SPN/DA Fic: The Wellspring (24/?)
“I didn’t feel him get up,” Alec mumbles. “When did we start sleeping?”
Ben’s not sure when they started sleeping. He’s not even sure of Alec’s question, if his twin is referring to when they started sleeping last night or when they started sleeping in general. He doesn’t know the answer to either. He just knows that one night he fell asleep, and he fell asleep for nights upon nights after that, and then he was awake for seven days.
And now, apparently, he’s sleeping again.
And waking up to angry voices that aren’t as loud as they were a few seconds ago, voices that are quickly diminishing into tense, hushed tones that make Ben’s stomach clench in a way he doesn’t like at all. He sits up when Alec sits up, watches as his brother twists around to retrieve the big-pawed stuffed dog, watches as Alec places it in that empty space, fusses with it for, in Ben’s opinion, an absurdly long time.
The voices are so quiet now they’re practically whispers, slicing through the air like knives. If Ben were more human, he wouldn’t be able to hear them.
“I’m not fucking saying it again. You’re. Not. Using. It. You’re not gonna bring this shit to the forefront, Sammy. We’re done with that. We’re not going back to it. It’s over.”
“You’re not in fucking charge-“
“The fuck I’m not.”
“Fuck you, Dean. You had no fucking problem with it when it got us out of…there. You even wanted to use it if I could control it. You asked me if I could.”
“That was different and I was desperate.”
Dean’s words are an admission, but they still come out like an attack. They’re talking about whatever it is that Sam has in his head, that thing that allows him to throw motor vehicles into fences without so much as touching their exteriors with his eyes. Ben knows this because Sam’s eyes were closed when it happened; they were closed and tight, like his arms were around Ben’s body.
“I need to be able to control it. If I can’t control it, it could hurt someone. It could hurt the kids, Dean. Ignoring it isn’t going to make it go away.”
Dean doesn’t respond with more than a frustrated growl and then he’s coming out of the kitchen, into the living room, stopping upon the sight of Alec and Ben. He hasn’t gotten dressed yet - he’s still in his T-shirt and boxers and his hair is still disheveled from slumber. His face is softening, but he’s still angry and tense, Ben can feel it, it’s hitting him hard and quick and cold like the snow hit the windshield yesterday and it makes him feel so confused because Dean’s hand is warm brushing first over Ben’s head, then over Alec’s.
“Who wants pancakes?” Dean asks in a voice full of forced cheer. “I bet Bobby has some Bisquick laying around here somewhere…”
“I can’t eat any pancakes,” Alec replies, picking at the top of his toy’s head with a nervous finger. He keeps his eyes lowered to this same digit, refuses to look up at Dean. “My stomach hurts.”
“Your stomach hurts?” Dean’s brow furrows in concern as reaches his hand out towards Alec’s forehead. Alec jerks away. Dean freezes with his hand in mid-air, lets it drop abruptly back down to his side. Hurt disappears from his face as soon as it arrives, leaving behind a concrete mask of stoicism. “Are you sick?” Alec shakes his head, jerks away again when Dean makes another attempt to feel it. Dean lets out a frustrated breath, says, “C’mon, kitten. I can’t make it better if you don’t-“
“M’not sick. M’traumatized.”
Ben watches Dean’s neck, watches the laryngeal prominence go up and down in what seems like slow motion as the man swallows. Dean’s not good at sounding delicate, but sometimes, like now, he tries. “I know, buddy. I wish…m’sorry. Those bastards fucked us up good. I…we’re gonna get through it, but you still gotta eat.”
A chill and an ache. That’s all Ben feels. Everything else is hollow, empty, gone. Fucked up. Those bastards fucked them all up and he just wants to repress it, wants to shut his eyes and his mind and never think about it again, never remember it again.
Alec visibly shudders before he finally looks up at Dean with hard eyes. “M’not talking about…that. I’m talking about you.”
Dean’s eyebrows jump up in what, if they hadn’t just stumbled over recent memory, salted their still open wounds, would be comical surprise. “Me? What’d I do?”
“You and Uncle Sam decided to have a lover’s quarrel-“
“Dude,” Dean’s quick to protest.
“Lover’s spat, whatever.”
“M’not in the mood, Alec. Try again.”
“Heated argument within our hearing range. M’traumatized. I’m going to grow up and have horrific interpersonal relationships, possibly physically or emotionally abusive in nature. Dr. Phil said so.”
