Fic: Beyond the Speed of Light (Dean & Sam, gen, PG-13) 2/2
He dumps Sam on the bunk. He'd briefly considered stashing him in the cargo compartment again, with a door that locks from the outside, but it seemed a little harsh.
He's not a complete idiot, though, so he ties Sam's wrists to the bedframe with some spare electrical wire.
He pulls the door shut behind him and peers through the tiny window in it as it latches with a loud clunk. Sam doesn't react. He hasn't shown any sign of coming around, though his eyeballs occasionally flicker behind closed lids.
Damn it. Time to call Bobby. Again.
He's a little surprised though, when he gets to the console, to see an urgent message flashing from Bobby. Maybe their missed contact had called Bobby to complain?
He hits play on the video message. It's not a video of Bobby.
It's - them. Sam. In the bar.
Bobby calls in before he's even finished watching it.
“Didn't think a dive like that would have a camera modern enough you could splice in,” Dean says by way of hello.
Bobby snorts. “I'd like to see the feed I couldn't hack.”
“Are you always spying on me?”
“Don't flatter yourself.” Bobby looks grim. “Want to tell me what that was all about?”
Dean sighs. “I don't know what the hell happened. We were waiting for your guy to show. I stepped out for a minute and when I came back, Sam was tearing the place up. Then he came for me. Didn't seem to hear a word I said, and his eyes - it was like he wasn't even in there.” Dean rubs the back of his neck. “Then he just passed out. Dunno what the hell happened with that either.”
Bobby whistles softly. “Huh. Well. That fits.”
“Fits with what?”
“Kethora. Looks like your dad was onto something after all.”
“Not enjoying the suspense, Bobby,” Dean growls. “And you're paying for this call. Get on with it.”
“Sam's an experiment.”
Dean frowns. “Experiment? Like, what, genetic engineering?”
“Nah. Not before birth.” Bobby's looking away from the screen, flipping through sheets of paper scattered all over his desk. “The Feds picked up stray kids from all over. Stuck electrodes in their skulls. Gave them drugs and synthetic neurotransmitters to speed up their thinking. Implanted 'em with all kinds of programming. Things like fighting skills, languages, a photographic memory...”
“Super-soldiers,” Dean says.
Bobby shrugs. “Could call it that. But not grunts. They picked smart kids. Brains mattered more'n brawn to them.”
Dean thinks of Sam's 6'4” frame and snorts.
“Yeah, that could be it,” he says. “He couldn't tell me much about the place he escaped from. Said he thought he'd been there a long time, but hell, I never imagined he'd gone there as a kid. He doesn't remember a lot of things. They kind of fried his brain.”
He shivers at the thought of a tiny Sam, head shaved, being experimented on. “That's why they want him back so badly! He isn't carrying information. He is the information. He's the thing they don't want made public.”
“You be careful, Dean,” Bobby says. “Those kids were meant to be secret weapons. Assassins. Sleeper agents. You might be right about him telling the truth, but just because he doesn't remember, doesn't mean he ain't still dangerous. You could be carting around a world of trouble.”
Dean snorts. “Nothing new there.”
“You could just turn him in.”
“Considered it,” Dean admits.
“But you're not going to.”
“Nope.”
Bobby sighs. “Your dad was a stubborn bastard too.”
Dean doesn't dignify that with a response.
“Okay,” Bobby says. “You better jump soon.”
“I did,” Dean says. “Twice so far. Not exactly new to this.”
“Keep going.” Bobby looks grim. “I'm sending you new coordinates. I found a guy who claims to know about the program. Might give you some insight into what you've gotten yourself into. But watch yourself. It sounds like he's got great sources - better than mine, even - but everyone says he's a real scumbag who'll betray you as soon as look at you. Keep an eye on the exits, and try not to get shot. Again.”
“It was just once. You ever going to let me forget it?”
“Nope,” Bobby says. “I got an interest in keeping you alive. Speaking of which, you better get down there and figure out what the hell you're carrying.”
Sam jolts wide awake from a dead sleep, sitting bolt upright and slamming his head into something.
His brain feels like it's swimming through molasses. Is this another vision coming true? Didn't I see this before? No, that actually happened. His pulse bangs loudly in his ears. He blinks, trying to get his bearings. This isn't the cargo compartment: there's light, and he's on a comfortable surface.
