SPN/DA Fic: The Wellspring (19/?)
Title: The Wellspring
Author: scourgeofeurope
Fandoms: Supernatural, Dark Angel
Rating: R (gen)
Characters: Dean, Sam, minor OFC, minor OMCs
Summary: Sam and Dean find a tiny smartass in a barn. What are they to do?
Warnings: Language, references to child abuse
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Additional author's notes and previous chapters can be found here.
_____________________________________________
They shove him roughly back into the cell where Dean’s hands are waiting to catch him. The grip is almost bruising Sam’s forearms, it’s so tight, and Dean yanks him close, starts checking him over with discriminating eyes, running over Sam’s face and neck and arms with hands that are seemingly trying to be gentle, but aren’t at all. Sam doesn’t pull away. Dean’s freaking the fuck out, and he can’t be gentle, and he’s angry as fuck and hollering curses and threats of bodily harm at the guard’s retreating back.
“Dude, m’fine.” It’s a lie. Sam’s not fine. Sam’s got a secret that’s totally not fine at all.
“Did they hurt you?”
“I’m. Fine.” Sam’s not derisive, just firm, and Dean lets out an agitated breath before releasing him. Sam doesn’t move for a while, just watches as Dean turns his back, stalks over to the bars separating them from the next cell, clutching them in tight fists, and resting his head against the metal. Guy’s been doing that since the day Sam woke up in this fucking hellhole. It’s like his default position and for the first few days, Sam tried to pry him away but yesterday…yesterday, he got a fist to the jaw for his trouble. “Dean? I saw Alec.”
Sam watches as his brother’s spine goes rigid, watches the steady grip waver as Dean’s hands tremble for less than a second. And then the question comes in a voice that is low and quiet and verging on hopeful. “How’d he look?” Sam takes too long searching for a way to answer the question delicately. The reiteration comes out in the form of snarl. “How did he look, Sam?”
“He was intact. He looked…a little pale, I guess. He was scared, but he recognized me. He wanted to get to me, but they dragged him away.”
Dean’s quiet for a while, breathing, trying to unwind himself just a little bit. Sam retreats to the lone cot on the back wall of the cell, edges down so he’s half laying on it, long legs trailing to the concrete floor. He closes his eyes and thinks maybe he’ll sleep when Dean asks, “What did they want you for? What did they do to you?”
“Nothing. They checked me over, made sure I was in adequate health. I think they want to keep us spry for the hunt.”
“’Course they do,” Dean mutters. “Did they give you a lollypop afterwards? I could really go for a lollypop right now.”
Sam ignores the snark and Dean falls quiet again. An hour passes, maybe two hours, Sam’s not sure, and he doesn’t realize that he’s been worrying away at his bottom lip with his teeth until Dean’s there, standing in front of him, flicking the side of his head, and grunting, “Sam, fucking out with it already.”
“Huh?”
“You’ve made your freakin’ lip bleed.” The pad of Dean’s thumb passes over the minor wound. Sam bats his brother’s hand away. They’re in this place again, this place where Dean’s the big kid and Sam’s the little kid who needs constant looking after. Sam hates this place.
“Dean, stop-“
“What’s eating you?”
Sam’s a freak. That’s what’s eating him. Sam’s an utter and complete freak, and he thought it had gone away, thought it was gone forever. It hasn’t shown up in nearly two years and what the fuck it’s doing showing up now, here of all places, in a government facility, Sam has no clue.
“Sam.” Fingers. Dean’s fingers are snapping in front of Sam’s face, calling him to attention, like Dad’s fingers used to. There’s a part of Sam that kind of wishes his dad were here right now, a part of him that has been hollowed out and is now painful and blatant in its emptiness. “You’re gonna look at me and tell me what’s wrong, you got me?”
Sam smacks the fingers away, glares up at his brother. “Save it for Alec and Ben, Dean. You’re not Dad.”
Dean closes his eyes. Sam’s not sure if its frustration or the mention of Alec and Ben, but his brother closes his eyes, swallows and collects himself before replying, “You’re my kid brother. Nothing changes that. You’re my kid brother and you tell me when shit’s fucked up.”
“Shit’s not fucked up.”
Dean snorts in disbelief. “Dude, don’t lie to me.”
“I’m not lying to you.”
“You went to Stanford-“
“What the hell does that have to do with anything, Dean?”
“You went to Stanford and we’re in this situation. This is the most fucked up situation we’ve ever been in and you just claimed that shit’s not fucked up.”
“Shit’s not fucked up otherwise.”
