Lacrimosa, 2/?
Again, I cannot stress enough how much you must read
The Wellspring before you even glance at this.
scourgeofeurope* is the author and she's created an achingly real world that I merely splash pitifully in.
Once again for posterity, the origins of Icarus can be found here and here.
ALSO. You guys, thank you so much for your reviews on the first chapter. I meant to get to each and every one of them but then life happened (see previous post) and I've been stuck away from home in a not nice situation. Thankfully it's all cleared up but I wanted to make sure that you all knew how much I appreciated the lovely responses, all of them. I promise to try and keep on top of them much better as I know how much I appreciate it when an author tries to fistbump me back. =)
Title: Lacrimosa (pt 2/?)
Author: [info]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: The way to a mistrusting clone's heart, is through chicken nuggets.
Disclaimer: If I owned them, I would be cuddling with them right now, not posting on the internet.
Author's Note: This is entirely because the love of my life (
scourgeofeurope* for those of you not paying attention) created a stunningly beautiful world and was gracious enough to let me muck about in it. She's handheld me through the last couple of weeks (*stabs life*) and is genuinely one of the nicest, cleverest women I've ever had the privilege of knowing. ILU. *glomps*
Previous Chapter(s)
1
He's not afraid when he goes with them, the green-eyed man and his monolithic little brother and the two fellow transgenics. It has nothing to do with the way they're speaking to him, in low, reassuring tones that try and appeal to his base instincts, the ones which identify friend from foe and trigger a discharge of the sympathetic nervous system, priming his body for fight or flight in natural biological safeguard. It has nothing to do with the one who calls himself Ben, either. He doesn't need reassurance about the moral character of Dean and Sam Winchester. He already knows. He knew the minute he saw the roaring black monster pull into the dirty, broken-down fuel station.
Icarus was bred for a reason. He's very well manufactured for his purpose. They always said so. "You're an ideal specimen, X6-785." They said. "You have potential." And he did; does. Icarus was bred to dream. He does so still, just like he did back There, only this time there are no oneirology reports. No EEG recordings. No stimulants in hypodermic chambers waiting to bite him. This time there are just the endless cycles of patterns and images that sometimes wake him up and make his stomach jerk and roll until he curls up knees-to-nose and makes himself shrink, until he's tiny and invisible.
Dreams are just a series of images, ideas, emotions and sensations occurring involuntarily in the mind during certain stages of sleep. They aren't real. They can't hurt you.
But they can help you if you're very well created. If you're bred to weave them like gossamer cobwebs, they can mean something. They can make you unafraid.
Icarus isn't afraid when he goes with them, Dean and Sam and Ben and Alec.
He's seen their car before.
***
Sam likes plants. They're pretty and vital to maintaining ecological balance and are the basis of inspiration for biological warfare, which is pretty impressive when you consider the scope and span of human dissent. Sam's especially fond of the plants you can eat; they're healthy and nutritionally dense and delicious. He likes lettuce and kale and believes you can't go wrong with an arugula and fennel salad, especially in the hot summer months when the air is too thick and rolling to eat the usual stodgy takeout fare. At Stanford, all that time ago, he used to frequent the juice bar on campus, get a shot of wheatgrass and a Tropical Twister smoothie and roll the taste of fresh mown lawn around on his tongue until it faded away, chased by pineapple and mango. But as much as Sam likes plants the cold hard truth is that the human body can't digest most leaves and grass. It lacks the necessary enzymes to properly break down the cellulose contained in them. The bulk of all green matter just sits there in the intestines, bare and untouched until it can be flushed out with the rest of the garbage, unprocessed and unused.
He feels like he has a belly full of undigested vegetation. He can feel it, a hard-packed lump, sitting low and heavy in his gut, making it hard to get a good breath. He hasn't actually eaten since breakfast yesterday when the Sunday Sunshine Special at Ye Olde Diner in Cold Springs had him heaving in a ditch an hour after he finished it, confirming his belief that, along with plants, the body wasn't meant to process three kinds of meat in one sitting, Dean's example be damned. The kids had thought it terrifically amusing, laughed for hours and -- oh god, the kids and now he's back to thinking about it again. Sam flinches, an insect-sting jerk of a movement, and he hears a startled noise behind him. When he turns around, Icarus is wide-eyed and gripping the bench seat, hovering a half inch above the blanket-covered upholstery like he's not quite sure whether he should run or freeze or hit or hide. Shit.
