Lacrimosa (5/?)
Title: Lacrimosa (pt 5/?)
Author: lizadork
Fandoms: Dark Angel, Supernatural
Rating: Uh... pg-13? There's swearing.
Characters: Sam, Dean, Alec, Ben, Icarus
Summary: Sam would also appreciate a teeny, tiny clone, tyvm.
This Chapter: Clones are like cars and don't like closets.
Disclaimer: If I owned them, I would be cuddling with them right now, not posting on the internet.
A/N: scourgeofeurope is a genius and everyone needs to read The Wellspring. If it weren't for her, none of this would exist. ♥ x infinity.
Sam wakes to the sweet, sweet smell of caffeine and he's sitting up before his eyes are even open, reaching out blindly to seek out this miracle. It's not the paperboard cup he's expecting that's pressed into his hands and no smartass comment comes with it, either, which confuses him enough to force an eyelid to sliver open. Icarus is sitting cross-legged in the space where Dean slept, tiny hands still wrapped around the steaming mug that he's trying to pass to Sam. The pajamas are gone, traded for a pair of dark jeans and one of the t-shirts, a blue affair with grey lining around the collar and sleeves that give the appearance of layers. His hair is tousled and teased into tumbleweed nests and there are still pale sleep-circles around his eyes and he's blinking owlishly at Sam.
"Dean said you like girl coffee," Icarus breaks the silence, drawing his hands away once Sam wraps his around the mug, bracing himself on his side with an elbow. "I didn't know that inanimate objects could be masculine or feminine in the English language."
"Mm," Sam grunts. It's about as eloquent as he's going to get. Bobby's, right. We're at Bobby's. He's stunned that Dean is actually awake before him, much less awake and apparently functional enough to brew coffee; that hasn't happened since Sam was old enough to get himself off to school (for the record: fifth grade, despite it not actually happening until tenth due to his overprotective ass of a brother.)
Icarus nods, though, like he's made a meaningful contribution to the conversation. "They are in French; coffee's masculine. So it's le café, not la café. Except you don't say it like that, if you want it, you say it how you like it. Dean likes café noir; that means he drinks it black. And you like café au lait, which means with milk," The boy frowns thoughtfully and knuckles sleepily at his nose. "That term's kind of inaccurate though because there's lots of sugar in yours, too. But it's still boy coffee. Maybe you should tell Dean."
It takes a good deal of self-control and a healthy sense of self-preservation for Sam to not choke on the hot drink. He makes another noise of agreement and swallows thoughtfully. The fact that Icarus is jabbering like he's on a caffeine high isn't lost on Sam, and he's not sure what to make of it. "Maybe you can tell him for me. Big brothers don't usually listen to little ones."
"Dean said that he knows everything."
"Oh yeah?"
"Yes. He said that to 4... to Alec when they were talking. They stopped when they saw me," A blush suffuses slowly onto Russ's cheeks and he averts his eyes, "I wasn't spying or anything, they just happened to be havin' a private conversation when I came in. It was stupid anyway, it was about waffles."
It wasn't about waffles. Sam knows that - they might have been saying waffles, but they didn't mean waffles because that's SOP in this family. You say exactly what you mean to say by not saying it at all. "You don't like waffles?"
"I don't know. I've never had them before. Dean says that's a crime against humanity."
"Sounds like Dean said a lot of stuff this morning."
"It's ten-oh-three, Sam. We've been awake forever. There's been a lot of shop talk."
"Shop talk?"
"That's what Dean called it. We didn't talk about shops, it's just an expression." Icarus sounds like he's talking to someone much younger, and he reaches out with a tentative hand to pat Sam's forearm, comforting him in his time of ignorance. Sam can't keep up. He's not sure what changed between last night and now, but the kid who was as silent as a Tibetan monk has suddenly had his switch flipped and what's more, doesn't seem to notice. Or maybe he just doesn't care enough to temper it. He's eager and practically stumbling over syllables as he chatters away, still skittish 'round the edges but trying visibly to ignore his instincts, and even though Sam's puzzled, it's a delightful confusion that he doesn't want to end. He gulps more coffee, shakes his head to clear away the hazy filaments of sleep.
"How's the noggin, dude?" Sam asks, and for an instant Icarus goes completely silent. The boy looks at him searchingly and it's such a piercing gaze that Sam instinctively glances away, casual and deliberate.
"It's fine," Russ finally says, then shrugs and scrunches his toes, little white knobs against the red checked material, makes them mouth at the soft lining of the spread sleeping bags. "Hey, Sam, what did one wall say to the other wall?"
Caught off guard, Sam can't help but stare at the hunched figure in front of him. He's telling a joke. Icarus, who's been an anxious knot of guarded suspicion and misplaced anger, is trying to tell him a joke. It's an obvious attempt at divergence, so much so that he can't ignore the bait--Sam's not about to force the kid to talk about something he's obviously not comfortable with, not at the risk of losing this tentative bridge that's been strung up in the span of hours--but he doesn't care. Little boys are supposed to tell jokes. They're supposed to and the fact that this one can, is capable of it despite everything after all, breeds a relief so real that Sam tastes it, honey-sweet underneath the smokey curl of Maxwell House. "I dunno, Icarus, what did one wall say to the other wall?"
Icarus draws in a breath and holds it, trying to create suspense before he delivers his punchline. "Meet you at the corner." His eyebrows rise as he waits for Sam to react. Sam doesn't disappoint, manages a chortle appreciative enough that Russ beams and it's that, more than anything else, that gets him to sit up and clear his throat, roll his shoulders and stretch. There's bustling noises in the kitchen and the distinctive scent of sweet pastry and sausages (where exactly Bobby manages to find actual meat and not the processed shit they serve at restaurants now is a mystery, but whenever they show up there's always links for breakfast and it's like a miracle, a homecoming) is taking over the house, rousing Sam's stomach.
"Dean told me that. It's geometric humor, Sam," Icarus says like it's the most amazing thing he's ever heard, voice awed and gleeful. Looking at his bright expression, the tiny fists resting on his knees as Russ leans forward in delight, Sam finds that he can't do anything but agree. He nods and makes a croaking noise as he gets to his feet, arching his back and twisting to pop the kinks out in a chorus of muted clicks. When he looks down, down, down Icarus has his hands laced over his head, is stretching in as close a mimic as he can. When he finishes he looks at Sam, waiting for a cue.
Sam clears his throat. "We should probably get some breakfast before it's all gone. Dean's right - you haven't lived until you've had Bobby's waffles."
They head towards the kitchen, the hems of Russ's pants scuffing along the carpet as he walks.
"Sam?" He asks just before they hit the threshold, and when Sam looks down there's a face full of embarrassed inquiry looking back. "Does Dean really know everything?"
"He likes to think he does."
"Does that mean yes?"
"It means he knows a lot," Sam concedes. Icarus considers this, frowns.
"But not everything?"
"No," Sam admits, smiling, "not everything."
