SPN/DA crossover fic: Of Desire and the Status Quo (36/38)
Story Title: Of Desire and the Status Quo
Chapter Title: Victim of a Dream and a Memory
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: 5,947
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 XXXVI: Victim of a Dream and a Memory
Dean Winchester is not a man easily fooled, and he is not one for baseless hope. He’s a realist, many times a fatalist, and it’s worked in his favor countless times thus far. Always having that niggling thought in the back of his mind that the hot waitress he’s taking on a date could be an ugly-ass succubus had proven to be incredibly beneficial (if, at times, annoying as hell).
He also hadn’t thought he’d be one of the people who could fall victim to a psychotic break or such intense denial that he, in effect, created a different reality for himself. After Sam had…after Sam, he hadn’t realized that he’d been so soul-shattered that he’d rather believe he was still in the physical Hell than live in the real world. He had legitimately thought he was, for that matter. He’d thought Alec was just another character in an unusually elaborate mind game of some particularly crafty demon, and that even though he’d discovered it was a trick, they’d kept him in that alternate reality.
Sure, he’d had the occasional thought that maybe reality could actually be worse than Hell, but he’d quickly jumped off that line of thinking. Hell’s denizens had killed Sam before right in front of his eyes, and it’d always been a machination. Why should it be any different now? Sure, it was inventive to have him pretend to somehow escape from Hell (convenient that they never addressed how he got out) and then to find someone who looked exactly like him and be some weird genetic hybrid thing on top of it, but if there’s one thing of which he’s never accused the demons that orchestrated his previous head stunts, it’s being uncreative.
It’d certainly all felt real (that damn shoulder thing especially), but that was nothing new, either. He’d gone through that agonizingly firsthand. He’d been initially gutted when Sam was stabbed, but then, he’d always been gutted when he’d seen Sam get killed in various ways in the previous alternate realities. He’d never had Ruby in those (evidently she’s pretty unpopular Down There), but hey, everyone’s got to have one fan.
He was a little perturbed that they hadn’t let him out already, because it wasn’t like he wasn’t privy to what was really going on here, but he was also a little curious as to what they thought they were accomplishing by continuing to pretend like the wool was still over his eyes. But to be fair, demons have never been known to be logical.
He told himself not to be pissed when Alec drove his Impala, because really, it wasn’t technically his, just a figment, and when Alec got them back to the shithole of a “city” he lived in and disappeared into the compound, he’d considered bailing. But, he’d rationalized, what would that do? It wasn’t like taking the car and leaving would actually get him somewhere. These kinds of worlds only had a set distance, only allowed him to go as far as they wanted, so he might as well just ride it out. He’d then climbed on top of his beloved car (no, an image of his beloved car) and stared up at the remarkably accurate Seattle sky, just waiting for the stupid illusion to be over.
He did have to commend the demons, however, for having one of their characters be incredibly attractive. He didn’t know her name, but her thick dark hair, startlingly blue eyes, and gorgeous figure, not to mention the catlike grace with which she walked, didn’t go unnoticed.
Of course, it was ruined when she started to act like the so-called Alec by attempting to convince him that this imaginary world was actually for real, but in his experience, good things never do last anyway.
And when she’d told him with sincerity in her eyes that he was the last hope of her race, he’d not believed her. “Last hope,” please. Melodramatic much? He was just one guy. Even if he weren’t in Hell, it wasn’t like he could save an entire population all by himself.
Then she’d apologized and placed her hands on either side of his head, and though if he were still on Earth he’d shrug them off and look at her like she’s crazy, he allowed it with an internal sigh. He’d learned long ago that the only thing to do was wait until these alternate worlds hit the end of their line. There was no use in trying to fight it. The demons liked to watch him struggle like a worm on a hook, so by just sitting tight, ultimately they’d give up and try a new tack.
What happened then was something that in a million years, a million years of torture and inventive mind fucks, he would not have expected.
His head was bombarded with memories and feelings and pain, things he’d thought he’d long ago repressed. Of Sam dying back in Cold Oak, and Sam hating on his cassette tape collection. Of Sam wanting to drive. Of a crossroads at which Dean nearly sold his soul for his father’s. Of a trillion other recollections and accompanying sensations, many of which there was no way a demon could know, could seduce to the surface. His mind was the one thing he’d been able to keep hold of and not be infiltrated, much as the demons tried. (And believe you him, they tried.)
When it finally, blissfully ended, he felt like his heart was imploding on itself, like he’d microwaved his insides and set fire to his brain. Like…like he’d felt when Jake-asshole-killed his little brother and he’d spent three days standing, staring, at the gray verisimilitude of Sam, until he couldn’t handle it anymore and consorted for a fateful moment with a demon.
He looked into the transgenic’s eyes, saw similar but not identical feelings in her face as he felt. There was no way she could be suffering exactly what he was, but there was a haunting in her gaze that hadn’t been there before, a harsh understanding. Every cell in his body was trying to band together to tell him that that didn’t change anything, that he was still in a demonic fabrication. And for a second, they succeeded.
But he kept looking into the transgenic’s eyes, and kept seeing what he felt inside him. The memories were real, the pain was real, that couldn’t be faked. Not by demons, not by anyone. And that truth was worse than the thrashing barrage of events from his past. A fuckload worse.
She’d put her hands once more on both sides of his face, and he flinched, expecting her to invade his mind again, but she didn’t. It was just her slightly chilled touch on his stubbled cheeks and with as much caring as she was able, given the rawness from which she was still reeling.
“Dean,” she’d whispered. “Please. You’re our only hope.”
His throat felt like sandpaper and it sent very obstinate stop doing that messages to his pain receptors as he spoke, and he had no idea how he managed to overcome them. “I can’t,” he’d replied. “I can’t. You can’t.”
She’d looked like she wanted nothing better to do than lie down and wish she’d never wrestled his memories up, like her entire being resented itself for doing so. But still, she begged, “Dean, if you do this for me, for us, I swear to you I will do whatever you wish. Send you to a better place, let you walk away, wipe your mind, anything. I promise. Just please help.”
It was the promise of being sent…wherever that had him decide. He knew in his heart that Sam went to Heaven, no way could the cosmos not let him in, regardless of whatever he may have done, and if he could have the same shot, then Christ, he’d take it. That saying “Better to reign in Hell than serve in Heaven” was total bullshit, as far as he was concerned. He’d rather be Heaven’s bitch and be with Sam than be Satan’s right hand man and have Sam be worlds away (literally) from him forever.
And if humoring this transgenic and saving her people was the way to do it, well. It was a no-brainer. A no-brainer that hurt more than he’d ever thought was conceivable even if only in nightmares, but one nonetheless. He’d made his brother a promise a long, long time ago, back before Sam could remember, a promise to always be by his brother’s side and protect him from all the evil in the world. He’d failed on the second part, but he wasn’t going to on the first. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t.
So he’d agreed to the woman’s pleas. “What do I need to do?” he’d asked, already in the frame of mind that he was so fucking close to being saved, to have Sam back, that so help him, he could overcome this last hurdle if it meant being granted salvation and peace.
She’d looked as relieved as…well, as if he’d just promised to rescue her people, and told him exactly what he had to do, where he had to go, what she was going to do, everything. She’d warned him that it’d be dangerous, but that he’d be the hero, and honestly, but truthfully, he couldn’t care less about heroics. It didn’t matter to him whether he died at the hands of some human-mostly human-psychopath or at the hands of the beautiful woman in front of him, so long as Heaven and Sam was his destination. All the better if he managed to save her and her people in the process.