Dean kicks him in the calf just hard enough for it to sting. Sam yelps. Dean’s expression is caught between amusement and triumph for a moment, and then it goes serious. “You can’t keep shit from me, Sam. Not now. We’ve gotta be in sync if we’re gonna get out of this one…if we’re gonna get Alec and Ben out of this one.”
Sam really hates it when Dean’s right. He hates it almost as much as he hates Dean’s eating habits and he hates Dean’s eating habits a hell of a lot. Or he doesn’t hate them at all. Maybe he just finds them mildly irritating sometimes and amusing other times, and maybe he doesn’t really hate Dean being right. Maybe he finds it mildly irritating sometimes, and utterly relieving other times. Right now it’s mildly irritating, though. There’s no doubt about that.
“Sammy, please.” Sam’s been quiet for too long. Dean’s voice is low and rough and this time, it’s not because Sam’s being a douchey little brother. This time there’s no frustration or demand in the tone, just longing and desperation. “They’re…we need to do everything we can to get them out of here. M’not…I won’t leave them here. M’not gonna let them rot here. I promised ‘em. I…you need to help me. Please. Please, Sam.”
And Dean’s turning away, turning his back on Sam, moving back to those bars it’s so hard to tear him away from. And Sam gets it, he knows…he didn’t ask, but he knows that cell is the last place his brother saw them, Alec and Ben, the last place he touched them, smelled them, heard them. Dean doesn’t cling to much or many, but when he does…and Sam remembers in the car, in the car after they got Alec out of the hospital, after Alec told them everything. Sam remembers the way Dean looked at Alec like Alec was his, like Alec had always been his. Sam remembers how Dean looked at Alec the same way he looked at Sam, the same way he came to look at Ben.
Dean’s. They will always be Dean’s. Sam will always be Dean’s.
“It happened again.” Sam leaves it there, waits for Dean to prompt him, but Dean doesn’t speak. Silence. Dean leaves his silence to push Sam forward. “It…I broke some glass. Half a wall of glass. I didn’t touch it. I didn’t have to. Alec…he was out there looking in at me, wanting to get to me and I…I needed to get to him, Dean. I couldn’t just…he needed me, and they dragged me back and they dragged him back. And then I broke the glass. It…I didn’t do it on purpose. It just…it happened.”
The quiet comes after that. Sam was expecting it. He knew. He knows his brother, knows how when hard shit comes up he’ll bite his tongue to keep from snapping, but the quiet and the still is enough for Sam to lose his footing, really, and his stomach drops another mile with every moment and his brother’s head doesn’t leave its resting place against those bars. “Dean? Please-”
“S’okay, Sammy. We’ll work it out.”
“I don’t know what it means.”
“Doesn’t matter, okay? Maybe it doesn’t have to mean anything. Shit like that’s important, though. You shouldn’t be afraid to-“
“I don’t like the way you look at me sometimes.”
Sam hears Dean swear under his breath. His brother hates this shit, hates having to console or reassure Sam about something Dean himself has done wrong.
“I promise you I won’t look at you that way.”
“Really,” Sam deadpans, because Dean’s got impulse control issues. Dean can’t help himself sometimes, with the way he looks at Sam. He reigns himself in for Ben and Alec because they’re tiny and damaged, but with Sam…Sam’s always been there.
“I promise you I’ll try my best not to look at you that way.” Dean rises then, moves back over to the cot, commands, “Move over, Samantha,” and Sam does despite the hated nickname. Dean slouches down beside him, turns towards him. Their knees touch. “You can’t control this thing, can you?”
Sam shakes his head. “It’s only the second time. The first time-“
“I know. I was there.”
Dean was there. Dean was the reason. Dean is alive today because Sam’s mind can do freaky fucking things.
“I guess we can’t put it to use, then.” Dean’s saying it more to himself than to Sam, and he’s got his thumb up to his mouth and he’s biting the tip of the nail off.
“We’ll get out of here, Dean. We’ll get Alec and Ben out of here.”
“Yeah.”
“We will.”
“I know.”
Dean tries to sound like he means it. He tries so hard. It’s not often that it hits Sam this hard, how hard his brother tries.
_________________________________________
Sam’s a heavy little bastard. He is, and Dean will always think him little when the guy’s sleeping against him this way, shaggy head tilted onto Dean’s shoulder, half of his weight pressed into Dean’s left side, drool precariously tipping from his bottom lip. Dean cringes when it drops, when it hits and darkens his T-shirt with its disgusting wetness, but he doesn’t shove Sam away.
“The things I do for you,” he grumbles, resisting the urge to brush brown bangs away from his brother’s closed eyes. The kid’s twenty-six. He’s not twelve anymore, and Dean needs to remember this sometimes. Dean’s still in charge, will always be in charge, but he needs to remember this sometimes.