Icarus nods. "I didn't think so. He didn't really answer when I asked him how many muscles cat's ears have, even though he said he knew."
This kid is too much, Sam thinks as he stares down at the completely serious boy. He wants to pick him up or ruffle his hair or something, would do it if he was sure that it wouldn't make him spiral into a panic. "Well... that's pretty obscure, buddy."
Russ makes a face. "32, Sam." The implied 'duh' hangs between them and for a moment he's overcome by an overwhelming sense of deja vu. He knows exactly how it feels to wield that tone because he made a career out of perfecting it, lobbing it at his father and brother just to prove that he was the resident expert on state capitals or photosynthesis or Star Trek or whatever the hell topic he happened to be obsessing over at the time; it's strange being on the other side of such self-assured knowledge, and he's caught between being enchanted at the sheer adorableness of it and marveling at the fact that neither Dad nor Dean strangled him before he reached double-digits.
He's not willing to admit that he, too, was previously ignorant regarding the muscular anatomy of felines, since doing so apparently reveals a serious lapse in his education. Sam steers them into the kitchen, to familiar territory where conversation is safely limited to satisfied hums and possessive claims over who gets the next ready waffle. Bobby's at the stove wielding a spatula in one hand and a mug of coffee in the other, poking at sizzling sausages in a cast-iron skillet and simultaneously keeping watch over the waffle iron on the counter. At the table, Alec and Ben and Dean are munching appreciatively, plates pooled with syrup and the canned pie filling that they're using to top their breakfast. There's an extra plate of picked-at waffle next to his brother, and Icarus skitters over and clambers up onto the chair that rests before it; Sam absently wonders if he abandoned it voluntarily to wake him, or if he was sent.
"Morning," He says to the room at large, voice still gravelly from sleep. Bobby's already crossing to the cabinet, hissing skillet in hand, to tug down another plate and Sam makes a small noise, moves to cut him off. "S'okay, Bobby, I can--"
"Don't go acting all chivalrous now, kid," The hunter interrupts him, waves him off with the spatula. "It ain't like I've never cooked you breakfast before."
Sam murmurs his thanks. "I'll do the dishes."
"Damn straight you will."
There's still a half-pot left on the warmer and Sam tops his mug off, reaches around Bobby to refill the older man's cup, before he shuffles to the table. Alec is doing his best not to look anywhere but his plate, devoting an impressive amount of concentration on dissecting his waffle into a myriad of perfect squares, scowl on his face. It's painfully obvious that while he's resisting making any more disparaging remarks, he's not happy about having an extra guest at the table. A particularly viscous stab at a piece of sausage makes Sam wince; they're going to have to be extra vigilant in making sure that he doesn't feel the need to employ one of the numerous plots he no doubt has in mind to get rid of this perceived interloper. Alec's a protective, loyal kid but he's also an evil genius.
Dean grins at him through a mouthful of food. It's fucking gross, which is why he does it, the bastard. "Sammy. You missed all the fun."
"So I hear," Sam says as he surveys the scarred wooden tabletop, grabs the butter. "You're omniscient, now?"
"What do you mean 'now'? I was born all-knowing."
"Uh huh. How many muscles were there in cat ears, again, Dean?"
Dean snorts, ferries a forkful of waffle to his lips. "Please. That's an insult to my intelligence."
"And yet, I don't hear you answering," Sam shrugs, feels a smirk tug at his mouth and smothers it. "Benny, can you pass the syrup please? It's 32, by the way."
Dean narrows his eyes and stares hard at him, green gaze angling suspiciously to Icarus and back again. He swallows his mouthful then points his fork at Sam. "Cheater."
Sam lifts a brow. "It's cheating to share recently-acquired information with my brother?"
"It's cheating when baby geniuses tell you the answer, cheater."
Icarus looks up from his plate then, where he's intently spreading the thick fruit spooned onto his waffle and shuffling the entire mess around. "I'm not a baby."
"Of course you're not," Dean agrees heartily. He surveys Icarus with a critical eye. "You're what, six, seven?"
Icarus shrugs.
Dean nods. "Yeah. You're not too far off from the big 1-0, kiddo. Three or four years and you'll be in the double-d's and it's all downhill from there."
"I don't know what that means. But m'not a baby. I have an impressive vocabulary'n I understand abstract concepts. Infants do not."
"Solid argument, pal. You got me."
"Do you yield?" Russ is suddenly perching on his knees, head cocked to the side as spears Dean with a fierce look. It's impressive and might be intimidating in a couple years when the kid gains a few inches and graduates from ankle-biter to kneecapper. Dean lifts his hands in surrender, eyes wide with mock terror.
Icarus nods and settles back down to eat, more than a little triumph in the set of his shoulders.
***
The plates are drying in the rack, Dawn scent rising from the cooling water in the sink, and Sam's rubbing oil into the skillet with a balled-up paper towel. The first time he ever got put on dish duty, he made the mistake of dropping the cast iron into the sudsy water and even though Bobby was easy enough about it, Sam never forgot the lesson in the proper maintenance of such fine cookware that followed. He's come to find a sort of peaceful satisfaction in the action now, gently skating the surface of the solid pan until it gleams black-slick and new. He tosses the now brown paper towel into the trash, pumps his fist when he sinks the three-pointer. He just won the NBA finals with that shot. The crowd goes wild.
When he turns around, Dean's there, leaning on the door frame with his hands in his pockets, an ankle hooked over the other. He's got the same fondly tolerant look on his face that he always has when Sam catches him watching him, wonder mixing with disbelief at the fact that they're actually related. When they were ten and six, twelve and seven, twenty and sixteen, it almost always came with a smartass comment about the depth of his geekery, remarks that made Sam want to punch Dean in his neck because it wasn't like his brother didn't mutter play-by-plays under his breath when they sparred and it certainly wasn't Sam who could talk for hours about the burden of being Ben Kenobi (and seriously, who even used terms like OT in rational debate anyway?)
Somewhere along the line, during the gap that he tried to fill with anything and everything maybe, he lost the urge to want to throttle Dean. Which isn't to say that his brother doesn't have an uncanny knack for irritating the shit out of Sam, sometimes, but just. Not with that, anymore, those quips and goddamn burns. Not when it's so clearly his way of expressing things he wouldn't dare say, lest his Steve McQueen cool be compromised.
It took Sam a longer than it should have to realize that.
"So," Dean says, breaking his train of thought. "What do you think he's hiding?"
Huh? Sam is lost. "What?" He says. "Who?"
Dean rolls his eyes and pushes off from the wall. "Icarus. C'mon, Sammy, get in the game."
"What makes you think he's hiding something?"
Dean stares at Sam like he's a moron. Sam kind of wants to punch him in the neck. "Dude, seriously? He goes from catatonic to Oprah friggin' Winfrey overnight and you don't find that at all suspicious?"
