So a few weeks ago I got interested what made us human apex predators(cuz lets face it we don’t look intimidating). One of the obvious is superior intelligence but that can’t be all. I figured I put a list together for any writer that want to use this information. (these are all google facts so feel free to do your own research or correct me)
Also disclaimer: This post excludes anything that has to do with our above intelligence(like use of weapons) and dexterity thumps, because those are a given. I wanted to concentrate on what else helped us survive in the wild. And this post does not say that the modern human is like this, its about people that still live out in the wilderness or 10 000 years ago.
We humans are persistent hunters, so instead of the typical predator approach by stalking our prey and kill it fast, we let our prey know we are here. We tried to hit it with rocks or spears, if the first strike didn’t kill it, we would just calmly walk after it and try again. This goes on over hours, usually during the hottest time of the day, not giving the poor thing a chance to rest until it’s finally to exhausted to run away. We would literally walk our pray to death. There are other animals that hunt like this(wolves) but we humans are the best at it.
Insanely Good Trackers
This is tied in with our intelligence but I wanted to give it an extra point. Most animals track by smell, which we don’t. We track foot print and things like fur on branches or broken twigs. Water or rain will wash away a scent but following broken twigs is a bit easier in the rain.
We can’t out sprint any animal but we can outrun them. Humans are within the top 5 animals that are able to walk/jog/run long distances without needing a break. And we are the only predator in that list.
Incredible Aim (hand eye coordination)
Out of all the animals we have by far the best aim. Other species with similar abilities just don’t have the same success rate.
We are one of the best climbers there are and if you don’t believe me watch a parkour video.
We eat everything (and i mean everything)
We eat many things that are either unenjoyable for animals or poisonous. Our digestive system is unique and allows us to digest these poisons without a problem. While some of these poisons would be dangerous enough in large doses, it is literally impossible for us to OD on them if we eat them as food. Here’s a list:
Spicy food (is not deadly just unenjoyable)
Milk (Humans are the only animals on earth that are lactose tolerant when we grow into adulthood)
Our flesh wounds stop bleeding relatively fast and heal fast too.We heal so well that a broken bone is considered a relative minor medical issue. A broken bone is a death sentence in the animal kingdom and even for modern days vets its impossible sometime to heal an animal’s broken bone. Not only do our bones heal fast but it grows stronger afterward.
Lack of Fur
Animals that don’t sweat need to regulate their heat by panting. Humans have much better way at regulating heat: we sweat. Sweating happens parallel to whatever activity we do and allows us to perform these task without needing a break. If you made a dog do sports like a human it would have a heatstroke.
All in all we are a species that can adapt to any sort of environment thanks to these traits.
An autopsy photograph showing multiple flesh wounds caused by a shotgun blast. Unlike other firearms, shotgun shells usually contain multiple small projectiles that expand and spread after the gun has been fired; when flesh contact is made, the projectiles leave multiple, pitted holes rather than a single deep entry wound.
wade stuck around for manicure night with nat. it shouldnt surprise anyone that the merc with a mouth is excellent for commentary on b-level horror movies, which nat loves. im not always big on talking so its kinda nice to have someone else fill the silence. and red is also his color. he might actually get a return invite.
“I’ve caught one,” the fisherman screams, grinning at his hook stuck in the girl’s cheek. “I caught myself a mermaid!”
Her hair is green, algae curled around it. The fisherman’s grip is greed, is lust, when he rips at it to get her closer. Her mouth glints like a pearl and oh, he could sell her after he’s - well, once he’s done with that beauty of hers. “Aren’t you a pretty one,” he licks his lips, “and all mine. I caught you, so you’re mine.”
All at once, her song ends. No sound comes out of her mouth that stays open, teeth tiny and many, sharp in the slick night. She tugs the hook out of her cheek. The fisherman watches, his heart burning from how fast it runs against his flesh, as her wound closes up and a bit of blood drips from her little mouth.
“Yours,” the mermaid says. The sea echoes her voice, an accent he can’t define, oh who cares, she’s just - just prey - and her pupils snap into slits. “Yours?”
