Fic: Poor Imitations of Goody Two-Shoes and Bastard Rebels (Wellspring 'Verse)

[scourgeofeurope]

Title: Poor Imitations of Goody Two-Shoes and Bastard Rebels
Author: scourgeofeurope 
Fandoms: Supernatural/Dark Angel
Universe: Wellspring
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Sam, Dean, Ben, Alec
Word Count: 2,372
Summary: Ben hits his brother.
A/N: I wrote this for tigbit  yesterday and was actually surprisingly fond of it myself, so I decided to share. So...same as the past couple of fics I posted. Takes place some time not long after The Wellspring ends. Once again, I will make promises that the main story will be finished, I just really haven't been in the mindset. I hope you can find some enjoyment in this in the meantime. <33333

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There are awful things in Ben’s head and when he closes his eyes, he can see them. Accumulations of blood and hair and children with eyes that are too old to be in faces so young. Walls, four of them, forming the tight boy-sized square where Ben is, allowing his mind to wander and cling to things that don’t exist.

Teeth.

The worst thing inside of Ben’s head, even worse than the things that he’s seen and the things that were done to him, is Ben himself. He scares himself sometimes. He tries to be good, tries to be quiet, tries to stay by Dean’s side or Sam’s side or Alec’s side, careful with his touches and his words and the thoughts they can’t even hear.

But.

There are times when he gets angry. There are times when his anger excites him. There are times when he enjoys letting that anger out, stomping on the blood and the hair and the children with the practically-dead eyes, blowing the walls apart and sucking in wondrous new air with the greedy desperation of a man who was buried alive, whose hands are bloody and splintered and covered in dirt from digging himself out.

There’s no dirt, and there are no splinters, but there was blood. Not anymore, because his Uncle Sam washed it off in the sink and left him on the bed, told him to cool the fuck off and not to move, not an inch, and then he walked away.

Away is across the room, to the table, where Sam’s sitting rigidly on a chair in front of his laptop, his eyes furiously skirting over pixels, his hands brushing the hair out of his face every so often before falling to the keyboard to google something that probably doesn’t need to be googled.

The hunt is over. Sam’s just busying himself now, trying not to look at Ben.

Who, in turn, is trying not to look at Alec and Dean, who are on the floor in front of the television set, Alec sitting between Dean’s legs, head lolling on his chest, his mouth bloody and his eyes closed as Dean dabs at his wounds with some napkins they stole from a diner a few days ago. He’ll heal soon. Within the day, Ben’s sure.

Ben’s not sorry.

Ben’s not sorry because he’s not a fake-ass Goody Two-Shoes who doesn’t want to be like his dad. He’s not. Alec’s just trying to seal his place as a little bastard rebel who doesn’t give two fucks about anything or anyone because that’s what he thinks he’s supposed to be and that’s not what he is, or Ben is, or what Ben wants to be, or what any of them should ever be.

Sam and Dean try to be that, too, sometimes. Ben’s seen them. Alec’s seen them. Hurting and killing and snarking and coming home in clothes soaked crimson and caked in graveyard mud, always smirking or blank-faced. Proud or apathetic. Not sorry. Never sorry.

Ben’s trying to be that right now.

Ben’s not sorry.

“I’ve decided,” Alec’s sleepy voice announces from the floor, “that I was wrong. And Ben’s actually not a Goody Two-Shoes.”

To which Dean drawls, “M’thinkin’ this is a good conclusion to come to.”

“Who came up with that terminology, anyway?” Alec asks in sardonic tones, then clarifies, “Goody Two-Shoes, I mean.”

“Dunno. Where’d you hear it?”

“You called Uncle Sam Goody Two-Shoes two days ago, Dad. “

“Did I? What was little Mother Teresa doing this time?”

“I can’t quite recall. It was either when he refused to siphon the gas because he suddenly got hit with an overwhelming sense of social morality, or when he helped that cranky blind man across the street.”

“Probably the first one,” Dean says seriously. “Sam, really? How the hell do you expect us to get from A to B to fucking Z if you refuse to fill the gas tank?”

Sam’s fingers lightly smack down on the keyboard and he sighs heavily in frustration. Ben watches the tick in his clenched jaw with a kind of half-satisfied, half-nervous fascination.

“Well, why don’t you do it sometimes?”

“‘Cause I’m me and you’re you,” Dean says, and Alec giggles in fiendish delight.