It is. It's suspicious as hell and there's a rock in his stomach because he knows, he knows, but he doesn't want to. He doesn't want to know. There are whole lobes of knowledge that Sam wishes he didn't have, didn't have to have, but this? This is the thing that he wants to forget the most because it's a part of him, too; it's a part of him and he can't change that, no matter how hard he tries. Icarus doesn't need to carry the same weight. It'll crush him. "Maybe he realizes he can trust us, Dean."
Dean snorts. "Last time I checked this wasn't a Disney flick, Pocahontas, so either he's hiding something or..." There's a thoughtful pause and then Dean shrugs and shakes his head. "Yeah, no, that's pretty much the only explanation."
Sam sighs. There's really no choice here. "Last night he... he had a nightmare."
"Kid escapes from Alcatraz, spends the better part of a year surviving on his own and he has a bad dream," Dean's brows lift. "that's shocking, Sam."
"It wasn't just... I don't think it was just a dream."
"Which means?"
"I think," Sam scrubs at his face, feels the sigh echo underneath his fingertips, skin humming with something like regret. He needs to shave. "that maybe he saw something."
His brother is still, every line of his body alert as he mulls this over. "Like a vision?"
"I don't know. Maybe. Yes."
"That's not..." Dean frowns and crosses his arms over his chest, shakes his head. "Is that even a genetic thing? You went Miss Cleo because of the demon blood, that isn't hardwired into your DNA. Hell, we don't even know if that shit is still in your system."
Sam's had dozens of blood tests. He had his appendix out when he was thirteen, needed a transfusion two years after that when a hunt went bad and he wound up with a severed profunda femoris. In high school there was a two month period where he suffered lightning bolt headaches; Dad had taken him to the local free clinic where an intern, obviously excited about a change from her normal schedule of seniors with gastrointestinal distress and knockabout kids with broken bones and bad lies to cover them, had jumped the gun and given them a preliminary diagnosis of a brain tumor. Dad had freaked the fuck out, as evidenced by his silent, smoldering fury as serum separator after serum separator was filled with Sam's blood, until bruises bloomed like chrysanthemum blossoms in the eyes of his elbows. There had been no tumor, of course. There had been nothing out of the ordinary, in fact, except for a low iron count which was quickly seized as the explanation for his malady and solved with a prescription for tablets and the recommendation to eat more red meat. The headaches had disappeared. They hadn't questioned it any further and years later, when Sam and Jess had gone to a blood drive that Alexis from PolySci had been spearheading, he'd been given the all-clear and two thumbs up; you have great blood, Sam, Alexis had smiled that smile of hers that made him think of clowns and summer, Make sure you come back next week, spread the wealth.
It should have been simple. Needle in, blood out, end of story. End of fucking story.
Sam shakes his head, jerks his shoulders in a shrug. "I dunno. But last night he was hurting, Dean, and whatever it was that caused it is something that he's afraid of. That he's afraid to let anybody know about. Sound familiar?"
His brother doesn't answer, and for a moment there's nothing but the drip-drip of the faucet and the hiss of the coffee pot as the dregs evaporate and the dull chirping of birds outside blending with steel clanging and Bobby's muffled cursing as he digs for some sought-after bit. Then his brother nods and smoothly moves to the doorway, smile fixed and thin as he reaches around the corner. There's an indignant squawk and when Dean backtracks, he's towing Alec with him; Alec, who's scowling and batting at Dean's hand that's wound in his tiny Zeppelin t-shirt. "Unhand me, you cad! This's assault," Alec growls. Dean snorts and swings the kid up onto the counter, faces him with raised eyebrows and crossed arms.
"We've talked about eavesdropping, Kitten," He says. Alec rolls his eyes.
"I wasn't eavesdropping. I was minding my own business in the vicinity of your conversation. Is it my fault that you two chitchat louder than a coupla girls with a pitcher of sangria at a sleepover?"
"Alec."
The kid's face tumbles from insolent bravado to surly guilt in two seconds flat. Only Dean can bring on that transition. Dean is God in his boy's world, and there's no mistaking that Alec is Dean's boy; as much as Sam loves him (like the sun, like the stars, infinitesimal), and as much as he knows Alec loves him, there's something between him and Dean that's theirs and theirs alone, some private space that only they can understand because they're one and the same and wholly different.
"M'sorry," Alec doesn't sound sorry. He sounds wounded. "I was just makin' sure you knew."
"Making sure we knew what?" There's no answer and Dean puts a hand on a small knee, thumb tracing a gentle circle over denim. "Knew what, buddy?"
Breath tumbles reluctantly from Alec's mouth and he looks at Sam, apology skating across green irises, before he says, "That the kid's a freak. He's dangerous."
This time when Dean exhales it's got a rough edge to it, exasperated weariness wrinkling the skin around his eyes as he squeezes them shut. "Alec, we talked about this."
"No, you talked," Alec is a lathe of frustration, jabbing at Dean with his finger, carving at his spinning refusal. "you didn't listen." His chest heaves as he struggles to corral his temper. Sam feels a sharp flare of pride as he watches the little boy--and for all that he insists he's not, it's exactly what Alec is--reign in the words that he wants to spit out, composes himself before he grits a continuance. "I was trying to tell you and you just kept sayin' shit about being understanding and extending patience and blah blah blah."
Well. A+ for effort, at least.
Sam rubs his palms on his jeans, feels awkwardness pool in the tips of his fingers as he tries to occupy them. "Alec?" Alec looks at him, hesitation shining. "What were you trying to say?"
Alec shrugs. "S'not like you even care. You just care about makin' him feel special and safe."
"We do." Sam nods. "Just like we care about you. Just like we care about Ben. What were you trying to say?"
Alec is quiet, bores holes into the wood floor until Dean clears his throat. "Kitten."
All it takes is a word.
"He's not like us," Alec sniffs, looks up with dry eyes. "He's not a soldier. He's different."
"You mean the dreams?" Sam asks, and Alec nods. "What's that mean, kiddo?" He's not sure what he's asking, beyond some vague need for an answer, any answer.
Alec shrugs. "He's not a soldier. He's... intel, sort of." They must look confused because Alec rolls his eyes again. "S'like... Chevy. So they made the Impala and it's badass and good-looking and pretty much the coolest thing ever, right? But they also made the Astro I and it was badass too except it was different, kind of weird."
Sam nods slowly and when he looks at Dean, his brother is fucking beaming. He grins at Sam. "Kid just made a car analogy, Sammy. S'my little genius."
"Dean. Big picture, here."
"Yeah, yeah," Dean waves him off, turns back to Alec. "So the kid's same make, different model?"
Alec nods. "Uh huh."
"What does that mean, Alec?"
"He's PsyOps."
There's a tremble in that statement and Sam doesn't want to push anymore, knows what it's costing. "And that's where--"
"Where they took us." Alec nods, won't look at him. "That's where they take everyone who needs to be reprogrammed."
He can't. He can't reconcile the memory of that place, concrete and fluorescent lighting and mind games and war, with the small figure in the next room, the chipmunk cheeks and baby teeth and little-boy deliberation. He can't do it and yet he knows it's the truth, even if he doesn't know what it means. What does it mean? What does that make Icarus?
