SPN/DA crossover fic: Of Desire and the Status Quo (27/38)
Story Title: Of Desire and the Status Quo
Chapter Title: Bad Moon Rising
Fandom(s): Supernatural, Dark Angel
Summary: In the end, it’s a complete accident that gets Dean Winchester out of Hell.
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 4,799
Disclaimer: Same stuff applies as in the first chapter. Oh, and unfortunately I neither own Supernatural nor Dark Angel. Just this.
Of Desire and the Status Quo
Chapter XXVII: Bad Moon Rising
Calvin Simon Theodore, known more publicly as Sketchy, is not stupid. Well, not all the time. Especially since he’d become aware of Max and Alec’s…upbringing, he’d been more astute of the goings-on around him, noticed things that he probably wouldn’t have before. Probably, he’s mused in the past, because he’s subconsciously waiting to see another transgenic all incognito, and hopes that the next time he’d be able to scope them out first, let them know he’s a cool dude. Of course, this scrutiny hasn’t helped his pool game any, but now that Alec had assimilated into Terminal City, it’s not like he’d been doing much playing anyway. Now that he thinks about that, he actually kind of misses it. Despite the fact that he’d never won, not once, not even when he could tell that Alec was toning down his admirable skills.
Whatever.
However, with that acuteness that he’d gained, it wasn’t just applicable to identifying transgenics. He could now read his friends that much better, could understand why he’d always felt out of the loop when he, Max, Alec, and Cindy were sitting around the table, and suddenly Max and Alec would share a Look, then, as if they were on the same wavelength, they’d up and leave, and Cindy would seem to understand. Whereas Sketchy was left in the dark again, and no matter how much he’d ask, no one would enlighten him. Primarily because they figured he was too dense to get it. Well, that was a load of crock, and Sketchy really wanted to prove it.
Unfortunately, the damn military had caught wind of the transgenics, went on a manhunt-animal hunt? Manimal hunt? Sketchy doesn’t know what to classify them as-and forced them into hiding, into a toxic waste dump that sadly causes anyone non-Manticore to have to stay away. Which includes half of his usual Crash buddies, and as much as he adores Cindy, it just isn’t the same. He still buys beer, but it seems like an empty purchase, the money going to the bar as it did, except he doesn’t have Alec to smirk and make fun of him for that, or Max for the slightly pitying glances, or Cindy who was in the middle of the two. (Though she did lean a little more towards the Alec smirk.)
And that is what finds Sketchy in the bar that night, sipping a badly brewed liquor, sitting by himself. He doesn’t know where Cindy is exactly, but then again, that isn’t a rare occurrence, per se. He figures Max and Alec are back in Terminal City as has become their norm, ruling over their fellow Manticore brethren like a crude reproduction of a city-state. He, of course, doesn’t have any idea about where Alec really is, nor about how much Max is pulling her hair out about him and Dean. The latter who Sketchy also doesn’t know even exists.
He’s not quite down to just foam yet when a man comes up to him, standing ominously to Sketchy’s left, staring down at the bike messenger with an unreadable expression. “Yeah?” Sketchy asks warily, setting down his beer.
“You some reporter, ain’t ya?” the man asks, in a thick drawl. “And friends with those freaks.”
Sketchy can see quite clearly that the man isn’t a fan of the transgenics in any way, shape, or form, and Sketchy’s really not interested in being beaten to a pulp. “Uh…well, I wouldn’t say friends,” he lies, knowing that, were Max and Alec around to hear him, they’d understand all too well the occasional necessity of lying out your ass. “But yeah, I’ve crossed them a time or two.”
“Think you can get a message to this one?” he says dangerously, slapping down a photo. It’s grainy, and the colors are washed out, but Sketchy looks at it anyway. “He’s a big shot over in that crapshoot, an’ he came in here few days ago, clocked me one, then ran like some scum of the earth. I got some unfinished business.”
Frowning, Sketchy studies the picture again. His mind wants to say Alec, but…there’s something…off about it. Sketchy’d seen Alec recently and often enough to where he knows the guy’s face pretty damn well, and unless the transgenics’ DNA had suddenly decided to put on an aging spurt, the man in the picture isn’t Alec. Which confounds Sketchy immensely, given that how in the hell is that possible? He briefly ponders the possibility of Big Scary Dude putting the picture into one of those what-will-you-look-like-in-ten-years things, but then dismisses it for lack of foundation. What good would it have done, to change Alec’s picture?
Sketchy knows that the man isn’t Alec. He knows that with certainty. But it begs the question: Who the fuck is in the photo? And, arguably more importantly, what’s he supposed to say to Big Scary Dude?
In a similar venue over twenty-five hundred miles away, Alec and Dean enter Nate’s Bar, trying to mold their stances into ones of nonchalance and swagger, while inside feeling nothing of the sort, Dean downright depressed, and Alec frustrated and near to losing it. (Again.) It’s busier than would be expected in such a small town, with two pool tables, a card table, bar, a sizable room between them, and the few tables that are used for people simply chatting amongst beers. In truth, it reminds Alec fairly accurately of Crash. Sans his friends and familiarity, of course.
That said, Alec’s quickly finding out, there is a good thing about small towns in Indiana-they tend to pay more attention to inter-city gossip than national controversies. Like, say, a transgenic that happens to be co-leader of the largest known commune of transgenics. Alec won’t bring any of that up.
The bartender, who Alec assumes is Nate, takes in the two new patrons with a quick but discerning eye, judging their level of raucousness and whether they seem to be able to pay. He apparently deems them harmless enough (if he only knew what either, let alone both, man is capable of…), and slides two beers across the counter towards them. They’re different brands, but Alec’s is his favorite, and going by Dean’s apparent relative satisfaction, Nate’s guesses had been spot on.
“Don’t think I seen you around here before,” he comments, mentally adding two more checkmarks to his tally of successful beer predictions.
“Just passing through,” Dean replies gruffly, and if Alec hadn’t known that by this time Dean’s voice had more or less worked through its laryngitis and so the coarseness has to be attributed to something completely different-he’s willing to bet it’s a relatively new development-he would have presumed it’s just Dean’s natural timbre. Which is a sad fact that Alec wants to disprove, but can’t.
“Yeah?” Nate asks. “Where you from?”