He gave her a tiny nod, and got into the driver’s seat of the Impala like he’d done since he was eighteen, the worn leather and imprinted steering wheel taken good care of by Sam feeling blessedly familiar. He’d reversed and eased out of the alleyway, the transgenic’s directions simple to follow. He’d glanced at her through the rearview, saw her struggle to bring up a mask of I’m fine, an action he’d had decades of practice with.
And now, he drives down a deserted road supposedly leading to some abandoned state park at the center of which lies a bunker home to some guy apparently named Ames White who wants, surprise, world domination. The transgenic’s knowledge wasn’t unlimited, but Dean’d gone on less before.
He parks a reasonable distance away, because as much as he loves his car, she does have a loud engine, and stealth mode isn’t very effective if you let your enemy know where you are before you even see them.
The woods are dense, scattered sunlight making its way through the trees, but the gunmetal gray bunker is giant, like the guardian, the beacon, to Earth’s version of the Devil’s dwelling. He still has the pistol he’d nicked from the armory, an extra clip in his jacket, but as he looks at the compound, it feels hopelessly small.
Not that, he reminds himself, it really matters. Because again, he can’t bring himself to give a shit whether he lives or dies.
Nearing the clearing, he sees security cameras and guards at exactly the points he’d choose, and decides this isn’t going to be able to be done silently. There’d be carnage, and he wouldn’t be shocked if he gets taken captive.
As predicted, the minute he steps into view there’s some shouts, and he fires off a few rounds, hits a couple of the guards dead center in their foreheads, dodges the bullets sent at him. When his gun clicks empty, the spare magazine, too, he tosses them aside and holds up his hands in a motion of surrender. If Sam were here, he’d-no. Dean makes a promise right here and now that Sam is off-limits to even think about, not until his brother’s standing next to him in Elysium, a long-suffering sigh and a “You’re an idiot, Dean” as a loving greeting.
Seeing his face, two of the guards quickly exchange a look of confusion, before coming to their senses and each taking an arm, squeezing so tightly Dean’s not entirely sure they won’t break them clean off. He’d half-expected them to snap his neck on the spot (they hadn’t been too shy about trying to riddle his body with lead), but surmises they have orders to do otherwise.
He allows himself to be dragged inside, and stays silent, solely because it makes it easier to memorize the bunker’s layout. Sam may have once impressively been able to detail the way from their motel to a vampire’s nest while concussed and blindfolded, but Dean’s not too shabby himself. By the time they get to roughly the nucleus of the compound, Dean’s got a suitably accurate blueprint of his location.
They stop outside of what Dean presumes to be some kind of office (cut him some slack, everything inside the damn place looks the same), and one of the goons not holding him enters. It’s eerily quiet after the door shuts, and in the silence, Dean can’t help the hunter inside of him wondering if the gorgeous transgenic and hers are hurt, or if they’re dead, or if-
“Well, well, nice to see you again so soon,” says the voice interrupting Dean’s thoughts.
Dean looks up, only to see the guy who’d previously shot drug after drug into his system. Oh. He ponders briefly whether the transgenic had known Dean’d had a previous encounter with White, or if it’s just a convenient perk. He decides it’s not really pertinent.
“Can’t say the same…White,” Dean growls.
“It was brought to my attention not long ago that I made an error,” says White conversationally. “It appears you are, in fact, the presumed dead Dean Winchester.”
“Alive and kicking,” Dean says flatly. “You know, for an evil mastermind, you sure suck at capturing your enemies. Next time, you might want to make sure you’re nabbing the right guy. Just a tip.”
White smiles blandly. “I’ll keep that in mind.” Then he reaches over and straightens the collar on Dean’s jacket in a veneer of geniality. “Now, care to convince me why I shouldn’t kill you?”
Dean chuckles, and reminds himself that he can’t get himself axed just yet. Not without at least trying otherwise. “Seems we have a mutual demonic playmate,” he says. “And apparently my ass is desirable to it. But hey, if you want to piss it off…”
“Meg,” White says fondly. “She’s quite the motivator.”
Meg? Dean gapes internally. Well, that he hadn’t banked on. Somehow she’d gotten out the same time as he did? Just when I thought I was all done with surprises.
However much he’s astonished inside, though, he shows nothing on the outside, pretending that he’d known it was Meg all along. “That’s one word for her,” he says, thinking rather unfondly back to when she’d used his brother as a sadistic marionette. “I’d go with ‘manipulative, soulless, ugly bitch’ myself, but to each his own.”
White purses his lips. “You didn’t come all the way here to express your distaste,” he remarks. “Why are you here? And don’t even think about lying-I may not be able to kill you, but I’m guessing she’ll have no issues with me inflicting a bit of torture.”
This sends Dean into a fit of laughter. It takes a minute or two until he’s able to regain enough control to respond, “Yeah, about that. You’re talking to a guy who was in Hell-Hell-for over fifteen hundred years. Some choice dope ain’t gonna break me.”
“Pharmacological treatments are far from the worst I can do,” says White levelly.
Dean is thoroughly unimpressed. “Why don’t you try hamstringing?” he suggests. “Haven’t had that in a while. Or maybe slow slicing. That was always fun.”
White just regards him with an expression Dean can’t quite decipher. Something between the same disgust as before, with a dash of amusement and…intrigue? “There’s more to you than I thought, Winchester,” says White. “Seems like you came out of Hell not much the worse for wear.”
Dean grins, though it’s not a normal one; one reminiscent of the Joker’s would perhaps be more accurate. “It’s actually Earth that’s been pretty damn shitty, to be honest,” he says. “Hell wasn’t pleasant, but at least-” Dean stops himself, swallowing that word. “Anyway. You and I? Business to discuss.” He looks at the Familiars holding him, and then adds, “Privately.”
White, more out of curiosity than actual acceding, nods to his underlings, and they promptly release Dean. “I’d say so,” he agrees.
With that, the Familiars depart, leaving the two men standing alone in the hall. White stands aside and gestures for Dean to enter the office from which he had been summoned, and then follows. He hadn’t expected in the least to see Dean here-even if Meg had warned him that the man he’d previously tortured was not, in fact, a transgenic-but truth be, he’s rather interested in what Dean has to say. Not so much because he’s grown an affinity for him or anything as ludicrous, but because with each passing moment, he’s thinking he might be able to sway Dean to his side.
From what he’s seen and heard so far, Dean’s more or less a restricted free agent. The abominations have made their bid. All White has to do is take Dean out for a test drive, and then up the price. He thinks Dean just might be worth it.
“Hey!”
Alec looks up from the uninteresting point on the floor he’d been staring at to see the very angry face of Zig. Well, technically Zig, anyhow. “What’s up?” Alec asks, drawing on all his reserves to keep up the unruffled charade.
He can’t afford to fall apart, to let the ruse splinter even the tiniest bit. Max, he’s noticed, has held up pretty well, considering, but he can tell she’s starting to lose it, and no way is he going to deprive T.C. of both its leaders.
“That woman who came to get you,” Zig says. “Where is she?”