Dean has Alec in his arms, is nodding over the small shoulder. "Okay. Okay, it's okay, that's good. It's alright, dude. You trust me?"
"Uh huh."
"You trust Sam?"
"Uh huh."
"Then you know you don't have to worry. We're gonna make sure everything's on the up-and-up."
"I know," Alec's hands are knotted in Dean's shirt, twisting the cotton, and they go white with effort. "S'not his fault. He's just a dumb kid. But you have to know. 'Cause if you don't know, you can't form a defense. You can't fix him."
And there it is. The thing that they've been pretending not to do for all their goddamn lives, driving across state lines and over borders to repair everything they can while the thing they can't sits front and centre in plain view. You can't fix him. Spread the wealth.
"Uncle Sam?" When Sam looks up, Alec is looking at him over Dean's shoulder with an earnest fierceness. It's steady and sure and Sam can feel it brush against his skin.
He says, "What is it, sweetheart?"
Alec holds out his hand and doesn't move until Sam crosses the space between them and folds his own palm over it. The strength in the small hand is startling against Sam's pulse. "You can fix him."
***
As is usually the case, Bobby knows someone who might be able to help them. The man has more contacts than an MI6 operative and it's both amazing and a little unsettling, considering his mild-mannered exterior. It only adds to his legend, the awe that circulates amongst hunting circles, and Sam's never been more grateful than he is now, when he's unmoored and drifting in waters that are both familiar and foreign. They don't know where to start so they're settling for trying to understand what they need to do for a kid who's head is liable to kill him if he doesn't know how to control it; which, granted, he probably knows how to do to some degree judging by the fact that he's still alive, but they can't take any chances. Sam knows firsthand how much it hurts, the sudden knife to the skull, flash of future ache behind the eyes. It can't be healthy for a child, but there's a woman in Illinois who can give them better insight: some sort of once-was child prodigy, a psychic shut-in who's connection to Bobby is vague. When they ask him about it he shrugs and turns away.
"If anyone can help, it'll be Zia," He says. "Just don't ask about her brother."
Dean's eyes light up with curiosity. "Why? There a deep dark family--"
"Dean, don't be a stupid ass. Her brother's off limits; you want any information, you'll remember that."
Sam leaves them with their back and forth, goes in search of Icarus. The kid's been AWOL all day, though he knows that he can't have gone far; Ben and Alec have been pulling sentry duty, disguising their watchfulness with casual expertise, playing Monopoly in the living room which affords them an unobstructed view of the front door, while he and Dean keep tabs on the back. He looks in on them as he heads for the stairs, smiles softly as Ben flicks Alec's silver top hat off of Park Place with a finger and decries his cheating ways in outrage. Real Estate fraud is not taken lightly by the Bank of Winchester, apparently. They're wrestling on the floor, laughing and growling like wriggly puppies, and he thinks about calling down a reminder to be careful before he dismisses the idea; it's one of the integral parts of being a brother, beating each other up in good-natured battle.
Upstairs the air is cooler, which defies the laws of physics. Sam rubs at his arms and checks in each room, finds them empty and undisturbed. He's about to try the attic when he hears shuffling and when he opens the hall closet, there's Russ, lying on his back with no shirt on and bare feet. His book is sprawled open, cover up, across his chest and he looks up at Sam with a thoughtful frown, interrupted during his... whatever he's doing.
"Hey dude," Sam says, staring. "Uh, what're you up to?"
"Contemplating," Icarus says, a little crease above his nose.
"Contemplating what?"
"Closets," Little feet walk their way up the wall, toes scrunching and stretching like a caterpillar militia. Russ scootches across the floor until his butt his flush against the wall, legs flat and right-angled with his torso. He looks up again. "I don't think it would be very fun livin' in one."
Oh god, he can't laugh. He can't laugh because the kid is so very, very sincere. Sam nods and crouches down, one hand still on the closet door. "There's not a lot of room," He agrees. "And it's pretty dusty."
"Yeah," Russ drums his fingers on the floor, bumps his heels on the wall. "And despite what Harry thinks, spiders wouldn't be very good company."
"No, they sure wouldn't," Sam watches the little boy intently, the way his chest rises and falls with each breath, skin paper-thin and ridged over his ribs. "Hey, what happened to your shirt?"
Icarus glares at a spot on the wall and pushes himself back, sits up and closes his book carefully. "It's too small."
That's not entirely true. If anything, the garment was a little too big if Sam's memory of this morning is right. Which it is. He makes a small noise in the back of his throat, neutral and non-judgmental. "Really? It looked pretty good at breakfast."
"I was pretending. It was choking me but I wanted to be polite and so I didn't say anything."
"Oh. Sorry. We'll find something that fits next time," Sam's not really sure what the deal is but it isn't really a big issue and if he's learned anything, it's to not make a battle out of something that isn't worth arguing over. Alec and Ben might be able to shed some light on the kid's wardrobe peculiarity; maybe if he leaves it alone, Russ will fill in the gaps himself. "Russ, can I talk to you for a minute?"
"You are talking to me."
Obviously. Sam smiles, laughs on a breath and nods. "Right. Uh, okay. Listen, Dean and I have to go somewhere."
"Where?" Russ folds his legs and peers at him gamely.
"To talk to a lady. She's a friend of Bobby's," He pauses and tries to sort out the words, says them carefully. "We're going to leave you here, with him. You and Alec and Ben."
He was expecting the boy to freeze, to tremble with tension, but he wasn't expecting the crestfallen, terrified look that flashes across Russ's face. There's a small palm pressing on his knee suddenly and Russ shakes his head. "Why? M'sorry, I didn't mean to wake you up, I didn't mean anything, m'sorry, Sam. I really didn't."
"It's got nothing to do with that, buddy," Sam covers the hand with his own, offers him a smile and tries to make it reassuring. "We just need to talk with her alone. You didn't do anything wrong."
"Is it about me?" Icarus's bottom lip wavers. Sam sighs.
"It's... about everything," Which isn't a lie, even if it isn't entirely truth, either. "You don't need to worry about it, though, okay? This is grown-up stuff."
It takes forever for Icarus to nod, his face betrayed and openly miserable as his head bobs up, then down, short and clipped; it's not much of an agreement but Sam's willing to take what he can get. There isn't any other choice, he tells himself. There isn't anything else they can do.
"Sam?" Russ is trying so hard to be still, to not look at him. "Are you comin' back?"
"Yes," Sam says it gunshot fast, reaches out and tilts Russ's head up until he can look at the boy, throat tight and sore. "We're coming back, I promise. You're safe here, Russ, you're safe here with Bobby and I know that's hard to believe but it's true." Sam is a terrible person. He's a terrible person because he ignores the way the kid starts to shake his head, presses on with, "I need you to do something really scary for me."
Icarus's breath is more like a sob when he asks, "W-what?"