Without missing a beat, the question having come Dean’s way more times than he can count, he answers, “Fort Collins. We’re on our way to Asheville, family reunion.”
You could say, Alec muses, unimpressed.
Nate quirks his mouth in a smile. “Fort Collins, eh?” he remarks. “M’wife’s from there. Nice area.”
“Yeah,” Dean says stiffly, and Alec wonders if the city was one he and Sam had traveled through before or something. Considering their past, Alec wouldn’t doubt it. Dean gestures with his head toward the billiards. “Think we got a chance playin’ over there?”
Laughing, Nate shrugs. “Feel free to try, boys,” he says, before adding dubiously, “Tell you what. Getcha ’nother round if you win.”
Alec and Dean look at each other, and though their faces reveal nothing, the identical glimmer in identical eyes is clear as day to them: Bring on the beer, then, Nate.
“Thanks, man,” Alec says giving the barkeep a little pre-victory toast.
They walk away, heading in the general direction of the games. “I’ll take pool,” Alec declares, eyeing Dean’s injury. Handing Dean a twenty, and keeping his very last for himself, he proposes, “You try your hand at poker.”
Dean snorts at Alec’s embellished challenge. He’s a master at both games, but even he’ll admit that he wouldn’t be playing his best without full maneuverability of his shoulder. Glancing over at the pool table and taking a brief overhaul of the players, he advises, “Watch out for Drunk Guy over there. He ain’t actually drunk.”
Alec follows Dean’s observation, and, upon viewing the nuances of the man’s game-the tiniest bit exaggerated motions meant to imitate inebriety, the eyes not glassy enough to be alcohol-laden, the calculated way he makes his way around the other people by the table, deciding on his shots and the other man’s as well-has to agree.
Swigging his beer, Alec grins, “Don’t worry. I got it covered.”
Watching Alec saunter over, already seeing the tensing of his muscles as he prepares his competition, Dean sighs, wishing it’s Sam he sees beginning to hustle the barflies, keeping an eye on his little brother while Sam does the same. Instead, he sees his double, his double who has no eyes on Dean, only on the game. Not that Dean needs protection or anything, nor had he ever not ribbed Sam about being a worrywart, but he’d always appreciated the backup, just in case.
But he has a job to do now, and Dean knows better than anyone that you can’t get anywhere without some dough in your back pocket, and just because he’s practically got a physical agony throbbing inside him because he’s so close and yet so far from finding his brother doesn’t mean that he has time to get sloppy. Pretending that this is just a precursor to some hunt, and that Sammy’s just out getting…something, Dean drags his feet over to the poker table, around which three guys and one woman are sitting. The deck is shuffled by a guy chewing tactlessly on a toothpick, and he starts to make the rounds with the cards.
Walking up to them, Dean’s presence imposing, he shucks on a tone of joviality with a swipe of danger. “Hey, fellas, mind an extra?” he inquires.
At no objection, he drags over a chair, slaps down the bill that Alec had given him and one of the guys, wearing an old Airwolf shirt (Dean doubts he even knows how awesome the show was), pours the corresponding amount of chips next to a guy wearing a green foam cap. Dean really wonders how the man could think the hat’s cool, when it was lame even the first time it came out. But whatever floats his boat.
Dean picks up the cards dealt, and considers. It’s not the greatest and not the worst hand, consisting of two tens, but then again, poker’s not so much having skill at reading the cards, but rather skill at reading the opponents. His expertise for detecting tells not hindered by his stint in Hell, Dean covertly studies each person as they ante up and make bets; he notices Toothpick take an extra hard bite of the thin wood as he puts down the first play and looks at his own hand.
“I’m Francine. What’s your name, dollface?” Ponytail asks him, her name totally going in one of Dean’s ears and out the other. As she subsequently sees the three cards in the center, she bites her lip but places her not particularly dynamic bet.
“My name?” Dean repeats, flashing his eyes up to hers briefly. “Steve.”
Steve Walsh, and this is my partner, Phil Ehart, Dean wants to amend and point to Sam, but he can’t. Hell, he’d take introducing Alec as that, but the twerp’s grinning and flirting and generally being a clandestine shark over at the pool table.
Airwolf Shirt also follows suit in matching the bets, a simple frown in accompaniment, and Dean gets the sense he’s not much for talking.
Foam Cap decides to raise by a few tokens, flicking the tip of his cards a little, which causes his two predecessors to add chips in order to equal it. “You played much Hold ’Em, Steve?” he asks.
His turn now, Dean looks at his cards, and then at the Flop-three, seven, Jack-and puts in a stack of his own, not worrying about his personal affectations, since he knows he doesn’t have any. He’s bluffing it up to the sky, but he can’t help but feel a slight rush go through his system, the first real step towards normalcy (normalcy according to his previous life, anyway) that he’s had in a long time. Driving around was a lumber in the general direction, but with Alec doing most of it, and chatting all the time, it didn’t feel much like anything. Poker, though, gambling…that’s getting better.
“Pick up game here and there,” Dean replies shrewdly, letting on nothing.
Rounding out the hand, Toothpick calls and then lays down the Turn, a ten next to the Jack, and when his chewing doesn’t change, Dean surmises the fourth card hadn’t given him squat. His eyes move over to Ponytail, who bites her lip again; she’s definitely got something. Airwolf Shirt gives up and folds, resigning himself to the fact that he hadn’t even had two pair. Foam Cap doesn’t do anything apart from meeting the bet, which Dean takes as either he’s on the verge of getting a flush or thereabouts, or on the verge of totally striking out. As for Dean…well, his facial expression is still schooled, even though he continues to take in his three tens with wariness.
“Didn’t catch that straight, huh, Airwolf?” Dean directs, lifting an eyebrow.
Airwolf Shirt sends Dean a subdued scowl. “Vince,” he corrects, annoyed.
Dean withholds a chuckle as the River reveals another Jack, and he’s tens full, but Ponytail’s still biting her lip, and that’s a little worrisome. “Final bets?” Toothpick offers.
Ponytail, true to what Dean had predicted, puts a sizable chunk of her chips into the pot, cards held tight in her hands. Foam Cap hems and haws for a few seconds, before proclaiming the play is too rich for his blood; he’d apparently been on the unfortunate side of the make-or-break hand. Dean peers at Ponytail and then at Toothpick, who’s still chewing heartily on his namesake.