“The History of Goody Two-Shoes was written by John Newbury and published in London in 1765,” Sam replies, and Ben raises an eyebrow curiously in his direction, because what kind of comeback was that, anyway?

“What now?” Dean asks, confused.

“Googled it. Alec asked.”

So Ben was right about Sam’s computer shenanigans. Ben is usually right, of course, so this comes as no big surprise. He just doesn’t tell them the things he’s right about. That’s not a likable characteristic to have, he knows, the need to always tell people when you’re right.

“Danke, Uncle Sam.”

“Bitte.”

“What’s with the German?” Dean asks, but nobody answers him because there’s nothing with the German. It’s a simple exchange and asking about it is Dean’s only way to keep the room from going quiet again.

It goes quiet, regardless. The room fills with the sounds of Sam’s tapping fingers and the light flick of skin against skin as Alec plays with Dean’s hands like he’s little more than a toddler.

Ben doesn’t move an inch.

He doesn’t know how much time passes before he hears Dean quietly mutter words Ben can’t make out into Alec’s ear, but he sees a hand pushing his brother up from the floor, and then Dean, too, gets to his feet and shuffles off to the bathroom. Alec stands there, looking at the carpet and trying to force himself to move in Ben’s direction.

A gruff, “Alec,” from behind the computer gets him moving, though, and Alec sighs and stalks over to the bed, sits himself beside Ben, who’s still not moving an inch.

A demeaning little hand comes down to pat one of Ben’s twined legs. Ben moves three inches to push it away.

“I’m sorry,” Alec says, not meaning it. “I’m sorry I made you feel like you had to punch my face into an ugly imitation of something pretentious dicks might call fine art. I hope you found your own actions cathartic, though. Please, for the love of God, tell me you did.”

Alec understands why Ben kept going, just like Ben understands when Alec keeps going, and they both understand when Sam and Dean keep going until it’s all blood and pain and maybe a few unwilling tears.

“I did,” Ben tells him.

“Those aren’t apologies,” Sam says irritably.

“Really?” Alec sounds interested. “What is an apology, Uncle Sam?”

“Alec-”

“Why don’t you google it?” Ben asks, and somewhere deep down, he’s sure he’s surprised by his own daring. Alec certainly is, Ben knows, considering the way Ben’s own hand is being picked up and manually curled into a fist so his twin can bump it with his own, all ire momentarily forgotten.

“Ben.” Sam growls his name through gritted teeth. Ben almost flinches. Sam never says his name like that.

There’s an apology in his mouth, one that isn’t for Alec, but it doesn’t come out. It doesn’t need to, because Dean’s out of the bathroom now, grunting his own, “Ben,” and motioning with his hand for Ben to jump off the bed, which he does, succumbing to the large hand on his shoulder that pushes him out of the motel room.

He breathes in the cool air as Dean shuts the door behind them, didn’t realize how suffocated he felt on that bed, in that room, until now.

But Dean’s looking down at him with a face that isn’t very happy, a face that’s a contradiction, soft with thought but tense with the situation, and there are more apologies in Ben’s mouth begging to spill.

I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.

But he won’t let them.

And then something unexpected and amazing happens: Dean snorts in distinct amusement.

“‘Why don’t you google it?’” he mimics under his breath. His eyes twinkle. “My little smartass.”

Ben brightens, his arms moving on instinct as he feels Dean’s coarse palm come to rest on the top of his head, wrapping around the man’s waist as they walk.

“How’d you know it was me?” he asks.

“Hmm?” Dean pretends not to understand, even though Ben knows he does.

“How did you know that was me and not Alec? You were listening from the bathroom. Our voices are identical.”

Dean hums. His palm skirts softly over the back of Ben’s head, and then drops, the sturdy weight of his arm falling over Ben’s shoulders. “M’god-like,” he says. “I can always tell. You’re you. Alec’s Alec.” He looks down. Ben looks up. Dean asks, “Who am I?”

“Dean,” Ben answers promptly, and then, when green eyes somber, corrects himself. “Dad.”

“And as such?”

“And as such, you’re god-like.”

“Fuckin’ genius,” Dean says fondly, squeezing Ben’s shoulder. “Handsome, too. Look at those genes.”

“Look at these genes,” Ben parrots, and Dean grins.

And they walk.