Sam moans and turns in his sleep, tosses his arm over Dean’s belly. Dean closes his eyes and hopes to God the kid’s not dreaming about a woman right now. He still doesn’t push his brother away, though. He wouldn’t ever say it out loud, but he needs this, he needs Sam’s huge, stupid body pressing into him right now, needs to know that Sam is here, that Sam’s not out there being tortured in God knows how many heinous ways. He needs to know that Sam’s perspective is still intact, that he still sees Dean for what Dean is, still sees that Dean needs him like he needs lungs.
Sam, right here and right now, with his slimy ass drool and big, stupid fucking weight is what’s holding Dean together, keeping him collected despite the two gigantic holes that were shot right through him six days ago.
Dean shuts his eyes and clenches his fists, counts himself back into a functioning state. When he opens his eyes, he brushes the hair away from Sam’s stupid face and tries not to think about six days ago, when little boy hands reached through bars, reached for Dean, needing Dean as much as Dean needed them. He tries not to think about how soft the skin was, or how green eyes looked up at him like he was a superhero, because Dean’s not a superhero. If Dean were a superhero he’d be out of this fucking cell by now, he’d have his brother and his kids out of this prison, would be far away, buying them ice cream and telling them inappropriate, but hilarious stories as they fell asleep. If Dean were a superhero, he’d fall asleep, too, and he’d wake up to tiny, limp limbs slung over his body, or maybe mischievous green eyes, or a child’s voice cracking an inappropriate, but hilarious joke in order to make Dean, himself, laugh. Or maybe he’d wake up to Benny calling him that name, or Alec calling him that name, and it would be terrifying, but terrifyingly awesome.
These thoughts must have lulled Dean into some kind of stupor because he’s completely taken by surprise when the cell door slides open with a loud clang and he jumps. Sam jumps, too, shaking his head and blinking the sleep out of his eyes, and upon seeing the three guards and their three guns standing in the threshold of the cell, clutches Dean’s shirt in an enormous hand.
“What do you ass clowns want?” Dean slouches back against the wall, tries to make himself look as relaxed and apathetic as possible. Dean Winchester doesn’t straighten for motherfuckers with guns.
“You’re coming with us,” one of them replies, looking straight at Dean. “Just you. We’ve had enough of him for one day.”
Sam’s grip on Dean’s shirt tightens. Dean smirks and pats him on the head. “You’re old news, Sammy. I’m the new hot piece of ass in town.” To the guards, he asks, “Dinner and a movie first, I hope. M’pretty high maintenance.”
Their stony faces twitch at the implication and one of them, a younger one, one that had to be around the same age as Sam, maybe a little younger, starts stuttering, “We don’t…th-that’s not-“ The other two shut him up with a look and maybe it’s his age, or maybe it’s the fact that in this moment he looks scared, looks like he has no idea what he’s doing or why he’s here, but Dean takes pity on the younger guard.
“S’okay, kid. I know. You couldn’t even if you wanted to. Now shut up and lets get this over with.”
It’s the younger guard who swallows and moves forward, shackles Dean’s ankles and wrists together while the other two steadily aim their weaponry on both Winchesters. Dean nudges Sam gently with his shoulder and Sam lets him go.
“We’re bringing ‘im back,” the young one says, his voice timid, but reassuring, and Sam’s eyes widen in surprise and Dean’s eyes widen in surprise and one of the older guards tells the kid to shut his mouth.
Dean’s led out of the cell. They lead him all over the place, tell him to keep his eyes forward, but Dean’s eyes stray. They would stray anyway, but today it’s deliberate, because Sam saw Alec, Sam saw one of the boys while he was out here and maybe Dean will see one of them, too, see for himself that they’re still whole and that they still remember Dean’s face for what it is.
He gets butted in the back with a barrel of a gun, but it’s not even hard enough to hurt. Dean’s getting the feeling that the guards aren’t allowed to hurt them unless it’s absolutely necessary, and he doesn’t really like the idea of this. Not at all.
They push him into a medical room, stare at him until he hops up onto the exam table, swings his legs and looks around like a curious child. There’s a rectangular hole in the wall where Dean’s pretty sure just earlier that day, there used to be glass. Oh, Sam. Sam, Sam, Sammy.
“I get a lollypop when we’re through here, right?”
The guards ignore him. One of their pockets buzzes with a static voice telling them to get their asses to someplace that isn’t here, and another guard chains Dean to the table and then they leave him there. The young one looks back at him for just a moment, and he’s so quick about it, Dean almost doesn’t catch it.
