Baby Boy - Whip #1

DEAN

He was running again, white puffs of air escaping his wheezing lungs. The bitter night air stung his face, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he pushed forward. The forest around him was pitch black, the towering trees casting eerie shadows that seemed to close in on him. The freezing wind howled through the branches, cutting through the flimsy fabric of his clothes, leaving him trembling and exposed to the elements.

Cold rain splattered against his skin, mixing with the sweat trickling down his face. His lungs burned, each breath a battle against the pain gnawing at his insides. The wound in his stomach throbbed with every jarring step, sharp stabs of agony threatening to cripple him. Yet, he couldn’t stop. He had to keep going. He had to get away; from that house, from them, from Him.

A sudden impact sent him crashing to the ground, his nose slamming into a protruding tree root. Stars exploded in his vision as large, unyielding hands clamped around his ankles, yanking him backward with brutal force. His fingers clawed at the damp earth, desperate for purchase, desperate for escape. He wanted to scream, to beg for release, but no sound left his throat. The darkness consumed him whole.

Dean woke with a violent start, his breath hitching in his chest. He sat upright, his back pressed against the pillows, trembling as he wiped a shaky hand across his sweat-drenched face. The nightmare had returned, its grip as relentless as ever. He had dared to hope that it had finally loosened its hold on him, after all, the past few nights had been mercifully quiet. But hope was a foolish thing.

With a weary sigh, he considered calling Misha to ask for his therapist’s number. Misha had offered it countless times, always encouraging him to seek help, but Dean never followed through. The thought of revisiting the past, of speaking about it aloud, sent a suffocating wave of panic through him. He couldn’t do it. Not yet.

Shoving the covers aside, he forced himself out of bed and padded across the hall to the bathroom. He shed his damp shirt and sweatpants, stepping under the lukewarm spray of the shower. The water cascaded over him, grounding him, washing away the remnants of his nightmare. But the tendrils of panic still coiled around him, tightening their grip. His mind scrambled for an escape, so he did what he always did; he focused on the day ahead. The list of tasks awaiting him provided a temporary distraction, a lifeline to pull himself back from the brink.

As he lathered soap over his skin, his fingers ghosted over the scars carved into his pale flesh. A grim reminder of a past he longed to forget. He averted his gaze, unwilling to linger on them. After rinsing off, he wrapped a warm towel around himself and retreated to his closet, pulling on a pair of black jeans, a white cotton shirt, and his favorite black Vans.

Once dressed, he caught his reflection in the mirror and frowned. He was short for a guy, 5’4 at best, with a thin frame and barely any muscle to speak of. His brown hair was unremarkable, his big blue eyes too wide, his full lips too soft. People often called him ‘cute’ or ‘pretty,’ but he had never seen himself that way.

A glint of gold drew his gaze downward. The delicate cross pendant peeked out from beneath his shirt, the only keepsake from his childhood that had survived the years. A gift from his mother. His chest ached at the thought of her; her warm embrace, her radiant smile. The crushing reality that he would likely never see her again threatened to pull him under. But before he could succumb to the weight of his grief, a knock at the door shattered the silence.

“Hello, love! How are we on this fine Monday morning?”

Misha’s voice rang out before Dean had even fully opened the door. With his unruly red hair, a face sprinkled with freckles, and an energy that rivaled a caffeine-fueled tornado, Misha was a force of nature; Dean’s complete opposite. And yet, somehow, they had become inseparable.

Dean had met Misha a year ago when he started working as a bartender at ‘The Whip.’ Misha had been tasked with showing him the ropes and, from that moment on, had stubbornly inserted himself into Dean’s life. His relentless persistence had worn down Dean’s defenses until, before he realized it, Misha had become his best friend.

“How can you be so happy on a Monday morning?” Dean muttered as he searched for his keys and wallet.

“Well, my dear Dean, if you had my night, you’d be beaming too!” Misha grinned mischievously, practically vibrating with excitement. “Guess what? Jack asked me to move in with him!”

Dean blinked, momentarily stunned. “Wait... what?”

Before he could react further, Misha let out an ear-piercing squeal and launched into a joyful dance around the apartment. Once the initial shock wore off, Dean couldn’t help but smile. He pulled Misha into a tight hug, sharing in his happiness. Misha and Jack were perfect for each other, and after everything they had been through, they deserved this.

Later, as they sat in their favorite café, hands wrapped around steaming cups of coffee, Dean asked, “So, when’s the big move?”

“In a couple of weeks. Jack has a conference in Europe next week, and he doesn’t want me packing everything alone.”

Dean nodded. “That’s great, Red. I’m really happy for you.”

And he was. But deep down, a small, selfish part of him ached with longing. He had spent so long convincing himself that he didn’t need anyone, that he didn’t want a relationship. But sometimes, late at night, he wondered what it would be like to have someone who cared for him the way Jack cared for Misha.

After parting ways with Misha, Dean headed to his first class of the day at the local community college. The hours blurred together, and when the final lecture ended, he gathered his things, eager to escape into the comfort of his apartment.

But before he could slip away, a hand landed on his shoulder. He tensed, already knowing who it was before he turned around.

Brian.

The tall blond boy grinned down at him, his grip lingering, squeezing a little too tightly.

“Hi, sweet cheeks.”

Dean resisted the urge to groan. “Brian, I told you not to call me that.”

“I think it’s cute, just like you,” Brian said, ignoring the clear irritation in Dean’s tone. “Anyway, my friend’s throwing a party tonight. Want to come with me?”

Dean sighed. This was the tenth time Brian had asked him out, and each time, Dean had politely declined. Yet, the guy never seemed to get the hint.

“Can’t. I have work.”

Before Brian could argue, Dean turned and walked away, quickening his pace. Something about Brian always made his skin crawl, though he couldn’t pinpoint exactly why. Maybe it was paranoia. Maybe not.

Lost in thought, he wasn’t paying attention when he collided with someone. A coffee cup tumbled to the ground, dark liquid splattering the pavement.

Dean winced. “I’m so sorry, sir, I wasn’t looking...”

His words faltered when he looked up. Piercing green eyes met his, a shade so intense it seemed almost unreal, like freshly polished emeralds catching the light. They held a quiet intensity, sharp yet unreadable, drawing him in with an unsettling mix of curiosity and apprehension. For a fleeting moment, the world around him blurred, and all that remained was the striking gaze that locked onto his, unyielding and all-consuming.