God, he needed a drink.

If only ordinaries had invented something that could actually get him drunk.

But if anything could, Logan's stash of 80 proof scotch was it. He found it in the basement, stashed behind more books.

In any other circumstance, Alec would find it funny. Logan living out of an old shack, for all intents and purposes, and yet still managing to keep certain luxuries of his penthouse apartment life. But in this circumstance? He was just grateful.

There wasn't any ice in the glass, hence no satisfying clinking that promised a burn down his throat. But lukewarm liquor was better than nothing. Especially when he was looking at the broken toy soldier that was his newest charge.

And he thought taking in strays was Max's thing. After all, strays taking in strays didn't make a lot of sense, did it? It was like a mangy mutt adopting a fuzzy ball of a puppy.

Mange was very contagious.

Dean was sitting at the table, an old ceramic mug full of water and a banana in front of him—the soft blanket pooled in his lap. His eyes were still red and swollen, face splotchy and drained of color in all the wrong places. He glanced up when Alec leaned against the doorframe, taking a grimacing shot of the scotch.

The boy tensed.

"Relax, kid. Transgenic, remember? I can't actually get drunk. It's just the thought that counts." He gave a flat smile, but that didn't seem to reassure the kid much. "The guy you gotta watch out for drunk? Logan."

Green eyes widened. "Is he dangerous?" he whispered.

"Yeah. He'll fall on you after one beer." Alec blew out a pfft, jutting out his hand in a straight line. He couldn't help but smirk when that earned him a hesitant grin, even if the kid did duck his head. "Nah. He's harmless. Just annoying. But if he does anything, be sure to let me know. I've been looking for an excuse to kick his ass for years."

Nothing. Back to silence. He barely bit back the urge to sigh. If crying his eyes out in Alec's shirt—which he refused to change, not after the kid looked horrified and guilty when he saw the damage—wasn't enough to get him to start talking to the transgenic, what was?

He already knew the answer. Time. Still, he couldn't help the impatient twitch in the back of his mind, already sick of seeing the boy fall into quiet. Or the jump at noises so quiet that they didn't even deserve to be called sudden. Some of them little more than a breath of a breeze to Alec's senses.

The boy was definitely enhanced. How in the world they managed to make him so advanced post-conception was a mystery—after all, it wasn't like he had any mechanical parts. He wasn't a steelhead's creation, and there wasn't any equipment in the warehouse that eluded to that kind of advanced surgery. Plus even if his senses were enhanced electronically, that didn't explain how the kid moved so fast. When he wanted to, at least. Those people beat a lot out of him. The fact that he didn't try to fight Alec off when he grabbed his jacket was proof enough of that to him.

I saw it on the news at my last owner's place.

Last owners. How many had he had? And why was he back in that place, then, if he had already been sold?

I was in and out of there so much I don't know everything they did…

Alec knew what re-indoctrination looked like. At Manticore, there was Psy-Ops. It was different, more drugs and lasers and tables and people digging around inside soldier's skulls. For Dean it was beatings and confined spaces, a blindfold and an exposed body. They didn't find any needle tracks, but considering how fast the boy healed that didn't prove anything. They were different, but the same. Similar enough that he knew Dean had to do something bad to warrant the special treatment.

At the time, Alec had justified the way they treated him. He told himself they were right, that he had to do better—he was a bad soldier. Worse, a liability to his unit. But now, looking at the little boy with his face who was suckling at another banana peel—the fruit itself long gone—Alec couldn't see why.

Another grimacing shot of the scotch helped him to push the ruminations aside. That and the sound of footsteps climbing the stairs outside.

Dean heard it too, his head whipping around and wide eyes latching on Alec.

Later, the man would look back and recognize that as the moment where he should have thought, 'oh shit.' Later, he would see that as the first moment where Dean gave him an ounce of his trust. He didn't count the crying—after all, better the shoulder of a stranger, right? But this—this was different. This was Dean looking at Alec like he had looked at no one else since John Winchester himself.

But right then, he just shook his head. "Speak of the devil."

—

Dean had no clue what to do. None. He had never even tried to think of something like this in advance, because he never thought it would happen.