He’s in the room for what seems like an hour, but is probably only fifteen minutes, and there’s no doctor or nurse or what have you, just Dean and he’s looking at the walls which are as cold and grey as the cells and the machines and the tubes coming out of the machines. And when he looks at the exam tables, he remembers Alec and Alec’s story, how Alec told them everything and it was horrifying, the things they must have done to Alec, to Ben, on these tables.
“It’s not that interesting.”
Dean’s head jerks around. She’s sneaky, this girl, to get so far without him seeing her, but she’s here now, in front of him, jumping onto the table directly across from Dean’s. Early to mid-twenties, long dark hair, no dark glasses, but she’s not dressed like a guard. She must be the one. Dean never saw her, but Sam did, once, and the description fits.
“You.” His voice is hard. He’ll kill her, he will. This is her fault, she’s the one that tracked them, found them, led the bastards straight to them. She’s the one that put this into the works.
“Me,” she replies. She doesn’t say it like he expected her to. There’s no smugness or hostility, just a statement of fact. His glare is unwavering, though, for at least five minutes before she finally sighs and glares back and says, “Don’t look at me like that. I was just following orders.” She bends down and rolls up the leg of her pants. There’s a wound running down the lower part of her leg, a wound that looks like it’s been left unattended for a good long while, and it’s long and jagged and gaping.
Despite himself, Dean asks, “What did that to you?”
“Knife,” she grunts. “I don’t heal fast. Not like the little ones do.”
“Who…what happened?”
“Practice. I’m practice. It’s what I’m good for. Practice and tracking. I’m an exceptional tracker.” She sounds proud. Really proud. Dean still wants to kill her, but instead he asks her what she’s practice for. She looks at him, a little viciously, and replies. “You. I’m practice for you. You and your brother. You’re the main events.” Dean’s eyes widen, but he doesn’t respond. He doesn’t really know how to respond to that and he’s not really in the mood to bait her, so he just looks at her and she continues talking. “They killed the rest of them, the ones like me. I came out alright, though. They can still use me for some things. I track and I help with the training, I’m practice. I’m not supposed to talk, though. I’m not supposed to talk this much.” Worry. She looks worried. “Don’t tell them I talked this much. Please? I’m not supposed to talk. I’m only supposed to smile and wave, because there’s something intimidating about smiling and waving. They told me.”
This place is fucked up, so unbelievably fucked up. Dean hates this girl, hates her for what she’s done to that shape of a thing that was forming into a family, hates her for her part in taking it away from him, but this place is fucked up. This place is so fucked up, he can’t not tell her, “I won’t tell anyone you talked this much.” But that’s not strategically sound so he cocks his head and looks at a vague point in the distance and backtracks, “I won’t tell anyone you talked this much if you tell me how my boys are.”
“Your…boys.” She sounds so confused.
“Alec and Ben.”
“Oh. 494 and 493, respectively?”
“No. Alec and Ben. They have names. Tell me how they are.”
“I don’t know. I haven’t seen them.”
And Dean can tell that she’s not lying, that she doesn’t really know how to lie. Dean understands why they don’t let her talk.
“Tell me what they’re doing to them.”
She shakes her head and looks at him like she doesn’t quite understand what he is, exactly, like she’s never heard anyone ask these questions before and can’t possibly understand why they would want to.
“They’re seeing things that aren’t there,” she says. “Sometimes they make us do that so we’ll act how they want us to act.”
“What are they seeing?”
“I don’t know.” She doesn’t know and she’s still looking at Dean in that way that indicates she doesn’t understand him, but something about her is softening, she’s gnawing on her lip and looking at him like she’s aiming to please. Her eyes shift around like she’s making sure nobody’s in hearing distance, and then she straightens. “I do know something, though.”
This place is so fucked up, Dean can’t even begin to comprehend how fucked up it is. He asks, “Yeah? What’s that?”
“I know they know about your brother.”
Shit. Fuck. Shit. Dean’s stomach is at the bottom of his feet. His hands are shaking a little and he clenches them into fists, wills them to stop.
She continues, “They’ve known about him for a long time. I read his file while nobody was looking. I heard they might not terminate him if the little soldiers can’t kill him. If they do kill him, they’ll probably use his body, though. I hear he’s strong and can do funny things with his mind.”
She shuts up after that because there’s a nurse coming in, and then another, and the three guards are back with their guns to make sure Dean doesn’t try anything sneaky during his exam. The exam is clinical and cold and there’s no lollypop afterwards. No lollypop and no optimism left in Dean, no little voice attempting to tell him this is going to go at all well.