Sam holds his gaze. The smile he offers isn't much against the zipping lines of tension that are flying between them but the boy seems to take hold of it and Sam squeezes his hand, gives him as much strength as he knows how, feels it echo in his bones. "I need you to trust us."
The whispered okay, when it comes, should feel like a victory.
It doesn't.
Sam wakes to the sweet, sweet smell of caffeine and he's sitting up before his eyes are even open, reaching out blindly to seek out this miracle. It's not the paperboard cup he's expecting that's pressed into his hands and no smartass comment comes with it, either, which confuses him enough to force an eyelid to sliver open. Icarus is sitting cross-legged in the space where Dean slept, tiny hands still wrapped around the steaming mug that he's trying to pass to Sam. The pajamas are gone, traded for a pair of dark jeans and one of the t-shirts, a blue affair with grey lining around the collar and sleeves that give the appearance of layers. His hair is tousled and teased into tumbleweed nests and there are still pale sleep-circles around his eyes and he's blinking owlishly at Sam.
"Dean said you like girl coffee," Icarus breaks the silence, drawing his hands away once Sam wraps his around the mug, bracing himself on his side with an elbow. "I didn't know that inanimate objects could be masculine or feminine in the English language."
"Mm," Sam grunts. It's about as eloquent as he's going to get. Bobby's, right. We're at Bobby's. He's stunned that Dean is actually awake before him, much less awake and apparently functional enough to brew coffee; that hasn't happened since Sam was old enough to get himself off to school (for the record: fifth grade, despite it not actually happening until tenth due to his overprotective ass of a brother.)
Icarus nods, though, like he's made a meaningful contribution to the conversation. "They are in French; coffee's masculine. So it's le café, not la café. Except you don't say it like that, if you want it, you say it how you like it. Dean likes café noir; that means he drinks it black. And you like café au lait, which means with milk," The boy frowns thoughtfully and knuckles sleepily at his nose. "That term's kind of inaccurate though because there's lots of sugar in yours, too. But it's still boy coffee. Maybe you should tell Dean."
It takes a good deal of self-control and a healthy sense of self-preservation for Sam to not choke on the hot drink. He makes another noise of agreement and swallows thoughtfully. The fact that Icarus is jabbering like he's on a caffeine high isn't lost on Sam, and he's not sure what to make of it. "Maybe you can tell him for me. Big brothers don't usually listen to little ones."
"Dean said that he knows everything."
"Oh yeah?"
"Yes. He said that to 4... to Alec when they were talking. They stopped when they saw me," A blush suffuses slowly onto Russ's cheeks and he averts his eyes, "I wasn't spying or anything, they just happened to be havin' a private conversation when I came in. It was stupid anyway, it was about waffles."
It wasn't about waffles. Sam knows that - they might have been saying waffles, but they didn't mean waffles because that's SOP in this family. You say exactly what you mean to say by not saying it at all. "You don't like waffles?"
"I don't know. I've never had them before. Dean says that's a crime against humanity."
"Sounds like Dean said a lot of stuff this morning."
"It's ten-oh-three, Sam. We've been awake forever. There's been a lot of shop talk."
"Shop talk?"
"That's what Dean called it. We didn't talk about shops, it's just an expression." Icarus sounds like he's talking to someone much younger, and he reaches out with a tentative hand to pat Sam's forearm, comforting him in his time of ignorance. Sam can't keep up. He's not sure what changed between last night and now, but the kid who was as silent as a Tibetan monk has suddenly had his switch flipped and what's more, doesn't seem to notice. Or maybe he just doesn't care enough to temper it. He's eager and practically stumbling over syllables as he chatters away, still skittish 'round the edges but trying visibly to ignore his instincts, and even though Sam's puzzled, it's a delightful confusion that he doesn't want to end. He gulps more coffee, shakes his head to clear away the hazy filaments of sleep.
"How's the noggin, dude?" Sam asks, and for an instant Icarus goes completely silent. The boy looks at him searchingly and it's such a piercing gaze that Sam instinctively glances away, casual and deliberate.
"It's fine," Russ finally says, then shrugs and scrunches his toes, little white knobs against the red checked material, makes them mouth at the soft lining of the spread sleeping bags. "Hey, Sam, what did one wall say to the other wall?"
Caught off guard, Sam can't help but stare at the hunched figure in front of him. He's telling a joke. Icarus, who's been an anxious knot of guarded suspicion and misplaced anger, is trying to tell him a joke. It's an obvious attempt at divergence, so much so that he can't ignore the bait--Sam's not about to force the kid to talk about something he's obviously not comfortable with, not at the risk of losing this tentative bridge that's been strung up in the span of hours--but he doesn't care. Little boys are supposed to tell jokes. They're supposed to and the fact that this one can, is capable of it despite everything after all, breeds a relief so real that Sam tastes it, honey-sweet underneath the smokey curl of Maxwell House. "I dunno, Icarus, what did one wall say to the other wall?"
Icarus draws in a breath and holds it, trying to create suspense before he delivers his punchline. "Meet you at the corner." His eyebrows rise as he waits for Sam to react. Sam doesn't disappoint, manages a chortle appreciative enough that Russ beams and it's that, more than anything else, that gets him to sit up and clear his throat, roll his shoulders and stretch. There's bustling noises in the kitchen and the distinctive scent of sweet pastry and sausages (where exactly Bobby manages to find actual meat and not the processed shit they serve at restaurants now is a mystery, but whenever they show up there's always links for breakfast and it's like a miracle, a homecoming) is taking over the house, rousing Sam's stomach.
"Dean told me that. It's geometric humor, Sam," Icarus says like it's the most amazing thing he's ever heard, voice awed and gleeful. Looking at his bright expression, the tiny fists resting on his knees as Russ leans forward in delight, Sam finds that he can't do anything but agree. He nods and makes a croaking noise as he gets to his feet, arching his back and twisting to pop the kinks out in a chorus of muted clicks. When he looks down, down, down Icarus has his hands laced over his head, is stretching in as close a mimic as he can. When he finishes he looks at Sam, waiting for a cue.
Sam clears his throat. "We should probably get some breakfast before it's all gone. Dean's right - you haven't lived until you've had Bobby's waffles."
They head towards the kitchen, the hems of Russ's pants scuffing along the carpet as he walks.
"Sam?" He asks just before they hit the threshold, and when Sam looks down there's a face full of embarrassed inquiry looking back. "Does Dean really know everything?"
"He likes to think he does."
"Does that mean yes?"
"It means he knows a lot," Sam concedes. Icarus considers this, frowns.
"But not everything?"
"No," Sam admits, smiling, "not everything."
Icarus nods. "I didn't think so. He didn't really answer when I asked him how many muscles cat's ears have, even though he said he knew."
This kid is too much, Sam thinks as he stares down at the completely serious boy. He wants to pick him up or ruffle his hair or something, would do it if he was sure that it wouldn't make him spiral into a panic. "Well... that's pretty obscure, buddy."
