A/N:
CW for Dean's potty mouth and sciencing.
There was a beat of silence as the nestlings, timidly rationing out their own food, glanced up. They stared in mixed wonder and worry at Dean. Like their wraith sprite friend, a human couldn't get any energy at all from the meager light that sometimes stayed on in the room. If Dean refused all food, he really could starve.
Even Bowman frowned critically at Dean. He'd never be ungrateful for the man's help, but to go without food for too long could be disastrous for Dean.
Bowman didn't want his allies to suffer just for helping him and his village.
Fortunately for Dean, the scientist didn't take the bait. Rather than leave him with no food at all, he opened the cage to toss a few scraps into the plastic dish. They weren't the best options, but Dean would survive.
For now.
Before the hand retreated from the cage again, a flick of the huge Dean-sized fingers sent a wave of force at him that shoved him back against the bars. The action illustrated his role there. Entertaining, but ultimately expendable. The scientist couldn't hurt the sprites without some other goal in mind.
Dean was fair game. The lock clicked loudly as he was sealed in again. He unsteadily climbed back to his feet, an arm wrapped tenderly around his chest.
"Little hunter, you've earned yourself a choice of which subject will begin the next tests," the human said, a smug gleam in those ice cold eyes. Green eyes so like Dean's and yet so unlike his at the same time swept over the cages containing sprites, as disinterested as if he were out shopping for dishes.
Bowman stood up and glared at the man's back while the nestlings scooted away from the scientist. They couldn't escape that leer. Bowman flared his wings partially open and gestured to himself. "Leave them alone! I'm ready for your Spirit-scorned tests!"
"I'm not deciding," the scientist dismissed. "For all I know, my little hunter will spare his favorite pet's wings today."
The clear threat shocked Bowman out of his next retort. He could hear more than one nestling sniffling in their cage. Rischa's voice was faint, and it shook with fear, but she tried to reassure them. Bowman took quick breaths and stood up straighter. His glance to Dean was filled with a clashing mix of fear and determination.
Dean refused to meet Bowman's gaze, stubbornly staring at the scientist. "You sick sonovabitch," he breathed, his hands clenched into fists.
The choice he had was no choice at all, and he hated himself for it.
Dean could offer up one of the children- young, innocent sprites who'd never harmed anyone in their lives. Their only crime was falling under this asshole's gaze. Wrong place, wrong time. Of course, there was also Rischa, whom Sam and Dean both owed their lives to for driving out the infection that had tried stealing Dean's mind away a year ago. She was the little protector of the kids, the only person who could comfort them with Dean and Bowman confined to their own cages.
Or Bowman.
Of all the sprites Dean had ever seen, Bowman prized his wings the most. They were his pride and joy, the essence of his being. Nixie had her water, Ilyana possessed flames of passion, but Bowman was a creature of freedom, of air, the embodiment of his race. To mess with the wings would be to tear a part of him away.
"You enjoy this, don't you, asshat?" Dean spat at the scientist. He cast his gaze at the floor, unable to look back at Bowman when he pronounced his fate. "Bowman. Take Bowman."
The scientist's smirk was reserved, but wickedly smug and triumphant. He turned to Bowman's cage, drawing out the motion just to let the words hang in the air longer. Driving the pain deeper.
Bowman stood defiant, though his wings were folded tightly to his back and they quivered. He didn't know what the man had planned for him, but he doubted the threat was empty. Dean and Bowman were the ones with empty threats; this human had all the power, and he couldn't completely hide how much he enjoyed the fact. Putting Dean in his place brought him a sick joy. Bowman hadn't hated many people in his life, but this man earned a spot on the list.
Dean had a lot of pride in what he did; Bowman had seen how determined the hunter could be against an enemy. The scientist was trying to break that away, piece by piece.
Soon, Bowman couldn't focus on his hatred for the man and the terrible treatment of Dean. Those hands appeared again, and Bowman had to worry about himself. He'd never ever blame Dean for what happened, no matter what happened, but his heart pounded with fear. The uncertainty loomed larger than the human himself.
All too soon, Bowman was gathered up in a fist once more. A jolt of panic spasmed in his limbs and he bit at the finger situated in front of him. The quick reaction was met with a thumb pressing against the side of his face, forcing him to let go and lean his neck to the side. He groaned as his shoulders and neck burned with pain.