Realizing that, seriously, what else has he got to lose, Dean shoves all his chips into the center of the table, meeting Ponytail’s then Toothpick’s gazes unabashedly. He’s faced down monsters their nightmares wouldn’t touch…it’s not like he’s going to be intimidated by these…these…Ordinaries. (With that thought, Dean finally grasps what Alec and Max and the rest of them had been talking about. Dean and Sam had always regarded these kinds of people as just plain civilians, but he supposes that Ordinaries would work just as well. He’s not sure how comfortable he is with that revelation.)
“I’ll meet that,” says Toothpick with a sly uptick of his lips, the prop shoved to one side as he mirrors Dean’s move.
They both look at Ponytail, who takes a few more seconds, before sighing. “I’m up for a challenge,” she says, and triples the pile.
With that, they show their highest cards, using the ones on the table. Ponytail unveils a three, six, seven, eight, and Jack, all in Hearts. A flush, and Dean’s got one opponent down. He looks at Toothpick’s hand: three sevens, and the two Jacks. Exhaling, Dean allows himself a small smile, reaching for the chips in the center.
“Tens full of Jacks beat sevens full, I’m afraid,” he says, remembering just how much he loved to see high-rollers’ faces fall when they realize they’ve been beat. Even greater when they bring props, as in Toothpick’s toothpick falling down to the table. “Play again?”
Alec spares a moment from the guy setting up the next game-it isn’t real hustling if you win every time; Alec had purposefully lost the first-to look over at Dean, just in time to see him slide a sizable amount of chips from the middle of the table, cards being shuffled again, yet the other members of the group having varying levels of disgruntlement. Granted, Alec can see even from his vantage point that the sole woman there has a visible leer on her face directed at Dean, but he doesn’t seem to be paying her any attention. Similarly, all it means to Alec is that he’ll definitely be getting more than his twenty back.
“My break?” Alec’s opponent says, returning him to the setup.
Alec shrugs. “Sure, man,” he agrees, although technically it should be Alec’s break since he’d “lost.” It’ll only really matter for Quentin-his contender-though, considering the guy’s in for a huge ass kicking.
Quentin isn’t a bad player, to be honest, sinking two stripes on his break, then sinking one more before missing, and the turn goes to Alec. Sure, Alec had had to try to lose, but at least it wasn’t as difficult to throw the game with him as it was if Alec played Sketchy. Alec has a soft spot for the pseudo-journalist, but really, Sketchy has next to zero pool skills. Easy beer money, though, Alec had always figured.
Since he’s already given up one game to Quentin, now’s his turn to, as Sketchy put it once, “run it.” Lining up the shot, Alec slams the cue ball into a grouping of others, and three of the solids clink into pockets, sending Quentin’s in various directions. Alec grants himself a smirk-and a casual wink at the couple of women who are hanging around the table-before striding around to the other side and repeating his move. A blue and red hone in on corner holes, hopelessly driven into them.
Quentin peers at Alec skeptically, the accusation in his eyes clearly indicating he’s starting to question the claim that Alec isn’t much of a pool player. Alec aptly picks up on this, and purposefully forfeits a shot that would have nearly cemented Alec’s game, passing the turn over to Quentin. Who promptly lessens his silent allegation and lines up his play.
Before he can, Alec interjects, “You still on for this wager?” With it, he points out the stack of bills adding up to, he calculates, over two hundred dollars. What can he say? He’s a genius at compelling people.
“Hell yeah,” Quentin replies with a grin. “I don’t back out of a bet.”
Alec goes silent to allow Quentin to take his turn, and he knocks in three more balls, Alec noticing the man’s facial expression quickly turning to cockiness at only having one more stripe and the eight ball to kill. People would assert that Alec’s boastful, but he’s got the skills to back it up; in most people, that confidence is purely blind. As is proven when Quentin takes a long drag of his beer, then sets up a possibly winning shot. Alec sees immediately that Quentin’s angle is off, and sure enough, the last stripe ricochets off the edges, clicking harmlessly away from the pockets. Alec tries not to grin.
He wonders if Quentin now regrets his previous statement, but unfortunately for him, and as every guy knows, it’s about the worst thing you can do to wimp out on an agreement, especially monetarily, that’s already underway. Plus, Alec’s down to zilch in terms of funds, and he needs that money. Never mind that Dean’s looking to be raking in the cash pretty well; it’s a matter of ego, jeez.
Speaking of, Alec glances briefly over at his poker shark of a companion, and with his enhanced vision, he sees that Dean’s sitting on pocket rockets, the body language of the other players significantly chary. Even though it’s irrational, Alec feels a sort of pride about it all. He hadn’t thought Dean was incompetent-the stories about him definitely don’t say that-but still, having the fact set in stone is a nice confirmation.
Noting that he’d have to pop the cue ball over Quentin’s, and at the same time avoiding knocking Quentin’s in, Alec points the stick at a sharp degree, and rams the chalked edge onto the felt. The purple, chipped ball jumps, rolling quickly into the side pocket, not even brushing Quentin’s. Alec doesn’t need to see his opponent’s expression to know it’s fuming, and instead walks around the table, the cue beautifully lined up with the black win-or-death sphere.
“Eight ball corner pocket,” Alec calls, making sure Quentin wouldn’t pull a dick move and try and distract or jostle Alec’s play. But he’s a good ten feet away, seemingly playing to the rules.
It’s almost anticlimactic when the white ball slams into its colored adversary, the eight ball sliding into the Alec-designated hole, given that there were no illusions Alec wouldn’t make it, not the way he’d been playing earlier. Alec won’t push his luck, though, and refrains from a smile, as he grabs the money pile without fanfare.
Holding his hand out to Quentin, he says levelly, “Good game, man. You were a worthy rival.”
Quentin returns the gesture, and half-heartedly offers, “Two out of three?”
Alec shakes his head a little, and glances at the watch he’s glad he’s wearing. “Sorry,” he replies, trying to imbue as much legitimacy in it as possible. “I gotta go. But hey, I pass through here, I’ll look you up.”
“Yeah,” Quentin agrees, shrugging his shoulders. “Catch you later.”