Alec grins. “Oh, Trinity?” he asks rhetorically, chuckling. “She’s gone. You demons are some of the stupidest things I’ve ever run across. You actually thought she was possessed?” Switching his eyes to Meg, he motions to Zig as if he weren’t even there and remarks, “Really, you should hire better help. ’Cause the guys you got now…well, hope you kept your receipt.”
Meg regards Zig with repulsion. “I’m aware,” she replies. “They were the only ones I could get on short notice.”
“Yeah, no one wants to work for a chick who got her ass handed to her by meager humans,” Alec taunts. “It’s too bad your rep is totally shot. You’d be pretty badass otherwise.”
Meg chooses not to rise to the bait, instead resumes her slow, hostile pacing. Max takes the opportunity to lean over to Alec and whisper, “Okay, so what’s the plan? That totally foolproof, we-win-they-die plan?”
Alec hesitates, but knows that especially now, there can’t be any such thing as need-to-know information. “Trinity’s going to convince Dean to head off White-who is, we think, in league with Meg; awesome, right?-and then come back here to help us out. She should be coming in any time now to pull off a diversion so I can trap Meg with this weird symbol thing.”
Max raises her eyebrows. “I see where you got your twenty, thirty percent estimate,” she says miserably. “This is one of the worst plans I’ve ever heard.”
Alec glares. “Oh, I’m so sorry, princess,” he answers. “It was all I could come up with while hightailing it back from fucking Illinois with a guy on a mental bender, knowing all the while that you’re-” He takes a deep breath, trying to calm himself. He won’t do anyone any good strung out like this.
But Max, in a rare show of sympathy, simply nods. “All right, I’m sorry,” she says. “I’m a little…stressed.”
Had Alec been drinking something, he would have choked. “You’re sorry?” he exclaims. “Are you possessed, too? Better watch out, I know an exorcism.”
Max rolls her eyes, and Alec restrains a smile. There’s the Max he knows and tolerates. “Look, I just-” She trails off, uncertain.
“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Alec says. “Now can we get out of this increasingly uncomfortable conversation and focus on saving our lives?”
Max smiles. “Good idea.”
Alec sends her a reciprocal grin, and a moment later, a quiet creak-thud causes both his and Max’s heads to snap towards the hallway Alec had emerged from minutes before. Trinity comes walking out of the shadows, though as Alec takes her in, he can’t help but think that some of those shadows took refuge under her eyes and in them.
He can’t dwell much longer on what did or didn’t happen with Dean, because she locks gazes with him and then nods. Zig looks at her, too, and frowns. “You…!”
Trinity takes a deep breath, hoping that she hadn’t overestimated herself, and presses her fingers to her temples. Concentrating all her energies into scrambling minds-but only those tainted by evil-she feels her power edging out in warping tendrils, seeking their prey.
Alec and Max watch as each of the demons starts cringing, and then as the agony inside their brains increases, they scrabble at their heads, trying to get out what feels like millions of spiders crawling around inside, spinning webs and nipping at the gray matter.
Remembering that he actually has his own job to do, Alec jumps to his feet and rushes over to Meg, who, though not as debilitated as her minions, is sufficiently distracted. He pops open the spray paint top and, envisioning the symbol from the journal, quickly but accurately draws it with a diameter scarcely more than would contain Kalinda’s body upright.
Once done, the mark gleaming up at him in bright orange, he shoves Meg into it. It’s disconcerting-the momentum should have been strong enough to send her into the opposite wall, but as if the air had turned solid, her body stops right at the edge of the pentagram.
Knowing that he needs to leave Meg where she is for the time being, but also knowing that the other demons are fair game, he looks at Mole and Brannan. “Help me get these guys in Max’s office-now!” he yells.
Every transgenic and transhuman had up to this point been staring open-mouthed at the proceedings, but Alec’s commands leave no room for dispute. Mole, Brannan, and a surprisingly helpful Max each grab one of the possessed transgenics, leaving Alec to drag Zig. As he’s making his way to Max’s office, the demons still scraping at their hosts’ heads in vain, he notices thick streams of red, viscous fluid coming from Trinity’s nose, and her hands shaking in concentration. He makes a mental note to remember just how much he owes her.
Once he and the seven others are in the office, he shuts the door behind him. The door, he knows, will block out enough sound to where the exorcism Alec prepares himself to say wouldn’t carry and affect Meg, which would ruin absolutely everything.
Brannan, being the strongest of present company, takes temporary hold of Zig while Alec gets the strange language straight once more. Clearing his throat, he recites:
“Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii, omnis legio, omnis congregatio et secta diabolica, in nomini et virtute Domini Nostri Jesu Christi, eradicare et effugare a Dei Ecclesia, ab animabus ad imaginem Dei conditis ac pretioso divini Agni sanguine redemptis.”
All at once, the possessed transgenics scream unearthly screams, their mouths wide in pain and fury. Oily black smoke comes pouring out, clouding and then finally shooting downwards, way downwards.
The four transgenics’ bodies turn into dead weight, and all slump to the ground, their captors caught off guard at the sudden limpness. Brannan immediately drops to his knees, checking pulses and respiration. He hangs his head in overwhelming relief when he receives both heart rate and breaths from each transgenic.
“We’ll need Rade to check them out just in case,” he says, his voice quiet.
Alec nods. “You should also let either of our other Psy Ops units know that they need to be ready in case they have to…” he halts for a second, trying to figure out how to vocalize his order.
Brannan, however, is already on the same wavelength. “Got it covered,” he replies.
Alec then turns to Mole and says, “Get some help moving these guys to the training area. The mats aren’t great, but I don’t want to risk transporting them too far until Rade has the chance to look them over.”
Mole, though usually one to combat Alec’s every command no matter how mundane or rational, readily accepts it. “What about you?” he asks.
Alec looks at Max for a moment, then turns back to the lizard-man. “I’m gonna get everyone out of here, and then Max and I are gonna have a chat with our demon pal out there.”
That said, all file out of Max’s office, but as Brannan heads outside to brief Trinity’s former colleagues, a thought suddenly comes to Alec, and he grabs the combat unit’s arm.
“Hey, uh, watch your back,” says Alec. “I didn’t see any more demons when I came in here, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t any.”
“Noted,” replies Brannan. Doubly attentive to his surroundings now, he jogs out of sight.
Alec then turns, heading into the control center and seeing Mole already gathering a couple of transhumans to do as Alec had said. Max had evidently recruited Joshua to tell people to scram-in somewhat nicer terms-and though there are some objections, she merely releases her death glare, and they back off. Alec notices they don’t go outside, just disseminate to other parts of the building, and he wonders obliquely what Max said to them.
He comes up behind her and puts a hand carefully, lightly, on her shoulder. She looks up at him, and for the first time, he sees bone-deep fatigue in her eyes. But there’s also resolve, and it’s enough to bolster him.
“All right, so we’ve-” He pauses when he realizes there’s something missing. Rather, someone. “Where’s Trinity?”
“I’ve got her,” comes Rade’s voice, near silent, from the medical bay. Sparing a cursory glance at the trapped Meg (just now coming out of her daze), they sprint over to the pseudo-hospital.
Trinity, they see, is on a gurney opposite the still-weak Dix, her face wan and her eyes staring unblinkingly up at the ceiling, still an intense blue, yet dulled somehow. Rade had wiped the blood from Trinity’s nose, but the skin underneath is stained, and the shadows Alec’d glimpsed under her eyes are darker than ever, taking the appearance of deep bruises.
