Chapter Text
Percy was just as troubled an adult as he was as a kid. Maybe even more so. Because as a kid, he'd at least had the benefit of the doubt — kids were allowed to be impertinent and stupid and have no life skills (well, ones that normal people would have, anyway). But when you're in your twenties and have been running from your taxes faster than you run from monsters, well... that wasn't exactly good in the eyes of the people.
He didn't have a job anyway, so what did it matter that he didn't do his taxes? He had no money to be taxed.
The two men watching him weren't tax collectors. They were rather angry looking people, the older man especially. The younger one was Percy's type, at least in looks, but he was also creepily watching Percy from across the bar he'd holed up in, and the demigod didn't much like his company, so he disregarded any hopes of a good night and a free bed.
He recognized John Winchester, and didn't want anything to do with the man watching him.
The bar was crowded, as they always seemed to be on Friday nights in college towns. Percy's time at college had been short-lived, but he could almost imagine this was him, bar the alcohol (pun intended). He liked the feeling of being around people his age, people who laughed at jokes he understood and who raged against the machine just because they were young and didn't have to face the consequences. It took away from those painful moments where he would curl up on cold concrete and make conversation with the silent stars.
The door swung open, and Percy glanced back, suppressing a shudder. He wished they would just leave him alone. Or, better yet, that they would be strong enough to put him out of his misery. He didn't bother getting up, knowing that the fight would come soon enough. It always did.
"Can I get another Pepsi?" Percy slumped over the bar, pouting at the nice man who had taken pity on the demigod and given him some free food. He could probably smell the homelessness on Percy.
"I'll buy him a beer." A familiar voice broke through what little hope he had at getting at least one more drink. "He's a big boy now, after all, aren't you, Percy? Twenty-one already... we never thought you'd get this far."
"No thanks, Kelli," Percy sighed. "I don't drink."
"Never were any fun, were you?" Kelli huffed, crossing her legs and throwing back her hair. "Won't even go for a drink with an old friend."
"I think we both know we're not friends."
The bartender cast Percy a worried look, but a frat boy started shouting out slurs, and he had to go put a stop to that. The bar was filled with sound, and Percy wanted nothing more than for it to stop.
"It's not like you have many of those anymore. Do they even know you're alive, Perseus?"
"With the way I'm ghosting them, probably not," Percy said dryly, gazing forlornly down at his plate.
"For someone so loyal, you sure do cut ties easy."
"For someone so weak, you sure do talk a big game."
"I wouldn't count me out just yet. Since I can't chase that bitch girlfriend of yours, I'm going to chase you. And I'm not going to stop chasing you until you're six-feet under with her."
"Shut the fuck up, Kelli." Percy hunched over himself further, stomach dropping. He didn't want to fight, he didn't like fighting. He didn't like knowing there was no one at his back, watching over him. He didn't like not having anyone to watch over except for himself.
"Why don't you make me?"
And Percy, deciding it was better to get it over with, stood, marching toward the door, hardly noticing John Winchester and his cohort sharing startled glances. He was going to make her, just to get some peace and quiet. That's all he wanted. Peace and quiet.
"What do you want, Kelli?" Percy asked, knowing she was following behind, the stars glittering down at them with all the benevolence of a shadow. They were his friend, once, shining with the cool-headed clarity of Zoë, but now they were a reminder of death. An imitation. A false idol.
"I want you to burn, Perseus Jackson. I want you to suffer."
"Have I not done enough of that already?"
"Not at all."
And the alley, clear from view of mortal bystanders, became an arena. The stars booed as Percy uncapped Riptide, the sword a familiar weight in his calloused palm, the fight a familiar thrum in his calloused heart. Kelli didn't have the gall to feign indifference to the blade, but she stood anyway, hair bursting into flame.
Aching body from years of restless nights, aching heart from the day his sleep was murdered, Percy was not the hero he once was, instead a remnant, a ghost just as his love. The flow of his movements were not what they once were, his ocean waves now ripples in a kiddy pool. He didn't eat enough, he didn't sleep enough, he didn't smile enough, yet he put up a fight on principle.
As he did with every monster he fought and bested, Percy wondered if he should let it kill him. If he should let this monster in particular lord his demise over the others, if he should let painful life end in favor of the sweet release of death. Then he remembered his promise, the one thing he was still loyal to, and he continued on with vigor.