"It's okay." Sam means to say it but the voice belongs to Ben and it's a much smaller hand than his that reaches out to the shaggy-haired vagabond and tentatively pats his shoulder. Icarus watches Sam for a moment longer, body humming with uncertainty, before he lowers himself back down. He brings his knees to his chest, feet bare since he cast off the scraps that passed for shoes a few miles ago, and wraps his spidery arms around them. He's so very, very small.
They're parked outside a small mom-and-pop restaurant, a cheery yellow building with red scalloped trellis and green curtains tied back in the corners of the large windows. Dean is inside getting food. They can't go in - not with Icarus looking like the ugly, unwanted stepchild and not with Sam in the middle of freaking out. Which is what he's doing. He's freaking out.
As far as he's concerned it's a perfectly rational reaction to the situation.
Unfortunately his brother doesn't agree. Dean keeps glancing at him, furious, impatient, understanding little snaps of green gaze with his mouth turned down hard and firm. Every few miles he'll clear his throat and say something, make a comment on the giant cow they just passed or ask Icarus if he's ever been to South Dakota before even though the child does nothing more than stare silently. Then he looks at Sam who does nothing more than stare silently and waits. An eyebrow arches in a clear dude, c'mon motion and he tries to prompt Sam to say something, anything.
Sam can't say anything. Sam is mute. There is a Lilliputian-shaped Sam in the backseat who has snatched Brobdingnagian-shaped Sam's voice and cleverly circumvented the flow of words from his brain to his mouth.
Jesus fuck. Jesus fuck.
Almost all the words, then. Sam doesn't even realize he's spoken them aloud until the whispered rasp of a quiet snort echoes up from the backseat and he turns around again, smiles apologetically with his eyes to Alec who isn't grinning like he should be at his uncharacteristic outburst. "Sorry buddy."
Alec waves a dismissive hand. "M'not a delicate flower, Uncle Sam. I have street cred."
This time it's Sam who chuffs air and shakes his head. He reaches out and brushes blunt-edged fingertips across the frayed denim that covers a small knee, tries to ignore the way Icarus shrinks back a little with an intensely puzzled look on his face. Kid looks for all the world like he's just seen them transform into talking monkeys and his small head is tilting to the side like an owl's, like he's trying to put the pieces together by physically shifting the view. His lips are pinching and there's a question resting on the edge of them, just waiting to be pushed out by his tongue and Sam's suddenly got a question too, is about to ask it when the driver's side door opens and four paper sacks, bottoms already stained transparent with grease, are being shoved in his face.
Dean winks at him as he slides in, reaches for the bags as soon as his ass hits the leather. Alec and Ben lean forward eagerly as paper-wrapped burgers are passed back to them, then a fistful of napkins that come with the cheerful warning that if they spill anything, Dean will strap them to the roof until they hit the Nebraska state line. Icarus' eyes go very wide and he shrinks back even farther if that's possible, practically wearing a rut in the seat; he visibly twitches when Dean looks at him, then goes deathly still, face a mask of unsure terror.
Dean holds up two bags. "Beef or chicken, kiddo?" He's using a different voice. It's not soft so much as it is gentle, the same voice that Sam's heard him use when he talks about their father.
Icarus is silent.
"When Sam was little," Dean says, pausing to roll his eyes because, yeah, it's been a long time since Sam fit that particular description, "He was a nugget man. Wouldn't touch an all-American cheeseburger for anything, the commie." Dean's hand slips into one of the bags, pulls out a small styrofoam box and casually pops the top open, releasing a curl of steam from the golden strips of breaded meat piled inside. He reaches in and snags one, takes a bite and Sam's pretty goddamn sure that if it weren't for the astounding level of fucked upness that characterizes being a Winchester, Dean could have made it big as an actor. He makes that chicken nugget look like New York strip. Dean licks his fingers, cocks an eyebrow and then holds the take out box over the edge of the seat, halfway to Icarus.