“Is she…?” Max ventures, biting her lip.
“She’s alive. But I don’t know how much I can do. The only thing that I can see physically wrong with her is the aftereffects of the burst capillaries in her nose and sclera. Everything else is up here,” Rade says, tapping her head. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry,” sighs Alec. “It isn’t your fault.”
Rade would like to rip them, everyone, a new one sheerly because she really, really wants to punch something (particularly would very much like to unleash on Meg, but she knows Meg is in Kalinda’s body, and the poor girl has already been through enough without being subjected to Rade’s well-known fury), but she knows she can’t.
Eyes downcast, Alec turns away from Rade and Trinity, heading out to an equally, if not more so, undesirable situation. Max gazes at Trinity’s prone body for a few more seconds, then follows Alec, leaving Rade to slide wearily down the wall, knuckles straining against skin. She so did not sign up for this shit.
“I’ll cut straight to the point,” says Dean, leaning on one of the desks. “I know the fundamentals. Why you wanted to torture me because I happen to look like one of the transgenics who outsmarts you time and time again, hell, even why you got these ’roided guards to flank your bunker. What I don’t get is why the fuck you resurrected me in the first place, and why you want to hook up with Meg. That’s just signing your death warrant.”
White tips his head to the side. Fascinating. “What is your plan?” White asks instead of answering Dean’s queries. “What is your point of coming down here, risking your life, just to find out something you could probably-eventually-guess yourself anyway? You really owe those freaks of nature that much?”
“I don’t owe anyone shit,” Dean snaps. “But they’re not freaks. Not any more than me or anyone else. As for why I’m interested…well, let’s just say it’s to satisfy curiosity.”
More like I want to know exactly what the hell you did so I can get appropriately pissed, Dean thinks to himself. God, if he’d just never gotten out of the Pit, all his heartache could’ve been prevented…
White merely smiles again.
“Why?!” Dean yells. White, to his credit, doesn’t flinch, but he does take in the more-than-homicidal look in Dean’s eyes, and accurately guesses that though Dean was essentially hired by the transgenics, that doesn’t mean he’s unerringly towing the company line.
“All right,” says White. “Those freaks are polluting the world. I need to rid it of them. Meg is just…a bonus. We could have done this execution without her, but a demon on our side is even better. You, on the other hand, were just…an unwanted side effect.”
“Wait…” Dean says, staring dangerously at White. “You’re saying that resurrecting Meg, resurrecting me…it was all an accident? How the fuck do you accidentally resurrect a demon and a victim of Hell?”
White purses his lips, irritated. “It wasn’t supposed to go down like that,” he says defensively. “The Latin was purely a-”
Dean puts the puzzle together before White even gets the chance to finish. Suddenly, everything makes sense. He starts laughing once more, doubling over at the absurdity of it all, at how utterly idiotic White was. Is.
“Oh God, you’re just-that is just classic,” Dean chokes out.
“Beg your pardon?” White growls, trying and failing to not let Dean get under his skin.
Taking a long drag of air, Dean straightens and wipes a few stray tears from his eyes. “I’m sorry, it’s just-wow,” he says. “You really didn’t realize?”
“Realize what?” White asks.
“That your hooded buddies in there were possessed,” Dean chuckles.
“What?”
Dean sighs, still reveling in his amusement. “Some stray demons spotted a chance they could take. They fed on your stupidity and infiltrated your cronies. You don’t know jackshit about Latin, which they took advantage of. They realized they could raise one of the more powerful demons and exploit your prejudice. But they weren’t going to indulge your racism, White: they were going to annihilate everyone. You were just means to an end. With Meg at the helm, they figured they had a better than decent chance of turning the human race into dust. You simply helped them along. As for me, I’m guessing the demons possessing your lackeys weren’t the smartest of the bunch and screwed up their little spell. Managed to bring me back to life along with Meg.” Fuckers…
With each word of Dean’s, White’s anger escalates, to the point where his breathing is sporadic. Dean, naturally, is enjoying every moment. “You’re lying,” White hisses.
Dean gives him a half-smile. “Why would I lie?”
“Ah, no, of course you wouldn’t,” White sneers. “You got a Get Out of Hell Free card.”
Dean’s smile fades. “Yeah, I should kill you just for that,” he says.
White raises his eyebrows, surprised. “You’re not happy to be out?” he inquires, crossing his arms, hands in tight fists.
Dean’s eyes narrow, his jaw clenching. “Not really, no,” he replies. Sure, he’s glad to be rid of the constant abuse, but…all things considered…
“Huh,” says White, pondering. He takes a step towards Dean and his gaze gains a tint of perspicacity. “Well, seeing as how we were both wronged, I have a proposition for you.”
Dean rolls his eyes, but answers anyway, “Oh yeah? Why would I want to be in league with you for anything?”
“Rumor has it your brother’s more than likely toast,” says White.
Vision abruptly a red haze, Dean walks towards White and without hesitation punches him in the face, feeling the man’s nose break under the force. White curses, but more out of reflex than anything else-after all, since altering his genetic makeup to make him feel virtually no pain, the blood spilling from his nostrils and the off-kilter bone is but a nuisance.
He glares at Dean. “Don’t you dare bring up m’brother, you son of a bitch,” Dean snarls, his tone making it clear that socking White was a light-very light-warning. “Don’t.”
White puts his thumb and forefinger on either side of his nose and twists, snapping it back into place. He shakes his head violently, clearing it, and pulls out a handkerchief from his breast pocket to wipe the blood from his face.
“Yes, well,” he continues, “what I was trying to say is…suppose I could reunite you?”
Dean’s fist remains rigid, and his face belies nothing. “Excuse me?”
“That’s what you want most, is it not?” asks White. “You help me, I help you.”
“What, by killing me?” Dean snorts. “I can do that myself, thanks very much.”
“Not by killing you,” replies White. “There is another way. A way you could get him back good as new.”
White pauses, waiting for Dean to solve the equation. It takes him a minute, and then he comprehends the awful implication. “Are you suggesting you can clone him?” Dean asks, astounded.
White shrugs. “Every one of those freaks has DNA from someone,” he says. “I’m sure there’s some DNA from your brother lying around; we’ve got a new project underway that, any day now, will have the means to clone people of any age you wish. You could have your little brother back. For good.”
Dean stares at him. He feels like he’s back at the crossroads, looking at the woman in the killer black dress, listening to her silver-tongued promises of bringing back his father. It had taken all his strength to refuse that time, and he knows he’s weaker now. It’s not his father this time. It’s…it’s Sam. In the back of his mind, he acknowledges that he’s pathetically desperate to be even thinking about accepting something as crazy as this, as getting a clone of his little brother; it wouldn’t be Sam, not really. But at the same time…
The consequences of the last time he considered a deal like this are still horrifically vivid as he looks into White’s slate gray eyes, and yet if White’s telling the truth… Dean swallows, and then says in a whisper, “I’ll think about it.”
“Take all the time you need,” says White, trying to hide his smile. Hook, line, sinker.
Dean nods and, before he can collapse in hope, he swiftly throws open the door and strides out, passing the Familiars and finally breaking into a run. He makes it into the Impala and then rests his head on the steering wheel.