“Hey,” a familiar voice says.
He looks up.
The gun is familiar too. He stares at the muzzle.
“Dean?” he says in bewilderment. “What's happening?”
“Want to tell me what happened down there?”
Sam interrogates his memory. His memory is not forthcoming.
“We were - at the bar?”
Dean says nothing.
“There was - we were supposed to meet someone. You - ” Sam frowns. “Did you find them?”
A long pause. Sam furrows his brow, struggles to remember. The more he tries, the more his head throbs.
“Might have,” Dean says eventually. “If someone hadn't started a fight.”
“Ah, shit.” Sam exhales in sympathy. “And I got knocked out? Sorry, man. I guess I wasn't paying attention. My head is killing me.” He tries to reach up and rub his temples, and realizes his hands are tied.
“Uh,” he says, fear trickling down his spine. “Why am I - did something happen?”
“So that happened,” Dean says.
Sam can hardly breathe. He hunches his shoulders, wrists pulling against the bonds, and watches the screen as it starts playing again from the beginning: the grainy, dark security footage from the bar's lone camera.
He watches himself kick the shit out of at least twenty bar patrons, feet and fists flying. Dean steps onto the screen, Sam punches him, they crash out of view, there's a gurgling sound...
“Stop it,” he says, voice raw. “Please.”
Dean hits pause, sits back and just keeps looking at him.
“I don't know,” Sam says. “I don't know.”
“You don't remember any of it?”
Sam closes his eyes. “I really don't.”
“Huh.”
The silence grows, expands outward. Sam imagines it creeping through the ship. Passing through matter unobstructed, like neutrinos.
“You should ditch me,” he says, opening his eyes. “Next available stop. Or, don't even wait for a stop.”
“Over-reacting much?” Dean gives him a disbelieving look. “I'm not dumping you out the airlock.”
“I'm dangerous. Like they said.” Sam bites his lip. “They're chasing me for a reason. Guess we know what it is now.”
“They did this to you,” Dean says. “They made you like this. That's probably what fucked up your brain so you can't remember shit. Those nightmares you have? The torture, the needles, the brain surgery - it was all real. You were in some kind of Federation research facility.” His fists clench as he continues. “You were there since you were a kid, and you finally broke out. And that had to be a pretty monumental risk, so I'm guessing that whatever you were running from was worse. I'm not gonna just hand you back over to them.”
“I could hurt you,” Sam says. “You don't know what I might - hell, I don't know what I might do. I'm not risking that. Not again.”
“We'll figure it out,” Dean says, and unbelievably, he's moving to untie Sam's wrists. Sam flinches away, but nothing happens as Dean's fingers brush his skin. “Bobby knows a guy.”
Bobby's guy is the owner of a general store which is very transparently a front for a thriving trade in illegal weapons.
They're thoroughly searched on entry. Dean's used to being relieved of his gun, but it's not often someone finds the knife strapped to his side. Or the one in his boot. He's grudgingly impressed. They're deposited in a weapons locker and he's given a token.
“Mister Crowley will see you now.”
They're ushered into a back parlour that would have been the height of whorehouse fashion fifty years ago.
“Well,” Crowley says, making no move to get up from an overstuffed red velvet armchair. “If it isn't Sam and Dean Winchester. I wondered when you boys might show up.”
“Bobby thinks you might have some information,” Dean says.
“Oh, I do.” Crowley leers. “I've got information you don't even know you want. The question is, what are you willing to pay for it?”
“Shipping?” Dean offers. “An entrepreneur like yourself must have some far-flung business deals.”
“And reliable transport to go with them. I wouldn't trust my goods to your scow.”
Dean reminds himself they need this, and swallows down the insult to Baby. “I'll owe you a favour.”
“Ha! And what's that worth?” Crowley snorts. “Even if you had any skills of use to me, I don't give you very good odds against the Feds. It wouldn't be a good business risk to take a debt I can't collect on.”
“I wouldn't let Dean go into debt on my account anyway.” Sam speaks for the first time. “I don't have money. You must have known that, if your sources are as good as they say. So why agree to this meeting?”
Crowley laughs. “Oh, you are a clever one!” He crosses his legs, eyeing Sam as if he's a curious species of beetle. “Perhaps I just wanted to meet you both.”
“Or sell us out,” Dean growls.
