Fic: Two To Tango (Part 1)
Title: Two To Tango (1/?)
Fandoms: Supernatural/Dollhouse
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Dean Winchester (Tango), Sam Winchester, Castiel, OMC, OFC
Disclaimer: Eric Kripke and Joss Whedon own the rights, I own nothing.
Summary: Sequel to Obliviate and Tango. Nothing stays buried. It always claws its way back up to bite you in the ass.
Notes: I am not a psychologist, neurologist or an -ologist of any sort. All science talk is cobbled together from Wikipedia, anecdotal knowledge and my own imagination.
Miss DeWitt liked to claim that, in their resting state, the Actives were tabula rasas, completely blank slates that could be filled and wiped clean at will. Of course, if she could stand to actually listen to Topher’s self-congratulatory techno-babble, she would know that wasn’t quite accurate. A truly blank slate would be as useless to the organization as an infant. An Active in its resting state had to be able to take instruction, report problems, identify a fork and know how to use it. Such memories are the human equivalent of Dos, to use a computer metaphor if you will. You can’t really do all that much with it, but you can use it to load Windows and all the shiny programs you want. In humans, it’s known as semantic memory and, in many cases, amnesiacs, even those who have no memories of their own names let alone specific events, still have it.
It’s more than that though. The human brain is not a computer with ones and zeros that any good magnet could erase. Each new memory forges new neural links, new pathways. Repetitive thoughts, repetitive actions reinforce these pathways like a groove on a well-paced floor. Tying your shoes, brushing your teeth, firing a gun; do it enough times and it becomes second nature. The organization could remove the conscious memories and slap on some new ones, but the pathways remained, buried. And, as Dean Winchester, if he remembered being Dean Winchester, could tell you, nothing stays buried. It always comes back up to bite you in the ass.
*****
A flapping noise like the wings of a bird made Sam pause as he packed the trunk. Everything was neat and orderly, just the way he liked it. This way, Sam could grab whichever guns and ammo he needed without even having to think about, let alone root though, the stuff he didn’t want. The sound came again and this time Sam looked up, wondering if Ruby was back from checking them out.
“Where is your brother?” Dean’s angel asked, suddenly right in Sam’s face.
Sam stumbled back, startled and defensive. “He’s not here,” Sam snapped, slamming down the lid of the trunk. “Don’t you have an apocalypse to fight? I know I do.” He turned away. There was a war on and he didn’t have time for angels.
Castiel, it seemed, did not know how to take a hint. “Where is your brother?” he repeated, reaching out to seize Sam’s arm.
Sam jolted unpleasantly at the unwelcome touch. For someone who could barely bring himself to shake Sam’s hand the angel sure was grabby. “He’s safe,” Sam said, shaking off the offending hand and storming towards the driver’s side.
The angel pursued him around the car, his voice catching Sam as he opened to door. “His place is by your side.”
Sam’s hand tightened painfully on the handle before he slammed the door shut and spun to face the angel. “My brother’s place is by my side, but you” -he pointed an accusing finger-“left Dean, the Dean I need in hell and brought back some broken shell. Well, I took care of it. I took care of him.” He spread his arms wide, daring Castiel to challenge him. “What did you do?”
Castiel regarded him with unblinking eyes, as completely unmoved by Sam’s anger as a mountain by a breeze. “Where is your brother?” he asked for a third time, focused and intent upon his mission without a hint of remorse for what he’d done.
“He’s safe,” Sam repeated, forcefully enunciating the words like an annoyed teacher with an especially dense student. Ruby had taken care of it. She’d wiped Dean’s memories of hell and hunting and masked his trail, hid his aura or whatever the hell it was she did. For once in his adult life, no one was gunning for him and without the memories Dean could be anyone he wanted. When Sam let himself think of his brother he almost envied him his freedom. “Dean’s safe.”
“No,” said the angel, his eyes bottomless wells of sadness, “he’s not.”
*****
Tango’s latest engagement was a romantic one, most of them were, and big surprise with mug like his. They were slow, boring jobs but Mack was no where stupid enough to want an exciting one. Today Tango was a professor, as gorgeous, brilliant and socially awkward as an early Daniel Jackson without the guns or space aliens. The client wanted someone who could stimulate her intellectually while she ushered him into manhood with her years of experience. Tango would still be mind-blowing in the sack of course, but Mack had long since given up trying to figure out how these people rationalized all this shit. Everyone was entitled to their own fantasies, especially if they had the money to afford them.
Right now the happy couple were leaving the theater, probably heading to some pretentious coffee joint for some fruffy drinks with fake Italian-sounding names. The opera was over and Mack could safely activate the microphone in Tango’s cell phone without being subjected to La Damnation de Faust. Just his luck Professor Tango was in mid-lecture when he did. “-Conflated with the Fon-Yoruba legends of Eshu-Legba, god of the crossroads, teacher of the hard lesson,” he was saying.
The client laughed. “How do you know all this?” she asked like she hadn’t specifically requested they program the man with all this crap.
“Oh, I’ve been to the crossroads a time or two,” Tango joked. “It’s a great metaphor for choice though. Right, wrong, high road, low road.”
Mack sighed, about to turn off the listening device and get back to his iPod when an unfamiliar voice cut in. “Hey, I’ve got a choice for you.” Tango’s vitals abruptly spiked into the red and the engagement was suddenly exciting. “Your money or your life.”