“Sammy…” he murmurs to himself, to his brother’s body. “What am I supposed to do?”
Next
Chapter Title: Victim of a Dream and a Memory
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: 5,947
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 XXXVI: Victim of a Dream and a Memory
Dean Winchester is not a man easily fooled, and he is not one for baseless hope. He’s a realist, many times a fatalist, and it’s worked in his favor countless times thus far. Always having that niggling thought in the back of his mind that the hot waitress he’s taking on a date could be an ugly-ass succubus had proven to be incredibly beneficial (if, at times, annoying as hell).
He also hadn’t thought he’d be one of the people who could fall victim to a psychotic break or such intense denial that he, in effect, created a different reality for himself. After Sam had…after Sam, he hadn’t realized that he’d been so soul-shattered that he’d rather believe he was still in the physical Hell than live in the real world. He had legitimately thought he was, for that matter. He’d thought Alec was just another character in an unusually elaborate mind game of some particularly crafty demon, and that even though he’d discovered it was a trick, they’d kept him in that alternate reality.
Sure, he’d had the occasional thought that maybe reality could actually be worse than Hell, but he’d quickly jumped off that line of thinking. Hell’s denizens had killed Sam before right in front of his eyes, and it’d always been a machination. Why should it be any different now? Sure, it was inventive to have him pretend to somehow escape from Hell (convenient that they never addressed how he got out) and then to find someone who looked exactly like him and be some weird genetic hybrid thing on top of it, but if there’s one thing of which he’s never accused the demons that orchestrated his previous head stunts, it’s being uncreative.
It’d certainly all felt real (that damn shoulder thing especially), but that was nothing new, either. He’d gone through that agonizingly firsthand. He’d been initially gutted when Sam was stabbed, but then, he’d always been gutted when he’d seen Sam get killed in various ways in the previous alternate realities. He’d never had Ruby in those (evidently she’s pretty unpopular Down There), but hey, everyone’s got to have one fan.
He was a little perturbed that they hadn’t let him out already, because it wasn’t like he wasn’t privy to what was really going on here, but he was also a little curious as to what they thought they were accomplishing by continuing to pretend like the wool was still over his eyes. But to be fair, demons have never been known to be logical.
He told himself not to be pissed when Alec drove his Impala, because really, it wasn’t technically his, just a figment, and when Alec got them back to the shithole of a “city” he lived in and disappeared into the compound, he’d considered bailing. But, he’d rationalized, what would that do? It wasn’t like taking the car and leaving would actually get him somewhere. These kinds of worlds only had a set distance, only allowed him to go as far as they wanted, so he might as well just ride it out. He’d then climbed on top of his beloved car (no, an image of his beloved car) and stared up at the remarkably accurate Seattle sky, just waiting for the stupid illusion to be over.
He did have to commend the demons, however, for having one of their characters be incredibly attractive. He didn’t know her name, but her thick dark hair, startlingly blue eyes, and gorgeous figure, not to mention the catlike grace with which she walked, didn’t go unnoticed.
Of course, it was ruined when she started to act like the so-called Alec by attempting to convince him that this imaginary world was actually for real, but in his experience, good things never do last anyway.
And when she’d told him with sincerity in her eyes that he was the last hope of her race, he’d not believed her. “Last hope,” please. Melodramatic much? He was just one guy. Even if he weren’t in Hell, it wasn’t like he could save an entire population all by himself.
Then she’d apologized and placed her hands on either side of his head, and though if he were still on Earth he’d shrug them off and look at her like she’s crazy, he allowed it with an internal sigh. He’d learned long ago that the only thing to do was wait until these alternate worlds hit the end of their line. There was no use in trying to fight it. The demons liked to watch him struggle like a worm on a hook, so by just sitting tight, ultimately they’d give up and try a new tack.
What happened then was something that in a million years, a million years of torture and inventive mind fucks, he would not have expected.
His head was bombarded with memories and feelings and pain, things he’d thought he’d long ago repressed. Of Sam dying back in Cold Oak, and Sam hating on his cassette tape collection. Of Sam wanting to drive. Of a crossroads at which Dean nearly sold his soul for his father’s. Of a trillion other recollections and accompanying sensations, many of which there was no way a demon could know, could seduce to the surface. His mind was the one thing he’d been able to keep hold of and not be infiltrated, much as the demons tried. (And believe you him, they tried.)
When it finally, blissfully ended, he felt like his heart was imploding on itself, like he’d microwaved his insides and set fire to his brain. Like…like he’d felt when Jake-asshole-killed his little brother and he’d spent three days standing, staring, at the gray verisimilitude of Sam, until he couldn’t handle it anymore and consorted for a fateful moment with a demon.
He looked into the transgenic’s eyes, saw similar but not identical feelings in her face as he felt. There was no way she could be suffering exactly what he was, but there was a haunting in her gaze that hadn’t been there before, a harsh understanding. Every cell in his body was trying to band together to tell him that that didn’t change anything, that he was still in a demonic fabrication. And for a second, they succeeded.
But he kept looking into the transgenic’s eyes, and kept seeing what he felt inside him. The memories were real, the pain was real, that couldn’t be faked. Not by demons, not by anyone. And that truth was worse than the thrashing barrage of events from his past. A fuckload worse.
She’d put her hands once more on both sides of his face, and he flinched, expecting her to invade his mind again, but she didn’t. It was just her slightly chilled touch on his stubbled cheeks and with as much caring as she was able, given the rawness from which she was still reeling.
“Dean,” she’d whispered. “Please. You’re our only hope.”
His throat felt like sandpaper and it sent very obstinate stop doing that messages to his pain receptors as he spoke, and he had no idea how he managed to overcome them. “I can’t,” he’d replied. “I can’t. You can’t.”
She’d looked like she wanted nothing better to do than lie down and wish she’d never wrestled his memories up, like her entire being resented itself for doing so. But still, she begged, “Dean, if you do this for me, for us, I swear to you I will do whatever you wish. Send you to a better place, let you walk away, wipe your mind, anything. I promise. Just please help.”
It was the promise of being sent…wherever that had him decide. He knew in his heart that Sam went to Heaven, no way could the cosmos not let him in, regardless of whatever he may have done, and if he could have the same shot, then Christ, he’d take it. That saying “Better to reign in Hell than serve in Heaven” was total bullshit, as far as he was concerned. He’d rather be Heaven’s bitch and be with Sam than be Satan’s right hand man and have Sam be worlds away (literally) from him forever.
And if humoring this transgenic and saving her people was the way to do it, well. It was a no-brainer. A no-brainer that hurt more than he’d ever thought was conceivable even if only in nightmares, but one nonetheless. He’d made his brother a promise a long, long time ago, back before Sam could remember, a promise to always be by his brother’s side and protect him from all the evil in the world. He’d failed on the second part, but he wasn’t going to on the first. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t.
So he’d agreed to the woman’s pleas. “What do I need to do?” he’d asked, already in the frame of mind that he was so fucking close to being saved, to have Sam back, that so help him, he could overcome this last hurdle if it meant being granted salvation and peace.
She’d looked as relieved as…well, as if he’d just promised to rescue her people, and told him exactly what he had to do, where he had to go, what she was going to do, everything. She’d warned him that it’d be dangerous, but that he’d be the hero, and honestly, but truthfully, he couldn’t care less about heroics. It didn’t matter to him whether he died at the hands of some human-mostly human-psychopath or at the hands of the beautiful woman in front of him, so long as Heaven and Sam was his destination. All the better if he managed to save her and her people in the process.
