Dean's head was pounding, and his mouth felt like it was stuffed with cotton when he finally came awake. Plus, he was completely naked; that didn't surprise him as much as it used to. For some reason, he ended up like this way all too often – drugged, tied up, and bare-assed. Keeping his eyes closed, he took a quick inventory; feet on the floor, standing upright, arms raised with handcuffs on his wrists, hooked to something above him. Cold room … he was shivering in a downdraft of cool air … and there were sounds all around him: people walking in shoes on a wooden floor, furniture being moved, chairs unfolding, and the occasional cough or sniff. He counted two, maybe three, distinct footstep patterns as he let his other senses do most of the work. A fruity smell came from close by and sweat, lots of sweat, some of it probably his.

Chin resting on his chest, he continued to fake it, noting that his body seemed to be in fairly good shape; except for the ache in his arms from being raised too long, there were no bruises or new sore spots, just the usual complaints from too many years of hunting and fighting. He was ready to kick the shit out of anyone who came near and the whole naked thing didn't even slow down his plans to escape this craziness.

"Oh, good, you're awake. You may as well open your eyes, dear. You're can't bluff you way out of this one." A hand caught the scruff of his neck and raised his head; he opened his eyes to find an older woman in front of him, looking for the world like the stereotypical Hollywood grandmother, right down to the orthopedic shoes, grey hair pulled into a tight bun, and brown face lined with winkles.

"Can't blame me for trying." Dean was thinking fast and furiously about how to get out of this mess. He could see he was in a theatre, seats arranged in stair-stepped arcs rising up from the wooden stage; he hung suspended from what looked like a sturdier version of a child's swing set – bolted into the floor, damn it – on the left side, facing the audience. The stage itself was cleared except for a number of weapons strewn about, seemingly in random places.

"Of course not. For normals, it might have worked. But I can smell you, you know, and you do smell luscious." Okay, grandma flirting was not something Dean really wanted to hear right now. "Now, there's just enough time to get you ready before things get started. Threw quite a monkey wrench into the plans, didn't you, naughty devil." She took a few steps over to a table, picked up a cup and poured some soda into it.

Dean tensed his muscles; he didn't necessarily want to hit an old lady, but, honestly, it wouldn't be the first time. Monsters came in all shapes and sizes, and he knew it was kill or be killed. Even if they looked like a smaller version of Madea.

"I wouldn't if I were you, ducky." In the time it took for Dean to blink, she'd moved up close and personal in his face; her smile revealed a set of canines that looked all too familiar. "Don't be deceived by the packaging. I can kick your mighty fine ass if I need to. Now, you're probably thirsty. Have a sip or two."

Dean took a drink, letting the carbonated liquid clear out some of the lingering effects of the knock-out drug.

"Time to take your medicine," she held up her hand; three tiny blue pills were on her palm. "Be a good boy, now."

"No way in hell am I taking anything, bitch." Dean glared at her.

"Oh, you'll want these if you get picked. Can't have you not performing well, can we? It makes us look weak in front of our visitors. Now," she grabbed his cock with her hand, and Dean choked, opening his mouth to utter a curse; with a quick motion, she jammed the pills in his throat and held it closed until he had to dry swallow. Then she offered him more soda to wash the taste out. "See? Not hard at all." She winked as she gave his cock a little stroke. "But you will be."

She went back to the table and returned with a tube of oil – the fruity smell – and with quick efficient motions, began oiling his body. Starting at the chest, she worked her way down to his cock, leaving no part of him untouched, despite his best efforts to jerk away from her; she clucked at him and held him with an iron grip as she did the same to his back and his ass.

"God damn it," Dean cursed as her fingers circled and slipped between his legs to cover him entirely in the clingy oil. "Haven't you ever heard of bad touching?"

"You'll thank me later, boy," she grinned, and the malicious smile unnerved him. "Personally, I think having you here is wrong – we should just follow the old ways and serve you up for dinner – but I'm not in charge of that decision. I will, however, enjoy watching the Potential either mount you or kill you … maybe both … when the time comes." She gave his ass a stinging slap and caught his chin in her hands, forcing their eyes to meet. Hers were rimmed with silver, wildness in them tinged with madness.

"Is this the point where you tell me your plan and how I'm going to die slowly and horribly in some overly complex scenario?" Dean hardened his face, letting his anger show.

