Lacrimosa 3/?
Title: Lacrimosa (pt 3/?)
Author: lizadork
Fandoms: Dark Angel, Supernatural
Rating: Uh... pg-13? There's swearing.
Characters: Sam, Dean, Alec, Ben, Icarus
Summary: Sam would also appreciate a teeny, tiny clone, tyvm.
This Chapter: Books and breakfast and tiny breakthroughs
Disclaimer: If I owned them, I would be cuddling with them right now, not posting on the internet.
Author's Note: Hey dudes, sorry for the long wait. I had some babies and so writing sort of got put on the backburner. This chapter might not be up to snuff as getting back in the groove was hard. Much love and thanks to my darling
scourgeofeurope* , who totes helped me get through it and consoled me and is the whole reason this fic even exists. She wrote the brilliant origins from which this came, The Wellspring, and it was with her that Icarus evolved from a tiny cockapoo, to a tiny Sam-clone. I don't even know, but I do know I love it. ♥
Previous Chapter(s)
1, 2
Sam has never been a heavy sleeper. Neither Dean and he have, though he reckons that when push comes to shove, he's managed to sustain a little better relationship with the concept than his brother, burdened by less and for far fewer years. It's not that they don't enjoy sleep, or that they don't need it; Christ, do they ever need it. But too many nights of living with things, and the knowledge of things, that snarl and sneak and slay, of staying in broken down motels on the wrong side of town, of dreaming dark omens and fearing that this is the it and all of everything, has put him on a hair trigger when it comes to slumber. There were a few blissful years at Stanford where he was able to pretend, was able to train himself not to jerk awake into that hard-won alertness hunting required with every uncatalogued sound; he was good at that, at fooling others, at fooling himself. He still is.
They've gotten more attuned since the boys came. It's impressive, actually, when he stops to think about it, how even when it's not conscious, his brain can differentiate between the sound of a threat and the scuffled slip-slip of tiny socked feet crossing the carpeted space between beds to switch allegiances.
But it's not the soft slippered announcement of a bed guest that wakes him, this time.
The cheap plastic alarm clock on the veneered particle board bedside table glows faintly, ominous red digits reading 3:17; it's only been a couple of hours since Sam settled down and he feels it, the dull ache behind his eyes and the sandy press of need in their corners. Carefully, so as not to wake Ben who became glued to his side at some point, Sam sits up and blinks, listens carefully. It's quiet outside, no wind, but he knows he heard something and--
There. A sharp gagging noise followed faintly by a choked cry. He looks to Dean's bed; empty, save for Alec, covering the mattress in a four-point sprawl, blankets tangled and bunched around his little legs. Sam eases to standing, gently untwines the boy and draws the covers over him again before glancing about. There's a sliver of orange light leaking from the gap beneath the bathroom door. Sam pads over, fingers ghosting on the knob in hesitance before they take hold and twist, push it open.
At first all he can see is Dean, crouched in his boxer briefs and worn t-shirt by the toilet, balanced on arched feet by his toes and an elbow that's hooked neatly on the seat of the john. There's a looseness to his brother's shoulders that doesn't fit with Sam's confusion, until he hears the retching noise again and Icarus's head shoots forward into his line of sight, tear-stained and stretched thin with the effort of emptying his stomach. There's a wet splash that makes Sam's stomach curl uncertainly; he's always been a sympathy puker.
"Close the door, Sammy." Dean says, soft. He's got one hand on a small back and Sam can see the trembling from where he stands, the aching tension that's pooled in the base of the boy's spine. Dean's hand rubs steady circles over Icarus's skin, soothing as gently as he knows how even while he murmurs that it's okay, it's just Sam, nothin' to worry about. Misery is etched into every line of the impossibly tiny face and there are tears dripping down the boy's round cheeks, leaving streaks in the dirt that's painted there. A sob escapes him and then he's coiling again, shaking his head desperately before he rockets forward, slim fingers gripping the edges of the porcelain so tightly that the diminutive knobs of the his knuckles go bone-white and faintly blue. He vomits and it's nothing but a paltry offering of yellow bile followed by a chorus of dry heaves that have Sam stepping forward with a creased brow and Dean easing the kid back to lean against his chest.
"What's wrong?" Sam hovers, bends lower when Russ hunches at his towering form.
"Nothin's wrong," Dean says, palms rubbing up and down spindly arms that are covered with goose flesh. "Turns out we're just not a nugget man after all. Nothin's wrong, Sam."
There's a hint in his brother's tone and Sam nods, understands when he catches Russ's red-rimmed eyes for the briefest of seconds, sees the panic and the guilt there. "Oh. Man, that's rough. You okay, buddy?"
Icarus eyes him for a moment before nodding and then there are more tears, gathering into a shimmering wave before cascading down to drip off the elfin chin. "M'sorry. I didn't," He hiccups, "I didn't m-mean to."
"Hey, hey, nothing to be sorry for, dude." Dean hushes the whispered apology quickly, bumps the gathered child in his arms slightly and flashes him a wry grin. "That was some world class upchucking, kid; I'm impressed."
If dubious expressions could become tactile, the one on Icarus's face would probably be throwing punches right about now. Sam's next, feels the doubtful, suspicious study of scared eyes wash over him as he nods and kneels beside Dean, hands dangling loosely between his knees. "It's not your fault, Icarus. It's okay."
"I didn't mean to."
"We know. It's okay. Even if you meant to, it's okay."
"But I didn't. I didn't mean to. It was an unexpected breakdown." The trembling hasn't stopped and Sam's beginning to wonder if it's less fear and more the fact that the bathroom is fucking freezing. He remembers how awful throwing up was when he was little, the way it made him hypersensitive to everything around him. If he's cold, the kid has to be well on his way to becoming an ice cube.
He nods. "Sometimes that happens, breakdowns. That's alright. I've puked before, Dean's puked before," At this his brother makes a small noise of agreement and nods, exaggerating the motion only slightly. "It happens to the best of us. It's not your fault. We're not upset. It's okay. Okay?"
Russ hasn't moved from his lean-to perch against Dean's chest but he hasn't relaxed either. He swallows, blinks without moving his gaze from Sam. Finally he nods.
"Okay," Sam repeats, taking the motion for permission to continue. He's not sure what he's doing, really, but he remembers being in the same position, remembers Dean and sometimes Dad being the ones saying those words. He slowly moves around his brother and the boy, sits on the edge of the tub and turns on the tap, one hand cupped under the flow as he adjusts the temperature before pressing the stopper down. "Let's get you cleaned up, alright? Warm those bones, huh, buddy?"
"You done with the puking?" Dean asks quietly as he carefully rights the kid, one hand gently on his belly and the other at the small of his back, as if he's worried that the clone can't stand on his own.
Icarus waits, nods again. "I think so," He whispers meekly. There are dark circles under his eyes and he's looking at the bathtub like it's a vat of bubbling acid. He stiffens when Dean moves to lift the shirt off of him.
"No, don't! I don't... please," There are runty hands fisting in the hem of the shirt, tugging it down, and Russ is shaking his head. Dean leans back slowly, raises his hands palm-forward in front of him.
"I'm not gonna do anything you don't want me to do, kiddo, but we gotta clean you up." He says gently. Sam can't stop watching him, doesn't think he'll ever stop being amazed by the way his brother intuitively knows how to speak to children, how to draw out their trust and kick down their fear, all without pulling his punches. "The shirt's gotta come off. You can do it, or you can do it with help from me or Sam, but it's gotta come off."
"I don't need help."
"That's fine. You do it," Dean nods, eases back a little more. Icarus doesn't move an inch. "Listen, Russ, we're not gonna hurt you. If we were gonna do that, we would've done it a long time ago, right?"
A hesitant nod. Russ's eyes dart to Sam, who stares back, and then return to Dean. The little boy fidgets, twists the blue material tightly. "Maybe you're lying. You could be lying. Maybe you're worried that I'm dangerous, that I'm like them and you're just... you're just waiting until I'm vulnerable to strike."