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Fandoms: Supernatural/Dollhouse
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Dean Winchester (Tango), Sam Winchester, Castiel, OMC, OFC
Disclaimer: Eric Kripke and Joss Whedon own the rights, I own nothing.
Summary: Sequel to Obliviate and Tango. Nothing stays buried. It always claws its way back up to bite you in the ass.
Notes: I am not a psychologist, neurologist or an -ologist of any sort. All science talk is cobbled together from Wikipedia, anecdotal knowledge and my own imagination.
Miss DeWitt liked to claim that, in their resting state, the Actives were tabula rasas, completely blank slates that could be filled and wiped clean at will. Of course, if she could stand to actually listen to Topher’s self-congratulatory techno-babble, she would know that wasn’t quite accurate. A truly blank slate would be as useless to the organization as an infant. An Active in its resting state had to be able to take instruction, report problems, identify a fork and know how to use it. Such memories are the human equivalent of Dos, to use a computer metaphor if you will. You can’t really do all that much with it, but you can use it to load Windows and all the shiny programs you want. In humans, it’s known as semantic memory and, in many cases, amnesiacs, even those who have no memories of their own names let alone specific events, still have it.
It’s more than that though. The human brain is not a computer with ones and zeros that any good magnet could erase. Each new memory forges new neural links, new pathways. Repetitive thoughts, repetitive actions reinforce these pathways like a groove on a well-paced floor. Tying your shoes, brushing your teeth, firing a gun; do it enough times and it becomes second nature. The organization could remove the conscious memories and slap on some new ones, but the pathways remained, buried. And, as Dean Winchester, if he remembered being Dean Winchester, could tell you, nothing stays buried. It always comes back up to bite you in the ass.
*****
A flapping noise like the wings of a bird made Sam pause as he packed the trunk. Everything was neat and orderly, just the way he liked it. This way, Sam could grab whichever guns and ammo he needed without even having to think about, let alone root though, the stuff he didn’t want. The sound came again and this time Sam looked up, wondering if Ruby was back from checking them out.
“Where is your brother?” Dean’s angel asked, suddenly right in Sam’s face.
Sam stumbled back, startled and defensive. “He’s not here,” Sam snapped, slamming down the lid of the trunk. “Don’t you have an apocalypse to fight? I know I do.” He turned away. There was a war on and he didn’t have time for angels.
Castiel, it seemed, did not know how to take a hint. “Where is your brother?” he repeated, reaching out to seize Sam’s arm.
Sam jolted unpleasantly at the unwelcome touch. For someone who could barely bring himself to shake Sam’s hand the angel sure was grabby. “He’s safe,” Sam said, shaking off the offending hand and storming towards the driver’s side.
The angel pursued him around the car, his voice catching Sam as he opened to door. “His place is by your side.”
Sam’s hand tightened painfully on the handle before he slammed the door shut and spun to face the angel. “My brother’s place is by my side, but you” -he pointed an accusing finger-“left Dean, the Dean I need in hell and brought back some broken shell. Well, I took care of it. I took care of him.” He spread his arms wide, daring Castiel to challenge him. “What did you do?”
Castiel regarded him with unblinking eyes, as completely unmoved by Sam’s anger as a mountain by a breeze. “Where is your brother?” he asked for a third time, focused and intent upon his mission without a hint of remorse for what he’d done.
“He’s safe,” Sam repeated, forcefully enunciating the words like an annoyed teacher with an especially dense student. Ruby had taken care of it. She’d wiped Dean’s memories of hell and hunting and masked his trail, hid his aura or whatever the hell it was she did. For once in his adult life, no one was gunning for him and without the memories Dean could be anyone he wanted. When Sam let himself think of his brother he almost envied him his freedom. “Dean’s safe.”
“No,” said the angel, his eyes bottomless wells of sadness, “he’s not.”
*****
Tango’s latest engagement was a romantic one, most of them were, and big surprise with mug like his. They were slow, boring jobs but Mack was no where stupid enough to want an exciting one. Today Tango was a professor, as gorgeous, brilliant and socially awkward as an early Daniel Jackson without the guns or space aliens. The client wanted someone who could stimulate her intellectually while she ushered him into manhood with her years of experience. Tango would still be mind-blowing in the sack of course, but Mack had long since given up trying to figure out how these people rationalized all this shit. Everyone was entitled to their own fantasies, especially if they had the money to afford them.
Right now the happy couple were leaving the theater, probably heading to some pretentious coffee joint for some fruffy drinks with fake Italian-sounding names. The opera was over and Mack could safely activate the microphone in Tango’s cell phone without being subjected to La Damnation de Faust. Just his luck Professor Tango was in mid-lecture when he did. “-Conflated with the Fon-Yoruba legends of Eshu-Legba, god of the crossroads, teacher of the hard lesson,” he was saying.
The client laughed. “How do you know all this?” she asked like she hadn’t specifically requested they program the man with all this crap.
“Oh, I’ve been to the crossroads a time or two,” Tango joked. “It’s a great metaphor for choice though. Right, wrong, high road, low road.”
Mack sighed, about to turn off the listening device and get back to his iPod when an unfamiliar voice cut in. “Hey, I’ve got a choice for you.” Tango’s vitals abruptly spiked into the red and the engagement was suddenly exciting. “Your money or your life.”
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