Alec gives Quentin a last nod, and then heads for the back exit of the joint. Before he can, Nate’s voice halts him. “Hey, kid!” Alec turns around, hiding the annoyance. “Want that beer?”
He’d forgotten about the deal Nate had made him, and now that he’d won, he supposes it’d be a nice cap to the night. However, he can see Dean’s poker game is coming to a close, and he doubts Dean would appreciate any more stalling. All the same…
“We have to run, but I’ll take it for later if that’s cool,” Alec proposes, walking swiftly over to the bar.
Nate puts two bottles on the counter, and gestures with his head towards Dean. “Looks like you two got this place cleaned out pretty good,” he comments. “Tell your buddy congrats.”
Alec restrains the urge to laugh. Yeah, like Dean would want congratulations. He sincerely doubts that even back in his and Sam’s heyday Dean appreciated congratulations. Well, apart from some curvy brunette with lusty eyes and partial buzz, that is.
“Will do,” Alec says anyway, and takes the beers in his hand, striding back the direction he’d come. Dean’s still not done with the game-though Alec knows it’s not long-and so he merely gives him a meaningful look, makes sure Dean understands, and then exits.
As Alec steps out into the frigid twilight (he hadn’t thought it could get colder than Seattle, but apparently Indiana’s got it beat, holy hell, and why is it so chilly in June?) and shuffles his way over to the car, hopping onto the hood and crossing his legs under himself, stuffing the cash into his wallet then staring at the cracked pavement, taking advantage of the silence to try and wrap his head around the whirlwind that’s been the last few days.
When he’d initially left with Dean, he hadn’t thought much about it. Yeah, the guy had pissed him off not but minutes before that, but Alec had to find out what was going on. And Dean had been right about Max wanting to decipher him like some kind of unworkable code. Alec could see past Dean’s veneer though, likely because there are so many of his own traits in the seven years older man.
He could see that Dean was just as spooked as Alec was, that he just wanted to find his baby brother and have Sam sort everything out. Or at least rely on Sam’s intellect and caring to help bolster him, and the two of them could figure everything out. Alec honestly believes that Max would try her best to find Sam, but he has a looming feeling that she’d put some kind of contingency on it or something. Say that she’ll tell him where Sam is as long as she can come along and be in the loop about everything.
But what Max doesn’t see is that, really, the Sam part of this isn’t any of her business. Maybe the Dean part, seeing as how he looks like Alec and Ben, but Sam? The taller brother’s not someone that Max is entitled to. Plus, Alec can’t see Max deferring to him; the opposite, probably, her assertive personality wanting to counteract Sam’s. Alec knows the score, though. He knows that he doesn’t have any entitlement to Sam, either, and he’s prepared to let Dean have that moment or whatever. It’s not to say Alec won’t want to tag along, and he predicts an argument between him and Dean, but when it comes right down to it, it’s Dean and Sam. Not Dean and Sam and Alec, or Dean and Sam and Max.
The pitiful thing is, Alec sighs as he looks at the façade of the bar (and hell if he’ll tell anyone), he’s kind of found a rhythm hanging out with Dean. It’s more than a little awkward a lot of the time, and Dean’s often pissed off with him, but he imagines (hopes?) that’s how it’d been sometimes with Sam also. In all the jobs he’d had where there’d been a pair of siblings, they’d always had tiffs, sent barbs at each other constantly; how could Sam and Dean be any different? Especially bearing in mind Dean’s extroverted personality?
“Oh, Christ, I’m so pathetic,” Alec scoffs at himself, laying on his back and purposefully exhaling heavily, watching as his breath condenses into a white cloud.
“You just figuring that out?” Dean’s voice comes from his left, shortly accompanied by slow footsteps.
Alec starts, though he’d resigned himself a while ago to the fact that he really shouldn’t take it personally when Dean never fails to sneak up on him. The way he sees it, it’s in the genes. So to speak.
“How’d you do?” Alec asks, trying to ignore both Dean’s jab and the reasons behind Dean actually resuming speech to him (and whether he’ll go all bipolar again).
Dean withdraws a hearty handful of bills from his pocket, and cocks a grin. “Two fifty,” he answers. “It’s less than I used to make in a night, but your economy is even shittier than ours was, so inflation, right?”
“Sure,” Alec replies hesitantly. “Well, guess we should burn some rubber now if we want to make it to North Carolina anytime soon.”
He starts to walk around to the driver’s side, when Dean’s arm catches him in the chest. Alec thinks that he’s about to object to being relegated to the passenger side again, but one look at his face says differently.
“Hold up a second, Alec,” Dean says gruffly. (Alec tries not to show any affect at the fact that Dean had called him by his name instead of “kid” or “clone dude” or whatever else.) “Look, I shouldn’t’ve said what I said back there. It…wasn’t fair.”
“Forget it,” Alec lies, all too well versed in putting up a mask, Manticore’s mask. “I didn’t have to blow up either.”
“Would you just hang on for one friggin’ second?” says Dean in annoyance as Alec tries futilely to get in the car. “It’s just this driving around thing with you, it makes it easier if I can pretend you’re Sam and stuff, which isn’t right-Sam’s way bitchier-and, I mean…Jesus, I suck at this crap. Look, point is, it’s not your fault you look like me, and even though I’m…I’m in some bad shit right now, I probably shouldn’t take it out on you.”
Alec regards Dean thoughtfully, and stops himself from giving some sarcastic rejoinder. Dean’s definitely not one for orations or mushy stuff, Alec knows that much, and especially considering his mood ever since Alec’d met him, the effort he’d made means something.
“’Kay,” Alec says simply, half-smiling. Without warning, he inhales and then tosses the scratched car keys at Dean. “Why don’t you drive for a while?”
“Oh wow, I’m so honored,” Dean falls back into their previous repartee, but is even so able to recognize the defense mechanism-he’d perfected it, after all. “What, no ‘dude, your shoulder’s screwed’ excuse?”
Alec shrugs. “It’s only in the hope that you’ll stop being so mopey,” he replies, and hopes the remark wasn’t too soon.
Thankfully, Dean doesn’t react to it. “Whatever,” he says instead, and quickly strides around the car and gets in. With a last inscrutable look at Alec, he twists the keys in the ignition, and in the next moment, the parking lot outside Nate’s Bar is streaked black.