"Kid, if I was worried about you bein' a threat, I wouldn't have let you set a foot near my boys," Dean says. He paused for a second, then adds, "Or in my car."
Sam twists the faucet, turns the water off. He leans forward just a little. "We aren't going to hurt you. That's not what we do."
Russ bites his lip. He doesn't look like he believes them but there's something lurking in the way he sways ever so slightly, like a pendulum, that says he might, one day. He swallows and it looks like it hurts, the way his throat ripples and he winces, and then there's a fierce stare directed at them and Sam feels his heart jerk in that annoying way again because he knows that look, knows what it feels like to wear that look.
"I can do it myself," Russ says, voice still wire thin but firmer this time. "I don't need help. I can do it, m'not a baby."
"You're not a baby." Sam agrees even though he doesn't, really. Icarus is a baby. He's small and helpless and small and helpless things are babies, they need looking after. Sam's watched those National Geographic specials. He knows what happens to tiny, uncared for things out on the Serengeti. They get torn to shit by lions and scavenged by hyenas. He and Dean have seen those stalking animals, too, have seen and felt them take their boys, boys who were cared for and looked after and if they can do that to children who are treasured and loved to a degree that's startling and near stupid, then Icarus doesn't stand a chance without them. It makes Sam dizzy.
He stands and gets a washcloth from the cheap wire rack that's screwed into the wall at a lopsided angle. There's a little bar of wrapped soap on the sink and he grabs that too, sets them on the edge of the tub and then takes a seat on the toilet. Icarus is watching him and he's tense again, knows that Dean's behind him and Sam's right here in front of him and Sam can tell he feels cornered. "I know you can do it. But it'd give us a little peace of mind if you let us help you so we don't worry that you're overdoing it."
"I told you I didn't mean to--"
"We know. You didn't mean to. It's okay. We're just gonna help you, and that's okay too," Sam says. He reaches forward and tugs Icarus toward him. The boy quails and fights against his gentle grip, body stiff and humming with alarm until Sam manages to pry the hands loose of the shirt and then lets him go. He waits until the boy's chest stops heaving and then carefully tugs on a giant sleeve. "C'mon. Before the water gets cold."
It seems to take forever before they get him in. The water blooms dark with dirt and Sam has to drain and refill it twice, Icarus huddled with knees pressed against his chest in the middle of the tub, shivering even when the washcloth sluices warm water over him. His hair takes some work, matted in some places and tangled in others, a familiar state that Sam knows well from showering himself after dirty jobs. He's careful as he works his fingers through the mess, hands the washcloth to Icarus so he can press it to his eyes while Sam rinses Head & Shoulders from little-boy hair. Dean slips in and out quietly, leaving a new shirt, filling a chipped mug with a can of ginger ale from the machine down the hall.
It's nearing five when they lead Russ back into the room, silent so as not to wake the small forms still warm and safe under the floral duvets. Russ blinks heavily as Dean lifts him up and next to Ben, who shifts with a faint frown before settling back against Icarus.
"If you need anything, you feel sick again, you wake us up." Dean says, smoothing a hand over the slightly-damp hair before crossing to the other bed, climbing in wearily. The touch doesn't soothe the boy, seems to puzzle him and make more uneasy, just like all of their touches do, but Sam doesn't hesitate as he crawls into bed, ignores the slight hitch in his carbon copy's breath. He's too tired right now to do much more than move in that sure and steady way that means he's not going to do any harm.
"It's okay, Russ. Just sleep. You need to sleep," He says. He hears the rustle of a nod against a pillow and he glances at the clock.
It's blinking 5:42 before Icarus's breath evens out and Sam still can't bring his eyes to close.
***
"Dean. Dean. Dean," Sam shakes his brother, hissing at him as loudly as he dares. He's been trying, unsuccessfully, to rouse his brother to the brim of alertness for twenty minutes. Dean grunts and pointedly buries his head under one of the thin motel pillows. Be quiet, Sam, the motion says; I've only had four hours of sleep and I'm tired, it says; Fuck off, it says. Sam sighs and turns to the bedside table, rummages in the drawer for the complimentary stationary, finds an almost used up notepad and a conveniently placed blue Bic. He scrawls a note and when he looks up, Ben is blinking at him from the bed, scrubbing at his face with a tired hand.
"Hey," Sam whispers with a soft, morning smile. "Didn't mean to wake you, sweetheart. Go back to sleep."
"M'not tired," Ben whispers back. He yawns and scoots to the bottom of the bed, mindful not to jostle Icarus who's curled up and dead to the world, a blanket covered wisp of a thing, breathing lightly. Ben takes Sam in, his jeans and shirt and the hoodie that's hanging from one fist, and his eyes narrow in accusatory suspicion. "Where are you going?"
Are you leaving, he means.
Sam brushes a rough palm over the downy little boy hair, fingers combing gently at the stubborn peaks until they look less like they've been styled by a hurricane with a follicle agenda. "I've got to get some things, buddy. Some clothes for Icarus, some supplies," He pauses, thumb tracing over a small lip that's trying not to thin with anxiety, cants his head then taps Ben's nose, "You wanna come?"
Ben nods and slips off the bed, rummages through the bag that holds the boys' clothes and strips off the oversized worn t-shirt, one of Dean's, that he sleeps in. He tugs on mostly-clean jeans and a shirt, sighs quietly when Sam nods at his questioning look before he pulls out a hooded sweatshirt. While he's brushing his teeth, Sam does a quick check through the bag, makes a note to pick up a couple more packs of socks (they always seem to disappear) and some new pants for the rotation because the ones they have now are about ready to make the switch from decent-enough-for-public to weekend casuals.
"Ready?" He whispers when Ben comes out looking more alert, face fresh and pink from being washed. The boy nods and slips a hand into Sam's, easy and willing. "Alright, let's go."
***
There isn't a Salvation Army in town but there's a decent looking thrift shop. It opens at nine and so they mosey on over to the Walgreens, hit up the first aid aisle and then, because Sam's a total sucker and not the only one who knows how to pull puppy eyes, the bins of clearance candy. Two bucks and a promise from Ben that he and the rest of the Dean gang will take it easy on the jumbo bag of peanut M&Ms are all it takes to put a gleeful, acre-wide smile on the kid's face; it's well worth the risk of cavities and juvenile diabetes, though he'd never admit it for fear of losing his position as Uncle Sam: Defender of Traditional Parenting Credos.
They leave with plastic bags and head back to the store, smiling at the snowy-haired woman behind the counter as the bells hanging above the door announce their arrival.
"You boys need any help?" She asks, her face a study of warmth and smiling gentility. She seems nice. She seems like the sort of person who does homey things like bake cookies and host book club meetings. Her house is probably cozy and full of memories in the shape of tasteful knick knacks, and for one fleeting, outlandish moment Sam wants to give her a hug. Chances are good that she'd probably think he was a lunatic though, and Sam likes to avoid those assumptions as often as possible so he just shakes his head, places a large hand on Ben's shoulder and steers him towards the back where the racks of children's clothes are.
"We're okay, thanks," He says with just enough shy certainty to make her melt. She nods and taps the counter with a hand; there's a Louis L'Amour book resting there, a tasseled bookmark sticking out from the deluge of pages.
"If you need anything, I'll be just here," She says, watching them with a twinkle in her eye that Sam's come to know a whole lot better since they found the boys. There's something about a couple of dudes with kids that just seems to draw it out, even from the hard sort of women that they meet in small, nowhere towns, and he doesn't really understand it but he figures it's a woman thing and so he's better off not trying to grasp the whys or wherefores.
