1: setting: if there was a compass, if you were a star
1: setting: if there was a compass, if you were a star
In the periphery of the Seneca system, second period of the third month of Birth
"C'mon, Sammy. Do your thing." Dean crossed his legs at the ankles, resting his boots on the control panel in front of him, stretching in the comfortable, if old, leather that covered the pilot's seat. Dean's boots were heavy-duty flight quality super expensive Doc M.: they had an extra-thick magnetite layer underneath, guaranteed and proven to keep one's feet where one wanted them to be even when flying upside down in a Munchausen loop at 0 g and fighting off a Krullen Windigo with little more than a torch and a can of gas . Which Dean had done. The boots made a loud 'clunk' sound against the metal panel.
"Get your muddy boots off my control panel."
Dean eyed the little cloud of rapidly blinking yellow dot-like symbols on the visualizer screen above him. "Don't be a bitch, Sammy. Get those Patulians off me, uh?"
There was no answer.
"C'mon, little brother." Dean tried to inject a pitiful whine in his voice. "I'm hurt, remember? Big, smelly fangs in my thigh? Third planet on the left? A certain incantation that even Dad had never heard of before?" Boots now firmly on the floor, he whirled his seat around, facing the three rows of sim-glass flickering at him in frenetic increasingly purplish rainbows.
Still silence.
Dean grumbled under his breath and reach for the controls, only to realize that his access had been put on over-ride. He was now a passenger on the Impala. On his own ship. "Oh, very funny. Don't you mess with my baby, I'm warning you. I'm the driver, here!"
The ship's drive clicked into neutral, the visualizer showing it as a green dot-like symbol smoothly re-aligning itself with the yellow dots that represented the incoming Patulians.
"Oh no, you didn't. You invited them."
The Impala's interphones resonated with a low giggle.
"Oh. I did."
Dean had no way out, now. He cussed and swore loudly until the Patulians commander appeared on the intra-visualizer, then he plastered a bright grin on his face, knowing full well that by the end of the meeting, several hours later, his jaws and facial muscle will be hurting like hell. Because, Patulians? Mad Hatters that they were? If you don't smile at them constantly, you're insulting their mother, the mother of their mother, the female cousins on the paternal side and their born and unborn daughters, their future wives and the female counter-part of their sacred Idol-of-the-Month, not to mention a number of other relatives whose exact degree of genetic ties once, twice and thrice removed escaped Dean completely. And if you insult a Patulian, you insult the whole race. And they are really bad-tempered. Hence the need for a constant smiling in each and every interaction. Dean wasn't going to start an interracial, multi-space war. Not this time, anyway. Trust Sam to find the perfect revenge.
In a secluded area on TerraSacra, seventh period of the fifth month of Birth
Coming here had been a mistake.
Nothing had changed, and Dean hadn't expected it to. Dad, however…he was still out there, searching, buying, stealing, cajoling. Dad still believed. He couldn't stop believing. And part of Dean knew, if there was a way, his dad would find it. John Winchester was nothing but tenacious. And relentless. And the biggest pain in the ass Dean could imagine.
He walked slowly around the vat, heavy boots steps echoing in the quiet chamber. All the lights were dimmed. All the sounds and signals were stable. Dean knew them by heart, now. The pulsing diagrams, the beeping small sensors. He could close his eyes, anywhere in the universe, and hear them in his mind. See their pattern. A constellation only he knew. Those sounds and lights meant life.
Of a kind.
He could have transfer the credits. But no. John had said, Go.
Dean circled the vat one more time. He'd just paid another year's fees. An astronomical amount of credits, enough to detail the Impala from wind-nose to propellers. An incredible amount of credits, the biggest cut partly coming by way of John Winchester - and no, Dean had never and would never ask where John procured them from, or how - and the rest earned by Dean and his odd jobs in between exorcisms and poltergeists spring-cleanings, were-squids decapitations and the random possession, the rest earned by Dean playing pool and cards in space-stations underground bars and clubs where it was easier to come out without a few fingers than on your own two feet.
A few trusted friends chipped in, now and then. Against John Winchester's pride, against Dean's, but hey, what were friends good for, otherwise?
The long limbs in the vat floated gently in the semi-transparent gelatinised substance that filled it, floppy dark hair covering eyes that had been closed for close to four years, now.
A voluntary confinement.
Dean still couldn't believed that Sam had managed to do it all under their noses, his own and their father's, Sam still believing in a world that didn't existed but in his dreams and the Corps propaganda. Dean still couldn't believe all that paperwork and examinations and meetings that young Sammy had manage to keep under wrap and under the radar until it was time.
Until he blurted it out and John almost had a heart attack, being hit in his most vulnerable place, and with his own weapons, need to know, and secrecy.