One beat, two beats, three; finally a trembling hand inches forward towards the food. Dean doesn't move, just keeps his eyes fixed on the little boy as he gets nearer and nearer. Russ' hand hovers over the offering for a moment before it snaps closed, fisting three of the nuggets before it is yanked back protectively to the stuttering chest. Dean smiles; hands the box to Ben who flashes the same encouraging smile as he sets it on the seat where it is readily available.
It makes Sam's throat hurt to watch his doppelganger inhale the food, not bothering to chew or breathe or taste. Surely the boy will choke, the way he's swallowing chunks without discrimination, greedy little gasps of breath jerking out of him as he methodically puts it away. It makes Sam's throat hurt and his stomach twist and his hands curl into angry fists at his sides because nothing so small should ever have a hunger so large.
Jesus fuck.
There's a limp salad at the bottom of the bag by Sam's knee. He ignores it as they pull out of the parking lot, spraying gravel and dust behind them. He's lost his appetite.
***
Icarus is asleep when they stop for the night, another forgettable motel along another inconsequential strip of road. This place has no meaning for them, is just a stopping-off point where they'll recharge before flying off to homier nests, nobler pursuits. It's cheap and the night clerk doesn't look at Dean once as he swipes a meaningless credit card and tells him that they're out of coffee so not to bother counting on the continental breakfast in the morning. It's not a great loss; cheap, watery caffeine and stale donuts aren't much of a perk in any state, geographically or metaphorically speaking.
Sam is ushering Alec and Ben out of the car, nodding with sympathetic weariness as they tell him they're stiff, goddamnit, and they don't want to drive more tomorrow because driving is tedious when you have to sit in the backseat the entire time with hardly any room at all to stretch. It isn't said but the implied because of the interloper lurks so predominantly that it might as well have been. Ben doesn't look offended by this fact, just acknowledges it, but Alec's tone is ripe with personal indignation. Sam presses a backpack into his suspicious, angry little arms and lightly tweaks one ear. "It'll be better tomorrow, buddy."
"Why? Are we leavin' the kid here?"
"No." No, they're not leaving the kid here. They can't. They won't. "It'll just be better, okay?"
And then Dean's there and he's scooping up clones like they're bootlegged Zeppelin recordings in a blowout bin, pretending to stagger under their dual weight as he carries them to their room. Sam watches him go and then looks down into the passenger seat. It's dark out and the clouds are heavy, there's not a puddle of moonlight to see by, but he can still make out the small shadowed frame folded over on itself, can still hear the soft, even breaths that hitch ever so slightly on occasion.
He's not sure what... should he wake him up? Is that what he's supposed to do? If it were Alec or Ben he'd just sling them up to lay against his shoulder, like John used to do when he was small and fell asleep or pretended to just so he could hitch a ride in his Dad's arms. If it were Alec or Ben, Sam wouldn't be standing here wondering what the plan should be, what it needs to be, and whether or not he ought to just cop out and take both of the duffels, leave Dean to sort out what is what when it comes to this new and tenuous passenger.
Sam wants to punch himself in the face. He's a goddamn idiot. He's a goddamn idiot and he's still freaking the fuck out and he has to stop because he's a grown man and he has kids and grown men with kids don't have the luxury of freaking out.
He shakes his head and quietly leans down, puts large hands under thin arms and lifts the boy out of the car. Sam doesn't even have time to shift the small body so he can close the door before he's gripping a hurricane, thrashing limbs and twisting torso assaulting him with violent force even as terrified pants of protest screech out of his cargo and twist in the night air, raspy and rough like the edges of the clouds.