Crowley lifts a shoulder in a delicate shrug. “That's always an unfortunate possibility, if you can't bring a decent offer to the table. Sometimes, you're outbid.”
He leers at Sam. “Sometimes, you aren't the buyer. You're the merchandise.”
Dean's heart sinks. Would Sam think Bobby had betrayed them? Or worse - that Dean had betrayed Sam?
He turns to Sam, in time to see Sam's eyes go dark and unfocused.
Dean lunges forward to grab Sam as his knees buckle. Sam's forehead drops against Dean's neck. His skin feels hot and dry. A tremor runs through him.
Crowley's leaning forward, watching eagerly.
“Lilith,” Sam whispers.
Crowley leaps to his feet as if stung.
Sam raises his chin. “She doesn't know, does she? That you set her up and left her to take the fall.” His voice is gaining strength. Dean doesn't have a clue what he's talking about, but clearly Crowley does.
“Get the hell out of my head!” Crowley's teeth are bared as he practically spits the words at Sam.
“Oh, I'm out,” Sam says. His voice is gaining strength. “I've seen all I need to see. I could tell her exactly what happened, and the details that'll make her believe it. And I know where to find her.” He pushes off Dean's shoulder and stands tall. “That's the deal I'm offering. You tell us what we want to know, and I'll keep your secret. Or you'll be looking over your shoulder for the rest of your short life.”
“Or I could just kill you both right now.”
Sam pulls his lips back into something that's only nominally a smile.
“You could try,” he says, and the ice in his tone sends shivers down Dean's spine.
“Nobody's killing anybody,” Dean says firmly. “You've got info we want, we've got info you'll pay us to shut up about, and Bobby's got a feed on us.” He's lying, but he's betting on Crowley wanting to believe - it'll give him a face-saving reason to back down from a likely-impossible fight. “Just tell us what you know, fast, and we'll be on our way.”
There's a long, tense pause, then Crowley sighs theatrically. “Well, you have been creating some marvellous chaos. I'm in danger of the Feds forgetting all about me, with you to distract them. Suppose it'd be a shame to do their dirty work for them.”
He waves a hand at a sofa behind Sam and Dean. “Sit.”
He drops back onto his ridiculous velvet throne and makes a show of choosing an apple from a fruit bowl on a side table.
“Sam's been modified.”
“How?” Sam's hands are interlaced, squeezing so tightly the knuckles blanch.
“Hmmph. Where to start?” Crowley shrugs expansively. “Synaptic boosters. Neural growth factors. Reflex enhancement. Some very careful brain lesioning and stimulation, at critical points in development.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Dean doesn't bother to suppress his irritation. “He's been programmed to be a super soldier. Tell us something we don't know.”
Crowley purses his lips. Dean's fist balls up but he manages to refrain from punching Crowley right in that smug little smirk.
“From what I've heard - and this is getting so far up classified's arse you'd need a colonoscope to find it - little Sammy's special.”
“Special how?”
“All that messing with the brain - it can be a mite unpredictable.” Crowley tosses his apple from hand to hand. “Most of the kiddies came out more or less the same, but there's always the outliers. A few of 'em got turned into cucumbers along the way, and a few - ”
He spins the apple, eyeing Sam.
“A few came out with some interesting abilities.”
Dean glances over at Sam. His lips are pressed into a thin line.
“I've heard they got one that can move things with her mind.”
“That's impossible,” Dean says flatly.
Crowley rolls his eyes. “Oh, because you know so much about neurobiology?”
“What else?” Sam's on the edge of his chair.
“And maybe one who has visions.” Crowley glares. “Maybe even one who can sneak and pry his way into other people's heads, and see things he isn't supposed to see.”
Sam's breath huffs out. “They're real.”
“You knew that,” Dean says, puzzled.
“Yeah.” Sam runs a hand through his overlong hair. “I mean, I did but - it's different having someone else believe it, you know? My mind's so screwed up, I couldn't trust what I knew. You said maybe it was just memories getting mixed up.”
“They're real,” Crowley says. “Your mind is a conduit. Past and future. I'm told you exhibited some latent telepathic abilities too. I imagine you can see why the government is extremely interested in getting you back.”
“How does it work?” Dean asks.
“I'm an arms dealer, not a theoretical physicist.”
“What about the - ” Sam swallows. “The fighting? What happened to me?”
“You were triggered,” Crowley says. “They were trying to flush you out.”