Until Dean had had to come between them, pulling them apart, Sam's disbelief painted in his words, hard words that no father should hear from a son, and John's anger and terror for once panicking him into uncoordinated franticness instead of the usual calculated planning.
Because Sam didn't know that the schools really weren't such.
Because John hadn't shared with his sons what the psychic training really entailed.
Sam hadn't believed their father then, and Dean didn't know, and then it was too late, because they had come for Sam.
Without John, Dean would have been killed, that day. But John had grabbed him, and forced him to run away. Far enough away that they could regroup, forget the black-filled eyes of the Corps taking Sam away with them. Far enough that they could organize Sam's escape…only for it to be too late.
"It's not too late." Dean murmured in the eerie isolation of the chamber. It was an echo of his father's words, uttered with eyes focused on his youngest son as Dean and Bobby restrained him. Sam was a fighter. Always had been. "It's never too late," John had said, and that was it, John Winchester's final words, his reason for living in these past four years, his war path marked, his rush through the known systems and the unknown ones started.
Sam had entered the vat.
John had started searching for a way to free his baby boy from the demon inhabiting his body. Leaving no traces or survivors behind.
Dean…
Dean turned on his heels. The doors of the vat chamber closed smoothly behind him, the pneumatics sounds just a whoosh of sound in the air. The chamber was secure, guarded. Paid for. Another year. He could survive another year, couldn't he?
It wasn't much, what he had, but it was enough.What he had, a years old digitalized personality-download, was all he had.
He'd make do. As always. His face was still aching, Ceshire Cat that he was.
Dad might call. Dean might stumble unto something.
The Impala was waiting for him, docked in the third level of the second tower of the space port. Dean activated the security locks behind him, got rid of his jacket and reached the pilot's nook. "Honey, I'm home!"
"Very funny, Dean."
"Well, Sammy, did I ever tell you of that time during the Tampa astro-glide competition…"
The moan of pain from the interphones was loud and sincere, if a bit overdramatic.
"…there was this chick, she really liked going fast, and…" Dean activated the controls, gave impulse to the rotators, enough to shake the tower as they left it, a number of lights going up in the comm-panel to his right, Dean routinely ignoring them.
"Yes, Dean, you told me, already, a hundred times at least." Sam's voice came through loud and strong.
Dean grinned, settled in the pilot seat comfortably, clicked in the coordinates for their next destination, and kept going. "So, she thought it would be fun if her and I…"
The Impala left the station and disappeared in a curve of light.
In the periphery of the Seneca system, second period of the third month of Birth
"C'mon, Sammy. Do your thing." Dean crossed his legs at the ankles, resting his boots on the control panel in front of him, stretching in the comfortable, if old, leather that covered the pilot's seat. Dean's boots were heavy-duty flight quality super expensive Doc M.: they had an extra-thick magnetite layer underneath, guaranteed and proven to keep one's feet where one wanted them to be even when flying upside down in a Munchausen loop at 0 g and fighting off a Krullen Windigo with little more than a torch and a can of gas . Which Dean had done. The boots made a loud 'clunk' sound against the metal panel.
"Get your muddy boots off my control panel."
Dean eyed the little cloud of rapidly blinking yellow dot-like symbols on the visualizer screen above him. "Don't be a bitch, Sammy. Get those Patulians off me, uh?"
There was no answer.
"C'mon, little brother." Dean tried to inject a pitiful whine in his voice. "I'm hurt, remember? Big, smelly fangs in my thigh? Third planet on the left? A certain incantation that even Dad had never heard of before?" Boots now firmly on the floor, he whirled his seat around, facing the three rows of sim-glass flickering at him in frenetic increasingly purplish rainbows.
Still silence.
Dean grumbled under his breath and reach for the controls, only to realize that his access had been put on over-ride. He was now a passenger on the Impala. On his own ship. "Oh, very funny. Don't you mess with my baby, I'm warning you. I'm the driver, here!"
The ship's drive clicked into neutral, the visualizer showing it as a green dot-like symbol smoothly re-aligning itself with the yellow dots that represented the incoming Patulians.
"Oh no, you didn't. You invited them."
The Impala's interphones resonated with a low giggle.
"Oh. I did."
Dean had no way out, now. He cussed and swore loudly until the Patulians commander appeared on the intra-visualizer, then he plastered a bright grin on his face, knowing full well that by the end of the meeting, several hours later, his jaws and facial muscle will be hurting like hell. Because, Patulians? Mad Hatters that they were? If you don't smile at them constantly, you're insulting their mother, the mother of their mother, the female cousins on the paternal side and their born and unborn daughters, their future wives and the female counter-part of their sacred Idol-of-the-Month, not to mention a number of other relatives whose exact degree of genetic ties once, twice and thrice removed escaped Dean completely. And if you insult a Patulian, you insult the whole race. And they are really bad-tempered. Hence the need for a constant smiling in each and every interaction. Dean wasn't going to start an interracial, multi-space war. Not this time, anyway. Trust Sam to find the perfect revenge.