"Hey, hey, it's okay," Sam's heart drops as the boy goes suddenly boneless and lists to the side, recovering just in time to catch him before he can death dive onto the dirty pavement. He kneels, sets Icarus on his feet and is startled by how quickly the child backs away from him, stopping when he bumps against the Impala. Icarus is grey-white and shaking so hard Sam can hear his joints clicking. Frantic eyes watch him with a mixture of panic and grim determination so vibrant that Sam sways back a little, the earlier ache returning to his throat. He holds up his hands slowly, placatingly. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you."
"M'not scared." Icarus whispers. It's a lie but there's a fierceness to it as if the boy is trying to make himself believe it as much as Sam. "Not of you."
Sam nods. "Okay. I'm sorry."
"I don't like that."
"I'm sorry."
"You shouldn't wake people up like that." And now the small voice is accusatory. Icarus' eyebrows angle downwards. He's angry, Sam realizes in a flash. Angry for being caught unaware, angry for freaking out, angry for letting Sam see him do so. "You shouldn't do that. I'm not scared, but you really shouldn't do that. It confuses people. It confuses their subconscious and you shouldn't do that."
Sam nods again. His hands are still up and it's awkward but he's not sure what else to do with them. "You're right. I wasn't thinking. I'm sorry."
Icarus stares at him with hard eyes for a moment more before darting a glance around. He's still standing stiff as a board, swaying slightly on his feet as he tries to clear his sleep-addled mind. "Where are we?"
"At a motel; we're staying here, just for the night."
"Where?"
"Just outside of Emory Falls. About eighty miles from the state line."
The small shoulders relax somewhat at this knowlege, as if the knowing makes it easier for him to trust Sam, just a little. "Are they inside?"
"Dean and Alec and Ben?"
"Yes."
Sam almost smiles. He nods instead. "Yeah, they're inside. They're pretty tired." He pauses and finally rests his hands on his thighs, slowly pushes to stand up. Icarus' eyes widen slightly but he doesn't move, his glower doesn't waver. Sam swallows and then holds out a hand. "You ready to join them?"
He's not going to take it. Icarus isn't going to take his hand and he's not going to go inside and he's not going to stay with Sam and Dean, Sam can feel it, can see it in the reluctant draw of tiny shoulders and he closes his eyes because he's not good at this. For all the talking he does, Sam is really not fucking good at this and never has been, has always been too unsure with himself to maneuver the complicated lines of relationships without tripping up along the way.
He's startled when he feels little fingers wrap around his own. He opens his eyes and Icarus is looking up at him, still an arms length away but an arm that's connected to Sam's, albeit loosely. They regard each other carefully and then Russ nods. Sam swallows. His own hand curls carefully around it's new companion. "Okay then."
"Okay." Russ echoes.
They walk to the room together and when they enter, Dean looks up, looks at their hands which are coming unmoored as they cross the threshold and relief spills across his face. Sam closes the door, twists the deadbolt and sets the chain and feels that same relief mirrored in his own expression, spilling over him in a wave that he tries to hide by coughing before he turns around. Dean looks at him and he knows. Sam can never fool his brother.
There's an awkward silence, Russ standing in the middle of the room, Dean on one side and Sam on the other, and then Sam clears his throat. "I'll get you a shirt to sleep in, Icarus."
"Russ." Dean corrects immediately. "Don't be so formal, Sammy. We're all family."
And there's that puzzled look again on Icarus' face, the canted head and the little frown. He shakes it off after a few seconds and looks at Sam, draws a breath and hesitates. Sam smiles.
"It's okay; what is it?"
There's another endless pause and Sam's about to just give the kid a break and start digging in his duffle when Russ licks his lips and says, "M'like blue."
Sam can't stop it this time. His grin is swift and his exhalation is a soft laugh as Dean starts rummaging in his bag, holds up a faded blue t-shirt over the kid's head and flashes a thumbs up. It's going to be miles too big.
"Hey," He says. "Me too."
It's not much, the barest of connections, fingertips skimming a pulse, but it's there. It's something. It's a start and the hardest part of anything is figuring out where you're coming from. The second hardest part is figuring out where you're going, but it's more than Sam's willing to tackle tonight. Tonight is a trailhead. Tomorrow they'll start the trek.
