Between one blink and the next, the stillness became suffocating. Dean choked on his own air, panic grappling in his chest as he grabbed at the wrist holding the knife. The silver knife. Pure silver. His flesh fizzled under the touch, the burning sensation—the smell so familiar it sent nausea roiling in his gut even as a small whimper passed his throat.
His grip tightened around the wrist in the dark.
"Hands," A low voice growled from behind him. He didn't listen, didn't understand—too caught up in just being able to breathe through the smell of dirt and sweat and Ashwood pressed up against his mouth. Something under that, too—feline, and shark…
Transgenic.
"Hands—down." The silver pressed harder, drawing a thin rivulet of blood that sent pain shocking down to his spine. His choked cry came out as nothing more than a murmur behind the muffle of the man's palm. "Down."
It went against every instinctual instinct he had, to let go. Like turning his back to a man who was leering at him, like holding out his hand to someone when he knew it would only bring the burn of a brand—like freefalling off a three-story high building just because he was told to, when he knew there was no man on the ground who would even try to catch him. It made his entire body twist, hair standing straight along every inch of his back.
His wolf had his tail wedged between his legs. Dean closed his eyes, his face flushing in shame as he let go—fisting his hands in his pant leg instead.
The knife eased away. Just slightly. Just enough that he wasn't feeling the burn in his bloodstream. The man's heart was pumping steady, accelerated but also relaxed, steady. Trained.
How didn't Dean hear him?
How did he even know Dean was there?
How did he even know what Dean was?
He didn't have time to think. His eyes were still closed, but he felt it when the world jerked, then spun. It was pure instinct that had him bracing for a blow—right before his chest collided with the wall, knocking all the air out of his lungs. It stayed gone, a bruising hand pressing against his back, keeping him pinned.
Dean scraped his legs uselessly against the wall, trying to gain purchase to take even a little bit of pressure off his rib cage.
He couldn't fucking breathe.
But then the man was yanking up the thin material of his shirt, and he didn't even think of breathing. Whatever air he had choked off in his throat. Hot, panicked tears fled down his face, like at least some part of him was trying to escape what happened next.
He closed his eyes, the sound of his own racing heart cacophonous, overwhelming all else as those warm hands searched.
"Where is it?" The transgenic snapped. Dean dropped, the grip on his ribs disappearing. Halfway to the ground he was caught, his shirt disappearing with only the sound of a few ripped seams.
The boy whimpered, his heart racing inside of him, telling him to move move move movemove—but everything else overrode that. The phantom sensation of a drug running through his veins, the whispered promise that fighting would only make it worse.
It was dark, pitch black to a human's gaze, a blur of gray to Dean's. His chest bared to the cold air with hands running across the exposed skin. Always supported off the ground, never let away from the bruising grip.
"P-please—" he gasped out, finally—finally finding the courage to raise his arms. Trying to protect his pectorals from the foreign touch. All it did was leave his abdomen exposed. He flinched into the man's chest when the hands wondered there, tremors running through his skin. The touch rough and fast. Please plea—
Then it was gone. Dean's world spun again as he was thrown into the wall. He cried out when he made contact, the rough concrete slamming into his shoulder with all the force of a train wreck. He felt the snap. Knew it was out of socket even before he fell the three feet to the ground.
"Where is it?" the man growled. "Where's your fucking brand?"
Dean blinked his eyes open from where he lay on his stomach, his heartbeats crashing through his chest with all the force of a lightning strike. His face was streaked with water, flushed red with adrenaline and the automatic response he loathed. God, he hated it.
"Where?" He took a step forward, sending the boy scampering back against the wall, rough concrete biting into the scarred skin of his back. He held up his hands on instinct, a pained whimper grating his throat raw.
His wrists were grabbed, the grip instantly bruising him even before they were pressed up against his sternum. Driving the air back out. It would have left anyway—the man's close proximity as he crouched over him sent Dean's blood roiling under his skin.
"Mine," a phantom voice hissed in his ear. Right before he took Dean again, the small child screaming at the forced entry.
"Dad! Dad—" Dad please—
Dean closed his eyes, pressing his lips together as water flowed freely down his face. Breath hot and fast through his nose.
"I know you can talk." He shook Dean's arms, making his whole body vibrate under the harsh movement. "Where is it? Unless you want me to search all of you?"
He choked on a sob. But the man didn't care. He let go of one forearm when Dean shifted, his small hand trembling as it fumbled down his own thigh.
God, why was he so small?
His own touch froze halfway up his quad, screwing his eyes shut in a pointless attempt to brace himself. He tapped on the inside of his leg.
The flinch rocketed through his whole body when those hands fell on the button of his jeans. It didn't stop the man, the fragile cloth opening like a fucking traitor. Sliding oh so easily down Dean's protruding hips with one tug.
Shame heated deep in his cheeks, silent sobs racking his shoulders. He still had the thin protection of his boxers, but it didn't matter. He knew it didn't matter.
He was already exposed for all he was.
"Mine."
Dean trembled under the warm touch of the man's fingers as they ran along the inside of his thigh in the dark, freezing when they met with the raised keloid scar.
The man blew out a breath, his touch now sickeningly gentle as it ran along the extent of the brand, light enough to feel all the details without missing anything. Like some kind of fucked up braille.
Twenty-four lines, laid out in a hollow circle, rising and falling with different heights around the circumference like a saint's crown.
Dean held himself still. Head pressed against the wall, one hand still restrained against his chest. The other wound a deep grip on the hem of his boxers, knuckles white. Air painfully loud as it whistled in and out of his lungs. All his muscles trembling with enough force that they might snap with the effort it took to keep them still. Waiting until the man was satisfied. Praying he wouldn't want anything else.
