It was slow. Like a trickle of water running down a stone wall, making its way through every crack and crevice until finally widening in a puddle at the bottom.

Consciousness came in at a drizzle, where it usually just sat up and slapped him in the face. It was almost nice, this foreign feeling between waking and sleeping. Almost. It would be, if it wasn't for that ever-present alarm in the back of his mind, causing his muscles to tense, his brow to sweat. More and more as he realized just how vulnerable he was. Laid out flat on his back.

There were voices. Dean only caught snippets. He felt like he was floating, even though he felt something solid… almost soft, beneath him. Like he was suspended just beneath the surface of a pool, the air only a foot above him, but the water still a barrier.

"He's feverish."

"…good thing?"

"Depends… you look at it…his body's actually trying… it now."

Dean groaned. He tried. He really did. It's what he would tell himself later, when he felt whatever was laid over him—a blanket?—get stripped away and hands like ice on his abdomen. He tried to push them away, but the fog was too thick. Tried to fight to get to the surface. But he only sank further, dragged down against his will.

"S'op…" he choked out. Maybe he just thought it. He wasn't sure.

—

He wasn't in pain.

That was the first thing that Dean registered when he came back to himself. The last few times, he could still feel aches. Throbs, and sharp stabs grabbing his attention and making him want even more to just fall back asleep. But not this time. His throat was raw, and his limbs were heavy with exhaustion, but there was no pain other than the faint twinges coming from his arm. Which might as well have been a fly tickling his feet.

Dean fought to keep his breathing deep and even, knowing how easy it would be to give away that he was awake. He stretched his senses, reaching out as far as he could in the dark behind his eyelids. It was different than when he dreamed in the abyss—his sensitive hearing catching the reverberations of minute sound waves bouncing off of objects and echoing back towards his ears. Giving the surroundings substance.

He was in a room. Maybe not a brilliant deduction, but hey—he had to start somewhere. By the sound of crickets outside he guessed it was night. At night most of the guards were gone, and he was put back in that cage. Did they leave him on the table?

He barely caught himself before his brow could furrow in confusion. Deep breaths. He was supposed to be sleeping.

No. They wouldn't have. Their operation might have been undisciplined, but it wasn't sloppy. And besides, if he was on the table, he would've been tied down. And there was nothing restraining him here. Just a soft weight laid over him…

A blanket?

It was worth the risk. Dean peeked his eyes open, the sensitive orbs burning at the bright light… that wasn't that bright. He blinked. Jade eyes stared up at the ceiling, his brow furrowing at the sight of slatted wood.

Concrete. It should be concrete. And he shouldn't be lying on something soft. There was a freakin' cushion under him, and when he turned his head to the side he realized that he even had a pillow. A leather pillow… or a folded jacket. There was that scent again.

Dean inhaled deeply, relishing the lack of pain in his ribs and filling his lungs with that scent. It was going to drive him freakin' insane not being able to place it… but it was comforting. It made the wolf in him want to just curl up and fall back asleep. And that alone was enough to put his hackles up. Was it a drug?

He eased himself up, quickly recognizing the stretcher he lay on and the IV in his arm. Someone had wrapped his ribs, and packed the silver burns. Those were the only things that still smarted, the rest of the injuries long since healed over. His eyes sluggishly trailed up the plastic tube, landing on the IV bag hung on a metal rod attached to the corner of the gurney.

He ripped the needle out without a second thought, barely wincing at the twinge in his arm.

By the time he managed to get himself seated on the side of the stretcher, legs over the side, he was already breathing heavy. And he was still moving too slow. Then again, if he wanted to be safe, he should just stay where he was. Let whoever brought him here come back in and tell him where to go, what to do.

But he was in a room—alone. Unrestrained. In what looked like a fucking dining room. When was he ever going to get an opportunity like this again?

Dean squinted at the blanket sprawled over his lap, then at the jacket he had been lying on. Clothes were a luxury, not a necessity, but it was rather chilly… and if he had to move fast…

He grabbed the jacket, slipping into it with sluggish and shaking arms and zipping it up. Just because he was cold. That was all.

The floor was pure ice under his burnt feet, the cheap wood floor smoothed over from years of use. He had to grab the stretcher to steady himself, wobbly legs almost giving out when they took his full weight.

Dean peeked around the corner, eyes flitting around what had to be a living room, despite the lack of furniture. There was only one cushioned chair in the room, with a desk was set up under a pair of blacked-out windows. It was scattered with tech so archaic-looking it was a wonder there were still blinking lights that showed they were still functional.

He just had to make it outside. He didn't have any more broken bones, which meant he could change. His wolf was still small, so it would be easy for him to pass as a stray. Putting miles between him and this place would be simple from there, and maybe he could get a few scraps along the way.

A plan in mind, the boy slipped out from the protective barrier of the archway, padding on near-silent feet across the room. In clear sight of the front door.

That's when he smelled him. Right before a floorboard creaked.

—

Alec had just left the room for one minute. Long enough to scrounge out another book after he had made his way through Great Expectations—the only half-decent book he could find—five times. It took longer to read it out loud, because despite what Max thought, his mouth did not run faster than his brain. But still; when he had nothing to do, a kid to watch, and nerves that were slightly spastic, it was easy to read, re-read, and re-read the re-read of a novel over the course of a week.

And that was all it was—one week. That's how long the kid had been under. He burned with a fever for four days, eradicating the infection so fast that Alec knew it wasn't just because of his blood. His bruises healed faster than any human Alec had ever seen. And between three check-overs from Carr his shattered ribs had gone from splintered to fractured to healed. The kid recovered from an injury in three days what it would take a healthy human weeks, eating through the intravenous nutrient supplies they had like he was popping candies. And yet, the burns refused to fade.