Next part...
The Wellspring before you even glance at this.
scourgeofeurope* is the author and she's created an achingly real world that I merely splash pitifully in.
Once again for posterity, the origins of Icarus can be found here and here.
ALSO. You guys, thank you so much for your reviews on the first chapter. I meant to get to each and every one of them but then life happened (see previous post) and I've been stuck away from home in a not nice situation. Thankfully it's all cleared up but I wanted to make sure that you all knew how much I appreciated the lovely responses, all of them. I promise to try and keep on top of them much better as I know how much I appreciate it when an author tries to fistbump me back. =)
Title: Lacrimosa (pt 2/?)
Author: [info]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: The way to a mistrusting clone's heart, is through chicken nuggets.
Disclaimer: If I owned them, I would be cuddling with them right now, not posting on the internet.
Author's Note: This is entirely because the love of my life (
scourgeofeurope* for those of you not paying attention) created a stunningly beautiful world and was gracious enough to let me muck about in it. She's handheld me through the last couple of weeks (*stabs life*) and is genuinely one of the nicest, cleverest women I've ever had the privilege of knowing. ILU. *glomps*
Previous Chapter(s)
1
He's not afraid when he goes with them, the green-eyed man and his monolithic little brother and the two fellow transgenics. It has nothing to do with the way they're speaking to him, in low, reassuring tones that try and appeal to his base instincts, the ones which identify friend from foe and trigger a discharge of the sympathetic nervous system, priming his body for fight or flight in natural biological safeguard. It has nothing to do with the one who calls himself Ben, either. He doesn't need reassurance about the moral character of Dean and Sam Winchester. He already knows. He knew the minute he saw the roaring black monster pull into the dirty, broken-down fuel station.
Icarus was bred for a reason. He's very well manufactured for his purpose. They always said so. "You're an ideal specimen, X6-785." They said. "You have potential." And he did; does. Icarus was bred to dream. He does so still, just like he did back There, only this time there are no oneirology reports. No EEG recordings. No stimulants in hypodermic chambers waiting to bite him. This time there are just the endless cycles of patterns and images that sometimes wake him up and make his stomach jerk and roll until he curls up knees-to-nose and makes himself shrink, until he's tiny and invisible.
Dreams are just a series of images, ideas, emotions and sensations occurring involuntarily in the mind during certain stages of sleep. They aren't real. They can't hurt you.
But they can help you if you're very well created. If you're bred to weave them like gossamer cobwebs, they can mean something. They can make you unafraid.
Icarus isn't afraid when he goes with them, Dean and Sam and Ben and Alec.
He's seen their car before.
***
Sam likes plants. They're pretty and vital to maintaining ecological balance and are the basis of inspiration for biological warfare, which is pretty impressive when you consider the scope and span of human dissent. Sam's especially fond of the plants you can eat; they're healthy and nutritionally dense and delicious. He likes lettuce and kale and believes you can't go wrong with an arugula and fennel salad, especially in the hot summer months when the air is too thick and rolling to eat the usual stodgy takeout fare. At Stanford, all that time ago, he used to frequent the juice bar on campus, get a shot of wheatgrass and a Tropical Twister smoothie and roll the taste of fresh mown lawn around on his tongue until it faded away, chased by pineapple and mango. But as much as Sam likes plants the cold hard truth is that the human body can't digest most leaves and grass. It lacks the necessary enzymes to properly break down the cellulose contained in them. The bulk of all green matter just sits there in the intestines, bare and untouched until it can be flushed out with the rest of the garbage, unprocessed and unused.
He feels like he has a belly full of undigested vegetation. He can feel it, a hard-packed lump, sitting low and heavy in his gut, making it hard to get a good breath. He hasn't actually eaten since breakfast yesterday when the Sunday Sunshine Special at Ye Olde Diner in Cold Springs had him heaving in a ditch an hour after he finished it, confirming his belief that, along with plants, the body wasn't meant to process three kinds of meat in one sitting, Dean's example be damned. The kids had thought it terrifically amusing, laughed for hours and -- oh god, the kids and now he's back to thinking about it again. Sam flinches, an insect-sting jerk of a movement, and he hears a startled noise behind him. When he turns around, Icarus is wide-eyed and gripping the bench seat, hovering a half inch above the blanket-covered upholstery like he's not quite sure whether he should run or freeze or hit or hide. Shit.