He didn't know what to think either. His gut was telling him that he should stay, that he had a better chance here than he did on the outside. But did he? All he had to go off of was a disarming scent, a familiar face, and a hospitality that may or may not vanish the moment Dean let his guard down. And, the man could be lying about being a shifter. The problem was that he couldn't test the man without also giving himself away. That had to be the biggest drawback to his 'condition.'

Then again, he had never heard of a shifter being able to do that—morph into a shape of someone's future self. But his features were undeniably close. Hell, if he looked in a mirror Dean was sure he would see that their freckles were in the same place.

So what was he supposed to do?

If he followed his trainer's teaching, he would lay low. Stay submissive, bow to the alpha—but, if the alpha was his future self, doesn't that make him the alpha male? He shook his head.

He could follow his Dad's training. He had only been with his father until he was seven, and couldn't even remember the man's face. But the man himself he definitely remembered—vague impressions of a leather jacket and a rough yet comforting hold. Calloused hands pulling him close to a firm chest for no other intent than letting him listen to the steady heartbeat under his ear—his dad's own version of a lullaby to soothe away nightmares. Sometimes he would even whistle, in a low tune, when Dean's energy was especially restless and he couldn't bring himself to talk.

But in even more vivacity, he remembered his father's training. Shots set up at different intervals, questions on supernatural beings being drilled at him in the car, hand-to-hand combat training, and long lectures on strategy and what to do in different situations. To 'keep Sammy safe.' Eventually Dean had just mentally told himself that it was to keep him safe too, just to help himself compartmentalize. His dad had covered everything from what to do in case of kidnapping to self-defense in situations that most seven-year-olds didn't even know existed. Not that that was important. Innocence wasn't for Dean. Innocence was deadly. Innocence was for people who had others around to guard it—like Sammy. He wished his little brother never had to grow out of that innocence. The little three-year-old who had tried to play connect-the-dots with magic marker on Dean's freckles.

He smiled a little at the memory, but still kept his head down. His dad would want him to. He would lay low, but not because of his trainer. Waiting and gathering information was always necessary before action. And he would need a lot of it to be able to figure this situation out.

That was what he kept telling himself. Stay calm. Stay alert. Keep planning, and wait. Right up until the point when a pair of footsteps started up the stairs outside.

Dean didn't think before his gaze snapped to the man standing in the doorway, watching him take another sip of alcohol. What did it say about his childhood that the sight of a semi-steady drunk was comforting to him?

One drink doesn't make you a drunk.

Then again, that's what his dad always said. And he got plenty drunk.

The transgenic just shook his head. "Speak of the devil."

Logan. The guy who owned the place.

Hopefully not the type that wants payment.

But no, Alec said that they wouldn't hurt him. But then again, most pedophiles didn't think they were hurting the kid… oh no, they were just 'educating' them.

Okay, he had to stop before he threw up what little he had choked down.

Dean's gaze snapped over Alec's shoulder. The transgenic seemed unconcerned, more preoccupied with his glass as a man of over six feet stepped up behind him. But not a lanky, nerdy six feet. No, try an above average build with enough muscle that he could easily throw Dean across the room six feet. He shot Alec a betrayed look. The transgenic didn't seem at all concerned, the bastard.

"Logan, meet Dean. Dean, this is our resident nerd, Logan," Alec said.

The man smiled, a crooked thing showing off straight white teeth. Not a nerdy smile—a comfortable smile. That wasn't comforting, especially not when Dean noticed the subtly rumpled clothes and realized that it was early morning. There was only one reason a guy would come in this early to his own house.

Well, maybe he got all his jollies in already.

"Hey, Dean," the man—Logan—said. He shoved his keys back into his pocket. Dean fought to keep the lightbulb from going off in his eyes. "It's good to see you up and around."

Dean glared when the man stepped closer, feeling his hackles rise. The wolf clawed away in side of his chest, fighting to get out of his human skin. He fought it down with everything he had, splitting his focus between the approaching man and the dog trying to get out of him. His grip on the ceramic mug tightened until he was sure he heard a tiny crackle, dangerously close to breaking. He knew he should let go, but the damn thing was the only makeshift weapon he had, short of wolfing out or flying at the man with his fists. Even if he was a dog, he wasn't stupid. He knew the hospitality would vanish faster than vapor, that it was hinging on the fact that they thought he was a messed-up kid. That story he had fed Alec seemed to satisfy the transgenic—it wasn't too far from the truth, anyway—but they weren't going to stay satisfied if he wolfed out. These people were oblivious to the supernatural. They would kill him on the spot.