He gave her a tiny nod, and got into the driver’s seat of the Impala like he’d done since he was eighteen, the worn leather and imprinted steering wheel taken good care of by Sam feeling blessedly familiar. He’d reversed and eased out of the alleyway, the transgenic’s directions simple to follow. He’d glanced at her through the rearview, saw her struggle to bring up a mask of I’m fine, an action he’d had decades of practice with.
And now, he drives down a deserted road supposedly leading to some abandoned state park at the center of which lies a bunker home to some guy apparently named Ames White who wants, surprise, world domination. The transgenic’s knowledge wasn’t unlimited, but Dean’d gone on less before.
He parks a reasonable distance away, because as much as he loves his car, she does have a loud engine, and stealth mode isn’t very effective if you let your enemy know where you are before you even see them.
The woods are dense, scattered sunlight making its way through the trees, but the gunmetal gray bunker is giant, like the guardian, the beacon, to Earth’s version of the Devil’s dwelling. He still has the pistol he’d nicked from the armory, an extra clip in his jacket, but as he looks at the compound, it feels hopelessly small.
Not that, he reminds himself, it really matters. Because again, he can’t bring himself to give a shit whether he lives or dies.
Nearing the clearing, he sees security cameras and guards at exactly the points he’d choose, and decides this isn’t going to be able to be done silently. There’d be carnage, and he wouldn’t be shocked if he gets taken captive.
As predicted, the minute he steps into view there’s some shouts, and he fires off a few rounds, hits a couple of the guards dead center in their foreheads, dodges the bullets sent at him. When his gun clicks empty, the spare magazine, too, he tosses them aside and holds up his hands in a motion of surrender. If Sam were here, he’d-no. Dean makes a promise right here and now that Sam is off-limits to even think about, not until his brother’s standing next to him in Elysium, a long-suffering sigh and a “You’re an idiot, Dean” as a loving greeting.
Seeing his face, two of the guards quickly exchange a look of confusion, before coming to their senses and each taking an arm, squeezing so tightly Dean’s not entirely sure they won’t break them clean off. He’d half-expected them to snap his neck on the spot (they hadn’t been too shy about trying to riddle his body with lead), but surmises they have orders to do otherwise.
He allows himself to be dragged inside, and stays silent, solely because it makes it easier to memorize the bunker’s layout. Sam may have once impressively been able to detail the way from their motel to a vampire’s nest while concussed and blindfolded, but Dean’s not too shabby himself. By the time they get to roughly the nucleus of the compound, Dean’s got a suitably accurate blueprint of his location.
They stop outside of what Dean presumes to be some kind of office (cut him some slack, everything inside the damn place looks the same), and one of the goons not holding him enters. It’s eerily quiet after the door shuts, and in the silence, Dean can’t help the hunter inside of him wondering if the gorgeous transgenic and hers are hurt, or if they’re dead, or if-
“Well, well, nice to see you again so soon,” says the voice interrupting Dean’s thoughts.
Dean looks up, only to see the guy who’d previously shot drug after drug into his system. Oh. He ponders briefly whether the transgenic had known Dean’d had a previous encounter with White, or if it’s just a convenient perk. He decides it’s not really pertinent.
“Can’t say the same…White,” Dean growls.
“It was brought to my attention not long ago that I made an error,” says White conversationally. “It appears you are, in fact, the presumed dead Dean Winchester.”
“Alive and kicking,” Dean says flatly. “You know, for an evil mastermind, you sure suck at capturing your enemies. Next time, you might want to make sure you’re nabbing the right guy. Just a tip.”
White smiles blandly. “I’ll keep that in mind.” Then he reaches over and straightens the collar on Dean’s jacket in a veneer of geniality. “Now, care to convince me why I shouldn’t kill you?”
Dean chuckles, and reminds himself that he can’t get himself axed just yet. Not without at least trying otherwise. “Seems we have a mutual demonic playmate,” he says. “And apparently my ass is desirable to it. But hey, if you want to piss it off…”
“Meg,” White says fondly. “She’s quite the motivator.”
Meg? Dean gapes internally. Well, that he hadn’t banked on. Somehow she’d gotten out the same time as he did? Just when I thought I was all done with surprises.
However much he’s astonished inside, though, he shows nothing on the outside, pretending that he’d known it was Meg all along. “That’s one word for her,” he says, thinking rather unfondly back to when she’d used his brother as a sadistic marionette. “I’d go with ‘manipulative, soulless, ugly bitch’ myself, but to each his own.”
White purses his lips. “You didn’t come all the way here to express your distaste,” he remarks. “Why are you here? And don’t even think about lying-I may not be able to kill you, but I’m guessing she’ll have no issues with me inflicting a bit of torture.”
This sends Dean into a fit of laughter. It takes a minute or two until he’s able to regain enough control to respond, “Yeah, about that. You’re talking to a guy who was in Hell-Hell-for over fifteen hundred years. Some choice dope ain’t gonna break me.”
“Pharmacological treatments are far from the worst I can do,” says White levelly.
Dean is thoroughly unimpressed. “Why don’t you try hamstringing?” he suggests. “Haven’t had that in a while. Or maybe slow slicing. That was always fun.”
White just regards him with an expression Dean can’t quite decipher. Something between the same disgust as before, with a dash of amusement and…intrigue? “There’s more to you than I thought, Winchester,” says White. “Seems like you came out of Hell not much the worse for wear.”
Dean grins, though it’s not a normal one; one reminiscent of the Joker’s would perhaps be more accurate. “It’s actually Earth that’s been pretty damn shitty, to be honest,” he says. “Hell wasn’t pleasant, but at least-” Dean stops himself, swallowing that word. “Anyway. You and I? Business to discuss.” He looks at the Familiars holding him, and then adds, “Privately.”
White, more out of curiosity than actual acceding, nods to his underlings, and they promptly release Dean. “I’d say so,” he agrees.
With that, the Familiars depart, leaving the two men standing alone in the hall. White stands aside and gestures for Dean to enter the office from which he had been summoned, and then follows. He hadn’t expected in the least to see Dean here-even if Meg had warned him that the man he’d previously tortured was not, in fact, a transgenic-but truth be, he’s rather interested in what Dean has to say. Not so much because he’s grown an affinity for him or anything as ludicrous, but because with each passing moment, he’s thinking he might be able to sway Dean to his side.
From what he’s seen and heard so far, Dean’s more or less a restricted free agent. The abominations have made their bid. All White has to do is take Dean out for a test drive, and then up the price. He thinks Dean just might be worth it.
“Hey!”
Alec looks up from the uninteresting point on the floor he’d been staring at to see the very angry face of Zig. Well, technically Zig, anyhow. “What’s up?” Alec asks, drawing on all his reserves to keep up the unruffled charade.
He can’t afford to fall apart, to let the ruse splinter even the tiniest bit. Max, he’s noticed, has held up pretty well, considering, but he can tell she’s starting to lose it, and no way is he going to deprive T.C. of both its leaders.
“That woman who came to get you,” Zig says. “Where is she?”