"It's okay." Sam means to say it but the voice belongs to Ben and it's a much smaller hand than his that reaches out to the shaggy-haired vagabond and tentatively pats his shoulder. Icarus watches Sam for a moment longer, body humming with uncertainty, before he lowers himself back down. He brings his knees to his chest, feet bare since he cast off the scraps that passed for shoes a few miles ago, and wraps his spidery arms around them. He's so very, very small.
They're parked outside a small mom-and-pop restaurant, a cheery yellow building with red scalloped trellis and green curtains tied back in the corners of the large windows. Dean is inside getting food. They can't go in - not with Icarus looking like the ugly, unwanted stepchild and not with Sam in the middle of freaking out. Which is what he's doing. He's freaking out.
As far as he's concerned it's a perfectly rational reaction to the situation.
Unfortunately his brother doesn't agree. Dean keeps glancing at him, furious, impatient, understanding little snaps of green gaze with his mouth turned down hard and firm. Every few miles he'll clear his throat and say something, make a comment on the giant cow they just passed or ask Icarus if he's ever been to South Dakota before even though the child does nothing more than stare silently. Then he looks at Sam who does nothing more than stare silently and waits. An eyebrow arches in a clear dude, c'mon motion and he tries to prompt Sam to say something, anything.
Sam can't say anything. Sam is mute. There is a Lilliputian-shaped Sam in the backseat who has snatched Brobdingnagian-shaped Sam's voice and cleverly circumvented the flow of words from his brain to his mouth.
Jesus fuck. Jesus fuck.
Almost all the words, then. Sam doesn't even realize he's spoken them aloud until the whispered rasp of a quiet snort echoes up from the backseat and he turns around again, smiles apologetically with his eyes to Alec who isn't grinning like he should be at his uncharacteristic outburst. "Sorry buddy."
Alec waves a dismissive hand. "M'not a delicate flower, Uncle Sam. I have street cred."
This time it's Sam who chuffs air and shakes his head. He reaches out and brushes blunt-edged fingertips across the frayed denim that covers a small knee, tries to ignore the way Icarus shrinks back a little with an intensely puzzled look on his face. Kid looks for all the world like he's just seen them transform into talking monkeys and his small head is tilting to the side like an owl's, like he's trying to put the pieces together by physically shifting the view. His lips are pinching and there's a question resting on the edge of them, just waiting to be pushed out by his tongue and Sam's suddenly got a question too, is about to ask it when the driver's side door opens and four paper sacks, bottoms already stained transparent with grease, are being shoved in his face.
Dean winks at him as he slides in, reaches for the bags as soon as his ass hits the leather. Alec and Ben lean forward eagerly as paper-wrapped burgers are passed back to them, then a fistful of napkins that come with the cheerful warning that if they spill anything, Dean will strap them to the roof until they hit the Nebraska state line. Icarus' eyes go very wide and he shrinks back even farther if that's possible, practically wearing a rut in the seat; he visibly twitches when Dean looks at him, then goes deathly still, face a mask of unsure terror.
Dean holds up two bags. "Beef or chicken, kiddo?" He's using a different voice. It's not soft so much as it is gentle, the same voice that Sam's heard him use when he talks about their father.
Icarus is silent.
"When Sam was little," Dean says, pausing to roll his eyes because, yeah, it's been a long time since Sam fit that particular description, "He was a nugget man. Wouldn't touch an all-American cheeseburger for anything, the commie." Dean's hand slips into one of the bags, pulls out a small styrofoam box and casually pops the top open, releasing a curl of steam from the golden strips of breaded meat piled inside. He reaches in and snags one, takes a bite and Sam's pretty goddamn sure that if it weren't for the astounding level of fucked upness that characterizes being a Winchester, Dean could have made it big as an actor. He makes that chicken nugget look like New York strip. Dean licks his fingers, cocks an eyebrow and then holds the take out box over the edge of the seat, halfway to Icarus.