"Oh, love, yes, I can see it now. You'll make a perfect beta once they break you. All that rage and self-loathing, plus hunter's instincts. Maybe this old bird was wrong." Laughing to herself, she picked up a blindfold and tied it around his eyes, effectively blinding him. "They didn't tell you anything did they? Sadistic fuckers, all of them. Well, here's a news flash for you. In a little bit, the four new potential alphas will fight it out for a chance to get the bite; last one standing wins. You, my lovely, are one of the potential betas. We work in teams around here. They think you'd make a fine addition to the pack, with the right alpha to control you. If you're lucky, you won't get picked and die quickly." She laughed at that. "Either way, it's going to hurt like hell."

…..

"Anything yet?" Sam asked, looking up from his laptop at Carol seated across the small table at the busy Starbuck's. They'd gone with the only untapped lead they had – Walter's girlfriend – and were waiting on her to show up for the closing shift. Despite his single-minded purpose to find Dean, Sam had to admit that Carol was a useful person to have around right now; she had a lot more gadgets and resources than Sam did, and she was willing to use all of them to help. Copies of the police and coroner's reports appeared quickly in his email inbox with just one phone call from Carol to her friend April at the Metro Police; already, preliminary reports were back on the blood they'd found in the garage.

"Do you know how many missing people are reported in D. C.? Give me a minute to narrow this down." Her fingers fairly flew across the tablet p.c.'s screen. "If we limit to the time frame from the first murders until now … take out non-custodial abductions … hmmmmm ….. I've got about 52 possibles … if we organize them … male and female … location … ethnicity … other … oh, wait, 24 missing veterans were reported. That's a pretty high percentage, don't you think?"

"Walter was a vet," Sam scooted his chair around so he could look at Carol's screen, squeezing into the corner by the window; his leg pressed against hers, and he leaned his arm on the back of her chair, bringing their heads together. He checked the report on his laptop. "Hold on, Darla McQueen, our jogger. Never served in the military … wait, they interviewed the boyfriend, John Andrews. He was a marine, served in Iraq."

"Do you see that?" Carol pointed to the dates of the reports, but Sam couldn't see anything specific about them, so he shook his head, bending in to read the numbers, shoulder brushing Carol's. "Every four weeks or so. Same time of the month. I bet …" A quick search and she had the phases of the moon for the time in question. The dates fell into a pattern, even clearer when she shifted to a calendar chart; the reports all came during or right after a full moon.

"Well, damn." Sam said as the implications hit him. "That your sixth sense at work again?"

"Just good old fashioned women's intuition; kind of use to the every four weeks thing, you know?" She turned her head to see him, and Sam realized he could feel her breath stir his hair and see that her eyes had flecks of gold mixed in with the blue. For a second he really looked at her, at her smile that was slightly crooked, her nose that was a little too narrow, and the smattering of freckles across her cheeks; with a little harrumph of air, the corner of her lips quirked up in a lopsided smile that struck him as more than a little sexy.

"Right, of course, yeah, makes sense," the words stumbled out of his mouth; real smooth, Sam, he thought to himself when her eyes crinkled in amusement. "I mean, sounds like they're targeting military types. All these people had homes and families and jobs; none of them show any PTSD or post-service issues. Damn." The answer hit him. "They're recruiting. Those two guys in the park were more controlled, better trained than any werewolf I've seen before. Bet they were military too."

"Let me get Jarvis started on tracking back these people, where they served, trained, who they reported to. Maybe we can find a connection." Carol's attention was back on her screen, and Sam took one last look at her profile, her eyes darting as they followed the shifting information before her, forehead wrinkled just above her nose in concentration. Then he turned back to his laptop and began searching for any known links between werewolves and the military.

…..

He was sweating, even though it was cool, skin flushed as two others took their places on either side, bumping into him and making their animosity plain.

"Not going to happen, hunter boy," the one on his left whispered. "I'm going to be the one who puts you down when this is over. Remember that."

"Don't listen to him," the one on the right shot back. "The Potential's going to cut your throat just for fun."

Dean stayed quiet, trying to put the pieces together; alpha, beta, choosing, potentials … it was adding up to something downright scary. He knew werewolves ran in packs, but this type of organization was new; there was that one time in Texas where a group of weres had turned bank robbers, hitting six places before they were caught. Much bigger, this operation was very different, more like a cult; tonight's ritual seemed quasi-religious, and Dean had a really bad feeling in his gut about his chances of getting out of this. Best hope was that Sam was out there looking for him right now.