He starts sorting through a shelf of pants, years of practice easing the process as he separates the tragically worn from the decent. It's a familiar act, sifting through scraps of other people's lives to patch something new together. He's not sure of Icarus's exact size but he and Dean have eyeballed enough with Alec and Ben to make him somewhat confidant as he yanks a couple of pairs of tiny jeans from the pile, thumb and forefinger rubbing at the seams and cuffs experimentally. He adds a small pair of corduroy cargo pants that have seen better days but which will do for when they've got to do laundry; at a buck-fifty, they're not exactly an exorbitant expense, and they can afford to piece together a decent haul. By the time he's added a pair of fuzzy sweats and a set of red, long-sleeved, waffle-knit pajamas to the pile--they're probably going to be a bit big, but they have feet and they look warm, are a good find considering winter's approaching fast--Ben's already gathered a selection of t-shirts. They're ridiculously small, and Sam can't help the spike of wonder that pierces his chest; Christ, was he really ever that size?
"There's some long-sleeved stuff over here, Uncle Sam," Ben hums, jabbing at a pile of cotton, solids and prints all mixed together and sorted by size. "We should probably get them a little big, so he can grow into it. He's scrawny, but he can layer and then we won't have to stop so soon."
"Mm," Sam nods quietly in agreement, distracted as he rifles through what Ben hands him, discarding some but keeping most of it. They make a pass by the plastic bins of shoes, nab a battered pair of sneakers that look like they've got a good few months on them yet, despite the unfashionable brand.
They bring their selections to the counter where the friendly woman remarks over them kindly and begins folding them. Sam runs over his list, glances at the piles, and frowns. "Uh, do you have any winter jackets in, by any chance?"
"We certainly do," She replies. She points to the far corner of the shop. "Just right on there, near the books and tablewares."
"Thanks. We'll just be a second," Sam says before leading Ben to the directed area. He paws through what seems like twelve feet of puffy down coats that seem intent on suffocating him, before he finds something that's less likely to smother the kid, though it's still a little larger than he'd like. He holds up the olive ski jacket, vinyl shell crinkling noisily in his hand. It's got a padded hood and good sized pockets, a high collar that zips right up. "What d'you think?"
Ben's eying the thing like it's a contaminate that's going to eat at Sam's flesh. His eyebrows rise articulately and he looks at Sam like he's insane. "Uncle Sam, that's cruel. S'almost as ugly as our jacket."
And oh god, he's never going to hear the end of that one. Sam sighs. "It's not going to be on any runways, maybe, but there's not a lot of choice here, kiddo, and--"
"What about this?" Ben dives into the rack and emerges clutching something plaid, red and black, and wriggles it over his head. It's surprisingly thick, lined with a layer of sherpa wool, a wide collar spanning the tailored shoulders. It looks like a resurrected schoolyard bomber circa 1973, but it's not horrible. Certainly a sight better than the travesty that Sam's found, and with a sweatshirt underneath it'll be just as warm.
"It looks like something you'd wear," Ben states primly as Sam mulls it over. Sam snorts; he thinks it looks like something John would wear, but then he and Dean have adopted a lot more from the old man than they'd perhaps like to admit.
"Good find, buddy," He claps the boy on the shoulder and Ben beams.
Just for the hell of it they spend a few minutes browsing through the dogeared, yellowing books on the shelves, quiet appreciation echoing between them as they reverently pull titles out, reading the dust jackets summaries before replacing them. Ben lingers over a duty copy of American Gods and Sam quietly tugs it from his hands, tucks it under his arm with the jacket. He's rewarded with pleased, shy smile before Ben grips his hand and leans into his side. It's so easy with this one, with Alec, too. On some level, where his senses lie, Sam knows it's because they've already proven themselves to the little X5's, have already pledged themselves to them through weeks and weeks on the road, through fights that they still can't talk about without their voices dropping and their shoulders tensing in remembrance. They've earned these easy touches, this implicit trust, the privilege of caressing a small cheek without receiving suspicious looks and frightened retreats in response. He knows this but it doesn't make it any less stark a contrast, doesn't make it any less sickening that Icarus has had such ability to relax pulled out of him, through the nurturing (and the very word is a contradiction because it implies care, it implies a tenderness that Manticore is entirely and pitilessly without) of the place from which he came.
As he's turning to steer Ben back to the front of the store, a colourful binding catches his eye. It's a paperback copy of Harry Potter and the Sorcerers Stone with corners wilting downward, a bespectacled boy atop a broom trying to catch a golden ball with wings looming on the cover. He considers it for a moment, wonders if Icarus likes to read. Wonders if he'd like to read this. Would it be challenging enough? He doesn't know where the boy stands in that regard, whether or not he can use Alec and Ben as a gauge; Alec, who would scoff at the book and Sam for even thinking he'd read it, and Ben who would humor him and probably give it the ol' college try even though he prefers Pratchett and Salinger.
He's about to put the book back when he sees the unicorn in the background. A goddamn unicorn and if that's not a sign, Sam doesn't know what is. Ben peers at it curiously as he tucks it under his arm, eyebrows raising in polite skepticism, but he doesn't say anything and Sam lays both books and the jacket with the rest of their things.
They get out for just under forty dollars, mild damage, and head back to the motel, stopping off at a diner along the way to pick up breakfast and coffee. Sam knows Dean won't stop bitching if he doesn't at least offer some caffeine in exchange for incomparable honour of driving his precious baby, and he's really not up to fending off his brother's sulking today.
The first thing he notices when he enters the room, Ben cheerily following him with bags hanging from his thin wrists, is that Dean's slumped at the precarious room table, fuzzily scrubbing at his eyes underneath hopelessly disheveled hair. He's still in his boxer briefs and t-shirt and he blinks at Sam.
"Icarus doesn't like his hair combed," Dean announces in a dry tone. "Are those waffles? Please tell me those're waffles, Sammy."
"Pancakes," Sam replies, tossing the bag of Styrofoam takeout boxes onto the table where they're quickly snagged by Dean's eager hands. He ignores the moan of pleasure that echoes from his brother as he hands him the steaming cardboard cup of black coffee, turns to the nearest bed where a blanket-covered lump is huddled. "Icarus?" He tries, cautiously.
The lump stills and then the blanket shifts and slips away to reveal a scowling face framed by a pouffy mess of brown hair. The kid looks like he's been tossed through a wind tunnel then used to close an electrical circuit, and Sam swallows back a chuckle because Icarus looks genuinely offended and is eyeballing him like he's considering launching an offensive attack. Sam clears his throat, holds up a thin plastic bag. "We got you some clothes. How 'bout you try 'em on?"
"He's a savage, Uncle Sam, they don't wear clothes," Alec interrupts, coming out of the bathroom. He's wiping his hands on his sweats, glares at Icarus before he takes a seat at the table, shuffles his chair over until it's as close to Dean as it can get. "He attacked Dad."
"He attacked me first!" Icarus growls, startling them all. The little boy rises to his knees, blanket falling from his shoulders, and stabs a finger in Dean's direction. "He came at me with that... that thing and tried to scalp me!"
"Hey, Hawkeye, I said I was sorry," Dean grumbles over the lip of his coffee. "And I wasn't trying to do anything but brush that rats nest out."
"I don't have rats in my--"
"Alright, well," Sam says loudly, speaking over the outraged midget to forestall this conversation from spiraling any further. "Icarus, why don't you get dressed and we'll sort out your hair later, okay?"
The boy stares at him darkly for a moment before he crawls off the bed and carefully snatches the bag from Sam's outstretched hand, back to maintaining his safe distance. He skirts around the rest of them and pads into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. There's a muted click as the lock is depressed, and then Dean snorts.
"Swear to God, Sam, kid's bitchier about his hair than you are," The man says, rubbing at a spot just above his left knee that's starting to bruise faintly. Alec looks up from his pancakes and nods, looks at Sam like it's his fault and Sam just sighs, sinks into a chair and cups big hands around his coffee, relishing the warmth radiating against his palms. He's not sure what he was expecting - that things would somehow be better in the morning, like the adage says, maybe - but the bright wariness shining from Icarus's face wasn't it. He prods at his tired eyes and then reaches across the table for the food, pulls a box of pancakes over and uncaps a tiny container of maple syrup to drizzle on top.