One beat, two beats, three; finally a trembling hand inches forward towards the food. Dean doesn't move, just keeps his eyes fixed on the little boy as he gets nearer and nearer. Russ' hand hovers over the offering for a moment before it snaps closed, fisting three of the nuggets before it is yanked back protectively to the stuttering chest. Dean smiles; hands the box to Ben who flashes the same encouraging smile as he sets it on the seat where it is readily available.
It makes Sam's throat hurt to watch his doppelganger inhale the food, not bothering to chew or breathe or taste. Surely the boy will choke, the way he's swallowing chunks without discrimination, greedy little gasps of breath jerking out of him as he methodically puts it away. It makes Sam's throat hurt and his stomach twist and his hands curl into angry fists at his sides because nothing so small should ever have a hunger so large.
Jesus fuck.
There's a limp salad at the bottom of the bag by Sam's knee. He ignores it as they pull out of the parking lot, spraying gravel and dust behind them. He's lost his appetite.
***
Icarus is asleep when they stop for the night, another forgettable motel along another inconsequential strip of road. This place has no meaning for them, is just a stopping-off point where they'll recharge before flying off to homier nests, nobler pursuits. It's cheap and the night clerk doesn't look at Dean once as he swipes a meaningless credit card and tells him that they're out of coffee so not to bother counting on the continental breakfast in the morning. It's not a great loss; cheap, watery caffeine and stale donuts aren't much of a perk in any state, geographically or metaphorically speaking.
Sam is ushering Alec and Ben out of the car, nodding with sympathetic weariness as they tell him they're stiff, goddamnit, and they don't want to drive more tomorrow because driving is tedious when you have to sit in the backseat the entire time with hardly any room at all to stretch. It isn't said but the implied because of the interloper lurks so predominantly that it might as well have been. Ben doesn't look offended by this fact, just acknowledges it, but Alec's tone is ripe with personal indignation. Sam presses a backpack into his suspicious, angry little arms and lightly tweaks one ear. "It'll be better tomorrow, buddy."
"Why? Are we leavin' the kid here?"
"No." No, they're not leaving the kid here. They can't. They won't. "It'll just be better, okay?"
And then Dean's there and he's scooping up clones like they're bootlegged Zeppelin recordings in a blowout bin, pretending to stagger under their dual weight as he carries them to their room. Sam watches him go and then looks down into the passenger seat. It's dark out and the clouds are heavy, there's not a puddle of moonlight to see by, but he can still make out the small shadowed frame folded over on itself, can still hear the soft, even breaths that hitch ever so slightly on occasion.
He's not sure what... should he wake him up? Is that what he's supposed to do? If it were Alec or Ben he'd just sling them up to lay against his shoulder, like John used to do when he was small and fell asleep or pretended to just so he could hitch a ride in his Dad's arms. If it were Alec or Ben, Sam wouldn't be standing here wondering what the plan should be, what it needs to be, and whether or not he ought to just cop out and take both of the duffels, leave Dean to sort out what is what when it comes to this new and tenuous passenger.
Sam wants to punch himself in the face. He's a goddamn idiot. He's a goddamn idiot and he's still freaking the fuck out and he has to stop because he's a grown man and he has kids and grown men with kids don't have the luxury of freaking out.
He shakes his head and quietly leans down, puts large hands under thin arms and lifts the boy out of the car. Sam doesn't even have time to shift the small body so he can close the door before he's gripping a hurricane, thrashing limbs and twisting torso assaulting him with violent force even as terrified pants of protest screech out of his cargo and twist in the night air, raspy and rough like the edges of the clouds.