People entered the room, walking towards them. "God damn it, they really did it, didn't they?" a male voice asked from in front of him. "Bringing in trash like this." Fingers grabbed his chin and jerked his face up; sour breath washed over him. "Can't wait until one of the big bad wolves gets to take out the big bad hunter." There were murmurs of assent – maybe two other voices – and the man on Dean's left laughed out loud.

They were moving around him, and Dean felt hands on his chest and back, hard pinches and pushes mingled with other, more sensual strokes. "I'm going to enjoy killing every single one of you sick motherfuckers," he threatened.

"Oh, big bad is all scary," one of them leaned over and bit Dean's ear, leaving a trickle of blood; Dean could feel the man's hairy chest brush against him, and he tamped down on the nausea that surged. He'd survived Hell, after all; this was a cake walk compared to that. The potential alpha snickered and walked away.

Hands caught his hips and held him still as a body came up against his back, as oily and slick as he was. It was definitely a man. Dean could feel a hard cock rubbing against his ass as the man leaned into him.

"I know they're not sorority girls, but it's the best I could do on short notice," Clint whispered.

It was a good thing Dean's blindfold covered his eyes or he was sure the others could have seen the surprise, and then a flash of relief, on his face. "Son of a bitch," he grumbled, keeping his voice angry.

"You up for this?" Clint asked, and Dean knew instantly that Clint was worried, the whole situation spiraling out of both of their control way too fast. He was asking permission for what was about to happen.

"I'm going to kill every fucker in this room, not matter what I have to do." That was the closest Dean could give to a yes with all the ears nearby; Clint was taking enough of a risk with the little he'd said.

"Oh, you're a live one," Clint spoke louder for the benefit of the room. "Good. I like it rough. If I don't leave a few bruises and broken bones, you can't remember me." He moved away with the other men, and, just like that, Dean let out the breath he didn't even realized he'd been holding. He might not relish the public part of this whole little play … to be honest, he kind of liked the watching part, thus the browsing history of Asian porn sites … but he didn't really enjoy the idea of being the one watched. Suddenly, the little blue pills made sense; stage fright could extend that far down, he guessed.

"Welcome to all our guests!" A voice rang out; everyone fell silent. "As you know, last potential standing will have the chance to move forward in the process and choose their beta. Only the strongest teams will receive the bite. All fighting is done is silence; beyond that, there are no rules."

The quiet was broken only by the pad of bare feet on wood; then, with no warning, the fighting started, and seats creaked as the crowd sat forward to watch. Dean could hear the thud of bodies as they began to collide – turns out you can hear bones crunching when a fist connects with a delicate area. The solid smack of a hit forced grunts of effort, and the rasp of metal against the ground changed into cries of pain when weapon sliced into skin. Half of what Dean could figure out came from the audience; they reacted when something happened with gasps, startled cries, and even aggressive growls.

The crowd had favorites, and Dean imagined that there was betting on the outcome; they damn well didn't know Clint Barton and that knowledge almost make him smile, imagining the surprise on their faces as they watched the man fight. When the first potential hit the ground hard, with a gurgling of liquid and a squelch that must have been painful, some of the crowd murmured their discontent. When the second one went down with a crack and thud, there were audible curses. Within minutes, cries of disbelief sounded as the third potential went down with a scream. The whole thing had taken no more than 10 minutes, if Dean's inner clock was right. Obviously, this was supposed to be a long drawn out affair, but Clint always did like it fast and hard.

"Damn." The guy on his right cursed under his breath. "What the hell just happened?"

The audience was a chorus of chatter, and Dean almost missed the approaching footsteps; he tensed but the hands that grabbed him were bruising as they clamped on his arms, and they dragged him up the stairs. He tried to struggle, but there were at least three of them and they held him down until he was onstage, leaving him there. Someone called for order, telling people to sit down, a different voice that Dean hadn't heard before, some big wig because they all obeyed.

"Is this your choice?" The voice asked.

"Yes," Clint answered from right behind, making Dean jump a little – that got a chuckle that sounded suspiciously like grandma wolf.

"Then proceed."