Next
Chapter Title: Bad Moon Rising
Fandom(s): Supernatural, Dark Angel
Summary: In the end, it’s a complete accident that gets Dean Winchester out of Hell.
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 4,799
Disclaimer: Same stuff applies as in the first chapter. Oh, and unfortunately I neither own Supernatural nor Dark Angel. Just this.
Of Desire and the Status Quo
Chapter XXVII: Bad Moon Rising
Calvin Simon Theodore, known more publicly as Sketchy, is not stupid. Well, not all the time. Especially since he’d become aware of Max and Alec’s…upbringing, he’d been more astute of the goings-on around him, noticed things that he probably wouldn’t have before. Probably, he’s mused in the past, because he’s subconsciously waiting to see another transgenic all incognito, and hopes that the next time he’d be able to scope them out first, let them know he’s a cool dude. Of course, this scrutiny hasn’t helped his pool game any, but now that Alec had assimilated into Terminal City, it’s not like he’d been doing much playing anyway. Now that he thinks about that, he actually kind of misses it. Despite the fact that he’d never won, not once, not even when he could tell that Alec was toning down his admirable skills.
Whatever.
However, with that acuteness that he’d gained, it wasn’t just applicable to identifying transgenics. He could now read his friends that much better, could understand why he’d always felt out of the loop when he, Max, Alec, and Cindy were sitting around the table, and suddenly Max and Alec would share a Look, then, as if they were on the same wavelength, they’d up and leave, and Cindy would seem to understand. Whereas Sketchy was left in the dark again, and no matter how much he’d ask, no one would enlighten him. Primarily because they figured he was too dense to get it. Well, that was a load of crock, and Sketchy really wanted to prove it.
Unfortunately, the damn military had caught wind of the transgenics, went on a manhunt-animal hunt? Manimal hunt? Sketchy doesn’t know what to classify them as-and forced them into hiding, into a toxic waste dump that sadly causes anyone non-Manticore to have to stay away. Which includes half of his usual Crash buddies, and as much as he adores Cindy, it just isn’t the same. He still buys beer, but it seems like an empty purchase, the money going to the bar as it did, except he doesn’t have Alec to smirk and make fun of him for that, or Max for the slightly pitying glances, or Cindy who was in the middle of the two. (Though she did lean a little more towards the Alec smirk.)
And that is what finds Sketchy in the bar that night, sipping a badly brewed liquor, sitting by himself. He doesn’t know where Cindy is exactly, but then again, that isn’t a rare occurrence, per se. He figures Max and Alec are back in Terminal City as has become their norm, ruling over their fellow Manticore brethren like a crude reproduction of a city-state. He, of course, doesn’t have any idea about where Alec really is, nor about how much Max is pulling her hair out about him and Dean. The latter who Sketchy also doesn’t know even exists.
He’s not quite down to just foam yet when a man comes up to him, standing ominously to Sketchy’s left, staring down at the bike messenger with an unreadable expression. “Yeah?” Sketchy asks warily, setting down his beer.
“You some reporter, ain’t ya?” the man asks, in a thick drawl. “And friends with those freaks.”
Sketchy can see quite clearly that the man isn’t a fan of the transgenics in any way, shape, or form, and Sketchy’s really not interested in being beaten to a pulp. “Uh…well, I wouldn’t say friends,” he lies, knowing that, were Max and Alec around to hear him, they’d understand all too well the occasional necessity of lying out your ass. “But yeah, I’ve crossed them a time or two.”
“Think you can get a message to this one?” he says dangerously, slapping down a photo. It’s grainy, and the colors are washed out, but Sketchy looks at it anyway. “He’s a big shot over in that crapshoot, an’ he came in here few days ago, clocked me one, then ran like some scum of the earth. I got some unfinished business.”
Frowning, Sketchy studies the picture again. His mind wants to say Alec, but…there’s something…off about it. Sketchy’d seen Alec recently and often enough to where he knows the guy’s face pretty damn well, and unless the transgenics’ DNA had suddenly decided to put on an aging spurt, the man in the picture isn’t Alec. Which confounds Sketchy immensely, given that how in the hell is that possible? He briefly ponders the possibility of Big Scary Dude putting the picture into one of those what-will-you-look-like-in-ten-years things, but then dismisses it for lack of foundation. What good would it have done, to change Alec’s picture?
Sketchy knows that the man isn’t Alec. He knows that with certainty. But it begs the question: Who the fuck is in the photo? And, arguably more importantly, what’s he supposed to say to Big Scary Dude?
In a similar venue over twenty-five hundred miles away, Alec and Dean enter Nate’s Bar, trying to mold their stances into ones of nonchalance and swagger, while inside feeling nothing of the sort, Dean downright depressed, and Alec frustrated and near to losing it. (Again.) It’s busier than would be expected in such a small town, with two pool tables, a card table, bar, a sizable room between them, and the few tables that are used for people simply chatting amongst beers. In truth, it reminds Alec fairly accurately of Crash. Sans his friends and familiarity, of course.
That said, Alec’s quickly finding out, there is a good thing about small towns in Indiana-they tend to pay more attention to inter-city gossip than national controversies. Like, say, a transgenic that happens to be co-leader of the largest known commune of transgenics. Alec won’t bring any of that up.
The bartender, who Alec assumes is Nate, takes in the two new patrons with a quick but discerning eye, judging their level of raucousness and whether they seem to be able to pay. He apparently deems them harmless enough (if he only knew what either, let alone both, man is capable of…), and slides two beers across the counter towards them. They’re different brands, but Alec’s is his favorite, and going by Dean’s apparent relative satisfaction, Nate’s guesses had been spot on.
“Don’t think I seen you around here before,” he comments, mentally adding two more checkmarks to his tally of successful beer predictions.
“Just passing through,” Dean replies gruffly, and if Alec hadn’t known that by this time Dean’s voice had more or less worked through its laryngitis and so the coarseness has to be attributed to something completely different-he’s willing to bet it’s a relatively new development-he would have presumed it’s just Dean’s natural timbre. Which is a sad fact that Alec wants to disprove, but can’t.
“Yeah?” Nate asks. “Where you from?”
