Chapter Text
“We must, however, acknowledge, as it seems to me, that man with all his noble qualities…still bears in his bodily frame the indelible stamp of his lowly origin.” – Charles Darwin
PART I: Variation Under Domestication
. . .
Cold – hard – pain.
Dean lifts his aching head from the concrete floor. He props himself up with his sore elbow, struggles against stiff muscles until he is sitting, legs stretched out with his back against a wall. He grips his rough jeans. Something tactile in the gaping darkness.
He blinks and blinks. Eventually, the dark gives way to edges, shapes, silhouettes. In the center of the room sits a tall, many angled structure, which he cannot identify yet. Dean crawls onto his knees, places his palms on the floor and searches. His fingers catch on dry and thin grass as he makes his way toward the structure.
When he’s close enough, he reaches for the curved base of the structure. It’s warm, soft and it moves.
“Holy shit!” Dean thrashes back.
Dean catches himself on his hands and stares ahead, blinking until he can see enough, more than expected.
The thing he just touched isn’t a thing at all. It’s human, and as far as Dean can tell, naked. The shoulder width suggests a man, but his or her back is turned to Dean. He can’t be entirely certain.
“Hey.” Dean’s voice comes out too quietly through his dry throat. He coughs and attempts to speak again. “Hey.”
Something graceful, nearly elegant, lives in the human’s turn. Thick but short dark hair, angled face, shoulders, hips, knees, and yes, a dick between his legs. Dean looks away, pauses briefly, and then forces the word “naked” from his brain.
“Where are we, man?”
The man moves onto his hands and knees. He crawls over to Dean. Dean goes rigid as the other man presses his nose to Dean’s neck and draws in a moist breath that curls hot on Dean’s skin.
“Whoa, personal space, pal.”
The words don’t faze the other man. His hands slide to dean’s shoulders, move to his neck, slide over Dean’s face, his lips.
“Easy.” Dean shoves him off. The man growls, but then returns to where Dean first found him and lies back down on the floor, curling his knees into his chest as if Dean wasn't there at all.
“The fuck is going on?” Dean snaps.
No reply. No reaction.
“Where are we?”
Dean tries another tactic. He lowers his voice until it’s calm and soothing, the kind of voice his brother Sam would use. “Look, I’m sorry for shoving you. I just – I don’t know where we are, and I’d really appreciate it if you could help me out here.”
The man rolls over and stares up at Dean. His eyes are so damn blue they defy the darkness. Still, he doesn’t answer.
“What the fuck is wrong with you? Answer me!” Dean slaps his palm down so hard on the floor that it stings.
The man jolts back as if he’s been struck, as if someone has shouted and struck him before. He rolls onto his back, stomach up, knees pulled in, trembling. Dean’s starting to shake too; every breath is a damn battle.
Dean scurries toward the wall. He doesn’t understand this place or the man trapped with him. Distance between them is the best and safest thing.
When Dean leans against the wall the second time, he realizes it’s not a wall at all, not really. It’s a window. Dean runs his hands along the smooth surface.
Dean squints, still fighting the darkness, though it’s clearer now. A doe lies on the other side of the glass. Her eyes are wide, open and framed by long, curling lashes. Dean’s unsure what the creature’s presence means, but he watches her stillness, holds onto it, lets the calmness steady his breathing, reign in his heartbeat.
Red splatters the window. Dean shouts and jumps away. The deer’s head hangs limp, its neck gripped by the jaws of a yellow-eyed tiger.