“That was on purpose?” Dean exclaims, at the same time Sam says, “How?”
“They can activate him remotely,” Crowley explains. “Like, a song on the radio. Or a code phrase. Takes his brain offline and turns him into a killing machine. I don't know exactly what the trigger is.”
“Fuck,” Sam says, wide-eyed. It echoes Dean's sentiments perfectly. “They can do that?”
“And a hell of a lot more. You boys are in the big leagues now.” Crowley swings a leg over the arm of the chair and bites ostentatiously into his apple. “Indulge my curiosity, Dean. How did you manage to disable him?”
Dean stares at Sam. Sam stares back.
“I just said his name,” Dean says, slowly.
“You're shitting me.”
“I said his name,” Dean repeats. “And he passed out.”
Crowley snorts. “Forgive me if I think you're telling porkies. I'll buy that the off switch is an audio trigger, but I find it difficult to believe that the Feds are dumb enough that their overgrown super-secret assassin can be incapacitated by his name.”
Dean shrugs. “Believe what you want. It's what happened.”
“Let's hope you're right,” Crowley says. “You'll probably need it again soon.”
“What?” Dean says, but it's already sinking in as Crowley talks.
“The big lug wasn't triggered by accident. I told you, that was done to flush him out.” Crowley smirks. “I saw it on the news. Video clips were circulating by the end of yesterday. They've given up hunting in secret. Your boy's officially Most Wanted.”
“Fuck,” Dean breathes.
“They'll be right behind you,” Crowley says. “Speaking of which, get the hell out of my store. If I'm not getting paid for this, I'm not having the Feds poking around. Or Sam damaging anything. They'll try and activate him again, use him against you.”
Dean's already on his feet. Sam's right behind him.
“Good to see you two back together,” Crowley says, as he ushers them out. “Just like old times.”
Dean blinks. “What the hell are you - ”
Crowley laughs as the door slams in Dean's face.
“Hey!” Sam yells, pounding on it. “Jerk!”
“Fuck him,” Dean says. “Grab my gun and let's get out of here.”
Five jumps later, there's no sign of pursuers and Dean needs a break. He brings Baby gently into orbit beside an asteroid.
“Wake me up in four hours,” he instructs Sam, and crashes.
“Dude,” he mutters grumpily, when the banging on his door starts up. “That can't have been four hours.”
“I let you go six,” Sam admits, as Dean opens the door and flicks on the light. “There hasn't been anything on the screens, and I figured you needed the rest.”
“You weren't wrong,” Dean grudgingly agrees. “I still expect you to obey orders.”
“Aye aye, Captain,” Sam says, in a tone that makes it clear he'd do exactly the same thing next time.
“Your turn to rest. Give me a moment to get a shirt.”
He turns and rummages in the clothes locker, finding one that's relatively clean, and pulls it over his head.
“So I was thinking...”
He breaks off. Sam's leaning against the doorframe as if it's needed to hold him up. His face has paled and his eyes are wide. Dean moves to grab his shoulder, then hesitates. Sam doesn't look like he's having a vision, at least in Dean's limited experience. Maybe he's about to hulk out.
“Who's that?” Sam says hoarsely.
Dean follows Sam's gaze to the small, worn, photograph stuck to the wall above the locker.
“That's my mom.” His throat is suddenly tight. “She died when I was very young. I don't remember much. Dad didn't like talking about her.”
“I've seen her,” Sam says, voice raw.
“What?” Dean doesn't follow.
“So many times. In my dreams. In a vision. She saved my life.”
“You saw - my mom?”
Sam takes a step into the room. He reaches out, and Dean's ashamed of his flinch, but Sam's touch is gentle. His fingers loop on the worn leather thong around Dean's neck, and fish the amulet out from under his shirt.
“Dean?” Sam says, in a wobbly voice, and Dean...
Dean's mind splits open, barriers crashing down.
He feels dizzy. He grabs onto the upper edge of the bed, remembering knocking on the door and scrambling into this room, climbing in with Dad after a bad dream, and -
Memories spill back in, a trickle and then a flood, breaking the dam in his mind that held them back all these years,
Mom and Dad both in here, Dean cuddled between them as she told stories
and Mom holding the baby brother that became the toddler that had followed Dean around with wide, adoring eyes
and Sammy's tiny, chubby fingers tugging on the amulet as Dean carried him when he got tired
and the screams and the fire, the night Mom and Sammy died
and hiding in the clothes locker as Dad raged impotently against the universe and glass smashed into a thousand shivering fragments
and the grief and the shame and the pain that would not be dulled
until one day it was.