The ocean ripples.
The waves tremble.
The wind whispers, smiles, then stills to not disturb the song that rises once more. “No,” whisper a thousand voices, whisper a million teeth, whispers ten thousands of stares in the water. “We caught you. You are ours.”
Cas doesn’t know when he started to
crave human contact. He supposes it’s a side effect of inhabiting
his vessel for so long, but it’s inconvenient to say the least.
He remembers hugging Dean when he came
back from the dead, wrapping himself around his warm body without a second thought.
How easy things had been then, when all of his thoughts were
occupied with Dean being alive and what a miracle that was. He didn’t
have to worry about overstepping his bounds, doing something he’d
He remembers Dean cupping his face,
stroking it even, holding his hand after a near-fatal (or fatal)
injury as he looked into his eyes, making
sure he was alright.
Even then, in the context of whatever brush
with death he was recovering from, Cas couldn’t think about anything
but melting into Dean’s hands, staying that way forever and ever.
But of course, he couldn’t. That would be inappropriate, a man
touching a male vessel for such a sustained period of time, and if
Dean touched him for too long he might give into temptation.
Overstep his bounds. Do something he’d regret.
Cas lives a sleepless life, but as he
wanders the bunker at night he can’t help but envision what it would
be like to lay down in bed next to Dean, to hold him in his arms or
have him hold Cas, to feel his warm breath and the thud of his heartbeat.
Dean had been so warm when he touched Cas. So gentle, and so very human.
He tells himself it’s only fantasy, so
it doesn’t count. Just as long as he never let’s it show, what he
truly wants, and how badly he wants it: he craves contact, Dean’s
contact, his affection, his warmth. He wants to know Dean loves him
back, for him to show it with his actions if not with his words.
But he doesn’t dare say it. He just
Over a year ticks by like this, when
Dean comes home from a hunt, badly injured. He has a blood-red welt
on his forehead, and a deep scratch through the fabric of his shirt.
Cas, ever concerned, steps forward. “Here,” he offers, holding
out his hand. “Let me.”
Dean gives the obligatory, feeble
protest, but doesn’t move away as Cas presses his hand to his
shoulder, where his handprint had been all those years ago.
injuries slowly fade from Dean’s body, and Cas, satisfied that his
patient is now well, begins to retract his hand.
It’s barely perceptible, the way Dean
leans towards the contact, following it. Chasing it.
Cas notices anyway, and his brow furrows. He’s been told
he lacks empathy, but Cas recognizes the gesture, the longing that
was behind it. It just doesn’t seem possible that Dean could crave
what Cas does.
Still, tentatively, experimentally,
places his hand back on Dean’s shoulder.
“What’re you doin’?” Dean
inquires, voice a tired grumble. “I’m all healed up. I’m fine now.”
Still, he doesn’t move away.
“I am…checking for further injuries,” he
informs him, and immediately feels guilty for lying. Still, he needs
to know if Dean wants this too, whether even some small part of him might crave this. He allows his hands to move gently over Dean’s
shoulders, tentatively as though he might break.
Dean makes a soft grunt that tells Cas
he doesn’t quite believe his alibi, but still, he doesn’t move away.
He leans closer, into Castiel’s touch.
Cas continues, in somewhat awed silence, his
hands stroking down Dean’s broad shoulders, down his muscular back,
radiating warmth beneath his thick flannel shirt. Cas wishes he
wasn’t wearing it, and not even for sexual reasons: he just wants to
feel Dean’s skin beneath his own, wants the intimacy of being
together without the restrictions of clothes.
He allows his fingertips to brush,
feather-light, over the bare skin of Dean’s neck, still damp with
sweat from the exertion of their hunt. Dean doesn’t tense, or do
anything, really: he just sits there, perfectly still. Cas can’t
read his facial expression, but he somehow feels he’s doing something
At that moment, Sam walks in, saying something innocuous about the hunt and not noticing whatever it is they’re doing.
stands up abruptly, practically knocking over a chair as he does so. Cas watches him curiously as he awkwardly greets
him, clearly somewhat embarrassed, despite the fact Sam wasn’t aware
of the exchange that had just transpired.