“Dr. Phil’s still on air?”
“He was a few months ago,” Alec replies, before looking away and wrapping his arms over his abdomen. “My stomach hurts.”
Ben blinks and swallows, picks the stuffed dog up so he can shift closer to his twin. This isn’t like Alec. This isn’t like Alec at all, but it seems genuine, and Ben completely understands it. The voices made his stomach twist up all funny and terrible, too. He gets close enough so that their shoulders are touching, places Alec II in front of his distraught namesake.
Dean’s face is a picture of nerves and guilt as he kneels down in front of them, asks in a low, earnest voice, “How do I make it better?” Alec doesn’t respond, doesn’t look up, and Dean places a big hand on the small knee, shakes it slightly, repeats, “Kitten, how do I make it better?”
“M’want you to hug Sam,” Alec mumbles. Ben hears it clearly, he’s right here, right next to his brother and he hears it, and something untwists a bit inside of him because it’s a funny thought, Dean hugging Sam. He’s never seen this happen before. They bicker and sometimes they touch, but they never hug.
“Huh? I didn’t hear you, kiddo. What’d you say?”
“I want you to hug Uncle Sammy,” Alec repeats and this time the words are distinct. They seem to hit Dean like rounds of rock salt.
“What? No. No way-“
Alec lifts his face then, cheeks slick with tears streaming like rivers, and he looks at Dean with flooding eyes for just a moment, bites his lip, and looks back down at the floor.
Dean grits his teeth first, rolls his eyes second. He closes them after that and then he looks at Alec again. Alec’s breaths are hitching now, and there are small sniffles, and Dean’s falling apart before Ben’s eyes.
“Alec? Alec, sweetheart-“
“M’stomach hurts,” Alec croaks. “Dad, m’stomach hurts.”
Alec doesn’t have trouble using the name. Ben’s in knots just hearing it, but it slips out of Alec’s mouth like it’s been on his tongue since the day he was born. How does he do that? How can he do that? It’s not…they don’t…Don’t call me that. Dean was cold and disappointed and Ben said the wrong thing and he can’t…he won’t do it again, it won’t happen again, Dean won’t look at him like that again. Ben can’t…he won’t.
“Okay. Alec, don’t cry, okay? I’ll…Sam!” Dean raises his voice as he calls for his brother. Sam comes out of the kitchen huffing and scowling, and then softening, because Alec’s looking at him like he looked at Dean, still with the tears, and Sam’s asking what’s wrong, what happened, why-
“You have to hug,” Alec tearfully informs him.
“You want a hug?” Sam’s confused and holding his arms out as Alec shakes his head. “You…don’t want a hug?”
“You have to hug Dean.”
“What? No. No way-“
“That’s what I said,” Dean grumbles, getting to his feet. He sucks in a deep breath, lets it out slowly, rolls his neck around like he’s trying to get a crick out of it. Then he opens his arms, gestures to Sam with waggling fingers. Sam responds with a glare. “Stop being a douchebag, Sammy. Kid’s stomach hurts.”
“It’s an emotional response to a tense environment,” Alec sniffles, and Ben feels his brother’s weight heavy against him. “I can try to quell it, if you want. I’ve been doin’ that for years…”
“No.” The synchronized response is instant and Sam shifts and swallows before edging slowly forward into Dean’s arms, wrapping his own long appendages around his brother’s solid frame. The embrace is stiff and uncomfortable and Ben watches it, mesmerized. He remembers how the guards used to take him to the medical ward for healing tests, how these tests would involve having a finger or an arm or a leg broken, and the nurse would tell him to just breathe through it. Sam and Dean look like they’re taking this same advice, breathing in and out, like this is painful, but it’ll be over soon, please God, let it be over soon.
“You’re not doing it like you mean it,” Alec says sadly.
Sam clears his throat uneasily and Dean grunts, but they both relax somewhat, arms visibly tightening, chins settling onto broad shoulders. They’re still in this position a moment later when Ben feels his brother’s elbow nudge him in the ribs, feels Alec’s breath against his ear, and the cheerful whisper of, “S’like I’m their god.”
Ben blinks and wonders, again, how Alec does it. The tears are gone, replaced by a quirked lip, but Ben doesn’t buy it. Alec was in pain, he said he was, and he was quiet when he woke up. Quiet and nervous and afraid like Ben, who didn’t vocalize his own hurt, but knows it was real. He can still feel it.