Alec grins. “Oh, Trinity?” he asks rhetorically, chuckling. “She’s gone. You demons are some of the stupidest things I’ve ever run across. You actually thought she was possessed?” Switching his eyes to Meg, he motions to Zig as if he weren’t even there and remarks, “Really, you should hire better help. ’Cause the guys you got now…well, hope you kept your receipt.”
Meg regards Zig with repulsion. “I’m aware,” she replies. “They were the only ones I could get on short notice.”
“Yeah, no one wants to work for a chick who got her ass handed to her by meager humans,” Alec taunts. “It’s too bad your rep is totally shot. You’d be pretty badass otherwise.”
Meg chooses not to rise to the bait, instead resumes her slow, hostile pacing. Max takes the opportunity to lean over to Alec and whisper, “Okay, so what’s the plan? That totally foolproof, we-win-they-die plan?”
Alec hesitates, but knows that especially now, there can’t be any such thing as need-to-know information. “Trinity’s going to convince Dean to head off White-who is, we think, in league with Meg; awesome, right?-and then come back here to help us out. She should be coming in any time now to pull off a diversion so I can trap Meg with this weird symbol thing.”
Max raises her eyebrows. “I see where you got your twenty, thirty percent estimate,” she says miserably. “This is one of the worst plans I’ve ever heard.”
Alec glares. “Oh, I’m so sorry, princess,” he answers. “It was all I could come up with while hightailing it back from fucking Illinois with a guy on a mental bender, knowing all the while that you’re-” He takes a deep breath, trying to calm himself. He won’t do anyone any good strung out like this.
But Max, in a rare show of sympathy, simply nods. “All right, I’m sorry,” she says. “I’m a little…stressed.”
Had Alec been drinking something, he would have choked. “You’re sorry?” he exclaims. “Are you possessed, too? Better watch out, I know an exorcism.”
Max rolls her eyes, and Alec restrains a smile. There’s the Max he knows and tolerates. “Look, I just-” She trails off, uncertain.
“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Alec says. “Now can we get out of this increasingly uncomfortable conversation and focus on saving our lives?”
Max smiles. “Good idea.”
Alec sends her a reciprocal grin, and a moment later, a quiet creak-thud causes both his and Max’s heads to snap towards the hallway Alec had emerged from minutes before. Trinity comes walking out of the shadows, though as Alec takes her in, he can’t help but think that some of those shadows took refuge under her eyes and in them.
He can’t dwell much longer on what did or didn’t happen with Dean, because she locks gazes with him and then nods. Zig looks at her, too, and frowns. “You…!”
Trinity takes a deep breath, hoping that she hadn’t overestimated herself, and presses her fingers to her temples. Concentrating all her energies into scrambling minds-but only those tainted by evil-she feels her power edging out in warping tendrils, seeking their prey.
Alec and Max watch as each of the demons starts cringing, and then as the agony inside their brains increases, they scrabble at their heads, trying to get out what feels like millions of spiders crawling around inside, spinning webs and nipping at the gray matter.
Remembering that he actually has his own job to do, Alec jumps to his feet and rushes over to Meg, who, though not as debilitated as her minions, is sufficiently distracted. He pops open the spray paint top and, envisioning the symbol from the journal, quickly but accurately draws it with a diameter scarcely more than would contain Kalinda’s body upright.
Once done, the mark gleaming up at him in bright orange, he shoves Meg into it. It’s disconcerting-the momentum should have been strong enough to send her into the opposite wall, but as if the air had turned solid, her body stops right at the edge of the pentagram.
Knowing that he needs to leave Meg where she is for the time being, but also knowing that the other demons are fair game, he looks at Mole and Brannan. “Help me get these guys in Max’s office-now!” he yells.
Every transgenic and transhuman had up to this point been staring open-mouthed at the proceedings, but Alec’s commands leave no room for dispute. Mole, Brannan, and a surprisingly helpful Max each grab one of the possessed transgenics, leaving Alec to drag Zig. As he’s making his way to Max’s office, the demons still scraping at their hosts’ heads in vain, he notices thick streams of red, viscous fluid coming from Trinity’s nose, and her hands shaking in concentration. He makes a mental note to remember just how much he owes her.
Once he and the seven others are in the office, he shuts the door behind him. The door, he knows, will block out enough sound to where the exorcism Alec prepares himself to say wouldn’t carry and affect Meg, which would ruin absolutely everything.
Brannan, being the strongest of present company, takes temporary hold of Zig while Alec gets the strange language straight once more. Clearing his throat, he recites:
“Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii, omnis legio, omnis congregatio et secta diabolica, in nomini et virtute Domini Nostri Jesu Christi, eradicare et effugare a Dei Ecclesia, ab animabus ad imaginem Dei conditis ac pretioso divini Agni sanguine redemptis.”
All at once, the possessed transgenics scream unearthly screams, their mouths wide in pain and fury. Oily black smoke comes pouring out, clouding and then finally shooting downwards, way downwards.
The four transgenics’ bodies turn into dead weight, and all slump to the ground, their captors caught off guard at the sudden limpness. Brannan immediately drops to his knees, checking pulses and respiration. He hangs his head in overwhelming relief when he receives both heart rate and breaths from each transgenic.
“We’ll need Rade to check them out just in case,” he says, his voice quiet.
Alec nods. “You should also let either of our other Psy Ops units know that they need to be ready in case they have to…” he halts for a second, trying to figure out how to vocalize his order.
Brannan, however, is already on the same wavelength. “Got it covered,” he replies.
Alec then turns to Mole and says, “Get some help moving these guys to the training area. The mats aren’t great, but I don’t want to risk transporting them too far until Rade has the chance to look them over.”
Mole, though usually one to combat Alec’s every command no matter how mundane or rational, readily accepts it. “What about you?” he asks.
Alec looks at Max for a moment, then turns back to the lizard-man. “I’m gonna get everyone out of here, and then Max and I are gonna have a chat with our demon pal out there.”
That said, all file out of Max’s office, but as Brannan heads outside to brief Trinity’s former colleagues, a thought suddenly comes to Alec, and he grabs the combat unit’s arm.
“Hey, uh, watch your back,” says Alec. “I didn’t see any more demons when I came in here, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t any.”
“Noted,” replies Brannan. Doubly attentive to his surroundings now, he jogs out of sight.
Alec then turns, heading into the control center and seeing Mole already gathering a couple of transhumans to do as Alec had said. Max had evidently recruited Joshua to tell people to scram-in somewhat nicer terms-and though there are some objections, she merely releases her death glare, and they back off. Alec notices they don’t go outside, just disseminate to other parts of the building, and he wonders obliquely what Max said to them.
He comes up behind her and puts a hand carefully, lightly, on her shoulder. She looks up at him, and for the first time, he sees bone-deep fatigue in her eyes. But there’s also resolve, and it’s enough to bolster him.
“All right, so we’ve-” He pauses when he realizes there’s something missing. Rather, someone. “Where’s Trinity?”
“I’ve got her,” comes Rade’s voice, near silent, from the medical bay. Sparing a cursory glance at the trapped Meg (just now coming out of her daze), they sprint over to the pseudo-hospital.
Trinity, they see, is on a gurney opposite the still-weak Dix, her face wan and her eyes staring unblinkingly up at the ceiling, still an intense blue, yet dulled somehow. Rade had wiped the blood from Trinity’s nose, but the skin underneath is stained, and the shadows Alec’d glimpsed under her eyes are darker than ever, taking the appearance of deep bruises.