Next
Author: scourgeofeurope
Fandoms: Supernatural, Dark Angel
Rating: R (gen)
Characters: Dean, Sam, minor OFC, minor OMCs
Summary: Sam and Dean find a tiny smartass in a barn. What are they to do?
Warnings: Language, references to child abuse
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Additional author's notes and previous chapters can be found here.
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They shove him roughly back into the cell where Dean’s hands are waiting to catch him. The grip is almost bruising Sam’s forearms, it’s so tight, and Dean yanks him close, starts checking him over with discriminating eyes, running over Sam’s face and neck and arms with hands that are seemingly trying to be gentle, but aren’t at all. Sam doesn’t pull away. Dean’s freaking the fuck out, and he can’t be gentle, and he’s angry as fuck and hollering curses and threats of bodily harm at the guard’s retreating back.
“Dude, m’fine.” It’s a lie. Sam’s not fine. Sam’s got a secret that’s totally not fine at all.
“Did they hurt you?”
“I’m. Fine.” Sam’s not derisive, just firm, and Dean lets out an agitated breath before releasing him. Sam doesn’t move for a while, just watches as Dean turns his back, stalks over to the bars separating them from the next cell, clutching them in tight fists, and resting his head against the metal. Guy’s been doing that since the day Sam woke up in this fucking hellhole. It’s like his default position and for the first few days, Sam tried to pry him away but yesterday…yesterday, he got a fist to the jaw for his trouble. “Dean? I saw Alec.”
Sam watches as his brother’s spine goes rigid, watches the steady grip waver as Dean’s hands tremble for less than a second. And then the question comes in a voice that is low and quiet and verging on hopeful. “How’d he look?” Sam takes too long searching for a way to answer the question delicately. The reiteration comes out in the form of snarl. “How did he look, Sam?”
“He was intact. He looked…a little pale, I guess. He was scared, but he recognized me. He wanted to get to me, but they dragged him away.”
Dean’s quiet for a while, breathing, trying to unwind himself just a little bit. Sam retreats to the lone cot on the back wall of the cell, edges down so he’s half laying on it, long legs trailing to the concrete floor. He closes his eyes and thinks maybe he’ll sleep when Dean asks, “What did they want you for? What did they do to you?”
“Nothing. They checked me over, made sure I was in adequate health. I think they want to keep us spry for the hunt.”
“’Course they do,” Dean mutters. “Did they give you a lollypop afterwards? I could really go for a lollypop right now.”
Sam ignores the snark and Dean falls quiet again. An hour passes, maybe two hours, Sam’s not sure, and he doesn’t realize that he’s been worrying away at his bottom lip with his teeth until Dean’s there, standing in front of him, flicking the side of his head, and grunting, “Sam, fucking out with it already.”
“Huh?”
“You’ve made your freakin’ lip bleed.” The pad of Dean’s thumb passes over the minor wound. Sam bats his brother’s hand away. They’re in this place again, this place where Dean’s the big kid and Sam’s the little kid who needs constant looking after. Sam hates this place.
“Dean, stop-“
“What’s eating you?”
Sam’s a freak. That’s what’s eating him. Sam’s an utter and complete freak, and he thought it had gone away, thought it was gone forever. It hasn’t shown up in nearly two years and what the fuck it’s doing showing up now, here of all places, in a government facility, Sam has no clue.
“Sam.” Fingers. Dean’s fingers are snapping in front of Sam’s face, calling him to attention, like Dad’s fingers used to. There’s a part of Sam that kind of wishes his dad were here right now, a part of him that has been hollowed out and is now painful and blatant in its emptiness. “You’re gonna look at me and tell me what’s wrong, you got me?”
Sam smacks the fingers away, glares up at his brother. “Save it for Alec and Ben, Dean. You’re not Dad.”
Dean closes his eyes. Sam’s not sure if its frustration or the mention of Alec and Ben, but his brother closes his eyes, swallows and collects himself before replying, “You’re my kid brother. Nothing changes that. You’re my kid brother and you tell me when shit’s fucked up.”
“Shit’s not fucked up.”
Dean snorts in disbelief. “Dude, don’t lie to me.”
“I’m not lying to you.”
“You went to Stanford-“
“What the hell does that have to do with anything, Dean?”
“You went to Stanford and we’re in this situation. This is the most fucked up situation we’ve ever been in and you just claimed that shit’s not fucked up.”
“Shit’s not fucked up otherwise.”