So, he fought. He stared into the light of Kelli's eyes and saw that her strength was the same, but felt that his was drained. He wasn't scared to die here, no, but he wasn't going to give up, even if he felt like baring his neck would be easier than facing the blur forming at the edge of his vision.
He was tired. He was always tired.
"To think we once thought you could be a god," Kelli said, panting from her newfound position on the ground. Blood dripped down the slope of her nose, body trembling from the fight. "You're hardly even human anymore."
"You were never human in the first place," Percy whispered.
"Thank Hecate for that."
"Thank the gods for nothing."
And with that, Percy plunged his sword deep into her chest, watching as her eyes flashed with pain.
"I'll be back, Percy Jackson," she said, mouth curling into a sneer, "because she'll never be." Her message hung heavy with the stars as she turned to dust, her ashes falling lamely to the ground.
Percy's shaking knees betrayed him, forcing his scathed body to the ground. Droplets of blood splattered onto the concrete, and Percy stared at the crimson, reflecting the pale glow of the moon.
The light disappeared just as Kelli had, and Percy looked up, war-worn body lying in wait of whatever was to come. His sea-green eyes met Dean Winchester's, and, much to his surprise, found no pity, contempt, or detest.
Kind, worried eyes accompanied equally as gentle words. "Dad... I don't think he's a monster."
And with that, Percy's body finally collapsed, taking all awareness with it.
***
Dean trusted his father's judgement. The man was a warrior of wisdom, fighting to avenge all those wronged by the supernatural, including Dean's very own mother. He fought because it was right.
Dean was starting to think this wasn't right.
The man in the chair at the bar had looked much too thin and world-weary to be walking, let alone threatening the lives of innocents.
"Don't let his looks fool you," John muttered to Dean upon his son's first appraisal of the demigod. "I've met his kind before... they're ruthless and bloody, just like their parents."
Sam had went through a Greek mythology phase, so Dean knew just how ruthless and bloody their parents could be. Not that he could really count on what Sam said anymore. Sam had called it 'low-contact' when he left for college, but, seeing as he'd fielded every single one of Dean's calls, he suspected it was more of a 'no-contact' situation.
Then that thing had sauntered up to Percy. She looked human, somewhat, but one leg was furry and bowed, like some sort of animal, and the other was made of a strange metal material.
"Empousa," his dad hissed in explanation. "Vampiric subspecies."
Right. Because the gods were real, and so were vampires.
Not for the first time that night, Dean wondered why his dad hadn't told him such things existed.
The Empousa followed the demigod as he marched away, face red with rage. Dean had expected him to blow his gasket inside the bar, no regard for the drunken lives around him, but he showed no sign of contempt for the people. Hearing the conversation of the demigod and the monster, Dean was again questioning his father.
They followed after them, and Dean, watching the fight, understood what his dad had meant when he called demigods powerful. This one, this Perseus, was weak and ill, body running on fumes, yet he took down this monster made of flame and speed with nothing but a glowing blade. Still, he did it with tact, without cruelty, even as the Empousa clawed and scratched and taunted.
"I'll be back, Percy Jackson," the vampire said, staring up at the demigod with all the hate in the world, "because she'll never be." And then she was gone.
Percy Jackson fell forward on his knees and Dean, even as his father reached out a hand to stop him, stepped forward, his shadow overtaking the demigod. Slowly, the pale face of this troubled man looked up to meet him. His eyes were beautiful, like shattered stained glass. Sea-green and world-weary, plucked from the turbulent ocean and planted into this man's face.
"Dad," Dean whispered, "I don't think he's a monster." Those sea-green eyes fluttered, and, as the demigod collapsed, Dean caught him.
"Don't touch him, son!" John cried. "It could be a trick."
Dean knew it wasn't.
"He's not a monster, Dad," Dean said, more sure of the fact now as he cradled this broken man. "He needs help."
"He's one of them, Dean!" John hissed, stepping closer, pulling a knife out of his back pocket. It was the same bronze of the demigod's sword.
Dean shifted, covering the prone body, nerves struck with terror. He couldn't let his father kill those eyes.
"Did you see him?" Dean shook, fists clenching. "Did you see any of that? He was attacked! He's done nothing! He needs help, Dad!"
"It's our job to hunt monsters!"
"And he just killed one, so isn't he one of us?"
John froze, face strained. Dean wasn't budging on this, not like he did everything else. He didn't think his father agreed at all that Percy wasn't a monster, but maybe the elder Winchester could sense his son's stubbornness on the subject.
"Fine," John said, voice light and bitter. "We'll help him. Then he's gone."