“Is she…?” Max ventures, biting her lip.
“She’s alive. But I don’t know how much I can do. The only thing that I can see physically wrong with her is the aftereffects of the burst capillaries in her nose and sclera. Everything else is up here,” Rade says, tapping her head. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry,” sighs Alec. “It isn’t your fault.”
Rade would like to rip them, everyone, a new one sheerly because she really, really wants to punch something (particularly would very much like to unleash on Meg, but she knows Meg is in Kalinda’s body, and the poor girl has already been through enough without being subjected to Rade’s well-known fury), but she knows she can’t.
Eyes downcast, Alec turns away from Rade and Trinity, heading out to an equally, if not more so, undesirable situation. Max gazes at Trinity’s prone body for a few more seconds, then follows Alec, leaving Rade to slide wearily down the wall, knuckles straining against skin. She so did not sign up for this shit.
“I’ll cut straight to the point,” says Dean, leaning on one of the desks. “I know the fundamentals. Why you wanted to torture me because I happen to look like one of the transgenics who outsmarts you time and time again, hell, even why you got these ’roided guards to flank your bunker. What I don’t get is why the fuck you resurrected me in the first place, and why you want to hook up with Meg. That’s just signing your death warrant.”
White tips his head to the side. Fascinating. “What is your plan?” White asks instead of answering Dean’s queries. “What is your point of coming down here, risking your life, just to find out something you could probably-eventually-guess yourself anyway? You really owe those freaks of nature that much?”
“I don’t owe anyone shit,” Dean snaps. “But they’re not freaks. Not any more than me or anyone else. As for why I’m interested…well, let’s just say it’s to satisfy curiosity.”
More like I want to know exactly what the hell you did so I can get appropriately pissed, Dean thinks to himself. God, if he’d just never gotten out of the Pit, all his heartache could’ve been prevented…
White merely smiles again.
“Why?!” Dean yells. White, to his credit, doesn’t flinch, but he does take in the more-than-homicidal look in Dean’s eyes, and accurately guesses that though Dean was essentially hired by the transgenics, that doesn’t mean he’s unerringly towing the company line.
“All right,” says White. “Those freaks are polluting the world. I need to rid it of them. Meg is just…a bonus. We could have done this execution without her, but a demon on our side is even better. You, on the other hand, were just…an unwanted side effect.”
“Wait…” Dean says, staring dangerously at White. “You’re saying that resurrecting Meg, resurrecting me…it was all an accident? How the fuck do you accidentally resurrect a demon and a victim of Hell?”
White purses his lips, irritated. “It wasn’t supposed to go down like that,” he says defensively. “The Latin was purely a-”
Dean puts the puzzle together before White even gets the chance to finish. Suddenly, everything makes sense. He starts laughing once more, doubling over at the absurdity of it all, at how utterly idiotic White was. Is.
“Oh God, you’re just-that is just classic,” Dean chokes out.
“Beg your pardon?” White growls, trying and failing to not let Dean get under his skin.
Taking a long drag of air, Dean straightens and wipes a few stray tears from his eyes. “I’m sorry, it’s just-wow,” he says. “You really didn’t realize?”
“Realize what?” White asks.
“That your hooded buddies in there were possessed,” Dean chuckles.
“What?”
Dean sighs, still reveling in his amusement. “Some stray demons spotted a chance they could take. They fed on your stupidity and infiltrated your cronies. You don’t know jackshit about Latin, which they took advantage of. They realized they could raise one of the more powerful demons and exploit your prejudice. But they weren’t going to indulge your racism, White: they were going to annihilate everyone. You were just means to an end. With Meg at the helm, they figured they had a better than decent chance of turning the human race into dust. You simply helped them along. As for me, I’m guessing the demons possessing your lackeys weren’t the smartest of the bunch and screwed up their little spell. Managed to bring me back to life along with Meg.” Fuckers…
With each word of Dean’s, White’s anger escalates, to the point where his breathing is sporadic. Dean, naturally, is enjoying every moment. “You’re lying,” White hisses.
Dean gives him a half-smile. “Why would I lie?”
“Ah, no, of course you wouldn’t,” White sneers. “You got a Get Out of Hell Free card.”
Dean’s smile fades. “Yeah, I should kill you just for that,” he says.
White raises his eyebrows, surprised. “You’re not happy to be out?” he inquires, crossing his arms, hands in tight fists.
Dean’s eyes narrow, his jaw clenching. “Not really, no,” he replies. Sure, he’s glad to be rid of the constant abuse, but…all things considered…
“Huh,” says White, pondering. He takes a step towards Dean and his gaze gains a tint of perspicacity. “Well, seeing as how we were both wronged, I have a proposition for you.”
Dean rolls his eyes, but answers anyway, “Oh yeah? Why would I want to be in league with you for anything?”
“Rumor has it your brother’s more than likely toast,” says White.
Vision abruptly a red haze, Dean walks towards White and without hesitation punches him in the face, feeling the man’s nose break under the force. White curses, but more out of reflex than anything else-after all, since altering his genetic makeup to make him feel virtually no pain, the blood spilling from his nostrils and the off-kilter bone is but a nuisance.
He glares at Dean. “Don’t you dare bring up m’brother, you son of a bitch,” Dean snarls, his tone making it clear that socking White was a light-very light-warning. “Don’t.”
White puts his thumb and forefinger on either side of his nose and twists, snapping it back into place. He shakes his head violently, clearing it, and pulls out a handkerchief from his breast pocket to wipe the blood from his face.
“Yes, well,” he continues, “what I was trying to say is…suppose I could reunite you?”
Dean’s fist remains rigid, and his face belies nothing. “Excuse me?”
“That’s what you want most, is it not?” asks White. “You help me, I help you.”
“What, by killing me?” Dean snorts. “I can do that myself, thanks very much.”
“Not by killing you,” replies White. “There is another way. A way you could get him back good as new.”
White pauses, waiting for Dean to solve the equation. It takes him a minute, and then he comprehends the awful implication. “Are you suggesting you can clone him?” Dean asks, astounded.
White shrugs. “Every one of those freaks has DNA from someone,” he says. “I’m sure there’s some DNA from your brother lying around; we’ve got a new project underway that, any day now, will have the means to clone people of any age you wish. You could have your little brother back. For good.”
Dean stares at him. He feels like he’s back at the crossroads, looking at the woman in the killer black dress, listening to her silver-tongued promises of bringing back his father. It had taken all his strength to refuse that time, and he knows he’s weaker now. It’s not his father this time. It’s…it’s Sam. In the back of his mind, he acknowledges that he’s pathetically desperate to be even thinking about accepting something as crazy as this, as getting a clone of his little brother; it wouldn’t be Sam, not really. But at the same time…
The consequences of the last time he considered a deal like this are still horrifically vivid as he looks into White’s slate gray eyes, and yet if White’s telling the truth… Dean swallows, and then says in a whisper, “I’ll think about it.”
“Take all the time you need,” says White, trying to hide his smile. Hook, line, sinker.
Dean nods and, before he can collapse in hope, he swiftly throws open the door and strides out, passing the Familiars and finally breaking into a run. He makes it into the Impala and then rests his head on the steering wheel.
“Sammy…” he murmurs to himself, to his brother’s body. “What am I supposed to do?”
Next