Ben doesn’t know where they’re walking to, or when they’re going to turn back, but it feels like they’ve walked at least half a mile before Dean veers off the sidewalk and leads him to a small, battered playground, empty save for a few mothers and their toddlers.

There’s a bench covered in peeling forest green paint off to the side and that’s where Dean goes, sits, holds Ben in place so he doesn’t sit, too, and then drags him between his knees and leans forward, places his forehead against Ben’s and closes his eyes like it’s been a long day and he’s exhausted.

And the apologies are in Ben’s mouth again, begging to spill.

But Ben doesn’t let them.

“Benny, what’s the rule we have about whaling on our brothers?”

Ah, yes. This. Ben’s been waiting for this since the moment Uncle Sam pulled him off of Alec. The old “no hitting your brother” talk, that Ben, personally, has never been subjected to. Alec has. Dean has. Even Sam has.

But not Ben. Ben doesn’t hit his brother.

Not like today, anyway.

“Don’t do it,” he answers hastily, when he realizes that it’s been a while since Dean asked.

“What’s the rule about making your brother bleed?”

He’s prompt about it this time. “Really don’t do it.”

“Then how come you did it?”

Because Ben’s not a fake-ass Goody Two-Shoes who doesn’t want to be like his dad.

He doesn’t tell Dean this, though, because he does and doesn’t want to be like Dean. Just like he does and doesn’t want to be like Sam and Alec. And like himself.

So he doesn’t say anything. He just shrugs like he doesn’t give a shit.

“Don’t be like that,” Dean growls, and Ben feels warm breath against his face, hands squeezing him around the hips. “You’re still too little to get moody on me.”

“Alec does it.”

“And I tell him the same thing.”

“He called me by a name that I don’t approve of,” Ben replies. Ben’s not a Goody Two-Shoes. Just because he does his best not to steal or swear or lie doesn’t mean he’s a Goody Two-Shoes. More to himself than to Dean, he says, “Because I’m not. And I had to make sure he knew it.”

Dean doesn’t reply for a long time. Ben shifts a little from foot to foot, keeps his head pressed against Dean’s, revels in the warmth even as it makes him nervous, this small space between his father’s legs where he’s made to stand.

“He knows you’re not,” Dean finally says. “He knew it before you bloodied his face up. And you know he knew it. You know how he is, always wanting to get under everybody’s skin.”

Ben does know. Alec tells him all the time, in moments of affection, just how bad-ass he thinks Ben is.

Dean continues, “You hit him like you weren’t going to stop.”

Ben did and it felt amazing, like everything bad was pouring out of him as his fists hammered into Alec’s face and he just kept going, wanted to keep going until it was all gone.

“Alec’s not a punching bag,” Dean says quietly. “He’s your brother. And your brother’s your everything.”

Ben’s pretty sure Dean only does this with him, lets these sentiments spill like close-kept secrets. Sam surely doesn’t know that Dean would say such things out loud, even if he thinks it himself. He thinks it because it’s true.

Everything. Ben knew it the moment he saw Alec in that cold, sterile shower. The moment he saw Alec’s face. Ben’s face.

Dean’s face.

“I’m sorry, Dad.” The apology slips from his mouth with sincerity and ease. He doesn’t try to take it back.

“You need to say it to Alec.”

“He said I wasn’t like you,” Ben replies, because he’s not ready for that quite yet, and he feels Dean’s fingers around his hips, squeezing in a way that Ben can’t decipher.

“You know better,” is all Dean says, and all he needs to say.

Ben nods. “Yes, sir.”

“Awesome.” The pressure on Ben’s hips disappears, and then he’s being dragged in for a hug, his head slipping past his dad’s to the broad shoulder and he feels Dean’s nose in his neck and the warm hand splayed over his back, rubbing.

They break apart after a few moments. Ben is left with the feeling that Dean needed that hug even more than Ben did, grasping for reassurance that there’s something warm still in there, something inside Ben’s body that isn’t scary.

Ben’s not scary. Ben’s not cold. He never wants to be that, or for Sam or Dean or Alec to be that. And he certainly doesn’t want any of them to think he’s that.

“I’m sorry, Dad,” he says again, and there’s a hint of desperation in the apology this time, the silent plea to please believe it.

Dean gets up and slings his arm back over Ben’s shoulder. “I know you are, kid,” he says.

They walk back to the motel in comfortable silence.