They returned to the workbench like the day before. The recorder and food container scraped across the surface as the human shoved it aside.
This time, when Bowman was lowered to the table, the human laid him down on his front, keeping a hand flat over most of his body. The magnetic clamps were set in place, but Bowman's wings were left free. Exposed to the human's gaze and the bright lamp that switched on with a faint electric bzzt.
Even knowing he couldn't escape those stupid magnets, Bowman struggled as much as he could. His heart fluttered against his ribs, chilled by the cold metal table.
He couldn't see the hands approaching him, but he saw their shadow slide over him. A shiver that had nothing to do with the cold wracked his body.
Deft fingertips pinched around the edge of his wing, the first finger bone of the delicate limb. Bowman let out a frustrated growl, unable to stop the human from unfurling the wing against his will, stretching it out from his body until it was fully extended.
"Prime specimen's wings are in exquisite shape," the human noted. "Similar in build to bats' wings, complete with radial bones and a vestigial thumb."
The human's finger and thumb pinched around the verdant membrane of Bowman's wing, feeling the smooth, leafy texture. "The membrane is not like skin, despite the subject's fully developed stature. Microscope tests will be needed. Testing mobility first."
"Don't even dare!" Bowman blurted, renewing his uncomfortable squirming.
The human continued to ignore his protests. The other hand descended to open up his other wing, forcing it to unfurl as well. Bowman still couldn't turn his head enough to see the human's face, but he imagined the smirk ghosting across it well enough. "Stop it!"
"I would advise stillness," the man told him in a clipped tone. "Wouldn't want me to slip ..."
As if to demonstrate, the man moved Bowman's wings forward, still nearly flat against the table. The further up he moved the wings, the more it strained the muscles on Bowman's back where the membrane connected to him. It only stopped when a stifled yelp of pain escaped him.
"Range of upward motion more than standard," the scientist noted, almost sounding surprised. "Interesting."
Rischa's wings quivered. The other nestlings huddled near her, picking at their portions of food. The youngest ones didn't even understand what they were feeling, but Rischa recognized the cloying, sticky feeling of guilt. It wafted around the young sprites in a new burst every time Bowman cried out in pain from the work table.
The loudest song of guilt rang from outside the cage, however. Among the pain in the air and the cold malicious intent of the scientist, Dean's guilt drew Rischa's gaze.
"Dean," she called to him in a gentle voice, trying to catch his eye. There were so many layers of emotion deep within him; Rischa had never met someone so adept at hiding his feelings from others, but his best efforts didn't work on her. "Dean. This isn't your fault."
"Of course it's my fault!" Dean snapped reflexively, without a thought. He couldn't tear his eyes from Bowman, a green splash of color among drab, dull surroundings. A world that would suck that color and life out of him relentlessly if they didn't get free- and soon.
Pacing angrily from side to side, Dean's fist clenched and unclenched. The food behind him went ignored. With Bowman suffering, his stomach churned. Any sense of hunger was gone.
"It's my job to get everyone out of here," Dean growled, turning sharply on a heel. "That's the whole reason I got called, and here I am, stuck!" He punched a fist into the bars, a twinge in his ribs warning him from the actions.
The pain couldn't stop him. Nothing could.
"What's the point," Dean kicked the water dish as he took his frustrations out on the closest inanimate victim, "if I can't even help the people that need me most?! "
With that last kick, the strain and anger all caught up to him, rushing down on him. Dean collapsed on the ground between the food and water dish, his head buried in his hands.
Nothing he did these days helped anyone. He couldn't stop the scientist from torturing Bowman, he couldn't get out of a damn cage.
Couldn't save Sam from his own cage.
Couldn't stop the witch from killing their dad.
A friggin' giant, and he couldn't stretch out his arm and break open a cage that fit between his fingers.
Useless.
Dean's shoulders heaved from sobs he wouldn't let escape. Not a sound passed his lips, but water leaked from between his fingers.
A/N:
Cowritten by PL1, the creator of the Wellwood sprites and Jacob Andris!
Beta read by creatorofuniverses on tumblr.
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Next: August 26th, 2020 at 9pm