Another dozen pieces to a puzzle that didn't make any sense. Hell, it wasn't even a puzzle. Just a bunch of squares that could fit together any damn way and still not make any sense. Carr was calling it a miracle of transgenic blood. Max and Alec had let him have his explanation. Mainly because if this kid was healing at superhuman speeds on his own accord, it was little wonder that those people were after him. And it wouldn't do to have Carr think of the kid as anything less than human.

Which, as always, led the transgenic back to the six-million-dollar question: What the hell was that kid?

Alec had just gotten to the top of the basement stairs when he heard it. It wasn't exactly the 'pitter patter of little feet' but it definitely was the kid. Sneaking.

He didn't bother to hide his approach. Well, any more than he usually did. He even let himself step on the floorboard in the hall that he knew for a fact squeaked, just to draw the kid's attention.

It worked. Dean whirled around to face him. So fast that the kid went cross-eyed and his sway was evident even as he fell into a fighting stance. Another piece. Every damn thing about the kid was Manticore. Except for the fact that Alec knew he couldn't be. And wasn't that a bitch of a conundrum?

The kid was quite the sight. His age was hard to place because a lack of nutrients and a hard lifestyle had made him almost tiny—barely reaching four-five. He was drowning in Alec's jacket, the leather falling down to mid-thigh and the bandages covering most of his legs after that. After Max had cleaned the kid up as much as a wet towel could, his short hair stuck up dark blond all over the place. That combined with the thick map of freckles, wide green eyes, and the pert mouth that was twitching with barely contained nerves as he surveyed Alec… it made the transgenic wonder if he was ever actually that… cute.

Nah.

"Got somewhere to be?" he asked, setting his new-found book—Dead Poet Society, and seriously, what was it with Sandeman and the classics?—on the hallway table.

Dean stared at him. He could see a mask assembling before his eyes. But it was woefully inexperienced—hell, he could hear the kid's nervous swallow practically on stereo.

"No," he whispered, voice rough with disuse and all nerves. "I just love waking up buck naked in a strange house."

Alec snorted. At least the kid had his mouth. "I left you my jacket, didn't I? Speaking of, it's not exactly nice to go running off with other people's property."

Dean eyed him warily. Alec was beginning to wonder if he was going to answer when Dean worked his hands to the ends of the sleeves and started undoing the zipper.

"Whoa, whoa!" Alec rushed forward before he realized he had moved, making the kid stumble back in fear. But the transgenic already had a hold on the jacket and quickly zipped it back to the collar. "No strip teases, okay?"

Massive green eyes gaped at him. The kid pressed himself further into the corner of the hall, practically hyperventilating. "You want your jacket, you don't want your jacket—make up your freakin' mind, dude!"

"Hey—" As soon as Alec straightened, the kid flinched, averting his eyes and looking at the floor. That was when Alec knew—there was no way in hell this kid was from Manticore.

Alec's childhood was hell. He knew it. Having full grown men yelling in your face while you couldn't flinch, couldn't blink, only stare straight ahead. Having to run drills, go through training. He didn't have parents, or guardians. He was born into the military. But it wasn't so much abuse as it just… was. When they were kids, there was no hitting. Just extra drills, men yelling in their faces, and regular brainwashing. It was hell. But a completely different kind of hell than what he saw in this kid's eyes.

Dean was sweating, trembling, panting. Eyes wide and gaze locked on the floor at Alec's feet. And it didn't escape the transgenics notice that while Dean backed away, he didn't even try to stop Alec from touching him.

Points were connecting in all the wrong places, and Alec knew he had to change tactics.

"Hey." Softer this time. He crouched down, propping his elbows on his knees and keeping his hands in full view as he looked up at Dean. At first the kid tried to avert his eyes even more, but Alec dipped his head, catching the kid's gaze and drawing it upward. His green eyes were massive this close, gold in the center with butterfly lashes and polished with tears until they shone. And Alec was gone. Hook, line, and sinker.

"I'm not going to hurt you. And I'm sure as hell not gonna let you run around naked. I might have the morals of a two-time convict but I'm not a fucking pedophile. We're going to get you some clothes. And some food. We worked too damn hard to get you out of that place alive—we're not about to treat you anything like it, you hear?"

He could see the gears turning in the boy's head. He kept Alec's gaze, scrutinizing it. The transgenic let him, for once not putting up a facade in order to convince someone he was telling the truth. It was kind of strange… but it didn't feel terrible.

Dean averted his eyes, looking at the floor between his burnt feet. "I get clothes?" he breathed.

All fucking hell.

He forced a grin. "Yeah, little dude. You get clothes." That earned him the tiniest smile, even as the boy's eyes filled with confusion. Alec didn't give him enough time to find holes in that statement—not that there were any. "So—let's try this again." He held out a hand, "I'm Alec."

Dean's eyes flickered between his hand and his face. But in the end he took it, shoulders tense and posed ready to run as his hand was engulfed into Alec's own. "Dean," he whispered.

Alec quickly made the decision not to tell him that he already knew that. As far as he could tell, he remembered little to nothing of them getting him out—not that that fact was surprising. Maybe he would remember, but until then he figured it would be best that they started out on even footing.

Well, as even footing as you could get when dealing with a vertically impaired human.

"Dean." Alec couldn't help it. He ruffled the kid's hair as he straightened, not deterred in the least when the kid ducked his head. "So—" he clapped his hands, "food. We'll find something light and see how you do. I think Logan is hiding a few bananas somewhere around here…"