"He's just scared," Sam says. He's speaking to Dean but he looks at Alec, who keeps sending malevolent glances toward the bathroom door. "It's nothing personal."
Dean rolls his eyes because that much is pretty damn obvious, then he shakes his head and thumbs over the spot on his leg again. "Got a hell of a kick on him, though."
Before Sam can reply the bathroom door opens and Russ is there, watching them with big eyes. He's got on a pair of the jeans and Sam's glad to see they seem to fit in the waist, though the hems are pooling around his ankles a bit. His hands are twisting the bottom of the long-sleeved striped shirt he's got on, bunching and unbunching it nervously as he slowly shuffles out and approaches them, making a wide loop around the table until he's nearer Sam, an arms length away and peering at him with an unreadable expression. Suddenly a small hand extends, and the boy nods solemnly. "Thank you. For the clothes."
Sam can see Dean's lips quirk out of the corner of his eye but he ignores it, takes the hand and shakes it just as seriously as it's been offered. "You're welcome," He says, smiling softly. He gestures to the scattered containers of food. "You think you're up to trying some breakfast? Just a little, maybe, nothing too heavy."
Icarus considers and then nods, climbs onto the chair beside him when none of them make any sudden moves. Ben reaches over and pats his shoulder, gives him a sticky smile, and Russ lets out a breath before he glances at Dean. He purses his lips in a worried line, tremulously clears his throat. "Did I hurt you?"
"Who, me?" Dean's expression softens into a gentle smirk and he shakes his head. "Naw, kiddo, s'okay. I'm a pretty tough guy, you know."
Icarus nods after a beat and watches intently while Sam hesitantly steers a box towards him, pops open the top and releases a plume of sweet-smelling steam.
"Go slow," He says to the boy, laying a plastic fork on the table near him. "Your tummy might not be up to much, yet."
Christ, did he really just say tummy? Alec and Ben and Dean are looking real intently at their breakfast, a few snickers slipping out helplessly. Sam's trying, goddamn it. He's really trying and little kids have tummies, thank you very much. It's completely acceptable vocabulary. Icarus seems to agree with him because he's not laughing, he's just stabbing his pancake with his fork, using his other hand to rip the small, pierced section free and Sam frowns; he should have cut it for him. He forgot to cut it and now the kid is risking pancake-burns because Sam wasn't thoughtful enough to consider that a kindergartener might not ask for a knife.
But he doesn't burn himself. Icarus ferries the forkful of fluffy pastry into his small, pink mouth, chewing almost tenderly before he swallows. There's a long pause before he tears another piece off, seemingly satisfied that his stomach, his tummy, isn't going to rebel again.
When they're done, garbage stuffed into the so-small-as-to-be-useless rubbish bin in the corner of the room, they make quick work of stowing their gear into bags. It doesn't take very long; they don't have very much and it's a process that Sam and Dean are intimately familiar with, limbs moving with a ritual efficiency that's near preternatural. Icarus watches them with his head tilted in that owlish way again, face curious and perplexed as they steer Alec and Ben through the routine absently; he looks startled when Dean fondly lobs their beloved plush animals at their heads, knits his eyebrows together and furrows his brow like he's trying to piece together a puzzle that doesn't quite fit.
They're finished before the hour turns and Sam fishes out the small jacket that Ben found, holds it out to Russ. "Here, buddy. It's kind of chilly out."
Icarus takes it, tracing over the pattern slowly with his fingers. Dean's got two duffels in hand and is toeing at Alec and Ben, corralling them out to the Impala. Icarus watches them go, his blue eyes so intense they look lost, before he says suddenly, "Why do you look after them?"
Sam's not sure what the boy is really asking. "Because we're family," He says slowly, falling back on the simple thread of truth, the basic line that runs through the tangled web that they live in, "We're a family and that's what you do. You look after each other."
"You don't have to."
"No, you don't," Sam agrees. He doesn't say anything and Icarus lets out a windy huff of frustration. His face scrunches as he tries to articulate his thoughts, fingers knotted in the thick fabric of his new coat.
"They said..." He starts, stutters into a whisper that's sharp and violently quiet, "They said that everyone is part of a unit. And every member serves a purpose and when that... when that purpose isn't useful anymore, they become dis-dispensable." Icarus's chest rises harshly and he knifes a glance at Sam, chin lifting in challenge. "What's their purpose? What do you want with them?"
It hurts to swallow. He tries three times before he's able to choke past the glass in his throat and when his voice does come, it's dry and curled.
"We just want them," Sam doesn't look away from the fierce little face, can't. "We just want them. That's it."
"Why?"
"Because they're ours. They're our family." Like you.
"And what happens when you don't wan' 'em anymore?"
Sam feels his jaw clench, feels his eyes glaze over with something dark and hard. "That's not going to happen."
Icarus nods. "It might."
"It won't."
"It might."
"It won't. It won't ever happen. It won't ever happen because we're not them, Icarus," Sam's angry. He's too angry to be talking to any child, let alone this child, but he can't stop. He steps forward, drops to his haunches mere feet from Icarus and shakes his head, nostrils flaring. "We're not them and we're never going to be like them. They were wrong. They were evil and wrong and those sons of bitches told you wrong, evil things. Alec and Ben aren't dispensable. You're not dispensable. None of you were. Do you understand that? Can you hear me, can you really hear what I'm saying?"
Icarus stares wildly at him, face open and frightened and frozen. The silence stretches between them and Sam feels the thudding in his temples ease gradually, winces internally because fuck, he just... he's not good at this. On a sigh he stands up, knees creaking, eyes looking away as he draws another slow breath.
"Here," He says, scrubbing at his temple before he reaches into the bag at his feet, draws out the Harry Potter and holds it out. "This is for you, if you want. Thought you might want something to read while we drive."
The boy's lips open slightly as he timidly wraps his hands around either side, freeing it from Sam's grip. He traces over the cover reverently and then looks at Sam, fragile want etched into his features. "For how long?" He whispers.
Sam is confused. "How long what?"
"For how long can I have it?"
Oh. He'd thought his heart couldn't possible break more, couldn't possibly feel more outrage than it already did, but he was wrong. He was so wrong it makes his head spin. Sam shrugs, hopes it looks casual because it's taking all his effort not to tense right up again. "It's yours, buddy. For keeps."
"For keeps?"
"Yeah, for as long as you want it," Sam nods, fights the urge to scoop the small form up and tuck him close, knows that would do more harm than good. He nods at the door instead. "We should get going. Lot of road to cover."
The book is slowly drawn up to the small chest, crossed by possessive arms. Icarus nods and bends to pick up the jacket that's on the floor, tumbled there sometime during their conversation. He looks like he's trying not to be sick again as he waits for Sam to start moving. He hasn't taken two steps before he feels the sudden impact of small boy at his waits, thin arms wrapping around him. The book bumps against his hipbone and Sam stills before he reaches an arm down to wrap around the narrow shoulders, rubs tentative circles along a trembling back. Icarus breaks free after a second and steps back, gulping in a breath like he'd been holding it the whole time.
"Thank you," He says again, softer this time. He runs his sleeve under his nose and shuffles past Sam, out into the bright, fall light.
Sam closes his eyes and has to wait a moment before he can follow. He's pulling his cell phone out as he shuts the door, thumbs through his short list of contacts until it reaches the familiar number and then hits the send button. It takes four and a half rings before the line clicks in connection.
"Bobby," Sam says, watching as Icarus climbs awkwardly into the Impala, book and jacket impeding the process. Dean's watching him knowingly from the drivers seat, and Sam jerks a nod at him. "It's Sam. Listen, we're gonna be at your place in a few hours. You got a minute to talk?"