Maybe it was those damn blue pills, or maybe just the sudden knowledge that it was Clint behind him, sliding his muscular fingers across Dean's abdomen, but Dean's cock had hardened almost the instant he heard Clint's voice, jumping to attention like a good little soldier. That part of his body didn't seem to care about the specifics, just about how much he had missed the feel of those callouses dragging across his bare skin.

"Shit," Dean groaned as Clint's hand curled around his aching cock and stroked; he could hear a few delighted gasps from around them as Clint's thumb circled the sensitive head. Clint held him tight, one muscular arm across Dean's front, pressing him back into Clint's chest. The fighting hadn't lessened Clint's interest, if the firm cock that was sliding between Dean's cheeks was any proof; in fact, Clint was breathing heavily, and he moaned lightly at the friction between their bodies.

"You need to fight to make it believable," he kissed Dean's jaw and murmured into his ear. "Sorry, but this is going to hurt." Lips trailed down Dean's neck and then teeth broke the skin and sank into his shoulder, shooting jolts of pain down his arm as Clint bit into him.

"Fuck you." Dean didn't have to pretend to pull away; it hurt like the devil, so he yanked at the bonds of Clint's body. "There's no fucking way …"

Rant cut short when Clint sucked on the wound and pulled hard with his hand. Dean drew in a fast breath as his abs clenched, trying to keep himself from thrusting forward with the motion, but he was way too needy to stop himself, so his hips jerked against Clint's hand. He couldn't keep the groan of pleasure in his mouth as he felt the coiling of his climax in his gut. Damn pills were working alright.

That was when he went with his plan and swung his arms around, pivoting to break the hold; Clint caught Dean's wrists and twisted, forcing Dean to one knee. Holding the handcuffs with one hand, Clint grabbed Dean's neck and dragged his head back; bending down, he ground his lips against Dean's, teeth rattling as they collided, his tongue invading, taking what he wanted. His hold was so tight that Dean knew he would have bruises where the fingertips were pressing into his skull, but he honestly didn't care. Every part of him wanted nothing more than for Clint to just hurry up and fuck him, the tip of his aching dick bumping along Clint's inner leg. Groaning into Clint's mouth, he wiggled, trying to free himself to keep up the image of resistance, but all it did was make Clint kiss him harder, sucking Dean's tongue into his mouth and closing his teeth around it.

Rather than fight his way up, Dean let his body drop down to the floor; Clint released his hands as Dean barreled forward into Clint's legs. It wasn't an elegant move, but Clint's knees buckled and he stumbled back. When Clint went down, he fell on top of Dean, regaining the upper hand, holding Dean down by trapping his hands between their chests.

"Nice try, but no cigar," Clint actually laughed out loud, and there were breathy titters of approval. Damn him, but Clint had gotten even faster and seemed much stronger than he had before. Rather than release Dean, Clint merely shifted taround until his mouth was close enough, and then he licked Dean's cock from root to tip, sucking off the pearly liquid pooling in the cleft. With Clint practically lying on top of him, Dean could barely move, and he damn well didn't want to, not with the way Clint was taking him right to the edge with alternating deep and shallow pulls of his mouth. He was so damn ready that he couldn't think straight, the building pressure forcing him to lift his hips up and off the floor and shove himself into Clint's mouth until he was going to fucking explode, which he did just seconds after Clint's mouth left him. He strained upwards, muscles contracting as he came in fits and starts, groaning out loud. He wasn't even aware when Clint's weight lifted off of him and turned him over where he laid his head on the cool surface, trying to catch his breath. He had no idea what the crowd was doing, but there were groans that might have been someone else's orgasm as well.

As he felt Clint's oily hands on his hips, he lashed back with a kick, sitting up, intending to take Clint off guard; he managed to use the momentum to drive an elbow into Clint's stomach, but then he was forced down on his knees again, his face crushed into the floor, arms trapped beneath him, Clint's arm a heavy weight across his shoulders.

"Remember that time when you trapped me on the hood of the Impala?" Clint whispered in his ear as he bent forward, and his cock slipped between Dean's legs, head sliding past Dean's ass. "I let you take me down because I wanted you to fuck me. Hard, fast and rough. Just like I'm going to do now."

"Shit." Dean let himself vent his frustration; despite coming just moments before, he was still hard and aching for another round, preferably with Clint underneath him, begging his forgiveness for getting them into this mess; Dean was convinced that all of this was Clint's fault somehow. "Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Damn it all to hell."