Sam looks suspiciously from Dean, then
to Cas, then goes about his business like he doesn’t want to know.
It isn’t until months later that Cas
finally gets what he wants, though he’s not coherent enough to fully
He’s been stabbed through the gut with an angel
blade, grace seriously depleted and nearly delirious.
It’s an unfortunately close
re-enactment of the last time Cas was taken from them, and Dean knows
it as he lugs Cas into bunker, draped over his shoulder like a rag
He’s barely conscious as Dean lays him on the sofa, pealing
back his blood-soaked shirt to reveal the wound, the blue light of
his Grace illuminating from within.
He yells something at Sam, who minutely
brings them a bowl of hot water and a cloth, which Dean then uses to
clean it. If Cas were more coherent, he’d tell Dean that was
useless, that he would be healed by his grace or not at all; mending
a vessel when his true form was damaged was like trying to repair a
flesh wound by patching up clothing.
But Dean is touching him gently,
cleaning his wound and muttering to him soft, soothing nothings that
he can’t quite make out.
He’s looking at him with an emotion
somewhere between desperation and…Cas refuses to let himself think
‘love’, not wanting to feed into his own false hope, but it’s
something very close to it.
In spite of himself, he smiles,
allowing Dean to take care of him as his eyes flutter shut one last
When Cas comes to, he’s shirtless and carefully bandaged, though he doesn’t need it anymore; his Grace heeled the
wound over night. Now, not even a scar remains.
He doesn’t have much time to
pontificate on this, however, because Dean is beside him, asleep on
the sofa, one arm draped over Castiel’s bare midsection and the other
wrapped around a pillow, snoring softly.
Cas watches him, too awed to say
anything, for the better part of a half hour. Not even Dean drooling
on his pillow is enough to detract from the wonder of him being here. The fact that he has, apparently, stayed with him throughout the night, his body pressed against his
And here Cas had been losing faith in
After a while, Dean’s eyes flitter
open, and he awakens with a startled snort as he realizes Cas is
staring at him.
Cas is about to apologize for staring,
again, when Dean has expressed his desire for him not to, but Dean is
only sitting up on his elbow, grinning stupidly at him and rubbing
the drool off his chin.
“Cas,” he half-chuckles, voice breathy
and slightly awed. “You’re alive.”
Cas nods sagely, grunting as he sits
back on his pillow. “I believe so, yes.”
“That’s…” Dean trails off,
laughing breathlessly. “That’s awesome, man. We didn’t think you
were gonna make it for a while. If you were human, that blow
would’ve been-” He trails off. “I’m glad you’re here, man.”
Cas is barely listening at this point, still staring at Dean in quiet awe.
“You…stayed with me,” he murmurs, Dean blinks, looking slightly taken
aback by the statement: it’s almost a question, the way Cas phrases
it; the inquiry of why
is evident in his voice.
“Of course I did, man. We care about
you,” he says, hand rubbing at the back of his neck. “I care
Cas stares at him, expression
unreadable. Slowly, he nods.
They’re still lying there, on the sofa,
bodies pressed close. Dean is so warm, so soft and pliable against him,
radiating the heat Castiel has craved for so long.
Cas wets his lips. “Can we stay like
this, just a little while?” he asks, voice barely a whisper. He doesn’t
want to make Dean feel uncomfortable, but he wants this closeness so
badly. He never wants it to stop.
There’s a brief pause. Dean swallows
before he answers, “Sure, Cas. Whatever you need, buddy.”
Cas smiles, tentatively resting his
head against Dean’s shoulder. He closes his eyes, not missing the way
Dean leans into his touch, the contented sigh he breathes through his
And Cas knows, in that moment, that
Dean’s wanted this too. Maybe as much as Cas has, if that’s
It only feels natural when Dean leans
in for a kiss.