Back in the place where it all began, almost thirty years later, Dean never truly let Raccoon City fade from his mind. His first day of work and his life changed completely. He always thought that if multiple universes existed simultaneously, he would be dead in most of them — honestly, sometimes even he had no idea how he was still alive, but he was, and he didn't intend to die now. He grew up hunting the supernatural, unaware that the supernatural was, in part, what Umbrella did across the country; it was also their failure, not just supernatural beings out of the ordinary, and he was always connected to it.

Dean still remembered when Sam went to college and he decided to work in another city, in the police — because being a hunter wasn't working anymore, it was too dangerous, the creatures were different and increasingly stronger, in a way that hunters became the hunted. While his younger brother was in California, he was heading for the first time to his job in Arklay County. Oh, if he only knew how everything would change after that... He would've stayed asleep.

But, there was no more lamenting the past almost thirty years later. The ruins of what was once Raccoon City still stood, and with them came a supposed new threat; he was called. They couldn't quite put their finger on what it was or where it was; they only knew that something hadn't been wiped off the map along with the city, and whatever it was, it had spent the last few years just getting stronger; whatever it was, Dean probably wasn't exactly capable of facing it alone.

This became clear when, after two days there, he woke up in a dark, windowless room, chained to a bed with only a hospital gown covering his body. He panicked, tossing and turning in bed as he tried to free his wrists and ankles from the metal restraints, but it was no use and he couldn't remember what had happened. Suddenly, a figure emerged from the chair at the far end of the room, hooded and approaching cautiously; he could only see its silhouette.

It was as if it were murmuring something; he couldn't understand it, only assume — and hope — that it was a person. But, what kind of fucked-up person would keep living in the Raccoon City underground? If he was still there, damn, he had no idea about anything and that was worse than ever. “What the hell is going on here?” His voice was hoarse and icy, masking the growing despair in his chest at being chained to a bed with a hooded creature watching him in the dark.

You didn't answer him right away, but he could still hear your murmurs until a: “he said you would come.” escaped your lips. Your voice was soft, a little too soft, and that fueled his suspicion; however, staying quiet seemed like the best option when he didn't know what he was dealing with. “Did I scare you?” The lights came on, he saw you and could've sighed with relief — because you almost seemed harmless — but that was still more suspicious than welcoming.

“No.” That's a lie, he just didn't want to admit that he could've wet his pants if you had just left him awake in complete darkness having to deal with his own mind. Dean examined you for several minutes, until he noticed the various burns on your hands, some quite nasty. His curiosity was piqued; he wasn't worried, he just wanted to find out who you were. “What happened to your hands?”

Somehow, you seemed almost like a little puppy, the kind that, if it had a tail, would wag it the second he gave you a measly, forced bit of attention. “You had a lot of iron things in your clothes.” You answered him, and his mind raced with possibilities. “Do you get hurt by iron?” The options were still many, but you certainly weren't human; one less on the list.

“Yes, no fairy can handle iron well.” Your joke was innocent; you didn't even realize you'd given him the answer he needed. “Mr. Wesker gave me gloves, but I lost them and he hasn't been here in a long time. Did he send you here?”

A fairy summoned by a mad virologist who died years ago without you knowing — what a tragic little story. What was he using you for?