Teeth nipped at his ear and then tongue licked the still sluggishly bleeding wound on his shoulder as he felt Clint's oily fingers trail down his ass to circle the tight muscle. "I know how you like it, Dean. Or have you forgotten?"

No, Dean hadn't forgotten, not a single touch or kiss or the way Clint looked in the shower, spread out against the wall, or how he liked to cry out Dean's name when he came in a half-moan and half-sigh. He hadn't forgotten just how much he liked the taste of whiskey inside of Clint's mouth or the saltiness of Clint's cum mixing with sweat when he licked it off his skin. And he certainly hadn't forgot those damn fingers, so talented at driving into him like they were doing now, pulling him apart, stretching him until he thought he'd fall into pieces.

"You're still hard, aren't you?" Clint said out loud as he sat back on his knees, working two fingers into Dean now, letting Dean's cock thump against the thigh he'd tuck between Dean's legs. "You will be all night, too. I'm going to fuck you until you can't walk for days, over and over again, until you do what I want, when I want it. You'll have bruises and my marks everywhere 'cause you like it that way …." God, Dean almost came again when Clint added another finger and stretched, " …. Rough, angry, violent. It's who you are, hunter."

"Jesus, fuck, just shut up and do it already." Dean gasped; he turned his face away from the audience so they couldn't see the glazed look of passion in his eyes.

Clint yanked his fingers out and Dean couldn't stop the sob that escaped at their sudden absence. "Don't ever tell me what to do." Clint's voice was hard and angry, but didn't see it coming until he felt the pain of Clint's bite, just above his hip bone; he cried out at the sharp stab followed by the soft lick of tongue. "Do you understand?"

Shaking his head yes, Dean caught his lower lip with his teeth; if he spoke right now, he was sure they could all hear how desperately needy he was, that his voice would be husky and deep, and the words that would tumble from his lips would be pleading for Clint to fuck him. God, this whole thing was kinky as hell … which was saying a lot given Dean's adventurous nature when it came to sex … and he was realizing that he just might like this kind of thing, the biting and the cuffs and, god help him, pretending to be broken.

"Good. That's lesson one," Clint said as Dean felt the tension as Clint's cock pushed past the tightly clenched entrance and plunged himself in. It hurt, no two ways about it. Even with Clint's fingers opening him, Dean could feel the burn as his body was forced to accept the hard fullness of Clint. He tried to breathe through it, relax; the weight on his shoulders eased up as Clint let go to anchor his hands on Dean's hips, shifting while he was fully sheathed. "Remember it."

The change in Clint's position made a difference; Dean rose up on his elbows, but left his head tucked between his shoulders to hide his face. Clint dragged fingers through the oil on Dean's back and pulled out of Dean, stroking himself to ease the second thrust which was smoother. He set a punishing pace of steady strokes and Dean quit trying to do anything but help, jerking his hips back to meet every plunge, cursing whenever Clint's cock touched his prostate. Audience was completely forgotten; there was nothing but the ache and the pleasure of it all.

And then Clint wound his fingers around Dean's cock, tugged, and Dean lost it. His brain went on autopilot, leaving his dick in charge, and he clenched his ass tight around Clint as a second, even more violent, climax hit him. His thigh muscles quivered and his head dropped back to the ground; Clint slipped his arm under Dean's hips to keep them upright. The metallic tang of blood filled Dean's mouth as he broke the tender skin of his lip trying so hard not to call Clint's name as he continued to convulse and empty himself on to the floor. Almost floating, Dean could hear the restless groans from the audience, some outright panting and a few sobs. He felt when Clint thrust the last few times, straining more with each one, and then exploded.

"Fuck it all to hell." Clint came down on top of him, his head resting on Dean's shoulders, lips turned to Dean's ear. "Rooms have cameras, but not sound. God damn it Dean, I don't think I can move." Dean didn't know how Clint managed to pull himself out and away from him, letting Dean's body slide to the ground now that Clint's hands weren't keeping him up. For his part, Dean went with it and curled into himself, back to the crowd, shaking now and feeling a little feverish from the Viagra, cock still hard and throbbing. He stayed that way until hands picked him up and carried him to a bed, locking the handcuffs around the metal bars of the headboard and leaving him alone.