"Alec…"
Dean's stared at him, eyes wide from inside the grip of some faceless man. The boy's skin was bare, flesh raw and scratched red. Bruises bled over the kid like wildfire, blooming like watercolor over the smooth canvas of his skin as Alec watched.
"Alec…" He reached out from the grip of the man, his small hand trembling and streaked with crimson. The same as when he reached from beyond the silver bars, the two images correlating and blending into one another until Alec couldn't say which he was seeing.
But he saw clear enough, when the man glided his fingers along the boy's arm, sickening in a guise of gentleness as he lowered Dean's hand back against his side. The kid's chest was now so black with busted blood vessels that the transgenic was having a difficult time distinguishing between him and the shadow of a man.
He couldn't move. Hell, he didn't even try to move—whatever fucked up world he was in kept him trapped like some bodiless spectator as the man lowered his head next to the child's—pressing his lips, soft, against the sensitive flesh of his neck.
Dean trembled, tears streaking down his face. God, he looked so young. So fucking young and Alec couldn't even move when the man's hands started to shift in a nauseating imitation of a lover's caress.
A bruise blossomed on Dean's tearstained face, blood tumbling from a cut that split open at his hairline. He stared right into Alec, eyes startling green in the dim glow of the nightmare—desperate. Scared.
"A-Alec…"
The entire image shifted, the transgenic watching, a scream bubbling up in his own chest but unable to let it out as Dean was taken. Right in front of him. Green eyes long since forced away from him. Pain spiking through Alec's whole body at every whimper and shaky cry of pleasure-pain. For once Dean's cries were the only ones to be heard in the world, engulfing Alec as they built, and built, and built—finally cresting at the pinnacle of release that made Dean scream.
"Alec!"
The transgenic snapped awake, the sensation of skin slick with sweat and grating against cotton sheets his only grounding point in the dark that suddenly had his senses reeling.
Dean.
God. Oh God.
Bile rose into the back of his throat, his stomach roiling with nausea as his eyes latched onto the cot in the corner.
Dean's back faced him, covered from sight by his hoodie and the blanket drawn up close to his chin, only a tuft of blond hair and the steady rise and fall giving any evidence to the idea that he was alive.
And it wasn't enough. Not by a fucking long shot.
Alec stumbled out of bed, his usual grace nowhere to be found as he knelt beside Dean's cot.
The kid was still asleep. It didn't look peaceful, his breaths sharp and his brow furrowed, eyes flitting under their lids. But he was breathing, and Alec could hear the solid heartbeat thudding in Dean's ribcage.
Alec forced himself to calm down—it was just a fucking dream, damnit. Lydecker would be laughing at him.
But that didn't stop him from reaching out, his touch feather light as he brushed under Dean's jaw, pressing his fingers into the kid's pulse point. Because yes, he could hear it. He knew the boy's heart was still beating, but he couldn't feel.
He needed to feel it.
The heartbeat was steady under his fingers, thumping out a regular rhythm. Alec released the breath he hadn't realize he'd been holding, long and slow. In. Out. His body felt more like a machine than he had in years. Wind it up, and it would keep going—rain or shine.
He almost laughed at that. Instead he ran a shaking hand through Dean's hair. It was a calculated risk—more than able to startle the kid awake.
But it didn't. Dean just eased a little, his brow smoothing out as he rumbled from somewhere deep in his chest. It felt like permission, a grant of trust so large that Alec suddenly felt so, so fucking small.
"Alec!"
He pressed his lips against the boy's temple, closing his eyes. Dean stirred softly, his legs shifting under the blankets. But they settled soon enough.
Alec didn't know how long he crouched there. It might've been strange, staring at a kid as he slept—especially with the experiences the kid had locked away in his mind. But the transgenic's heart was still pounding a mile a minute, and he was hard pressed to admit that watching the rise and fall of Dean's chest and listening to his soft snore was the only thing slowing it down. And if the action of pushing back Dean's hair from his forehead helped to soothe the boy's own nightmares, who was he to stop?
Alec had never been one for stopping himself, anyway.
But soon enough the transgenic's heartbeat had slowed, and the only thing keeping him there was the lingering traces of bars set deep behind his sternum, weaving into his torso. He allowed himself one more pass through the kid's hair, before he pushed himself up, padding on silent feet to the outside room.
It wasn't as if he wasn't used to nightmares. After all the missions he had run, all the things he had seen, all the things he himself had done—he had more than his fair share. The entirety of the night before had been hopping from dream to dream, and either because of his genetics or just plain bad luck he remembered most of it in technicolor.