Next...
Author: lizadork
Fandoms: Dark Angel, Supernatural
Rating: Uh... pg-13? There's swearing.
Characters: Sam, Dean, Alec, Ben, Icarus
Summary: Sam would also appreciate a teeny, tiny clone, tyvm.
This Chapter: Books and breakfast and tiny breakthroughs
Disclaimer: If I owned them, I would be cuddling with them right now, not posting on the internet.
Author's Note: Hey dudes, sorry for the long wait. I had some babies and so writing sort of got put on the backburner. This chapter might not be up to snuff as getting back in the groove was hard. Much love and thanks to my darling
scourgeofeurope* , who totes helped me get through it and consoled me and is the whole reason this fic even exists. She wrote the brilliant origins from which this came, The Wellspring, and it was with her that Icarus evolved from a tiny cockapoo, to a tiny Sam-clone. I don't even know, but I do know I love it. ♥
Previous Chapter(s)
1, 2
Sam has never been a heavy sleeper. Neither Dean and he have, though he reckons that when push comes to shove, he's managed to sustain a little better relationship with the concept than his brother, burdened by less and for far fewer years. It's not that they don't enjoy sleep, or that they don't need it; Christ, do they ever need it. But too many nights of living with things, and the knowledge of things, that snarl and sneak and slay, of staying in broken down motels on the wrong side of town, of dreaming dark omens and fearing that this is the it and all of everything, has put him on a hair trigger when it comes to slumber. There were a few blissful years at Stanford where he was able to pretend, was able to train himself not to jerk awake into that hard-won alertness hunting required with every uncatalogued sound; he was good at that, at fooling others, at fooling himself. He still is.
They've gotten more attuned since the boys came. It's impressive, actually, when he stops to think about it, how even when it's not conscious, his brain can differentiate between the sound of a threat and the scuffled slip-slip of tiny socked feet crossing the carpeted space between beds to switch allegiances.
But it's not the soft slippered announcement of a bed guest that wakes him, this time.
The cheap plastic alarm clock on the veneered particle board bedside table glows faintly, ominous red digits reading 3:17; it's only been a couple of hours since Sam settled down and he feels it, the dull ache behind his eyes and the sandy press of need in their corners. Carefully, so as not to wake Ben who became glued to his side at some point, Sam sits up and blinks, listens carefully. It's quiet outside, no wind, but he knows he heard something and--
There. A sharp gagging noise followed faintly by a choked cry. He looks to Dean's bed; empty, save for Alec, covering the mattress in a four-point sprawl, blankets tangled and bunched around his little legs. Sam eases to standing, gently untwines the boy and draws the covers over him again before glancing about. There's a sliver of orange light leaking from the gap beneath the bathroom door. Sam pads over, fingers ghosting on the knob in hesitance before they take hold and twist, push it open.
At first all he can see is Dean, crouched in his boxer briefs and worn t-shirt by the toilet, balanced on arched feet by his toes and an elbow that's hooked neatly on the seat of the john. There's a looseness to his brother's shoulders that doesn't fit with Sam's confusion, until he hears the retching noise again and Icarus's head shoots forward into his line of sight, tear-stained and stretched thin with the effort of emptying his stomach. There's a wet splash that makes Sam's stomach curl uncertainly; he's always been a sympathy puker.
"Close the door, Sammy." Dean says, soft. He's got one hand on a small back and Sam can see the trembling from where he stands, the aching tension that's pooled in the base of the boy's spine. Dean's hand rubs steady circles over Icarus's skin, soothing as gently as he knows how even while he murmurs that it's okay, it's just Sam, nothin' to worry about. Misery is etched into every line of the impossibly tiny face and there are tears dripping down the boy's round cheeks, leaving streaks in the dirt that's painted there. A sob escapes him and then he's coiling again, shaking his head desperately before he rockets forward, slim fingers gripping the edges of the porcelain so tightly that the diminutive knobs of the his knuckles go bone-white and faintly blue. He vomits and it's nothing but a paltry offering of yellow bile followed by a chorus of dry heaves that have Sam stepping forward with a creased brow and Dean easing the kid back to lean against his chest.
"What's wrong?" Sam hovers, bends lower when Russ hunches at his towering form.
"Nothin's wrong," Dean says, palms rubbing up and down spindly arms that are covered with goose flesh. "Turns out we're just not a nugget man after all. Nothin's wrong, Sam."
There's a hint in his brother's tone and Sam nods, understands when he catches Russ's red-rimmed eyes for the briefest of seconds, sees the panic and the guilt there. "Oh. Man, that's rough. You okay, buddy?"
Icarus eyes him for a moment before nodding and then there are more tears, gathering into a shimmering wave before cascading down to drip off the elfin chin. "M'sorry. I didn't," He hiccups, "I didn't m-mean to."
"Hey, hey, nothing to be sorry for, dude." Dean hushes the whispered apology quickly, bumps the gathered child in his arms slightly and flashes him a wry grin. "That was some world class upchucking, kid; I'm impressed."
If dubious expressions could become tactile, the one on Icarus's face would probably be throwing punches right about now. Sam's next, feels the doubtful, suspicious study of scared eyes wash over him as he nods and kneels beside Dean, hands dangling loosely between his knees. "It's not your fault, Icarus. It's okay."
"I didn't mean to."
"We know. It's okay. Even if you meant to, it's okay."
"But I didn't. I didn't mean to. It was an unexpected breakdown." The trembling hasn't stopped and Sam's beginning to wonder if it's less fear and more the fact that the bathroom is fucking freezing. He remembers how awful throwing up was when he was little, the way it made him hypersensitive to everything around him. If he's cold, the kid has to be well on his way to becoming an ice cube.
He nods. "Sometimes that happens, breakdowns. That's alright. I've puked before, Dean's puked before," At this his brother makes a small noise of agreement and nods, exaggerating the motion only slightly. "It happens to the best of us. It's not your fault. We're not upset. It's okay. Okay?"
Russ hasn't moved from his lean-to perch against Dean's chest but he hasn't relaxed either. He swallows, blinks without moving his gaze from Sam. Finally he nods.
"Okay," Sam repeats, taking the motion for permission to continue. He's not sure what he's doing, really, but he remembers being in the same position, remembers Dean and sometimes Dad being the ones saying those words. He slowly moves around his brother and the boy, sits on the edge of the tub and turns on the tap, one hand cupped under the flow as he adjusts the temperature before pressing the stopper down. "Let's get you cleaned up, alright? Warm those bones, huh, buddy?"
"You done with the puking?" Dean asks quietly as he carefully rights the kid, one hand gently on his belly and the other at the small of his back, as if he's worried that the clone can't stand on his own.
Icarus waits, nods again. "I think so," He whispers meekly. There are dark circles under his eyes and he's looking at the bathtub like it's a vat of bubbling acid. He stiffens when Dean moves to lift the shirt off of him.
"No, don't! I don't... please," There are runty hands fisting in the hem of the shirt, tugging it down, and Russ is shaking his head. Dean leans back slowly, raises his hands palm-forward in front of him.
"I'm not gonna do anything you don't want me to do, kiddo, but we gotta clean you up." He says gently. Sam can't stop watching him, doesn't think he'll ever stop being amazed by the way his brother intuitively knows how to speak to children, how to draw out their trust and kick down their fear, all without pulling his punches. "The shirt's gotta come off. You can do it, or you can do it with help from me or Sam, but it's gotta come off."
"I don't need help."
"That's fine. You do it," Dean nods, eases back a little more. Icarus doesn't move an inch. "Listen, Russ, we're not gonna hurt you. If we were gonna do that, we would've done it a long time ago, right?"
A hesitant nod. Russ's eyes dart to Sam, who stares back, and then return to Dean. The little boy fidgets, twists the blue material tightly. "Maybe you're lying. You could be lying. Maybe you're worried that I'm dangerous, that I'm like them and you're just... you're just waiting until I'm vulnerable to strike."