In a secluded area on TerraSacra, seventh period of the fifth month of Birth
Coming here had been a mistake.
Nothing had changed, and Dean hadn't expected it to. Dad, however…he was still out there, searching, buying, stealing, cajoling. Dad still believed. He couldn't stop believing. And part of Dean knew, if there was a way, his dad would find it. John Winchester was nothing but tenacious. And relentless. And the biggest pain in the ass Dean could imagine.
He walked slowly around the vat, heavy boots steps echoing in the quiet chamber. All the lights were dimmed. All the sounds and signals were stable. Dean knew them by heart, now. The pulsing diagrams, the beeping small sensors. He could close his eyes, anywhere in the universe, and hear them in his mind. See their pattern. A constellation only he knew. Those sounds and lights meant life.
Of a kind.
He could have transfer the credits. But no. John had said, Go.
Dean circled the vat one more time. He'd just paid another year's fees. An astronomical amount of credits, enough to detail the Impala from wind-nose to propellers. An incredible amount of credits, the biggest cut partly coming by way of John Winchester - and no, Dean had never and would never ask where John procured them from, or how - and the rest earned by Dean and his odd jobs in between exorcisms and poltergeists spring-cleanings, were-squids decapitations and the random possession, the rest earned by Dean playing pool and cards in space-stations underground bars and clubs where it was easier to come out without a few fingers than on your own two feet.
A few trusted friends chipped in, now and then. Against John Winchester's pride, against Dean's, but hey, what were friends good for, otherwise?
The long limbs in the vat floated gently in the semi-transparent gelatinised substance that filled it, floppy dark hair covering eyes that had been closed for close to four years, now.
A voluntary confinement.
Dean still couldn't believed that Sam had managed to do it all under their noses, his own and their father's, Sam still believing in a world that didn't existed but in his dreams and the Corps propaganda. Dean still couldn't believe all that paperwork and examinations and meetings that young Sammy had manage to keep under wrap and under the radar until it was time.
Until he blurted it out and John almost had a heart attack, being hit in his most vulnerable place, and with his own weapons, need to know, and secrecy.
Until Dean had had to come between them, pulling them apart, Sam's disbelief painted in his words, hard words that no father should hear from a son, and John's anger and terror for once panicking him into uncoordinated franticness instead of the usual calculated planning.
Because Sam didn't know that the schools really weren't such.
Because John hadn't shared with his sons what the psychic training really entailed.
Sam hadn't believed their father then, and Dean didn't know, and then it was too late, because they had come for Sam.
Without John, Dean would have been killed, that day. But John had grabbed him, and forced him to run away. Far enough away that they could regroup, forget the black-filled eyes of the Corps taking Sam away with them. Far enough that they could organize Sam's escape…only for it to be too late.
"It's not too late." Dean murmured in the eerie isolation of the chamber. It was an echo of his father's words, uttered with eyes focused on his youngest son as Dean and Bobby restrained him. Sam was a fighter. Always had been. "It's never too late," John had said, and that was it, John Winchester's final words, his reason for living in these past four years, his war path marked, his rush through the known systems and the unknown ones started.
Sam had entered the vat.
John had started searching for a way to free his baby boy from the demon inhabiting his body. Leaving no traces or survivors behind.
Dean…
Dean turned on his heels. The doors of the vat chamber closed smoothly behind him, the pneumatics sounds just a whoosh of sound in the air. The chamber was secure, guarded. Paid for. Another year. He could survive another year, couldn't he?
It wasn't much, what he had, but it was enough.What he had, a years old digitalized personality-download, was all he had.
He'd make do. As always. His face was still aching, Ceshire Cat that he was.
Dad might call. Dean might stumble unto something.
The Impala was waiting for him, docked in the third level of the second tower of the space port. Dean activated the security locks behind him, got rid of his jacket and reached the pilot's nook. "Honey, I'm home!"
"Very funny, Dean."
"Well, Sammy, did I ever tell you of that time during the Tampa astro-glide competition…"
The moan of pain from the interphones was loud and sincere, if a bit overdramatic.
"…there was this chick, she really liked going fast, and…" Dean activated the controls, gave impulse to the rotators, enough to shake the tower as they left it, a number of lights going up in the comm-panel to his right, Dean routinely ignoring them.
"Yes, Dean, you told me, already, a hundred times at least." Sam's voice came through loud and strong.
Dean grinned, settled in the pilot seat comfortably, clicked in the coordinates for their next destination, and kept going. "So, she thought it would be fun if her and I…"
The Impala left the station and disappeared in a curve of light.