“Sammy,” he chokes out. “I - remember.” Remember is the wrong word, it's a weak word, it doesn't encompass a half of the tidal wave Dean is drowning in. “I thought you were dead.” His vision is blurring with tears. “Back then, I mean. There was a fire. Mom died, and you were - you were gone. I thought you were dead. And I - how did I forget?” His voice cracks.
He forgot his little brother. Who was taken, and tortured, and used in a medical experiment.
“Brains are funny things,” Sam - his brother, his huge grown-up little brother Sam - says gently. Sam's arm is around his shoulder, nudging him towards the bed. He sits down heavily, feels the bed dip again as Sam sits next to him, warm against his side. “I should know. Trauma - it has a way of doing that. Your mind can't deal, so it walls it off. I forgot too.”
“Yeah, but you were a baby. I was older. I forgot you.” Dean can't wrap his mind around this. He thinks he may sit here forever, never move past this moment, a statue in time. “I abandoned you.”
“Hey,” Sam says fiercely. He takes Dean's chin in his hand, forces Dean to look at him. “Don't do this. You saved me. Now, here. You were a kid then, it wasn't your fault. It was an accident. Maybe I ran away from the fire and got lost. Bobby told you the Feds picked up stray kids.”
“Dad didn't think it was an accident,” Dean says. “He blamed them. The Feds. I was never all that clear on the details. Like I said, he wouldn't talk about it. But he blamed them for it, the fire and her death.” He frowns. “Maybe they didn't just pick up homeless kids. You turned out to be one of their amazing ones. Maybe they targeted specific kids, and took them.”
“So her death was my fault.” Sam looks as stricken as Dean felt a minute ago.
“No!” It's Dean's turn to force Sam's gaze up to meet his. “Don't you ever say that. Don't you think it. It's their fault.” He grits his teeth. “And I'm going to make them pay.”
“Right there with you.” Sam's eyes are fierce. “We need a plan.”
“I need coffee,” Dean says. “Kitchen. Let's go.”
They sit across from each other at the table, at once awkward and familiar. Dean's still settling his memories into place. God only knows what Sam's brain is doing.
“Dad figured it out.” Dean wraps his hands around the warm mug, cradles it. “He sent me a coded message directing me to Kethora. All the stories we chased over the years - he must have been looking for you.”
“And you never knew?” Sam's forehead is creased with a vertical line.
“He didn't talk about it. Any of it. Mom's death. You.” Dean shudders, and takes a deep gulp of hot liquid. “I bet he blamed himself. He drank a lot. He had a ton of crazy theories.” He considers. “Although, I guess some weren't so crazy.”
“Nah,” Sam demurs. “Just because it turned out to be true doesn't mean it's not crazy.”
“I wonder where he is now.”
Sam thumps down his mug. “Fuck. I bet he's there.”
“What?”
“Kethora. The facility.” Sam pushes back his hair. “Remember I told you I don't know how I managed it? The codes, the alarms - maybe I read the guards' minds. But Dean, I was a total mess back then. Even if I got the info, I don't think I could have pulled myself together enough to plan and execute an escape. I bet I had help.”
“Dad,” Dean breathes.
“He sacrificed himself to get me out.”
“We'll get him back,” Dean says firmly. He can't have Sam looking like that.
“How many do you suppose there are?”
“What?”
“How many kids?” Sam's eyes go distant. “How many families got destroyed?”
Dean doesn't have words equal to answer that. He reaches out and pats Sam's shoulder by way of reply.
“Let's rescue them.”
Dean blinks. “What? All of them?”
“Sure,” Sam says. “We'll need help getting Dad out anyway. Might as well recruit it on the inside.”
“And how are we going to do that?” Dean says, but he realizes the answer as he's speaking.
“Haven't you heard?” Sam flashes a brilliant smile. “I defy the laws of physics.”
It's insane. But he's never been one to run from a challenge. It'll undermine the Feds, make Sam happy, and maybe he'll finally find Dad and get an explanation.
Keep flying.
“Why the hell not,” Dean says, and he's rewarded with dimples brighter than the sun.