"Hey, hey, it's okay," Sam's heart drops as the boy goes suddenly boneless and lists to the side, recovering just in time to catch him before he can death dive onto the dirty pavement. He kneels, sets Icarus on his feet and is startled by how quickly the child backs away from him, stopping when he bumps against the Impala. Icarus is grey-white and shaking so hard Sam can hear his joints clicking. Frantic eyes watch him with a mixture of panic and grim determination so vibrant that Sam sways back a little, the earlier ache returning to his throat. He holds up his hands slowly, placatingly. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you."
"M'not scared." Icarus whispers. It's a lie but there's a fierceness to it as if the boy is trying to make himself believe it as much as Sam. "Not of you."
Sam nods. "Okay. I'm sorry."
"I don't like that."
"I'm sorry."
"You shouldn't wake people up like that." And now the small voice is accusatory. Icarus' eyebrows angle downwards. He's angry, Sam realizes in a flash. Angry for being caught unaware, angry for freaking out, angry for letting Sam see him do so. "You shouldn't do that. I'm not scared, but you really shouldn't do that. It confuses people. It confuses their subconscious and you shouldn't do that."
Sam nods again. His hands are still up and it's awkward but he's not sure what else to do with them. "You're right. I wasn't thinking. I'm sorry."
Icarus stares at him with hard eyes for a moment more before darting a glance around. He's still standing stiff as a board, swaying slightly on his feet as he tries to clear his sleep-addled mind. "Where are we?"
"At a motel; we're staying here, just for the night."
"Where?"
"Just outside of Emory Falls. About eighty miles from the state line."
The small shoulders relax somewhat at this knowlege, as if the knowing makes it easier for him to trust Sam, just a little. "Are they inside?"
"Dean and Alec and Ben?"
"Yes."
Sam almost smiles. He nods instead. "Yeah, they're inside. They're pretty tired." He pauses and finally rests his hands on his thighs, slowly pushes to stand up. Icarus' eyes widen slightly but he doesn't move, his glower doesn't waver. Sam swallows and then holds out a hand. "You ready to join them?"
He's not going to take it. Icarus isn't going to take his hand and he's not going to go inside and he's not going to stay with Sam and Dean, Sam can feel it, can see it in the reluctant draw of tiny shoulders and he closes his eyes because he's not good at this. For all the talking he does, Sam is really not fucking good at this and never has been, has always been too unsure with himself to maneuver the complicated lines of relationships without tripping up along the way.
He's startled when he feels little fingers wrap around his own. He opens his eyes and Icarus is looking up at him, still an arms length away but an arm that's connected to Sam's, albeit loosely. They regard each other carefully and then Russ nods. Sam swallows. His own hand curls carefully around it's new companion. "Okay then."
"Okay." Russ echoes.
They walk to the room together and when they enter, Dean looks up, looks at their hands which are coming unmoored as they cross the threshold and relief spills across his face. Sam closes the door, twists the deadbolt and sets the chain and feels that same relief mirrored in his own expression, spilling over him in a wave that he tries to hide by coughing before he turns around. Dean looks at him and he knows. Sam can never fool his brother.
There's an awkward silence, Russ standing in the middle of the room, Dean on one side and Sam on the other, and then Sam clears his throat. "I'll get you a shirt to sleep in, Icarus."
"Russ." Dean corrects immediately. "Don't be so formal, Sammy. We're all family."
And there's that puzzled look again on Icarus' face, the canted head and the little frown. He shakes it off after a few seconds and looks at Sam, draws a breath and hesitates. Sam smiles.
"It's okay; what is it?"
There's another endless pause and Sam's about to just give the kid a break and start digging in his duffle when Russ licks his lips and says, "M'like blue."
Sam can't stop it this time. His grin is swift and his exhalation is a soft laugh as Dean starts rummaging in his bag, holds up a faded blue t-shirt over the kid's head and flashes a thumbs up. It's going to be miles too big.
"Hey," He says. "Me too."
It's not much, the barest of connections, fingertips skimming a pulse, but it's there. It's something. It's a start and the hardest part of anything is figuring out where you're coming from. The second hardest part is figuring out where you're going, but it's more than Sam's willing to tackle tonight. Tonight is a trailhead. Tomorrow they'll start the trek.
Next part...