Dean kicks him in the calf just hard enough for it to sting. Sam yelps. Dean’s expression is caught between amusement and triumph for a moment, and then it goes serious. “You can’t keep shit from me, Sam. Not now. We’ve gotta be in sync if we’re gonna get out of this one…if we’re gonna get Alec and Ben out of this one.”
Sam really hates it when Dean’s right. He hates it almost as much as he hates Dean’s eating habits and he hates Dean’s eating habits a hell of a lot. Or he doesn’t hate them at all. Maybe he just finds them mildly irritating sometimes and amusing other times, and maybe he doesn’t really hate Dean being right. Maybe he finds it mildly irritating sometimes, and utterly relieving other times. Right now it’s mildly irritating, though. There’s no doubt about that.
“Sammy, please.” Sam’s been quiet for too long. Dean’s voice is low and rough and this time, it’s not because Sam’s being a douchey little brother. This time there’s no frustration or demand in the tone, just longing and desperation. “They’re…we need to do everything we can to get them out of here. M’not…I won’t leave them here. M’not gonna let them rot here. I promised ‘em. I…you need to help me. Please. Please, Sam.”
And Dean’s turning away, turning his back on Sam, moving back to those bars it’s so hard to tear him away from. And Sam gets it, he knows…he didn’t ask, but he knows that cell is the last place his brother saw them, Alec and Ben, the last place he touched them, smelled them, heard them. Dean doesn’t cling to much or many, but when he does…and Sam remembers in the car, in the car after they got Alec out of the hospital, after Alec told them everything. Sam remembers the way Dean looked at Alec like Alec was his, like Alec had always been his. Sam remembers how Dean looked at Alec the same way he looked at Sam, the same way he came to look at Ben.
Dean’s. They will always be Dean’s. Sam will always be Dean’s.
“It happened again.” Sam leaves it there, waits for Dean to prompt him, but Dean doesn’t speak. Silence. Dean leaves his silence to push Sam forward. “It…I broke some glass. Half a wall of glass. I didn’t touch it. I didn’t have to. Alec…he was out there looking in at me, wanting to get to me and I…I needed to get to him, Dean. I couldn’t just…he needed me, and they dragged me back and they dragged him back. And then I broke the glass. It…I didn’t do it on purpose. It just…it happened.”
The quiet comes after that. Sam was expecting it. He knew. He knows his brother, knows how when hard shit comes up he’ll bite his tongue to keep from snapping, but the quiet and the still is enough for Sam to lose his footing, really, and his stomach drops another mile with every moment and his brother’s head doesn’t leave its resting place against those bars. “Dean? Please-”
“S’okay, Sammy. We’ll work it out.”
“I don’t know what it means.”
“Doesn’t matter, okay? Maybe it doesn’t have to mean anything. Shit like that’s important, though. You shouldn’t be afraid to-“
“I don’t like the way you look at me sometimes.”
Sam hears Dean swear under his breath. His brother hates this shit, hates having to console or reassure Sam about something Dean himself has done wrong.
“I promise you I won’t look at you that way.”
“Really,” Sam deadpans, because Dean’s got impulse control issues. Dean can’t help himself sometimes, with the way he looks at Sam. He reigns himself in for Ben and Alec because they’re tiny and damaged, but with Sam…Sam’s always been there.
“I promise you I’ll try my best not to look at you that way.” Dean rises then, moves back over to the cot, commands, “Move over, Samantha,” and Sam does despite the hated nickname. Dean slouches down beside him, turns towards him. Their knees touch. “You can’t control this thing, can you?”
Sam shakes his head. “It’s only the second time. The first time-“
“I know. I was there.”
Dean was there. Dean was the reason. Dean is alive today because Sam’s mind can do freaky fucking things.
“I guess we can’t put it to use, then.” Dean’s saying it more to himself than to Sam, and he’s got his thumb up to his mouth and he’s biting the tip of the nail off.
“We’ll get out of here, Dean. We’ll get Alec and Ben out of here.”
“Yeah.”
“We will.”
“I know.”
Dean tries to sound like he means it. He tries so hard. It’s not often that it hits Sam this hard, how hard his brother tries.
_________________________________________
Sam’s a heavy little bastard. He is, and Dean will always think him little when the guy’s sleeping against him this way, shaggy head tilted onto Dean’s shoulder, half of his weight pressed into Dean’s left side, drool precariously tipping from his bottom lip. Dean cringes when it drops, when it hits and darkens his T-shirt with its disgusting wetness, but he doesn’t shove Sam away.
“The things I do for you,” he grumbles, resisting the urge to brush brown bangs away from his brother’s closed eyes. The kid’s twenty-six. He’s not twelve anymore, and Dean needs to remember this sometimes. Dean’s still in charge, will always be in charge, but he needs to remember this sometimes.