Without missing a beat, the question having come Dean’s way more times than he can count, he answers, “Fort Collins. We’re on our way to Asheville, family reunion.”
You could say, Alec muses, unimpressed.
Nate quirks his mouth in a smile. “Fort Collins, eh?” he remarks. “M’wife’s from there. Nice area.”
“Yeah,” Dean says stiffly, and Alec wonders if the city was one he and Sam had traveled through before or something. Considering their past, Alec wouldn’t doubt it. Dean gestures with his head toward the billiards. “Think we got a chance playin’ over there?”
Laughing, Nate shrugs. “Feel free to try, boys,” he says, before adding dubiously, “Tell you what. Getcha ’nother round if you win.”
Alec and Dean look at each other, and though their faces reveal nothing, the identical glimmer in identical eyes is clear as day to them: Bring on the beer, then, Nate.
“Thanks, man,” Alec says giving the barkeep a little pre-victory toast.
They walk away, heading in the general direction of the games. “I’ll take pool,” Alec declares, eyeing Dean’s injury. Handing Dean a twenty, and keeping his very last for himself, he proposes, “You try your hand at poker.”
Dean snorts at Alec’s embellished challenge. He’s a master at both games, but even he’ll admit that he wouldn’t be playing his best without full maneuverability of his shoulder. Glancing over at the pool table and taking a brief overhaul of the players, he advises, “Watch out for Drunk Guy over there. He ain’t actually drunk.”
Alec follows Dean’s observation, and, upon viewing the nuances of the man’s game-the tiniest bit exaggerated motions meant to imitate inebriety, the eyes not glassy enough to be alcohol-laden, the calculated way he makes his way around the other people by the table, deciding on his shots and the other man’s as well-has to agree.
Swigging his beer, Alec grins, “Don’t worry. I got it covered.”
Watching Alec saunter over, already seeing the tensing of his muscles as he prepares his competition, Dean sighs, wishing it’s Sam he sees beginning to hustle the barflies, keeping an eye on his little brother while Sam does the same. Instead, he sees his double, his double who has no eyes on Dean, only on the game. Not that Dean needs protection or anything, nor had he ever not ribbed Sam about being a worrywart, but he’d always appreciated the backup, just in case.
But he has a job to do now, and Dean knows better than anyone that you can’t get anywhere without some dough in your back pocket, and just because he’s practically got a physical agony throbbing inside him because he’s so close and yet so far from finding his brother doesn’t mean that he has time to get sloppy. Pretending that this is just a precursor to some hunt, and that Sammy’s just out getting…something, Dean drags his feet over to the poker table, around which three guys and one woman are sitting. The deck is shuffled by a guy chewing tactlessly on a toothpick, and he starts to make the rounds with the cards.
Walking up to them, Dean’s presence imposing, he shucks on a tone of joviality with a swipe of danger. “Hey, fellas, mind an extra?” he inquires.
At no objection, he drags over a chair, slaps down the bill that Alec had given him and one of the guys, wearing an old Airwolf shirt (Dean doubts he even knows how awesome the show was), pours the corresponding amount of chips next to a guy wearing a green foam cap. Dean really wonders how the man could think the hat’s cool, when it was lame even the first time it came out. But whatever floats his boat.
Dean picks up the cards dealt, and considers. It’s not the greatest and not the worst hand, consisting of two tens, but then again, poker’s not so much having skill at reading the cards, but rather skill at reading the opponents. His expertise for detecting tells not hindered by his stint in Hell, Dean covertly studies each person as they ante up and make bets; he notices Toothpick take an extra hard bite of the thin wood as he puts down the first play and looks at his own hand.
“I’m Francine. What’s your name, dollface?” Ponytail asks him, her name totally going in one of Dean’s ears and out the other. As she subsequently sees the three cards in the center, she bites her lip but places her not particularly dynamic bet.
“My name?” Dean repeats, flashing his eyes up to hers briefly. “Steve.”
Steve Walsh, and this is my partner, Phil Ehart, Dean wants to amend and point to Sam, but he can’t. Hell, he’d take introducing Alec as that, but the twerp’s grinning and flirting and generally being a clandestine shark over at the pool table.
Airwolf Shirt also follows suit in matching the bets, a simple frown in accompaniment, and Dean gets the sense he’s not much for talking.
Foam Cap decides to raise by a few tokens, flicking the tip of his cards a little, which causes his two predecessors to add chips in order to equal it. “You played much Hold ’Em, Steve?” he asks.
His turn now, Dean looks at his cards, and then at the Flop-three, seven, Jack-and puts in a stack of his own, not worrying about his personal affectations, since he knows he doesn’t have any. He’s bluffing it up to the sky, but he can’t help but feel a slight rush go through his system, the first real step towards normalcy (normalcy according to his previous life, anyway) that he’s had in a long time. Driving around was a lumber in the general direction, but with Alec doing most of it, and chatting all the time, it didn’t feel much like anything. Poker, though, gambling…that’s getting better.
“Pick up game here and there,” Dean replies shrewdly, letting on nothing.
Rounding out the hand, Toothpick calls and then lays down the Turn, a ten next to the Jack, and when his chewing doesn’t change, Dean surmises the fourth card hadn’t given him squat. His eyes move over to Ponytail, who bites her lip again; she’s definitely got something. Airwolf Shirt gives up and folds, resigning himself to the fact that he hadn’t even had two pair. Foam Cap doesn’t do anything apart from meeting the bet, which Dean takes as either he’s on the verge of getting a flush or thereabouts, or on the verge of totally striking out. As for Dean…well, his facial expression is still schooled, even though he continues to take in his three tens with wariness.
“Didn’t catch that straight, huh, Airwolf?” Dean directs, lifting an eyebrow.
Airwolf Shirt sends Dean a subdued scowl. “Vince,” he corrects, annoyed.
Dean withholds a chuckle as the River reveals another Jack, and he’s tens full, but Ponytail’s still biting her lip, and that’s a little worrisome. “Final bets?” Toothpick offers.
Ponytail, true to what Dean had predicted, puts a sizable chunk of her chips into the pot, cards held tight in her hands. Foam Cap hems and haws for a few seconds, before proclaiming the play is too rich for his blood; he’d apparently been on the unfortunate side of the make-or-break hand. Dean peers at Ponytail and then at Toothpick, who’s still chewing heartily on his namesake.