Sam and Dean finally pull away from each other. Their arms drop at their sides and then they start to twitch, shifting their shoulders awkwardly, faces set in frowns that are trying not to be frowns as they dart their eyes to the floor.
“How’s the stomach, kitten?” Dean lifts his gaze as he addresses Alec, who’s face is a picture of mirth, though his cheeks are still shiny and damp from tears. Dean’s mouth falls slack, his gentle expression turning stiff as he realizes he’s been had.
Sam doesn’t look too amused, either. He’s crossing his arms and his eyes are narrowing and he’s getting that look about him that reminds Ben of a television show they once watched a long time ago. It involved a frustrated housewife and a petulant child, and while Ben is aware that these two things can be construed as opposing forces, Sam somehow manages to come across as a fine mixture of both.
“Cute,” Dean says, even though he clearly doesn’t find it cute at all.
Alec’s smirk turns into a grin, and he starts casually examining his fingernails like he’s considering the dirt caught beneath them. “It was, wasn’t it?”
Apparently it wasn’t and hugs don’t solve everything. Sam’s looking at Alec like he’s going to kill him and Dean’s not looking at Sam at all. They’re still quietly fuming, still trying to calm down. Ben doesn’t like it. He can feel the distance between them and it seems to be growing with every second, the hostility like a tension rod pushing them apart.
“Benny?” Dean’s hand is on Ben’s shoulder. Ben doesn’t remember seeing him move. “What’s up, kid? You haven’t said a word all morning.”
“M’sorry.” Ben needs to see things move. He needs to see how they get from A to B, because otherwise he might be seeing things that aren’t there. Ben doesn’t want to see things that aren’t there.
“Don’t be sorry. You want pancakes?”
“Is Alec in trouble?” Trouble. Ben didn’t know it was on his mind until the word came out of his mouth and now he’s hiding his hands underneath the blanket because they’re shaking a little. He needs to be good. He needs to be good for Dean. Are you being good for Dean?
“’Course m’not in trouble,” Alec snorts, even as Sam’s leaning down and guiding him to his feet by his elbow. “Where’re we going?”
“Study,” Sam replies tersely.
“What for?”
“A talk about using tears to manipulate family members.”
“Oh. Well, can I put on some pants first? This sounds like a conversation that requires some pants.”
Ben watches as Sam drags Alec away. He feels Dean drop down beside him, feels the neglected bear shoved into his lap and a warm palm brush across the top of his head.
“He have a name yet?”
Ben wants to reply, he does, but the simple answer won’t come out of his mouth. Instead he says, “Alec…Alec wasn’t really manipulating you. He was sad…he just…he feels like he has to make it look like a farce.”
“I know how he operates, kid.”
“He doesn’t…Sam-“
“I hate to admit it, but Sam knows how he operates, too. Don’t worry about your brother, dude. The touchy-feely talk is going to be far worse than the scolding.” Dean taps the top of the bear’s head, repeats, “He have a name, yet?”
The bear doesn’t have a name. It doesn’t really need a name, it’s just some cotton inside of some fabric existing in this form so Ben can cling to it when he needs to. Ben always needs to cling to something. That’s part of his problem.
“You want me to give him a name?”
Dean wants the bear to have a name just like Alec wanted the bear to have a name. Ben doesn’t understand this desire to treat inanimate objects as if they’re people…well, other than the car, of course, she’s special. But this…this is just fuzz and fabric, and the only thing Ben sees in it is the man who gave it to him.
…Which isn’t to say he wants Alec asking him about John Bonham all day and night long so he shakes his head no. No, he doesn’t want Dean naming his bear.
Dean smirks and Ben feels a hand on the back of his neck, on his barcode. He shivers under the coarse fingers and then settles. “If you say so. It would have been incredible, though, you realize. None of that Yogi or Boo Boo crap.” The hand moves down, smoothes over the back of Ben’s T-shirt before patting him once. “We need pancakes. You wanna help me make ‘em? Bobby’s already up and outside. We should probably do him the courtesy of makin’ breakfast. It’ll soften the blow of our traumatic events.”
Ben nods and accepts the hand that pulls him upwards.
