the onslaught. Without another word, the demons lunged. He raised his weapon, blocking a frontal attack. Dean spun around, stabbing a demon in the stomach. A reddish orange light, including a sharp crackling sound indicated the demon's demise. One down, eleven to go. He kicked back the corpse, pivoted, and caught a flying blade. The sharp dagger pierced his skin, drawing blood. He dropped the weapon, swung his blade, and sliced at the owner. The demon jumped back, evading his attack. He exchanged several blows, fighting the group of Abbadon's servants. Even in death, the Queen was a bitch. One by one, every demon succumbed to his blade's wrath. A few minutes later, Dean stood in the dreary alleyway, covered with blood. It caked his face, including his clothes. The mark on his right forearm pulsated a livid crimson.