But a lot of people thought of dreams wrong—he knew that. 'PTSD' wasn't a word accepted or used in Manticore, but he had spent enough time off and on in the outside world to know what it entailed. Dreams were a big part of it, but not memory replays. He didn't see Gabby and Rod dying over and over again, or any of his other unit members that had been marked as casualties under his watch.
He saw so many different things, some of them unexplainable, but they all elicited the same emotions—helplessness. Fury. Fear. Grief.
What did it say about him that he could have all those things running through his head, but the dream about a kid that had been in his charge for less than two weeks was what made him wake up? And not be able to fall back asleep?
Alec's jaw clenched just at the thought of it, the raw images of the dream setting themselves behind his eyes. He might have had his fair share of nightmares—but he had never had one like that.
He was still out of it, trying to find things to keep himself occupied. It led to him humming as he made some semblance of a breakfast—not that he had any appetite. But the kid had to eat, and the kid wouldn't eat unless Alec ate, and the transgenic needed to keep his hands busy anyway.
But humming Ständchen S. 560 by Schubert and Liszt was like some measure of torture, the notes soft on the piano keys and nearly unobtainable with human vocal cords. So it kept him occupied, as much as he could be. Enough that he nearly missed it when Dean's breathing pattern in the other room changed.
But the kid didn't get up, and Alec left him alone—kept humming, kept making a rather ragtag breakfast of beans and chicken out of a can.
Oh to be poor and culinarily oblivious.
But then breakfast was ready, and Alec had a sleeping, broken toy soldier in the other room that wasn't really asleep. Not to mention two dead friends and a shit load of problems that wouldn't go away with a few stanzas of Schubert. Reality came rushing back, making even the spoon he was holding feel heavy.
He sighed, dropping it back into the pot.
One problem at a time—the sleeping kid.
Deja-fucking-vu.
He didn't bother being quiet as he walked into the other room, even letting his feet scuff against the floor and his pants crinkle softly as he crouched beside Dean's cot. The boy's back was still turned towards him. More light was filtering into the room by then, all harsh grays and off-whites of early morning. They framed the room in an almost surreal glow, backlighting every tuft of dust.
"Dean."
Nothing.
"Come on, man. I know you're awake."
A beat. Then Dean blew out a breath. He was almost ginger with the movement when he rolled over.
Light caught on Dean's face, highlighting the five pinpoint bruises that had been so faded before—now standing out in stark hues of mottled red and black. It only made the bags under his bloodshot eyes stand out more.
Alec stared.
"Dean?" He reached out before he really thought about it, making the boy flinch. But Dean relaxed into the touch quickly enough, letting his eyes slide shut from what Alec suspected was exhaustion more than anything. He went with the transgenic's prodding when he angled the boy's head more towards the light. "These should've been healed by now."
Silence. Alec's mouth thinned.
"Did you sneak out again?"
Dean sighed through his nose, but shook his head—no. And the transgenic couldn't tell whether or not he was lying. He just looked tired.
"Then what happened?" He wasn't paying close enough attention to his voice, almost growling the words. It made Dean stiffen, a furrow of pain creasing his forehead. Which was when Alec noticed something else—a thin line of crimson on Dean's neck.
"Dean… what happened?"
The kid shifted his legs under the covers, still keeping his face obediently in Alec's grasp even as he gingerly slid onto his back. And Dean was good—damn good, but Alec was damned experienced, and he didn't miss the microscopic grimace, or the way it eased just a moment later when the boy stopped moving.
Alec's dream flashed in front of him, bruises blossoming of their own accord, hand-shaped and dark as Dean stared out at him. Screamed for him.
"Dean."
"Two days ago," he breathed, his voice hoarse as always from the lack of use. Alec vaguely wondered what it would sound like smooth.
Younger, probably. A lot younger.
"Two days ago? Like the warehouse two days ago?"
Dean nodded against his hand.
"What the hell, man? I asked if you were hurt."
The boy's eyes slid open, the dim light making Dean's kaleidoscopic irises even more distinguishable. Exhaustion kept his face blank, almost dead even as a drop of water tumbled down his temple.
"M'sorry," he whispered.
Damnit. Alec clenched his jaw.
Dean looked for all the world like he was completely alone, the pain seeping deeper into his bones when Alec pulled his hand away, the boy's eyes closing with the absence.
The transgenic only left for a moment to fetch the first aid kit, his mind running on overdrive. Over the past few days, he tried to pinpoint how the hell he had missed it. Dean always moved with a wary caution, but Alec should have been able to recognize pain. He didn't remember any.