And Logan kept coming closer.

Too close, too close too closetooclosetooclose…

Dean didn't realize he was stiffening until he was board straight, his mouth curling, teeth bared and snarling out a rumbling growl far too deep for his small body.

The room froze. Logan stopped mid-step, a flicker of nervousness showing in his eyes. Alec had straightened away from the doorframe, brows knit and scrutinizing. And Dean? He was trying not to hyperventilate.

Shit. Shit shit shit shit.

A crack. And the glass shattered in his hand.

Fuck.

The words froze in Dean's throat. He gasped, clinging onto his wrist. His bloody palm showed deep red, crimson pooling onto the crevices on his skin. Dripping onto the floor.

Logan rushed forward, trying to help, and Dean was oh so close to cracking. He scrambled back, falling out of the chair. His good hand landed on another piece of the mug, slicing through skin and blood vessels and hitting bone. But he kept going, backpedaling as fast as his burnt feet could push him.

Please stop please stop, just please—

"Out of the way." And Logan disappeared, shouldered aside by Alec, who had a towel in his hand and a dark glower that made Dean flinch when he grabbed his hand.

"Hey, kid, I'm sorry," Logan was saying, but he barely heard it. The transgenic was picking pieces of the glass out of his hand, and all he could think was holy fuck, that hurts.

Dean tried to yank his hands away, but the man's hold tightened around his wrists, so much that it was almost bruising. The boy snarled, kicking out with his legs. He caught the man in the sternum, but he didn't even seem to blink, face a blank slate even as he wrestled with him over control of his hands.

"Stand down!" Alec barked.

Dean froze. He stared at the man with wide eyes, breath coming in fast and harsh through his mouth.

Oh fuck. He'd climbed in it now. Hell, he had just single handedly hijacked the train to a good beating.

The man seemed just as shocked, though, staring back at him with eyes just as wide and just as green. Dean took his chance, opening his mouth to try to get out, I'm sorry. But nothing came out. He just stared, gaping like a fish as the words froze in his throat. Again.

Damnit. Dean felt his eyes burn, helpless tears leaking out of the corners of his eyes as he struggled to get out the one thing that might give him a reprieve. Oh, it wouldn't hold off the thrashing, but it might make it bearable. Alec seemed reasonable. He'd be gentle. If he could just…

I'm sorry. It came out as nothing more than a choked-off breath of air.

"Don't talk," Alec said, the man's gaze softening. "I know you're sorry. You're okay. It's fine."

The man was rubbing circles on his skinny wrists, thumbing over new bruises that had just formed. It hurt, but it was almost nice, keeping his attention off of the bleeding cuts in his palms. Speaking of which—

"What the hell?" Logan muttered, staring at Dean's hands. The boy looked down, his breath catching in his throat as he watched the skin knit back together, sealing up before three pairs of eyes and leaving nothing but smooth skin and coagulating blood.

Dean shot wide eyes at Alec, silently pleading. He wasn't even sure for what. He just seemed to be burying himself deeper and deeper, and he didn't even have a shovel.

The transgenic smiled. But it was strained, tight, and Dean knew—not even transgenics healed that fast.

But then the moment was gone, and the man was wiping blood off his newly healed hands with the towel.

"What's one more freak, huh?" He smiled again, and this one was a little more real. It made a hesitant smile twitch on the corner of Dean's mouth, even though he couldn't deny the confusion swirling deep in his gut.

Then, before Dean could even register what was happening, he was being scooped up by his armpits and sat against the man's hip in a hold he hadn't experienced since before the fire. He grabbed a hold of the man's neck on pure shocked instinct to keep himself from falling.

"Come on, kid—you look exhausted."

As the man walked out of the room, Dean found himself relaxing. He didn't know if it was allowed, but… Dean laid his head on the man's chest, eyes still wide with shock and a little awe as his sensitive hearing picked up the three clenches of the heartbeat thudding beneath his ear, the vibrations of air filtering in and out of lungs. The man didn't push him away.

Maybe… if the man was a shifter, it wouldn't be so bad.