They make a mess in the kitchen. Ben’s never cooked before and Dean seems like he hasn’t cooked in a good long while. Bobby comes inside about ten minutes after they’ve started, stomping the snow off his boots and scowling at the Bisquick and milk spilled on his counter and floors, fighting a smile when he sees the powdery mix gracing their noses and cheeks.
“We’re makin’ you breakfast, Bobby,” Ben says as he attempts to wedge a spatula under a pancake. He’s not usually one for stating the obvious, but he wasn’t so friendly the last time he was here, and Bobby…there are times when Bobby looks at Sam and Dean like Sam and Dean look at Alec and Ben. It’s in good form to be friendly to someone like that.
“I see that,” Bobby replies, moving over to the coffeemaker and taking a mug out of the cabinet above it. “And m’puttin’ you in charge of supervising your daddy as he cleans up this mess.”
Ben’s throat goes dry. He almost screws up his pancake-flipping because his hand jerks and shakes, but he manages to get it back on the skillet unscathed. He doesn’t look at Dean. Dean’s not…Dean doesn’t…Dean needs Ben to remember, needs him to remember something about fathers. I need you to remember that I’m not yours. Not his, not Ben’s, never Ben’s. Alec’s, sure. Alec’s when he’s got tears streaming down his face and claims of a stomach that hurts, but not Ben’s. Never Ben’s.
A hand falls on his shoulder, squeezes lightly. Ben chances a glance up at Dean’s grinning face and winking eye.
“S’okay, Bobby. I’m sure Ben’ll crack the whip just fine. Won’t you, kid?” Ben doesn’t trust himself to speak, so he nods. The hand squeezes again before Dean points at another pancake, says, “I think this one’s good to go,” then beams as Ben gracefully wields the spatula.
“Do they look okay?” he asks quietly.
“They look perfect, dude.” Dean tells him. “Like flat Bisquicky rounds of heaven.”
Ben swallows and smiles. The pancakes look perfect and for the moment, at least, his own stomach feels just a bit better.
________________________________________________________________
“Can I help?”
Alec’s fingers are itching. Bobby’s in the midst of loading all of his guns, face set in determination as he inserts rounds into the chamber of a particularly vicious-looking Smith & Wesson.
“I seem to remember Dean saying he didn’t want you touching any guns,” Bobby replies, absently rubbing a sleeve over the rifle’s exterior before setting it aside. The tease.
“But Dean’s not here,” Alec wheedles. It’s true. Dean’s outside with Ben, they’re cleaning out the Impala, checking her over, making sure she hasn’t been tampered with. Sam went back into the study after breakfast and he hasn’t been seen since. Sam is an enigma, Alec’s decided. “S’just you and me, Bobby, ol’ boy.”
It is. It’s just them, but nothing seems to be going right for Alec today. The glare Bobby levels at him is enough to make him take a step back. “I meant, uh, sir?”
Bobby snorts, but his lips twitch as he returns his attention to the handgun magazine he just picked up. “Damn straight you meant sir.”
Alec swallows and shifts on his feet before regaining his courage, stepping over to Bobby and putting a hand on the man’s knee. “Please?”
“Didn’t you just get a talking-to about being manipulative, son?”
He did. It was an unbearable thirty minutes long. Alec almost snickers thinking of the way Sam pointed to the rickety old chair in the study, told him to sit down because Sam was going to kill him - apparently five-minute lectures about putting people in uncomfortable situations count as familial homicide these days. Five minutes. That’s how long the supposed killing was. The real killing was twenty-five minutes of that touchy-feely crap. Alec hates that motherfucking touchy-feely crap. Alec hates walking into pancake-filled rooms with eyes that are puffy and a nose that refuses to stay dry. Pancakes are supposed to be happy times.
“That shit bounces right off of me,” Alec says now. “It’s not my fault. It’s part of my genetic make-up.”
“You better start learnin’ to listen then,” Bobby tells him. “You’re livin’ a dangerous life, kid.”
“I laugh in the face of danger.”
“You shouldn’t,” Bobby says as he slides the now-loaded magazine into a semi-automatic. “Danger’s not funny.”
Alec knows that. He knows it’s not funny, the things Sam and Dean told Bobby this morning. Alec knows because he was there and he had it worse than both of them and his brother’s face was pale and his hands were shaking and Alec had to grab them, had to steady them, because Ben couldn’t listen to it. He knows it’s not funny, the reason Bobby’s loading all of these guns.