Russ makes a face. "32, Sam." The implied 'duh' hangs between them and for a moment he's overcome by an overwhelming sense of deja vu. He knows exactly how it feels to wield that tone because he made a career out of perfecting it, lobbing it at his father and brother just to prove that he was the resident expert on state capitals or photosynthesis or Star Trek or whatever the hell topic he happened to be obsessing over at the time; it's strange being on the other side of such self-assured knowledge, and he's caught between being enchanted at the sheer adorableness of it and marveling at the fact that neither Dad nor Dean strangled him before he reached double-digits.
He's not willing to admit that he, too, was previously ignorant regarding the muscular anatomy of felines, since doing so apparently reveals a serious lapse in his education. Sam steers them into the kitchen, to familiar territory where conversation is safely limited to satisfied hums and possessive claims over who gets the next ready waffle. Bobby's at the stove wielding a spatula in one hand and a mug of coffee in the other, poking at sizzling sausages in a cast-iron skillet and simultaneously keeping watch over the waffle iron on the counter. At the table, Alec and Ben and Dean are munching appreciatively, plates pooled with syrup and the canned pie filling that they're using to top their breakfast. There's an extra plate of picked-at waffle next to his brother, and Icarus skitters over and clambers up onto the chair that rests before it; Sam absently wonders if he abandoned it voluntarily to wake him, or if he was sent.
"Morning," He says to the room at large, voice still gravelly from sleep. Bobby's already crossing to the cabinet, hissing skillet in hand, to tug down another plate and Sam makes a small noise, moves to cut him off. "S'okay, Bobby, I can--"
"Don't go acting all chivalrous now, kid," The hunter interrupts him, waves him off with the spatula. "It ain't like I've never cooked you breakfast before."
Sam murmurs his thanks. "I'll do the dishes."
"Damn straight you will."
There's still a half-pot left on the warmer and Sam tops his mug off, reaches around Bobby to refill the older man's cup, before he shuffles to the table. Alec is doing his best not to look anywhere but his plate, devoting an impressive amount of concentration on dissecting his waffle into a myriad of perfect squares, scowl on his face. It's painfully obvious that while he's resisting making any more disparaging remarks, he's not happy about having an extra guest at the table. A particularly viscous stab at a piece of sausage makes Sam wince; they're going to have to be extra vigilant in making sure that he doesn't feel the need to employ one of the numerous plots he no doubt has in mind to get rid of this perceived interloper. Alec's a protective, loyal kid but he's also an evil genius.
Dean grins at him through a mouthful of food. It's fucking gross, which is why he does it, the bastard. "Sammy. You missed all the fun."
"So I hear," Sam says as he surveys the scarred wooden tabletop, grabs the butter. "You're omniscient, now?"
"What do you mean 'now'? I was born all-knowing."
"Uh huh. How many muscles were there in cat ears, again, Dean?"
Dean snorts, ferries a forkful of waffle to his lips. "Please. That's an insult to my intelligence."
"And yet, I don't hear you answering," Sam shrugs, feels a smirk tug at his mouth and smothers it. "Benny, can you pass the syrup please? It's 32, by the way."
Dean narrows his eyes and stares hard at him, green gaze angling suspiciously to Icarus and back again. He swallows his mouthful then points his fork at Sam. "Cheater."
Sam lifts a brow. "It's cheating to share recently-acquired information with my brother?"
"It's cheating when baby geniuses tell you the answer, cheater."
Icarus looks up from his plate then, where he's intently spreading the thick fruit spooned onto his waffle and shuffling the entire mess around. "I'm not a baby."
"Of course you're not," Dean agrees heartily. He surveys Icarus with a critical eye. "You're what, six, seven?"
Icarus shrugs.
Dean nods. "Yeah. You're not too far off from the big 1-0, kiddo. Three or four years and you'll be in the double-d's and it's all downhill from there."
"I don't know what that means. But m'not a baby. I have an impressive vocabulary'n I understand abstract concepts. Infants do not."
"Solid argument, pal. You got me."
"Do you yield?" Russ is suddenly perching on his knees, head cocked to the side as spears Dean with a fierce look. It's impressive and might be intimidating in a couple years when the kid gains a few inches and graduates from ankle-biter to kneecapper. Dean lifts his hands in surrender, eyes wide with mock terror.
Icarus nods and settles back down to eat, more than a little triumph in the set of his shoulders.
***
The plates are drying in the rack, Dawn scent rising from the cooling water in the sink, and Sam's rubbing oil into the skillet with a balled-up paper towel. The first time he ever got put on dish duty, he made the mistake of dropping the cast iron into the sudsy water and even though Bobby was easy enough about it, Sam never forgot the lesson in the proper maintenance of such fine cookware that followed. He's come to find a sort of peaceful satisfaction in the action now, gently skating the surface of the solid pan until it gleams black-slick and new. He tosses the now brown paper towel into the trash, pumps his fist when he sinks the three-pointer. He just won the NBA finals with that shot. The crowd goes wild.
When he turns around, Dean's there, leaning on the door frame with his hands in his pockets, an ankle hooked over the other. He's got the same fondly tolerant look on his face that he always has when Sam catches him watching him, wonder mixing with disbelief at the fact that they're actually related. When they were ten and six, twelve and seven, twenty and sixteen, it almost always came with a smartass comment about the depth of his geekery, remarks that made Sam want to punch Dean in his neck because it wasn't like his brother didn't mutter play-by-plays under his breath when they sparred and it certainly wasn't Sam who could talk for hours about the burden of being Ben Kenobi (and seriously, who even used terms like OT in rational debate anyway?)
Somewhere along the line, during the gap that he tried to fill with anything and everything maybe, he lost the urge to want to throttle Dean. Which isn't to say that his brother doesn't have an uncanny knack for irritating the shit out of Sam, sometimes, but just. Not with that, anymore, those quips and goddamn burns. Not when it's so clearly his way of expressing things he wouldn't dare say, lest his Steve McQueen cool be compromised.
It took Sam a longer than it should have to realize that.
"So," Dean says, breaking his train of thought. "What do you think he's hiding?"
Huh? Sam is lost. "What?" He says. "Who?"
Dean rolls his eyes and pushes off from the wall. "Icarus. C'mon, Sammy, get in the game."
"What makes you think he's hiding something?"
Dean stares at Sam like he's a moron. Sam kind of wants to punch him in the neck. "Dude, seriously? He goes from catatonic to Oprah friggin' Winfrey overnight and you don't find that at all suspicious?"
It is. It's suspicious as hell and there's a rock in his stomach because he knows, he knows, but he doesn't want to. He doesn't want to know. There are whole lobes of knowledge that Sam wishes he didn't have, didn't have to have, but this? This is the thing that he wants to forget the most because it's a part of him, too; it's a part of him and he can't change that, no matter how hard he tries. Icarus doesn't need to carry the same weight. It'll crush him. "Maybe he realizes he can trust us, Dean."
