I Don't Bite [Dean Winchester x Reader]

What Was and Will Be

He grumbled as he dug through his weapons bag. They were low on lamb's blood, part of what was needed to kill a Djinn. They had enough for one of his smaller silver daggers, but he needed to make this count.

The whole building seemed to rock with each step he took. Water dripped endlessly, plunking into puddles littering the concrete floors or occasionally on his jacket and skin. He moved easily into each room, his steps making hardly any noise in the echoing, metal-coated rooms.

At the sound of soft footsteps, Dean froze. As far as he had been able to tell, he was alone in here. There was no sign of a Djinn or any of its victims, but maybe... maybe he had missed something. He twisted the hilt of the blade in his palm, holding the length of the dull edge against his forearm.

Dean hardly had a chance to step into the next corridor before he was thrown against a wire-fenced wall. A chilly hand grabbed his wrist and pinned it to the wall, twisting it, sharp nails digging into his flesh. Dean shouted, scrabbling at the pale hand, decorated with intricate blue and swirling tattoos.

The muscles in his arm contracted and then promptly released, his hand falling open and the knife clattering to the ground. In a flash he reached for the Djinn's wrist, its open palm rising and swirling with blue. A soft glow filled the room as he struggled to push the thing away, warmth brushing in tendrils against the skin of Dean's forehead.

A flash of blue and the chill of a palm against his face is all Dean saw before his eyes rolled up into his head, the world going dark.

---

Six days.

For nearly a week Booth had been stuck in this hell hole. They had hardly fed him, occasionally giving him bread or dried meat. More than once he had been offered human hearts to satiate his hunger. His stomach growled each time it was offered but he always turned it away.

Gina had been his primary caretaker, although there were sometimes others that were forced to offer him some relief. He had learned quickly how turned skinwalkers were treated there - it wasn't well, treated more as low-born workers than people. He'd seen turned skinwalkers covered in scars left by silver, bruises littering their skin, and some of the most violent turning wounds Booth had ever seen.

It seemed like the hazel-eyed alpha was building an army, collecting packs, or making new skinwalkers of his own.

Booth huffed and leaned his head back against the tree he was chained to, shutting his eyes tightly as he searched for the newfound connection to his family. For what felt like the umpteenth time, he felt nothing. He was in the dark, and as each day passed he grew more and more nervous as to what that might mean.

The camp was relatively empty now, moving constantly and searching for what he assumed to be his pack. The alpha was rarely around, but when he was he was angry, rabid. Frustrated. Booth heard him in his tent late at night, arguing with a silent presence.

When he wasn't around, one of his betas was. The husky was a wiry woman, broad-shouldered and muscular. Her hair matched that of her coat, coarse and gray. It looked like a mane, thick and plaited, twisted into dreadlocks in some parts, braids in others. She was always followed by at least two younger women at all times, although Booth had seen her with as many as five. Daughters, maybe.

The wolf-dog - Booth thought his name was Jeremiah - was quieter, far more analytical than his companions. He was slow-moving and calculating. While his alpha was a sinister presence, his guise of intelligence slipped with his frustration. The wolf-dog's stare was always level, always keen and cunning. He was tall and slender, with dark eyes and skin that fit well with his furred form. His hair was graying at his temples.