Sam moans and turns in his sleep, tosses his arm over Dean’s belly. Dean closes his eyes and hopes to God the kid’s not dreaming about a woman right now. He still doesn’t push his brother away, though. He wouldn’t ever say it out loud, but he needs this, he needs Sam’s huge, stupid body pressing into him right now, needs to know that Sam is here, that Sam’s not out there being tortured in God knows how many heinous ways. He needs to know that Sam’s perspective is still intact, that he still sees Dean for what Dean is, still sees that Dean needs him like he needs lungs.
Sam, right here and right now, with his slimy ass drool and big, stupid fucking weight is what’s holding Dean together, keeping him collected despite the two gigantic holes that were shot right through him six days ago.
Dean shuts his eyes and clenches his fists, counts himself back into a functioning state. When he opens his eyes, he brushes the hair away from Sam’s stupid face and tries not to think about six days ago, when little boy hands reached through bars, reached for Dean, needing Dean as much as Dean needed them. He tries not to think about how soft the skin was, or how green eyes looked up at him like he was a superhero, because Dean’s not a superhero. If Dean were a superhero he’d be out of this fucking cell by now, he’d have his brother and his kids out of this prison, would be far away, buying them ice cream and telling them inappropriate, but hilarious stories as they fell asleep. If Dean were a superhero, he’d fall asleep, too, and he’d wake up to tiny, limp limbs slung over his body, or maybe mischievous green eyes, or a child’s voice cracking an inappropriate, but hilarious joke in order to make Dean, himself, laugh. Or maybe he’d wake up to Benny calling him that name, or Alec calling him that name, and it would be terrifying, but terrifyingly awesome.
These thoughts must have lulled Dean into some kind of stupor because he’s completely taken by surprise when the cell door slides open with a loud clang and he jumps. Sam jumps, too, shaking his head and blinking the sleep out of his eyes, and upon seeing the three guards and their three guns standing in the threshold of the cell, clutches Dean’s shirt in an enormous hand.
“What do you ass clowns want?” Dean slouches back against the wall, tries to make himself look as relaxed and apathetic as possible. Dean Winchester doesn’t straighten for motherfuckers with guns.
“You’re coming with us,” one of them replies, looking straight at Dean. “Just you. We’ve had enough of him for one day.”
Sam’s grip on Dean’s shirt tightens. Dean smirks and pats him on the head. “You’re old news, Sammy. I’m the new hot piece of ass in town.” To the guards, he asks, “Dinner and a movie first, I hope. M’pretty high maintenance.”
Their stony faces twitch at the implication and one of them, a younger one, one that had to be around the same age as Sam, maybe a little younger, starts stuttering, “We don’t…th-that’s not-“ The other two shut him up with a look and maybe it’s his age, or maybe it’s the fact that in this moment he looks scared, looks like he has no idea what he’s doing or why he’s here, but Dean takes pity on the younger guard.
“S’okay, kid. I know. You couldn’t even if you wanted to. Now shut up and lets get this over with.”
It’s the younger guard who swallows and moves forward, shackles Dean’s ankles and wrists together while the other two steadily aim their weaponry on both Winchesters. Dean nudges Sam gently with his shoulder and Sam lets him go.
“We’re bringing ‘im back,” the young one says, his voice timid, but reassuring, and Sam’s eyes widen in surprise and Dean’s eyes widen in surprise and one of the older guards tells the kid to shut his mouth.
Dean’s led out of the cell. They lead him all over the place, tell him to keep his eyes forward, but Dean’s eyes stray. They would stray anyway, but today it’s deliberate, because Sam saw Alec, Sam saw one of the boys while he was out here and maybe Dean will see one of them, too, see for himself that they’re still whole and that they still remember Dean’s face for what it is.
He gets butted in the back with a barrel of a gun, but it’s not even hard enough to hurt. Dean’s getting the feeling that the guards aren’t allowed to hurt them unless it’s absolutely necessary, and he doesn’t really like the idea of this. Not at all.
They push him into a medical room, stare at him until he hops up onto the exam table, swings his legs and looks around like a curious child. There’s a rectangular hole in the wall where Dean’s pretty sure just earlier that day, there used to be glass. Oh, Sam. Sam, Sam, Sammy.
“I get a lollypop when we’re through here, right?”
The guards ignore him. One of their pockets buzzes with a static voice telling them to get their asses to someplace that isn’t here, and another guard chains Dean to the table and then they leave him there. The young one looks back at him for just a moment, and he’s so quick about it, Dean almost doesn’t catch it.