“You can’t just shoot them away, you know.” He doesn’t realize he’s spoken until he notices how Bobby’s looking at him, with concerned eyes and a frowning mouth, how Bobby’s setting the gun carefully on the table. “They just keep coming. They won’t stop.”
Bobby puts a tentative hand on his shoulder. Alec flinches like a spooked horse. He’s not used to Bobby, yet. It’s been a long time since those two days without Sam and Dean, but Bobby’s hand is sturdy and warm, and he doesn’t move it, doesn’t speak until Alec relaxes under his touch. “That can be said about a lot of things, boy.”
“It’s scarier when they’re corporeal.”
Bobby smirks. “Only met spirits, haven’t you? Demons are corporeal. Trust me, humans are easier to kill.”
They are. Alec knows this. Alec knows humans are easy to kill. You just shove ‘em on their knees and pull the trigger. They fall down and their blood pools in the grass, spreads and edges until it’s almost touching your feet and you’re not…you can’t move and you can’t breath and there’s a gun heavy in your hand and the knowledge that you didn’t use it to kill this man and you didn’t use it to save him.
“Alec? You okay, son?” Alec hears Bobby’s voice. “Kid, breathe.”
Alec didn’t know he wasn’t breathing, but he breathes. He breathes in and out, large, shuddering breaths, because that’s what Bobby’s instructing him to do and Bobby’s awesome, so he must be right in saying that Alec should breathe.
“Alec…”
There are tears. Alec’s so fucking sick of his own goddamn tears. “M’wanna help load the guns.”
“I think maybe you should have a lie-down.”
“I wanna help load the guns.” It comes out of him a snarl this time, and his breath hitches and his throat hurts and Bobby’s hand is still there, still on his shoulder, and it’s squeezing and Bobby’s voice is low and trying its best to be gentle.
“Your daddy doesn’t want you-“
“I want to. M’nine or ten and I’ve been able to load a gun for as long as I can remember. Why can’t I load one now?”
“’Cause you shouldn’t have to.” Bobby’s mouth doesn’t move. He doesn’t say these words. He doesn’t say them because Dean says them, standing in the threshold of the kitchen with a pale-faced Ben at his side and then he’s traversing the floor in his heavy boots, and kneeling down in jeans shredded at the knees. He brushes a cold, dry thumb across Alec’s sticky cheek, asks quietly if the tears are real.
“They’re not,” Alec says. “They’re stupid and imaginary and I hate them.” That’s not what he wanted to say. He wanted to say something witty, something that would make Dean smile and believe him when he said they weren’t real, that he was just having them on again, that Alec doesn’t cry, Alec doesn’t do waterworks. That’s Ben’s shtick. “They’re not real,” Alec insists, even as his throat thickens with mucus and his eyes continue to secrete fluid. “This is all just a really hilarious show.”
Dean nods, and Alec feels big hands on his hips pulling him forward, guiding him to the man’s chest. “I see that, kitten. You deserve an Emmy. And a prime time sitcom.”
“Emmy first?” Alec’s shaking like a madman and trying to get images of blood out of his head, but Dean’s got him up now, is waiting patiently as Alec situates trembling limbs around his neck and waist.
“Emmy first,” Dean agrees, and Alec is glad when he doesn’t ask what happened, just carries him to the living room and lays him down on the still made-up couch, brushes a hand over his head. Alec snatches the hand up before it can leave, pulls Dean hard enough towards him to make him stumble and catch himself on the sofa’s backrest. “Alec?”
“Lay down with me.” It’s a demand and Alec hates himself for it. He’s not a baby. Genetically-engineered killing machines aren’t babies.
“I can’t fit on there with you, sweetheart. You want your brother?”
“I want you.”
“M’not going anywhere.”
Dean doesn’t go anywhere. He sits on the floor and leans against the front of the armrest, reaches his hand back so Alec can touch it if he needs to.
Alec needs to.
He twines two fingers around Dean’s pinky, feels the cold side of the hunter’s ring settle against his skin. The pillow under his head smells vaguely of Sam, and Alec closes his eyes and tries to breathe through the onset of hiccups as his brother’s weight depresses the couch. Ben is warm against him and Dean doesn’t move. Daylight is still peeking through the windows, but Alec tries to fall asleep again, tries to forget the blood in the grass, and the fact that they can’t just shoot them all away.
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