Realizing that, seriously, what else has he got to lose, Dean shoves all his chips into the center of the table, meeting Ponytail’s then Toothpick’s gazes unabashedly. He’s faced down monsters their nightmares wouldn’t touch…it’s not like he’s going to be intimidated by these…these…Ordinaries. (With that thought, Dean finally grasps what Alec and Max and the rest of them had been talking about. Dean and Sam had always regarded these kinds of people as just plain civilians, but he supposes that Ordinaries would work just as well. He’s not sure how comfortable he is with that revelation.)
“I’ll meet that,” says Toothpick with a sly uptick of his lips, the prop shoved to one side as he mirrors Dean’s move.
They both look at Ponytail, who takes a few more seconds, before sighing. “I’m up for a challenge,” she says, and triples the pile.
With that, they show their highest cards, using the ones on the table. Ponytail unveils a three, six, seven, eight, and Jack, all in Hearts. A flush, and Dean’s got one opponent down. He looks at Toothpick’s hand: three sevens, and the two Jacks. Exhaling, Dean allows himself a small smile, reaching for the chips in the center.
“Tens full of Jacks beat sevens full, I’m afraid,” he says, remembering just how much he loved to see high-rollers’ faces fall when they realize they’ve been beat. Even greater when they bring props, as in Toothpick’s toothpick falling down to the table. “Play again?”
Alec spares a moment from the guy setting up the next game-it isn’t real hustling if you win every time; Alec had purposefully lost the first-to look over at Dean, just in time to see him slide a sizable amount of chips from the middle of the table, cards being shuffled again, yet the other members of the group having varying levels of disgruntlement. Granted, Alec can see even from his vantage point that the sole woman there has a visible leer on her face directed at Dean, but he doesn’t seem to be paying her any attention. Similarly, all it means to Alec is that he’ll definitely be getting more than his twenty back.
“My break?” Alec’s opponent says, returning him to the setup.
Alec shrugs. “Sure, man,” he agrees, although technically it should be Alec’s break since he’d “lost.” It’ll only really matter for Quentin-his contender-though, considering the guy’s in for a huge ass kicking.
Quentin isn’t a bad player, to be honest, sinking two stripes on his break, then sinking one more before missing, and the turn goes to Alec. Sure, Alec had had to try to lose, but at least it wasn’t as difficult to throw the game with him as it was if Alec played Sketchy. Alec has a soft spot for the pseudo-journalist, but really, Sketchy has next to zero pool skills. Easy beer money, though, Alec had always figured.
Since he’s already given up one game to Quentin, now’s his turn to, as Sketchy put it once, “run it.” Lining up the shot, Alec slams the cue ball into a grouping of others, and three of the solids clink into pockets, sending Quentin’s in various directions. Alec grants himself a smirk-and a casual wink at the couple of women who are hanging around the table-before striding around to the other side and repeating his move. A blue and red hone in on corner holes, hopelessly driven into them.
Quentin peers at Alec skeptically, the accusation in his eyes clearly indicating he’s starting to question the claim that Alec isn’t much of a pool player. Alec aptly picks up on this, and purposefully forfeits a shot that would have nearly cemented Alec’s game, passing the turn over to Quentin. Who promptly lessens his silent allegation and lines up his play.
Before he can, Alec interjects, “You still on for this wager?” With it, he points out the stack of bills adding up to, he calculates, over two hundred dollars. What can he say? He’s a genius at compelling people.
“Hell yeah,” Quentin replies with a grin. “I don’t back out of a bet.”
Alec goes silent to allow Quentin to take his turn, and he knocks in three more balls, Alec noticing the man’s facial expression quickly turning to cockiness at only having one more stripe and the eight ball to kill. People would assert that Alec’s boastful, but he’s got the skills to back it up; in most people, that confidence is purely blind. As is proven when Quentin takes a long drag of his beer, then sets up a possibly winning shot. Alec sees immediately that Quentin’s angle is off, and sure enough, the last stripe ricochets off the edges, clicking harmlessly away from the pockets. Alec tries not to grin.
He wonders if Quentin now regrets his previous statement, but unfortunately for him, and as every guy knows, it’s about the worst thing you can do to wimp out on an agreement, especially monetarily, that’s already underway. Plus, Alec’s down to zilch in terms of funds, and he needs that money. Never mind that Dean’s looking to be raking in the cash pretty well; it’s a matter of ego, jeez.
Speaking of, Alec glances briefly over at his poker shark of a companion, and with his enhanced vision, he sees that Dean’s sitting on pocket rockets, the body language of the other players significantly chary. Even though it’s irrational, Alec feels a sort of pride about it all. He hadn’t thought Dean was incompetent-the stories about him definitely don’t say that-but still, having the fact set in stone is a nice confirmation.
Noting that he’d have to pop the cue ball over Quentin’s, and at the same time avoiding knocking Quentin’s in, Alec points the stick at a sharp degree, and rams the chalked edge onto the felt. The purple, chipped ball jumps, rolling quickly into the side pocket, not even brushing Quentin’s. Alec doesn’t need to see his opponent’s expression to know it’s fuming, and instead walks around the table, the cue beautifully lined up with the black win-or-death sphere.
“Eight ball corner pocket,” Alec calls, making sure Quentin wouldn’t pull a dick move and try and distract or jostle Alec’s play. But he’s a good ten feet away, seemingly playing to the rules.
It’s almost anticlimactic when the white ball slams into its colored adversary, the eight ball sliding into the Alec-designated hole, given that there were no illusions Alec wouldn’t make it, not the way he’d been playing earlier. Alec won’t push his luck, though, and refrains from a smile, as he grabs the money pile without fanfare.
Holding his hand out to Quentin, he says levelly, “Good game, man. You were a worthy rival.”
Quentin returns the gesture, and half-heartedly offers, “Two out of three?”
Alec shakes his head a little, and glances at the watch he’s glad he’s wearing. “Sorry,” he replies, trying to imbue as much legitimacy in it as possible. “I gotta go. But hey, I pass through here, I’ll look you up.”
“Yeah,” Quentin agrees, shrugging his shoulders. “Catch you later.”