Dean snorts. "Last time I checked this wasn't a Disney flick, Pocahontas, so either he's hiding something or..." There's a thoughtful pause and then Dean shrugs and shakes his head. "Yeah, no, that's pretty much the only explanation."
Sam sighs. There's really no choice here. "Last night he... he had a nightmare."
"Kid escapes from Alcatraz, spends the better part of a year surviving on his own and he has a bad dream," Dean's brows lift. "that's shocking, Sam."
"It wasn't just... I don't think it was just a dream."
"Which means?"
"I think," Sam scrubs at his face, feels the sigh echo underneath his fingertips, skin humming with something like regret. He needs to shave. "that maybe he saw something."
His brother is still, every line of his body alert as he mulls this over. "Like a vision?"
"I don't know. Maybe. Yes."
"That's not..." Dean frowns and crosses his arms over his chest, shakes his head. "Is that even a genetic thing? You went Miss Cleo because of the demon blood, that isn't hardwired into your DNA. Hell, we don't even know if that shit is still in your system."
Sam's had dozens of blood tests. He had his appendix out when he was thirteen, needed a transfusion two years after that when a hunt went bad and he wound up with a severed profunda femoris. In high school there was a two month period where he suffered lightning bolt headaches; Dad had taken him to the local free clinic where an intern, obviously excited about a change from her normal schedule of seniors with gastrointestinal distress and knockabout kids with broken bones and bad lies to cover them, had jumped the gun and given them a preliminary diagnosis of a brain tumor. Dad had freaked the fuck out, as evidenced by his silent, smoldering fury as serum separator after serum separator was filled with Sam's blood, until bruises bloomed like chrysanthemum blossoms in the eyes of his elbows. There had been no tumor, of course. There had been nothing out of the ordinary, in fact, except for a low iron count which was quickly seized as the explanation for his malady and solved with a prescription for tablets and the recommendation to eat more red meat. The headaches had disappeared. They hadn't questioned it any further and years later, when Sam and Jess had gone to a blood drive that Alexis from PolySci had been spearheading, he'd been given the all-clear and two thumbs up; you have great blood, Sam, Alexis had smiled that smile of hers that made him think of clowns and summer, Make sure you come back next week, spread the wealth.
It should have been simple. Needle in, blood out, end of story. End of fucking story.
Sam shakes his head, jerks his shoulders in a shrug. "I dunno. But last night he was hurting, Dean, and whatever it was that caused it is something that he's afraid of. That he's afraid to let anybody know about. Sound familiar?"
His brother doesn't answer, and for a moment there's nothing but the drip-drip of the faucet and the hiss of the coffee pot as the dregs evaporate and the dull chirping of birds outside blending with steel clanging and Bobby's muffled cursing as he digs for some sought-after bit. Then his brother nods and smoothly moves to the doorway, smile fixed and thin as he reaches around the corner. There's an indignant squawk and when Dean backtracks, he's towing Alec with him; Alec, who's scowling and batting at Dean's hand that's wound in his tiny Zeppelin t-shirt. "Unhand me, you cad! This's assault," Alec growls. Dean snorts and swings the kid up onto the counter, faces him with raised eyebrows and crossed arms.
"We've talked about eavesdropping, Kitten," He says. Alec rolls his eyes.
"I wasn't eavesdropping. I was minding my own business in the vicinity of your conversation. Is it my fault that you two chitchat louder than a coupla girls with a pitcher of sangria at a sleepover?"
"Alec."
The kid's face tumbles from insolent bravado to surly guilt in two seconds flat. Only Dean can bring on that transition. Dean is God in his boy's world, and there's no mistaking that Alec is Dean's boy; as much as Sam loves him (like the sun, like the stars, infinitesimal), and as much as he knows Alec loves him, there's something between him and Dean that's theirs and theirs alone, some private space that only they can understand because they're one and the same and wholly different.
"M'sorry," Alec doesn't sound sorry. He sounds wounded. "I was just makin' sure you knew."
"Making sure we knew what?" There's no answer and Dean puts a hand on a small knee, thumb tracing a gentle circle over denim. "Knew what, buddy?"
Breath tumbles reluctantly from Alec's mouth and he looks at Sam, apology skating across green irises, before he says, "That the kid's a freak. He's dangerous."
This time when Dean exhales it's got a rough edge to it, exasperated weariness wrinkling the skin around his eyes as he squeezes them shut. "Alec, we talked about this."
"No, you talked," Alec is a lathe of frustration, jabbing at Dean with his finger, carving at his spinning refusal. "you didn't listen." His chest heaves as he struggles to corral his temper. Sam feels a sharp flare of pride as he watches the little boy--and for all that he insists he's not, it's exactly what Alec is--reign in the words that he wants to spit out, composes himself before he grits a continuance. "I was trying to tell you and you just kept sayin' shit about being understanding and extending patience and blah blah blah."
Well. A+ for effort, at least.
Sam rubs his palms on his jeans, feels awkwardness pool in the tips of his fingers as he tries to occupy them. "Alec?" Alec looks at him, hesitation shining. "What were you trying to say?"
Alec shrugs. "S'not like you even care. You just care about makin' him feel special and safe."
"We do." Sam nods. "Just like we care about you. Just like we care about Ben. What were you trying to say?"
Alec is quiet, bores holes into the wood floor until Dean clears his throat. "Kitten."
All it takes is a word.
"He's not like us," Alec sniffs, looks up with dry eyes. "He's not a soldier. He's different."
"You mean the dreams?" Sam asks, and Alec nods. "What's that mean, kiddo?" He's not sure what he's asking, beyond some vague need for an answer, any answer.
Alec shrugs. "He's not a soldier. He's... intel, sort of." They must look confused because Alec rolls his eyes again. "S'like... Chevy. So they made the Impala and it's badass and good-looking and pretty much the coolest thing ever, right? But they also made the Astro I and it was badass too except it was different, kind of weird."
Sam nods slowly and when he looks at Dean, his brother is fucking beaming. He grins at Sam. "Kid just made a car analogy, Sammy. S'my little genius."
"Dean. Big picture, here."
"Yeah, yeah," Dean waves him off, turns back to Alec. "So the kid's same make, different model?"
Alec nods. "Uh huh."
"What does that mean, Alec?"
"He's PsyOps."
There's a tremble in that statement and Sam doesn't want to push anymore, knows what it's costing. "And that's where--"
"Where they took us." Alec nods, won't look at him. "That's where they take everyone who needs to be reprogrammed."
He can't. He can't reconcile the memory of that place, concrete and fluorescent lighting and mind games and war, with the small figure in the next room, the chipmunk cheeks and baby teeth and little-boy deliberation. He can't do it and yet he knows it's the truth, even if he doesn't know what it means. What does it mean? What does that make Icarus?
Dean has Alec in his arms, is nodding over the small shoulder. "Okay. Okay, it's okay, that's good. It's alright, dude. You trust me?"
"Uh huh."
"You trust Sam?"
