Screeching and Screeching and Screeching.
Scratching, clawing, wracking, wallowing.
GETOUTGETOUTGETOUTGETOUT.
"Ohgodplea—"
It was a short, sharp exhale of breath through gritted teeth; it could've been mistaken for a bitten off sigh were it not for the spurt of anguish that was undeniably and intricately braided through like silk. He slid pale, tremblingly elegant fingers into the neck of his charcoal jumper, twining his appendages between the thick fabric and the pale green t-shirt beneath, applying a small amount of pressure. Running his tongue along his bottom lip, he winced a bit, skin pulling tight in the corners of his eyes.
Deep breath.
Exhale.
Lather, rinse, repeat.
Crimson edged down his middle finger, creating thick, runny bands on either side of the engraved ring he wore religiously, a sliver of silver amidst pooling blackness, dripping, dripping, dripping.
From his fingertips it slides and spirals against his pale flesh as though it were mapping out the soft blue of the veins below, winding down his forearm until it met and seeped in to the fabric bunched up at his elbows, soaking and staining and leaving unforgettable traces.
Deep breath.
Not deep enough. Try again.
Again.
It rattled around in his ribcage like moths against lamplight. He coughed to try and chase the bugs away, only to frenzy them further. Liquid thick in his throat, unnerving. He carefully spied the too dark area that surrounded him. Light crept in slim streams, breaking through the cracks and holes in the structure, pooling in unhelpful puddles just out of reach.
One foot in front of the other.
Step. Hesitatesalwayshesitatescan'twillhimselftomove. Step.
He can feel it in his bones, a tremor that starts in his left ankle. It's rhythmic, in time to the boisterous – always loud, how do they do stealth? – engine that creeps ever closer. Blu-dub-a Blu-dub-a Blu-dub-a.
He again tries to proceed forward, one foot in front of the other. Left shoe firmly planted in the dust and filth below, as if on cue, he shudders and slinks ungracefully to the floor to the sound of a boot against feeble wooden barriers.
"LOKI?!"
And the sound is clear; a short, sharp, authoritative, over-annunciated Low-key that echoes despite the wooden exterior of the building. And he knows it's serious. He knows it's serious because of the growl of fear shrouded in the name. Knows it's serious because of the use of his name. Not a nickname. His name.
And they came looking for him. They came looking for him. Came looking for him.
He pressed his hands against the dirt and grain and gravel to push himself up; to right his posture; only to stumble again and land heavily on his knees with somewhere between a grunt and a muffled sob passing through his thin lips. Hair spilled around his face in inky strands, obscuring his already blurry vision. Fever-bright, poison green eyes languidly scanned around the room, pinprick black pupils too constricted to properly see anything but billowy figures and shades of black and gray.
It was only as his body swayed a bit, head lolling lightly, that he was aware of the saline streams that had stained his cheeks, creating refreshing, clean rivers through the grime and gore that covered his face, pooling just lightly at the corner of his mouth. Through slightly parted lips the tip of his pink, pink tongue pushed through, dipping half-consciously in the now translucent liquid. The taste was startlingly unfamiliar, a salty-sweetness that he didn't particularly care for.
He starts forward again only to be stopped with the force akin to a wall. He jerks back, shoulders going rigid as he can feel fingers gripping tight against his upper arms, blunt nails digging in to the fabric of his shirt.
"Holy hell—"
"—Loki."
The voices sounded in tandem, complimentary octaves echoing distantly in his cochlea.
Deep breath.
Exhale.
It's a slow blink, but a blink none the less. He moves his head to try and pinpoint the source of the noise, only to have his neck fail him as though made of some sort of rubber compound, lulling to the side and slightly back.
"That's a lot of blood –"
"—LOKI." (Low—keeey.)
A slight, but equally as aggressive shake followed by snap of fingers grabs the boy's attention, and he struggles to focus on the sandy haired man in front of him, words from behind his form registering in his ears. His brows knit together slightly as sharp emerald irises move from the snapping fingers to the steel-grey eyes staring back at him. He works his jaw a bit.
Screeching and Screeching and Screeching.
Scratching, clawing, wracking, wallowing.
GETOUTGETOUTGETOUTGETOUT.
"Ohgodplea—"
"'s not mine." His words run together, accented by broken syllables, coming out more like ssssnot-my-ne. A lazy, tired, self-depreciating smirk pulls absently at the corner of his lips, twitching them up on the right and he can feel the once-stationary drip of tears that had pooled there tickle their way down his chin. "Not most of it."
imamonsterimamonsterimamonst erimamonster.
"Fuck."
They don't talk about it. Ever.
That's the beauty of the Winchesters, masters of internalizing the important things.
Loki feigns ignorance; he claims he can't remember.
They know better. He knows they know better, and he knows that they know he knows that.
But if it ever comes up, Loki doesn't remember.