Alec gives Quentin a last nod, and then heads for the back exit of the joint. Before he can, Nate’s voice halts him. “Hey, kid!” Alec turns around, hiding the annoyance. “Want that beer?”
He’d forgotten about the deal Nate had made him, and now that he’d won, he supposes it’d be a nice cap to the night. However, he can see Dean’s poker game is coming to a close, and he doubts Dean would appreciate any more stalling. All the same…
“We have to run, but I’ll take it for later if that’s cool,” Alec proposes, walking swiftly over to the bar.
Nate puts two bottles on the counter, and gestures with his head towards Dean. “Looks like you two got this place cleaned out pretty good,” he comments. “Tell your buddy congrats.”
Alec restrains the urge to laugh. Yeah, like Dean would want congratulations. He sincerely doubts that even back in his and Sam’s heyday Dean appreciated congratulations. Well, apart from some curvy brunette with lusty eyes and partial buzz, that is.
“Will do,” Alec says anyway, and takes the beers in his hand, striding back the direction he’d come. Dean’s still not done with the game-though Alec knows it’s not long-and so he merely gives him a meaningful look, makes sure Dean understands, and then exits.
As Alec steps out into the frigid twilight (he hadn’t thought it could get colder than Seattle, but apparently Indiana’s got it beat, holy hell, and why is it so chilly in June?) and shuffles his way over to the car, hopping onto the hood and crossing his legs under himself, stuffing the cash into his wallet then staring at the cracked pavement, taking advantage of the silence to try and wrap his head around the whirlwind that’s been the last few days.
When he’d initially left with Dean, he hadn’t thought much about it. Yeah, the guy had pissed him off not but minutes before that, but Alec had to find out what was going on. And Dean had been right about Max wanting to decipher him like some kind of unworkable code. Alec could see past Dean’s veneer though, likely because there are so many of his own traits in the seven years older man.
He could see that Dean was just as spooked as Alec was, that he just wanted to find his baby brother and have Sam sort everything out. Or at least rely on Sam’s intellect and caring to help bolster him, and the two of them could figure everything out. Alec honestly believes that Max would try her best to find Sam, but he has a looming feeling that she’d put some kind of contingency on it or something. Say that she’ll tell him where Sam is as long as she can come along and be in the loop about everything.
But what Max doesn’t see is that, really, the Sam part of this isn’t any of her business. Maybe the Dean part, seeing as how he looks like Alec and Ben, but Sam? The taller brother’s not someone that Max is entitled to. Plus, Alec can’t see Max deferring to him; the opposite, probably, her assertive personality wanting to counteract Sam’s. Alec knows the score, though. He knows that he doesn’t have any entitlement to Sam, either, and he’s prepared to let Dean have that moment or whatever. It’s not to say Alec won’t want to tag along, and he predicts an argument between him and Dean, but when it comes right down to it, it’s Dean and Sam. Not Dean and Sam and Alec, or Dean and Sam and Max.
The pitiful thing is, Alec sighs as he looks at the façade of the bar (and hell if he’ll tell anyone), he’s kind of found a rhythm hanging out with Dean. It’s more than a little awkward a lot of the time, and Dean’s often pissed off with him, but he imagines (hopes?) that’s how it’d been sometimes with Sam also. In all the jobs he’d had where there’d been a pair of siblings, they’d always had tiffs, sent barbs at each other constantly; how could Sam and Dean be any different? Especially bearing in mind Dean’s extroverted personality?
“Oh, Christ, I’m so pathetic,” Alec scoffs at himself, laying on his back and purposefully exhaling heavily, watching as his breath condenses into a white cloud.
“You just figuring that out?” Dean’s voice comes from his left, shortly accompanied by slow footsteps.
Alec starts, though he’d resigned himself a while ago to the fact that he really shouldn’t take it personally when Dean never fails to sneak up on him. The way he sees it, it’s in the genes. So to speak.
“How’d you do?” Alec asks, trying to ignore both Dean’s jab and the reasons behind Dean actually resuming speech to him (and whether he’ll go all bipolar again).
Dean withdraws a hearty handful of bills from his pocket, and cocks a grin. “Two fifty,” he answers. “It’s less than I used to make in a night, but your economy is even shittier than ours was, so inflation, right?”
“Sure,” Alec replies hesitantly. “Well, guess we should burn some rubber now if we want to make it to North Carolina anytime soon.”
He starts to walk around to the driver’s side, when Dean’s arm catches him in the chest. Alec thinks that he’s about to object to being relegated to the passenger side again, but one look at his face says differently.
“Hold up a second, Alec,” Dean says gruffly. (Alec tries not to show any affect at the fact that Dean had called him by his name instead of “kid” or “clone dude” or whatever else.) “Look, I shouldn’t’ve said what I said back there. It…wasn’t fair.”
“Forget it,” Alec lies, all too well versed in putting up a mask, Manticore’s mask. “I didn’t have to blow up either.”
“Would you just hang on for one friggin’ second?” says Dean in annoyance as Alec tries futilely to get in the car. “It’s just this driving around thing with you, it makes it easier if I can pretend you’re Sam and stuff, which isn’t right-Sam’s way bitchier-and, I mean…Jesus, I suck at this crap. Look, point is, it’s not your fault you look like me, and even though I’m…I’m in some bad shit right now, I probably shouldn’t take it out on you.”
Alec regards Dean thoughtfully, and stops himself from giving some sarcastic rejoinder. Dean’s definitely not one for orations or mushy stuff, Alec knows that much, and especially considering his mood ever since Alec’d met him, the effort he’d made means something.
“’Kay,” Alec says simply, half-smiling. Without warning, he inhales and then tosses the scratched car keys at Dean. “Why don’t you drive for a while?”
“Oh wow, I’m so honored,” Dean falls back into their previous repartee, but is even so able to recognize the defense mechanism-he’d perfected it, after all. “What, no ‘dude, your shoulder’s screwed’ excuse?”
Alec shrugs. “It’s only in the hope that you’ll stop being so mopey,” he replies, and hopes the remark wasn’t too soon.
Thankfully, Dean doesn’t react to it. “Whatever,” he says instead, and quickly strides around the car and gets in. With a last inscrutable look at Alec, he twists the keys in the ignition, and in the next moment, the parking lot outside Nate’s Bar is streaked black.
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