Then again, he had been preoccupied with a lot, and it would have been a hard thing for Dean to have snuck out again with Max around, and the increased security.
One problem at a time.
The damn kid was going to drive him insane.
Dean's face was streaked with glistening tracks when Alec stepped back into the room, green eyes tracking him with an almost dead gaze as he stepped over—set the old tin can on the bed beside the kid.
"C'mon—sit up."
Dean's wince contorted into a grimace when he moved, inching upward. He had to give Dean credit, though—if it weren't for his training, it would be hard for him to tell a damn thing. Which was part of the problem.
Alec crouched in front of the boy, catching green eyes still so eerily similar to his own.
"I'm gonna ask you this once, kid—you hurt anywhere else?"
Dean bit his lip, but he didn't answer.
The transgenic swallowed—tried again. "Where?"
Nothing.
"I won't be mad, Dean. I promise." Not at you.
The boy was digging his teeth into his lip so hard it looked painful—hard enough to send the edges of the skin white.
"Chest," he whispered, his voice hoarse. "B-back." He looked up at him then, eyes filled with fear for some imagined retribution. "A-Alec… I don't think I can lift my arm."
"Alec!"
He blew out a breath, running a hand over his face. "Okay… which arm?"
The boy turned his head faintly, towards his right. The hand that hadn't moved from his lap since he got up.
Dean sat still as Alec grabbed the hem of his hoodie, the baggy material making it easy to slip it off of one arm.
He wasn't wearing a shirt underneath; that layer must have been shed sometime last night, or the night before. Either way, as soon as the hem was lifted, Alec could see the damage. It started out as mottles, bruises splattered across the expanse of the kid's abdomen—and he tried damn hard not to think about where that would come from. Because he knew.
But it only got worse. The entirety over the kid's sternum was one slab of blood-stained skin, almost pitch in its blackness. The heavy bruising spread across his back, with scabs marking dozens of scratches, like he had been thrown against a wall. It grew even darker, mottling over Dean's right shoulder like a fucking watercolor painting, the joint swollen. It spread just far enough down his arm that Alec knew—there was no way that it had happened two days ago. Not with this much damage, and certainly not with the bruises that had blossomed along the kid's wrist.
And it was strange… because God knew he had seen worse. But this was Dean, and somehow he hadn't.
"Anywhere else?" he asked, because he knew he had to. His eyes flicked to the bruising around the kid's abdomen, the image of some faceless figure pressing their soiled hands into Dean's bare flesh making something in him flare hot.
"Please… just leave it alone," Dean whispered.
"I gotta know, kid." He reached up, using his thumb to wipe away the trails formed there. Dean sniffed. "I'm not gonna hurt you. I just want to help. We'll go as slow as you want, okay? You say stop, I freeze. You're the boss here."
Dean gave a wet, bitter chuckle. "You're a fucking liar."
Alec smirked. "A little. Come on, Dean. Please?"
A beat. Alec didn't rush him, waiting on pins and needles for Dean to come to his decision. Even prepared for it, his heart still stopped when Dean drew back the covers from his lap.
No no no—
Dean tapped his thigh, right above the knee, and Alec blew out a breath he didn't know he was holding.
"What is it?" Alec pressed—the last thing he wanted to do was take away more of Dean's dignity over a bruise. But by the look on Dean's face it had to be a little more serious, something that had to be dealt with.
"Gash," Dean breathed, his mind flashing back. "Not bad… but not good."
"I'd slide those jeans down if I were you."
Silver. Hot—burning as it pulsed into his bloodstream around the blade. His scream muffled by the hand clamped over his mouth, pinching his nose shut. He couldn't fucking breathe. The pain building and building underneath his skin, like his heart was pumping fire. His lungs burning without oxygen and his blood boiling with silver.
That's when he knew—knew the transgenic couldn't be messed with. It was the same tactic the training house used, whenever they wanted the beatings to last, their lessons to linger.
"But believe me—I know exactly… how you tick."
Alec hesitated, knowing this crossed the line into far more personal territory. But he also knew it was necessary.
"Can I see it, Dean? Please?"
The boy didn't look at him, his eyes fixed vacantly on some middle space as he obediently started working on the button of his jeans. Dean knew that this was it—if Alec was suspicious before on where he had gotten the injuries, this would seal it for him, confirm for a fact that he only got them last night. That he had snuck out while Alec was still drowning in shock from his friends' death. That he had lied.