"Kid, if I was worried about you bein' a threat, I wouldn't have let you set a foot near my boys," Dean says. He paused for a second, then adds, "Or in my car."
Sam twists the faucet, turns the water off. He leans forward just a little. "We aren't going to hurt you. That's not what we do."
Russ bites his lip. He doesn't look like he believes them but there's something lurking in the way he sways ever so slightly, like a pendulum, that says he might, one day. He swallows and it looks like it hurts, the way his throat ripples and he winces, and then there's a fierce stare directed at them and Sam feels his heart jerk in that annoying way again because he knows that look, knows what it feels like to wear that look.
"I can do it myself," Russ says, voice still wire thin but firmer this time. "I don't need help. I can do it, m'not a baby."
"You're not a baby." Sam agrees even though he doesn't, really. Icarus is a baby. He's small and helpless and small and helpless things are babies, they need looking after. Sam's watched those National Geographic specials. He knows what happens to tiny, uncared for things out on the Serengeti. They get torn to shit by lions and scavenged by hyenas. He and Dean have seen those stalking animals, too, have seen and felt them take their boys, boys who were cared for and looked after and if they can do that to children who are treasured and loved to a degree that's startling and near stupid, then Icarus doesn't stand a chance without them. It makes Sam dizzy.
He stands and gets a washcloth from the cheap wire rack that's screwed into the wall at a lopsided angle. There's a little bar of wrapped soap on the sink and he grabs that too, sets them on the edge of the tub and then takes a seat on the toilet. Icarus is watching him and he's tense again, knows that Dean's behind him and Sam's right here in front of him and Sam can tell he feels cornered. "I know you can do it. But it'd give us a little peace of mind if you let us help you so we don't worry that you're overdoing it."
"I told you I didn't mean to--"
"We know. You didn't mean to. It's okay. We're just gonna help you, and that's okay too," Sam says. He reaches forward and tugs Icarus toward him. The boy quails and fights against his gentle grip, body stiff and humming with alarm until Sam manages to pry the hands loose of the shirt and then lets him go. He waits until the boy's chest stops heaving and then carefully tugs on a giant sleeve. "C'mon. Before the water gets cold."
It seems to take forever before they get him in. The water blooms dark with dirt and Sam has to drain and refill it twice, Icarus huddled with knees pressed against his chest in the middle of the tub, shivering even when the washcloth sluices warm water over him. His hair takes some work, matted in some places and tangled in others, a familiar state that Sam knows well from showering himself after dirty jobs. He's careful as he works his fingers through the mess, hands the washcloth to Icarus so he can press it to his eyes while Sam rinses Head & Shoulders from little-boy hair. Dean slips in and out quietly, leaving a new shirt, filling a chipped mug with a can of ginger ale from the machine down the hall.
It's nearing five when they lead Russ back into the room, silent so as not to wake the small forms still warm and safe under the floral duvets. Russ blinks heavily as Dean lifts him up and next to Ben, who shifts with a faint frown before settling back against Icarus.
"If you need anything, you feel sick again, you wake us up." Dean says, smoothing a hand over the slightly-damp hair before crossing to the other bed, climbing in wearily. The touch doesn't soothe the boy, seems to puzzle him and make more uneasy, just like all of their touches do, but Sam doesn't hesitate as he crawls into bed, ignores the slight hitch in his carbon copy's breath. He's too tired right now to do much more than move in that sure and steady way that means he's not going to do any harm.
"It's okay, Russ. Just sleep. You need to sleep," He says. He hears the rustle of a nod against a pillow and he glances at the clock.
It's blinking 5:42 before Icarus's breath evens out and Sam still can't bring his eyes to close.
***
"Dean. Dean. Dean," Sam shakes his brother, hissing at him as loudly as he dares. He's been trying, unsuccessfully, to rouse his brother to the brim of alertness for twenty minutes. Dean grunts and pointedly buries his head under one of the thin motel pillows. Be quiet, Sam, the motion says; I've only had four hours of sleep and I'm tired, it says; Fuck off, it says. Sam sighs and turns to the bedside table, rummages in the drawer for the complimentary stationary, finds an almost used up notepad and a conveniently placed blue Bic. He scrawls a note and when he looks up, Ben is blinking at him from the bed, scrubbing at his face with a tired hand.
"Hey," Sam whispers with a soft, morning smile. "Didn't mean to wake you, sweetheart. Go back to sleep."
"M'not tired," Ben whispers back. He yawns and scoots to the bottom of the bed, mindful not to jostle Icarus who's curled up and dead to the world, a blanket covered wisp of a thing, breathing lightly. Ben takes Sam in, his jeans and shirt and the hoodie that's hanging from one fist, and his eyes narrow in accusatory suspicion. "Where are you going?"
Are you leaving, he means.
Sam brushes a rough palm over the downy little boy hair, fingers combing gently at the stubborn peaks until they look less like they've been styled by a hurricane with a follicle agenda. "I've got to get some things, buddy. Some clothes for Icarus, some supplies," He pauses, thumb tracing over a small lip that's trying not to thin with anxiety, cants his head then taps Ben's nose, "You wanna come?"
Ben nods and slips off the bed, rummages through the bag that holds the boys' clothes and strips off the oversized worn t-shirt, one of Dean's, that he sleeps in. He tugs on mostly-clean jeans and a shirt, sighs quietly when Sam nods at his questioning look before he pulls out a hooded sweatshirt. While he's brushing his teeth, Sam does a quick check through the bag, makes a note to pick up a couple more packs of socks (they always seem to disappear) and some new pants for the rotation because the ones they have now are about ready to make the switch from decent-enough-for-public to weekend casuals.
"Ready?" He whispers when Ben comes out looking more alert, face fresh and pink from being washed. The boy nods and slips a hand into Sam's, easy and willing. "Alright, let's go."
***
There isn't a Salvation Army in town but there's a decent looking thrift shop. It opens at nine and so they mosey on over to the Walgreens, hit up the first aid aisle and then, because Sam's a total sucker and not the only one who knows how to pull puppy eyes, the bins of clearance candy. Two bucks and a promise from Ben that he and the rest of the Dean gang will take it easy on the jumbo bag of peanut M&Ms are all it takes to put a gleeful, acre-wide smile on the kid's face; it's well worth the risk of cavities and juvenile diabetes, though he'd never admit it for fear of losing his position as Uncle Sam: Defender of Traditional Parenting Credos.
They leave with plastic bags and head back to the store, smiling at the snowy-haired woman behind the counter as the bells hanging above the door announce their arrival.
"You boys need any help?" She asks, her face a study of warmth and smiling gentility. She seems nice. She seems like the sort of person who does homey things like bake cookies and host book club meetings. Her house is probably cozy and full of memories in the shape of tasteful knick knacks, and for one fleeting, outlandish moment Sam wants to give her a hug. Chances are good that she'd probably think he was a lunatic though, and Sam likes to avoid those assumptions as often as possible so he just shakes his head, places a large hand on Ben's shoulder and steers him towards the back where the racks of children's clothes are.
"We're okay, thanks," He says with just enough shy certainty to make her melt. She nods and taps the counter with a hand; there's a Louis L'Amour book resting there, a tasseled bookmark sticking out from the deluge of pages.
"If you need anything, I'll be just here," She says, watching them with a twinkle in her eye that Sam's come to know a whole lot better since they found the boys. There's something about a couple of dudes with kids that just seems to draw it out, even from the hard sort of women that they meet in small, nowhere towns, and he doesn't really understand it but he figures it's a woman thing and so he's better off not trying to grasp the whys or wherefores.