"Uh huh."
"Then you know you don't have to worry. We're gonna make sure everything's on the up-and-up."
"I know," Alec's hands are knotted in Dean's shirt, twisting the cotton, and they go white with effort. "S'not his fault. He's just a dumb kid. But you have to know. 'Cause if you don't know, you can't form a defense. You can't fix him."
And there it is. The thing that they've been pretending not to do for all their goddamn lives, driving across state lines and over borders to repair everything they can while the thing they can't sits front and centre in plain view. You can't fix him. Spread the wealth.
"Uncle Sam?" When Sam looks up, Alec is looking at him over Dean's shoulder with an earnest fierceness. It's steady and sure and Sam can feel it brush against his skin.
He says, "What is it, sweetheart?"
Alec holds out his hand and doesn't move until Sam crosses the space between them and folds his own palm over it. The strength in the small hand is startling against Sam's pulse. "You can fix him."
***
As is usually the case, Bobby knows someone who might be able to help them. The man has more contacts than an MI6 operative and it's both amazing and a little unsettling, considering his mild-mannered exterior. It only adds to his legend, the awe that circulates amongst hunting circles, and Sam's never been more grateful than he is now, when he's unmoored and drifting in waters that are both familiar and foreign. They don't know where to start so they're settling for trying to understand what they need to do for a kid who's head is liable to kill him if he doesn't know how to control it; which, granted, he probably knows how to do to some degree judging by the fact that he's still alive, but they can't take any chances. Sam knows firsthand how much it hurts, the sudden knife to the skull, flash of future ache behind the eyes. It can't be healthy for a child, but there's a woman in Illinois who can give them better insight: some sort of once-was child prodigy, a psychic shut-in who's connection to Bobby is vague. When they ask him about it he shrugs and turns away.
"If anyone can help, it'll be Zia," He says. "Just don't ask about her brother."
Dean's eyes light up with curiosity. "Why? There a deep dark family--"
"Dean, don't be a stupid ass. Her brother's off limits; you want any information, you'll remember that."
Sam leaves them with their back and forth, goes in search of Icarus. The kid's been AWOL all day, though he knows that he can't have gone far; Ben and Alec have been pulling sentry duty, disguising their watchfulness with casual expertise, playing Monopoly in the living room which affords them an unobstructed view of the front door, while he and Dean keep tabs on the back. He looks in on them as he heads for the stairs, smiles softly as Ben flicks Alec's silver top hat off of Park Place with a finger and decries his cheating ways in outrage. Real Estate fraud is not taken lightly by the Bank of Winchester, apparently. They're wrestling on the floor, laughing and growling like wriggly puppies, and he thinks about calling down a reminder to be careful before he dismisses the idea; it's one of the integral parts of being a brother, beating each other up in good-natured battle.
Upstairs the air is cooler, which defies the laws of physics. Sam rubs at his arms and checks in each room, finds them empty and undisturbed. He's about to try the attic when he hears shuffling and when he opens the hall closet, there's Russ, lying on his back with no shirt on and bare feet. His book is sprawled open, cover up, across his chest and he looks up at Sam with a thoughtful frown, interrupted during his... whatever he's doing.
"Hey dude," Sam says, staring. "Uh, what're you up to?"
"Contemplating," Icarus says, a little crease above his nose.
"Contemplating what?"
"Closets," Little feet walk their way up the wall, toes scrunching and stretching like a caterpillar militia. Russ scootches across the floor until his butt his flush against the wall, legs flat and right-angled with his torso. He looks up again. "I don't think it would be very fun livin' in one."
Oh god, he can't laugh. He can't laugh because the kid is so very, very sincere. Sam nods and crouches down, one hand still on the closet door. "There's not a lot of room," He agrees. "And it's pretty dusty."
"Yeah," Russ drums his fingers on the floor, bumps his heels on the wall. "And despite what Harry thinks, spiders wouldn't be very good company."
"No, they sure wouldn't," Sam watches the little boy intently, the way his chest rises and falls with each breath, skin paper-thin and ridged over his ribs. "Hey, what happened to your shirt?"
Icarus glares at a spot on the wall and pushes himself back, sits up and closes his book carefully. "It's too small."
That's not entirely true. If anything, the garment was a little too big if Sam's memory of this morning is right. Which it is. He makes a small noise in the back of his throat, neutral and non-judgmental. "Really? It looked pretty good at breakfast."
"I was pretending. It was choking me but I wanted to be polite and so I didn't say anything."
"Oh. Sorry. We'll find something that fits next time," Sam's not really sure what the deal is but it isn't really a big issue and if he's learned anything, it's to not make a battle out of something that isn't worth arguing over. Alec and Ben might be able to shed some light on the kid's wardrobe peculiarity; maybe if he leaves it alone, Russ will fill in the gaps himself. "Russ, can I talk to you for a minute?"
"You are talking to me."
Obviously. Sam smiles, laughs on a breath and nods. "Right. Uh, okay. Listen, Dean and I have to go somewhere."
"Where?" Russ folds his legs and peers at him gamely.
"To talk to a lady. She's a friend of Bobby's," He pauses and tries to sort out the words, says them carefully. "We're going to leave you here, with him. You and Alec and Ben."
He was expecting the boy to freeze, to tremble with tension, but he wasn't expecting the crestfallen, terrified look that flashes across Russ's face. There's a small palm pressing on his knee suddenly and Russ shakes his head. "Why? M'sorry, I didn't mean to wake you up, I didn't mean anything, m'sorry, Sam. I really didn't."
"It's got nothing to do with that, buddy," Sam covers the hand with his own, offers him a smile and tries to make it reassuring. "We just need to talk with her alone. You didn't do anything wrong."
"Is it about me?" Icarus's bottom lip wavers. Sam sighs.
"It's... about everything," Which isn't a lie, even if it isn't entirely truth, either. "You don't need to worry about it, though, okay? This is grown-up stuff."
It takes forever for Icarus to nod, his face betrayed and openly miserable as his head bobs up, then down, short and clipped; it's not much of an agreement but Sam's willing to take what he can get. There isn't any other choice, he tells himself. There isn't anything else they can do.
"Sam?" Russ is trying so hard to be still, to not look at him. "Are you comin' back?"
"Yes," Sam says it gunshot fast, reaches out and tilts Russ's head up until he can look at the boy, throat tight and sore. "We're coming back, I promise. You're safe here, Russ, you're safe here with Bobby and I know that's hard to believe but it's true." Sam is a terrible person. He's a terrible person because he ignores the way the kid starts to shake his head, presses on with, "I need you to do something really scary for me."
Icarus's breath is more like a sob when he asks, "W-what?"
Sam holds his gaze. The smile he offers isn't much against the zipping lines of tension that are flying between them but the boy seems to take hold of it and Sam squeezes his hand, gives him as much strength as he knows how, feels it echo in his bones. "I need you to trust us."
The whispered okay, when it comes, should feel like a victory.
It doesn't.