He’s in the room for what seems like an hour, but is probably only fifteen minutes, and there’s no doctor or nurse or what have you, just Dean and he’s looking at the walls which are as cold and grey as the cells and the machines and the tubes coming out of the machines. And when he looks at the exam tables, he remembers Alec and Alec’s story, how Alec told them everything and it was horrifying, the things they must have done to Alec, to Ben, on these tables.
“It’s not that interesting.”
Dean’s head jerks around. She’s sneaky, this girl, to get so far without him seeing her, but she’s here now, in front of him, jumping onto the table directly across from Dean’s. Early to mid-twenties, long dark hair, no dark glasses, but she’s not dressed like a guard. She must be the one. Dean never saw her, but Sam did, once, and the description fits.
“You.” His voice is hard. He’ll kill her, he will. This is her fault, she’s the one that tracked them, found them, led the bastards straight to them. She’s the one that put this into the works.
“Me,” she replies. She doesn’t say it like he expected her to. There’s no smugness or hostility, just a statement of fact. His glare is unwavering, though, for at least five minutes before she finally sighs and glares back and says, “Don’t look at me like that. I was just following orders.” She bends down and rolls up the leg of her pants. There’s a wound running down the lower part of her leg, a wound that looks like it’s been left unattended for a good long while, and it’s long and jagged and gaping.
Despite himself, Dean asks, “What did that to you?”
“Knife,” she grunts. “I don’t heal fast. Not like the little ones do.”
“Who…what happened?”
“Practice. I’m practice. It’s what I’m good for. Practice and tracking. I’m an exceptional tracker.” She sounds proud. Really proud. Dean still wants to kill her, but instead he asks her what she’s practice for. She looks at him, a little viciously, and replies. “You. I’m practice for you. You and your brother. You’re the main events.” Dean’s eyes widen, but he doesn’t respond. He doesn’t really know how to respond to that and he’s not really in the mood to bait her, so he just looks at her and she continues talking. “They killed the rest of them, the ones like me. I came out alright, though. They can still use me for some things. I track and I help with the training, I’m practice. I’m not supposed to talk, though. I’m not supposed to talk this much.” Worry. She looks worried. “Don’t tell them I talked this much. Please? I’m not supposed to talk. I’m only supposed to smile and wave, because there’s something intimidating about smiling and waving. They told me.”
This place is fucked up, so unbelievably fucked up. Dean hates this girl, hates her for what she’s done to that shape of a thing that was forming into a family, hates her for her part in taking it away from him, but this place is fucked up. This place is so fucked up, he can’t not tell her, “I won’t tell anyone you talked this much.” But that’s not strategically sound so he cocks his head and looks at a vague point in the distance and backtracks, “I won’t tell anyone you talked this much if you tell me how my boys are.”
“Your…boys.” She sounds so confused.
“Alec and Ben.”
“Oh. 494 and 493, respectively?”
“No. Alec and Ben. They have names. Tell me how they are.”
“I don’t know. I haven’t seen them.”
And Dean can tell that she’s not lying, that she doesn’t really know how to lie. Dean understands why they don’t let her talk.
“Tell me what they’re doing to them.”
She shakes her head and looks at him like she doesn’t quite understand what he is, exactly, like she’s never heard anyone ask these questions before and can’t possibly understand why they would want to.
“They’re seeing things that aren’t there,” she says. “Sometimes they make us do that so we’ll act how they want us to act.”
“What are they seeing?”
“I don’t know.” She doesn’t know and she’s still looking at Dean in that way that indicates she doesn’t understand him, but something about her is softening, she’s gnawing on her lip and looking at him like she’s aiming to please. Her eyes shift around like she’s making sure nobody’s in hearing distance, and then she straightens. “I do know something, though.”
This place is so fucked up, Dean can’t even begin to comprehend how fucked up it is. He asks, “Yeah? What’s that?”
“I know they know about your brother.”
Shit. Fuck. Shit. Dean’s stomach is at the bottom of his feet. His hands are shaking a little and he clenches them into fists, wills them to stop.
She continues, “They’ve known about him for a long time. I read his file while nobody was looking. I heard they might not terminate him if the little soldiers can’t kill him. If they do kill him, they’ll probably use his body, though. I hear he’s strong and can do funny things with his mind.”
She shuts up after that because there’s a nurse coming in, and then another, and the three guards are back with their guns to make sure Dean doesn’t try anything sneaky during his exam. The exam is clinical and cold and there’s no lollypop afterwards. No lollypop and no optimism left in Dean, no little voice attempting to tell him this is going to go at all well.
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