He starts sorting through a shelf of pants, years of practice easing the process as he separates the tragically worn from the decent. It's a familiar act, sifting through scraps of other people's lives to patch something new together. He's not sure of Icarus's exact size but he and Dean have eyeballed enough with Alec and Ben to make him somewhat confidant as he yanks a couple of pairs of tiny jeans from the pile, thumb and forefinger rubbing at the seams and cuffs experimentally. He adds a small pair of corduroy cargo pants that have seen better days but which will do for when they've got to do laundry; at a buck-fifty, they're not exactly an exorbitant expense, and they can afford to piece together a decent haul. By the time he's added a pair of fuzzy sweats and a set of red, long-sleeved, waffle-knit pajamas to the pile--they're probably going to be a bit big, but they have feet and they look warm, are a good find considering winter's approaching fast--Ben's already gathered a selection of t-shirts. They're ridiculously small, and Sam can't help the spike of wonder that pierces his chest; Christ, was he really ever that size?
"There's some long-sleeved stuff over here, Uncle Sam," Ben hums, jabbing at a pile of cotton, solids and prints all mixed together and sorted by size. "We should probably get them a little big, so he can grow into it. He's scrawny, but he can layer and then we won't have to stop so soon."
"Mm," Sam nods quietly in agreement, distracted as he rifles through what Ben hands him, discarding some but keeping most of it. They make a pass by the plastic bins of shoes, nab a battered pair of sneakers that look like they've got a good few months on them yet, despite the unfashionable brand.
They bring their selections to the counter where the friendly woman remarks over them kindly and begins folding them. Sam runs over his list, glances at the piles, and frowns. "Uh, do you have any winter jackets in, by any chance?"
"We certainly do," She replies. She points to the far corner of the shop. "Just right on there, near the books and tablewares."
"Thanks. We'll just be a second," Sam says before leading Ben to the directed area. He paws through what seems like twelve feet of puffy down coats that seem intent on suffocating him, before he finds something that's less likely to smother the kid, though it's still a little larger than he'd like. He holds up the olive ski jacket, vinyl shell crinkling noisily in his hand. It's got a padded hood and good sized pockets, a high collar that zips right up. "What d'you think?"
Ben's eying the thing like it's a contaminate that's going to eat at Sam's flesh. His eyebrows rise articulately and he looks at Sam like he's insane. "Uncle Sam, that's cruel. S'almost as ugly as our jacket."
And oh god, he's never going to hear the end of that one. Sam sighs. "It's not going to be on any runways, maybe, but there's not a lot of choice here, kiddo, and--"
"What about this?" Ben dives into the rack and emerges clutching something plaid, red and black, and wriggles it over his head. It's surprisingly thick, lined with a layer of sherpa wool, a wide collar spanning the tailored shoulders. It looks like a resurrected schoolyard bomber circa 1973, but it's not horrible. Certainly a sight better than the travesty that Sam's found, and with a sweatshirt underneath it'll be just as warm.
"It looks like something you'd wear," Ben states primly as Sam mulls it over. Sam snorts; he thinks it looks like something John would wear, but then he and Dean have adopted a lot more from the old man than they'd perhaps like to admit.
"Good find, buddy," He claps the boy on the shoulder and Ben beams.
Just for the hell of it they spend a few minutes browsing through the dogeared, yellowing books on the shelves, quiet appreciation echoing between them as they reverently pull titles out, reading the dust jackets summaries before replacing them. Ben lingers over a duty copy of American Gods and Sam quietly tugs it from his hands, tucks it under his arm with the jacket. He's rewarded with pleased, shy smile before Ben grips his hand and leans into his side. It's so easy with this one, with Alec, too. On some level, where his senses lie, Sam knows it's because they've already proven themselves to the little X5's, have already pledged themselves to them through weeks and weeks on the road, through fights that they still can't talk about without their voices dropping and their shoulders tensing in remembrance. They've earned these easy touches, this implicit trust, the privilege of caressing a small cheek without receiving suspicious looks and frightened retreats in response. He knows this but it doesn't make it any less stark a contrast, doesn't make it any less sickening that Icarus has had such ability to relax pulled out of him, through the nurturing (and the very word is a contradiction because it implies care, it implies a tenderness that Manticore is entirely and pitilessly without) of the place from which he came.
As he's turning to steer Ben back to the front of the store, a colourful binding catches his eye. It's a paperback copy of Harry Potter and the Sorcerers Stone with corners wilting downward, a bespectacled boy atop a broom trying to catch a golden ball with wings looming on the cover. He considers it for a moment, wonders if Icarus likes to read. Wonders if he'd like to read this. Would it be challenging enough? He doesn't know where the boy stands in that regard, whether or not he can use Alec and Ben as a gauge; Alec, who would scoff at the book and Sam for even thinking he'd read it, and Ben who would humor him and probably give it the ol' college try even though he prefers Pratchett and Salinger.
He's about to put the book back when he sees the unicorn in the background. A goddamn unicorn and if that's not a sign, Sam doesn't know what is. Ben peers at it curiously as he tucks it under his arm, eyebrows raising in polite skepticism, but he doesn't say anything and Sam lays both books and the jacket with the rest of their things.
They get out for just under forty dollars, mild damage, and head back to the motel, stopping off at a diner along the way to pick up breakfast and coffee. Sam knows Dean won't stop bitching if he doesn't at least offer some caffeine in exchange for incomparable honour of driving his precious baby, and he's really not up to fending off his brother's sulking today.
The first thing he notices when he enters the room, Ben cheerily following him with bags hanging from his thin wrists, is that Dean's slumped at the precarious room table, fuzzily scrubbing at his eyes underneath hopelessly disheveled hair. He's still in his boxer briefs and t-shirt and he blinks at Sam.
"Icarus doesn't like his hair combed," Dean announces in a dry tone. "Are those waffles? Please tell me those're waffles, Sammy."
"Pancakes," Sam replies, tossing the bag of Styrofoam takeout boxes onto the table where they're quickly snagged by Dean's eager hands. He ignores the moan of pleasure that echoes from his brother as he hands him the steaming cardboard cup of black coffee, turns to the nearest bed where a blanket-covered lump is huddled. "Icarus?" He tries, cautiously.
The lump stills and then the blanket shifts and slips away to reveal a scowling face framed by a pouffy mess of brown hair. The kid looks like he's been tossed through a wind tunnel then used to close an electrical circuit, and Sam swallows back a chuckle because Icarus looks genuinely offended and is eyeballing him like he's considering launching an offensive attack. Sam clears his throat, holds up a thin plastic bag. "We got you some clothes. How 'bout you try 'em on?"
"He's a savage, Uncle Sam, they don't wear clothes," Alec interrupts, coming out of the bathroom. He's wiping his hands on his sweats, glares at Icarus before he takes a seat at the table, shuffles his chair over until it's as close to Dean as it can get. "He attacked Dad."
"He attacked me first!" Icarus growls, startling them all. The little boy rises to his knees, blanket falling from his shoulders, and stabs a finger in Dean's direction. "He came at me with that... that thing and tried to scalp me!"
"Hey, Hawkeye, I said I was sorry," Dean grumbles over the lip of his coffee. "And I wasn't trying to do anything but brush that rats nest out."
"I don't have rats in my--"
"Alright, well," Sam says loudly, speaking over the outraged midget to forestall this conversation from spiraling any further. "Icarus, why don't you get dressed and we'll sort out your hair later, okay?"
The boy stares at him darkly for a moment before he crawls off the bed and carefully snatches the bag from Sam's outstretched hand, back to maintaining his safe distance. He skirts around the rest of them and pads into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. There's a muted click as the lock is depressed, and then Dean snorts.
"Swear to God, Sam, kid's bitchier about his hair than you are," The man says, rubbing at a spot just above his left knee that's starting to bruise faintly. Alec looks up from his pancakes and nods, looks at Sam like it's his fault and Sam just sighs, sinks into a chair and cups big hands around his coffee, relishing the warmth radiating against his palms. He's not sure what he was expecting - that things would somehow be better in the morning, like the adage says, maybe - but the bright wariness shining from Icarus's face wasn't it. He prods at his tired eyes and then reaches across the table for the food, pulls a box of pancakes over and uncaps a tiny container of maple syrup to drizzle on top.