But he would have to lie again, wouldn't he? What the hell would he tell him?
Alec didn't rush him, didn't touch him, didn't even look at him as he eased the jeans down his legs. Not that it would make any hell of a difference, but it helped in a weird way. The other transgenic had stared, too cautious of him to take his eyes away for even a moment. The phantom sensation of the man's fingers over his thighs made bile rise to his throat at the thought of dropping his pants again.
"You're a mutt. I don't want anything like that from you," the transgenic had said, in some kind of fucked-up reassurance. It should have helped, and it did, in a way. But it also made his cheeks flush, the ache in his chest burning with an intensity he didn't know was possible.
It came back, now—that ache. The hollow pit in his chest that wanted like he had hardly ever felt in his life. Only for Sammy. Only this time, it wasn't for Sammy.
He didn't know what it was for. Only that it was there. And it burned.
The age-smoothed denim slid effortlessly down his legs after the knee, plopping to the floor with an anti-climactic thud, making him wince.
Alec didn't look up like he expected him too, though. Instead he grabbed a section of the covers, blindly drawing them over Dean's boxer-clad lap. The boy took it like the peace offering it was, a modicum of his anxiety soothed with his crotch and one leg covered. Then the transgenic was smirking up at him, the exhausted expression of, 'See? Not so bad.'
He could only twitch up his own mouth in response, knowing what was coming as soon as Alec saw it. Watching as the transgenic's expression shifted into frown as he took in the bloodied shirt packed over the gash.
It was the only thing Dean had to keep the bleeding from his jeans. The shirt had been ruined beyond repair anyhow—but it was also the last piece of evidence proving that yes, he had snuck out the night before.
It was a transgenic. Part of him wanted to say it, but he knew he couldn't.
He couldn't.
"You do exactly as I say—or I'm going to tell Alec what you are."
And as hard as it was to imagine the look on his father's face if he ever found out—it was harder to picture Alec's. Maybe because the transgenic was here, and his father wasn't. But either way it made his throat close off at even the thought of saying it.
Besides, Alec wouldn't believe him anyway. He trusted his people. And what was Dean in comparison to that?
The transgenic must have known that, too, to be so blatant in getting his point across. Completely confident in the fact that Dean would cover up for him—and if he couldn't, to spin a story leading in the opposite direction.
And he couldn't even bring himself to hate the man for it. How fucked up was that?
"Dean," Alec said, his fingers tenderly peeling back the ruined shirt. The cut underneath was right on the verge of deep enough for stitches. If Dean had been one hundred percent human, he would have needed at least twenty. But as it was the gash had clotted at its core, the edges of it still glistening with fresh blood, and burned a fiery red. Trails of an infection similar to the one in his side showed in the vines seeping from the wound.
No way this happened in a day. But no way Dean had gotten it before last night.
"Why hasn't this healed by now?" Alec asked, remembering the boy's blood cut hands. They had bled profusely, but had cut off in less than a minute, the skin closing of its own accord so fast Alec had almost wondered if he had somehow managed to get drunk.
But this was nowhere near healed, and Dean wasn't answering him.
"Dean?" He looked up at the kid. The boy's fingers were picking at the blanket, his eyes downcast. But he didn't answer. "Dean?"
"I don't know," he finally whispered.
"Dean—"
"I don't, okay?" Dean pressed. His voice nearly cracked from overexertion when it reached normal volume. "They never explained how any of this fucking works, alright? There weren't any spreadsheets to read while they were beating the hell out of me! Every day, Alec—every fucking day. I don't. Fucking. Know."
A beat. Dean turned his head away, a muscle jumping in his skinny jaw.
"Alright… but you gotta tell me what's going on, man. Because I know this didn't come from the warehouse. It had to have happened last night. Which means you snuck out."
Dean's face crumbled. He tucked his chin into his shoulder, hunching over his abdomen like it would give him some measure of protection.
But he knew a fraction of what a transgenic could do, now. They were fast, and so fucking strong. And Dean knew Alec would be even stronger, knew that the man could snap his neck without any effort.
The thought had barely finished crossing his mind before Alec turned Dean's head, his touch so soft, so fucking gentle, that it melted something inside of him. His defenses fell away into something so pitifully raw that he couldn't stop his wolf from chasing after the touch if he tried. His eyes slid shut of their own accord, saliva catching in the back of his throat as he pressed his cheek into Alec's palm. The ache sharpened to a blade, but was somehow sweeter for it.
"You gotta tell me what's going on."