The hand slipped away, with a low rustle of callouses against Dean's soft skin. The man blew out a breath.
"You're a mutt," he scoffed. "I would've taken you for a shapeshifter with that face. Took in the chief real fast, I'll give you that."
Alec. The transgenic who was still passed out in his bed. There was no way he would come. Dean wished hard, in some dream seeing him come down the ladder, warm arms wrapping around him. Strong and secure. But not to confine—to protect.
Dean's chest swelled with an ache he didn't know was possible, more water streaking down his cheeks, over a mouth that he couldn't keep from trembling.
The man shoved off of him, bursting more veins over Dean's sternum. He took a step back, the boy's eyes tracking the movement of the gray shadowed figure. The transgenic stooped down, grabbing a bundle on the ground—Dean's shirt. He tossed it to him, the soft fabric hitting the kid in the chest like nothing had happened.
Bastard.
Dean's eyes burned, in a mix of relief and fury. His face still flushed as he hiked his pants back up over his hips. The zipper sounded like an alarm, like a rebellion. But the transgenic wasn't paying attention—he just drew out his knife, flipping the blade in his hand.
Even after he had gotten his jeans fastened, it felt like the most meager protection.
"How?" Dean croaked out, the word so quiet he almost doubted if the enhanced man heard. But he turned his head.
"How did I know what you were?" he asked, and Dean knew he couldn't answer, his throat closed off. So he just stared at the man, waiting. "I didn't know exactly what you were—but I knew you weren't human. As soon as the chiefs picked up that job—I knew."
He crouched next to Dean, the knife held loosely but expertly in one hand. A warning. All of his words were, the boy could hear it laced between every syllable. "My unit was built to take down things like you. See, lots of underground militia and obscure military forces loved to take shortcuts with monsters—mostly Lycans. I've taken down dozens of your kind, and dozens of others. Only a few people in the government knew about transgenics—far fewer knew what our job was."
Dean stared, the close proximity making his skin crawl. He clutched the shirt close to his chest, like a poor replacement for a blanket capable of keeping the monsters at bay. Ironic, considering what Dean was. And what the transgenic was.
"But believe me—" Dean leaned away when the knife tip came closer. "I know exactly… how you tick."
Silence. He couldn't have broken it even if he tried, not even with a whimper. He felt his wolf clawing inside of him, the instinct to snarl warring with his tail pinned between his legs, ears back.
Neither won out. He stared at the man, his face a complete blank slate in the dark. The shadowed planes of the man's face flickered in and out of focus, Dean's eyes flashing in the dim light. He had seen this transgenic before—always giving him a wary side eye, where the others just ignored him.
He should have guessed something like this would happen.
"Nothing?" The man pressed, the knife coming even closer. As if that could prod the words out of him—it only made his words block further. "Floor's open for questions."
Dean swallowed, but stayed silent. The man would do what he wanted, say what he wanted. It didn't matter what power plays the boy played into—he knew how deep of a shithole he was in. It wasn't a matter of rebellion—but the transgenic apparently saw it as such.
The strike across his face was sharp, brutal—snapping his head back against the wall and sending stars spiking in his vision with no more than a flick of his wrist.
"Speak, mutt."
All that came out was a croak, a breath of air. The transgenic scoffed. "You're a stubborn little shit, aren't you?"
He whimpered, tears tumbling down his face as he leaned his head against the wall. Can't, he tried to get out. It was just a gasp.
"Everyone at TC knows how to sign. It'd give you a way to talk."
Dean's limbs felt heavy, the urge to pull into himself stronger than it had been in weeks. But he still raised his hands—slowly, trying not to earn a swipe from the silver knife. He tapped his index fingers together, wishing hard that the man would understand as well as Alec always did.
He could feel the transgenic staring at him, eyes boring into the side of Dean's skull even as he kept his gaze averted to his lap. Trembling.
"Can't? Can't what?" He sounded more suspicious than anything.
And Dean didn't know the word, couldn't remember it with his blood rushing to his head and back down to his chest like some part of it knew where Dean was, and wanted to get out. Get away. So he did the only thing he could—he spelled it. Laboriously, his hand shaking because fuck if his shoulder didn't throb.
T…A…L…K.
He scoffed, snatching Dean's wrist in a death grip. The boy winced, but bit back his instinctual cry. "Apparently you can do just fine."
He shoved Dean's hand away, the movement sending a wave of fire rocketing up Dean's shoulder, making him gasp.
"Look," the man said, forcefully turning the kid's face towards him like he was a slab of meat—fingertips digging in deep where another man's had days before. "Usually—I find something like you I gut it. Nice and slow, cock to crown."
Dean swallowed, hardly daring to breathe. The pause was intentional, he knew it was. It let the words sink deep before he continued,
"But… I'm in a bit of a bind right now. So I'm going to make you a deal." His fingers tightened, painfully. "I'm going to let you live. All you have to do… is run errands for me from time to time. Simple."
It was only the adrenaline and panic pumping through him that kept the boy from raising an eyebrow. Like shit. But he didn't say it. 'Go fuck yourself,' was what he wanted to say. But all he did was shake his head. No.
No.
The man smiled, and even in the dark Dean could see the ice in the expression. "How 'bout this." He readjusted his grip on the boy's face, flexing his fingers deeper into the bruised flesh, flicking his eyes between Dean's pinched mouth and his eyes. "You do exactly as I say—or I'm going to tell Alec what you are. How long do you think he'd stick around, then? Mutt?"
A beat. Dean's blood stilled in his veins, running from hot to cold within a blink.
He closed his eyes.