"He's just scared," Sam says. He's speaking to Dean but he looks at Alec, who keeps sending malevolent glances toward the bathroom door. "It's nothing personal."
Dean rolls his eyes because that much is pretty damn obvious, then he shakes his head and thumbs over the spot on his leg again. "Got a hell of a kick on him, though."
Before Sam can reply the bathroom door opens and Russ is there, watching them with big eyes. He's got on a pair of the jeans and Sam's glad to see they seem to fit in the waist, though the hems are pooling around his ankles a bit. His hands are twisting the bottom of the long-sleeved striped shirt he's got on, bunching and unbunching it nervously as he slowly shuffles out and approaches them, making a wide loop around the table until he's nearer Sam, an arms length away and peering at him with an unreadable expression. Suddenly a small hand extends, and the boy nods solemnly. "Thank you. For the clothes."
Sam can see Dean's lips quirk out of the corner of his eye but he ignores it, takes the hand and shakes it just as seriously as it's been offered. "You're welcome," He says, smiling softly. He gestures to the scattered containers of food. "You think you're up to trying some breakfast? Just a little, maybe, nothing too heavy."
Icarus considers and then nods, climbs onto the chair beside him when none of them make any sudden moves. Ben reaches over and pats his shoulder, gives him a sticky smile, and Russ lets out a breath before he glances at Dean. He purses his lips in a worried line, tremulously clears his throat. "Did I hurt you?"
"Who, me?" Dean's expression softens into a gentle smirk and he shakes his head. "Naw, kiddo, s'okay. I'm a pretty tough guy, you know."
Icarus nods after a beat and watches intently while Sam hesitantly steers a box towards him, pops open the top and releases a plume of sweet-smelling steam.
"Go slow," He says to the boy, laying a plastic fork on the table near him. "Your tummy might not be up to much, yet."
Christ, did he really just say tummy? Alec and Ben and Dean are looking real intently at their breakfast, a few snickers slipping out helplessly. Sam's trying, goddamn it. He's really trying and little kids have tummies, thank you very much. It's completely acceptable vocabulary. Icarus seems to agree with him because he's not laughing, he's just stabbing his pancake with his fork, using his other hand to rip the small, pierced section free and Sam frowns; he should have cut it for him. He forgot to cut it and now the kid is risking pancake-burns because Sam wasn't thoughtful enough to consider that a kindergartener might not ask for a knife.
But he doesn't burn himself. Icarus ferries the forkful of fluffy pastry into his small, pink mouth, chewing almost tenderly before he swallows. There's a long pause before he tears another piece off, seemingly satisfied that his stomach, his tummy, isn't going to rebel again.
When they're done, garbage stuffed into the so-small-as-to-be-useless rubbish bin in the corner of the room, they make quick work of stowing their gear into bags. It doesn't take very long; they don't have very much and it's a process that Sam and Dean are intimately familiar with, limbs moving with a ritual efficiency that's near preternatural. Icarus watches them with his head tilted in that owlish way again, face curious and perplexed as they steer Alec and Ben through the routine absently; he looks startled when Dean fondly lobs their beloved plush animals at their heads, knits his eyebrows together and furrows his brow like he's trying to piece together a puzzle that doesn't quite fit.
They're finished before the hour turns and Sam fishes out the small jacket that Ben found, holds it out to Russ. "Here, buddy. It's kind of chilly out."
Icarus takes it, tracing over the pattern slowly with his fingers. Dean's got two duffels in hand and is toeing at Alec and Ben, corralling them out to the Impala. Icarus watches them go, his blue eyes so intense they look lost, before he says suddenly, "Why do you look after them?"
Sam's not sure what the boy is really asking. "Because we're family," He says slowly, falling back on the simple thread of truth, the basic line that runs through the tangled web that they live in, "We're a family and that's what you do. You look after each other."
"You don't have to."
"No, you don't," Sam agrees. He doesn't say anything and Icarus lets out a windy huff of frustration. His face scrunches as he tries to articulate his thoughts, fingers knotted in the thick fabric of his new coat.
"They said..." He starts, stutters into a whisper that's sharp and violently quiet, "They said that everyone is part of a unit. And every member serves a purpose and when that... when that purpose isn't useful anymore, they become dis-dispensable." Icarus's chest rises harshly and he knifes a glance at Sam, chin lifting in challenge. "What's their purpose? What do you want with them?"
It hurts to swallow. He tries three times before he's able to choke past the glass in his throat and when his voice does come, it's dry and curled.
"We just want them," Sam doesn't look away from the fierce little face, can't. "We just want them. That's it."
"Why?"
"Because they're ours. They're our family." Like you.
"And what happens when you don't wan' 'em anymore?"
Sam feels his jaw clench, feels his eyes glaze over with something dark and hard. "That's not going to happen."
Icarus nods. "It might."
"It won't."
"It might."
"It won't. It won't ever happen. It won't ever happen because we're not them, Icarus," Sam's angry. He's too angry to be talking to any child, let alone this child, but he can't stop. He steps forward, drops to his haunches mere feet from Icarus and shakes his head, nostrils flaring. "We're not them and we're never going to be like them. They were wrong. They were evil and wrong and those sons of bitches told you wrong, evil things. Alec and Ben aren't dispensable. You're not dispensable. None of you were. Do you understand that? Can you hear me, can you really hear what I'm saying?"
Icarus stares wildly at him, face open and frightened and frozen. The silence stretches between them and Sam feels the thudding in his temples ease gradually, winces internally because fuck, he just... he's not good at this. On a sigh he stands up, knees creaking, eyes looking away as he draws another slow breath.
"Here," He says, scrubbing at his temple before he reaches into the bag at his feet, draws out the Harry Potter and holds it out. "This is for you, if you want. Thought you might want something to read while we drive."
The boy's lips open slightly as he timidly wraps his hands around either side, freeing it from Sam's grip. He traces over the cover reverently and then looks at Sam, fragile want etched into his features. "For how long?" He whispers.
Sam is confused. "How long what?"
"For how long can I have it?"
Oh. He'd thought his heart couldn't possible break more, couldn't possibly feel more outrage than it already did, but he was wrong. He was so wrong it makes his head spin. Sam shrugs, hopes it looks casual because it's taking all his effort not to tense right up again. "It's yours, buddy. For keeps."
"For keeps?"
"Yeah, for as long as you want it," Sam nods, fights the urge to scoop the small form up and tuck him close, knows that would do more harm than good. He nods at the door instead. "We should get going. Lot of road to cover."
The book is slowly drawn up to the small chest, crossed by possessive arms. Icarus nods and bends to pick up the jacket that's on the floor, tumbled there sometime during their conversation. He looks like he's trying not to be sick again as he waits for Sam to start moving. He hasn't taken two steps before he feels the sudden impact of small boy at his waits, thin arms wrapping around him. The book bumps against his hipbone and Sam stills before he reaches an arm down to wrap around the narrow shoulders, rubs tentative circles along a trembling back. Icarus breaks free after a second and steps back, gulping in a breath like he'd been holding it the whole time.
"Thank you," He says again, softer this time. He runs his sleeve under his nose and shuffles past Sam, out into the bright, fall light.
Sam closes his eyes and has to wait a moment before he can follow. He's pulling his cell phone out as he shuts the door, thumbs through his short list of contacts until it reaches the familiar number and then hits the send button. It takes four and a half rings before the line clicks in connection.
"Bobby," Sam says, watching as Icarus climbs awkwardly into the Impala, book and jacket impeding the process. Dean's watching him knowingly from the drivers seat, and Sam jerks a nod at him. "It's Sam. Listen, we're gonna be at your place in a few hours. You got a minute to talk?"
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