hang the fuck on here we go now
Krist is amazing and if you haven't already read The Wellspring, you need to head over to her LJ (
scourgeofeurope* ) and do so now. Like, right now. Before you read this. That's the one condition (well okay, I have a couple but we'll deal with those as they come up) I have.
Right, before you read any further (and by that I mean 'before you go over and read The Wellspring) you might need to know just who the hell Icarus is. For that you can read here and here.
Right, are we ready? Here we go then.
Title: Lacrimosa (pt 1/?)
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.
Disclaimer: If I owned them, I would be cuddling with them right now, not posting on the internet.
Author's Note: This is entirely because the love of my life (
scourgeofeurope* for those of you not paying attention) created a stunningly beautiful world and was gracious enough to let me muck about in it. This is for you bb.
(cut words and title taken from the Regina Spektor song Lacrimosa)
When they find him--lurking behind an abandoned Shell station in Manning, an oversized t-shirt that's more dirt and holes than it is cotton hanging from his wire-narrow shoulders like a flour sack dress--Sam think's it's a joke. Or a shapeshifter. Maybe a shapeshifter who's trying for a career in stand up comedy, telling a really fucked up and unfunny joke. It's something not real and very probably a trap because it's just that ridiculous; more than that, even. The first time was ridiculous and mind-boggling but it was at least conceivable. It made a bit of sense, enough to be acceptable as truth. This isn't. This is a joke. Or a shapeshifter. It has to be.
Sam hisses a Christo and has his Glock out and pointed at the kid's face in a heartbeat. The boy's eyes--blue, blue, blue except for a starburst of honey-gold bursting around the pupils--widen and he stumbles back at the same moment that Dean lurches forward and grabs Sam's arm, jerks so the weapon's sight flies wild.
"Jesus, Sam," Dean says. His grip doesn't ease as he stares at his brother's profile. "He's just a kid."
Sam shakes his head and he's all fierce timbre when he replies. "No, he's not Dean. Look at him."
Dean looks. Again. And again he sees the knobbly knees and spindly legs that will one day grow long and coltish when the kid hits puberty; he sees the scuffling feet (stuffed into ratty, peeling sneakers) and the little hands that are twisting anxiously, nails ragged and bitten to the quick; he sees the trembling lower lip that’s jutting out ever so slightly and the tiny button nose and the mop of unruly brown hair that’s gone too long without cutting. Dean looks and he sees Sam -or more accurately, he sees his Sammy, who can’t be more than seven by the looks of it.
Dean gives his brother’s arm a meaningful shake and steps in front of him. The kid skitters back a couple of paces and opens his mouth, though no sound comes out. His tiny chest heaves and Dean is reminded of a hummingbird, all close movement and flickering frame. Slowly, slowly like he’s approaching a jumper on the Golden Gate, Dean crouches. “Hey,” He says, soft and low. “Hey kid. It’s okay; we’re not gonna hurt you.”
Tiny eyebrows pinch together in dubious suspicion and the boy looks at Sam and then back at Dean. Dean nods and smiles faintly. “He won’t hurt you. It’s okay.” An elbow finds it’s way to Sam’s calve. “Put the gun away, Sammy.”
“Dean-"
“Now, Sam.” It’s an order and they’re both surprised when Sam complies, tucks the gun into the back of his jeans and settles his shirts back over it. They’re being watched intently by sharp little eyes from both sides; Dean knows if he were to turn around, he’d see Alec and Ben pressed against the windows of the Impala where they’ve been told to stay. It's been about ten minutes since the elder Winchesters herded them in there, a ghostly movement in their peripheral vision stoking parental instincts into action, and Dean figures they've got about five more before one of the boys (Alec, probably) rolls down a window or cracks a door to ask what the fuck is going on.
Which is a great question.
Resting his hands lightly on his knees (open-palmed and loose, gentle) Dean catches the boy's gaze again and this time manages to hold it. "What's your name, kid?" Silence. It's not exactly surprising and Dean is almost glad for it; means the kid isn't an idiot. Only an idiot would talk to strangers, especially strangers who pull loaded semi-automatics on children. He pats his left knee. "Me? I'm Dean. This is my little brother Sam." Dean motions with a steady flick of his head at his brother, who has neither moved from where he stands nor relaxed his iron pose. Dean tries not to let the frustration read on his face because he doesn't want to freak the boy out any more than he already is but Sam's intimidation act isn't doing them any favors in solving the mystery of the day and he sort of wants to punch him, hard and somewhere it'll hurt enough to make him realize that this isn't the fucking time to be a stonewalled asshole.
When the boy jerks back again Dean figures he must have telegraphed his irritation anyway, until a small, blatantly unimpressed voice sounds from behind him.
"Who the fuck's he?" Dean twists and there's Alec, regarding the tiny urchin with open dislike. Ben is behind him, looking equal parts suspicious and this-wasn't-my-idea. Great.
"I told you to stay in the car."
"You're taking forever. We were worried. And bored." Alec is stubborn and unapologetic as he places a territorial hand on Dean's shoulder and eyes the other boy again. "Who're you?"
There's nothing but wary silence and Dean has to actively stop himself from chuckling when Alec's face becomes offended at the lack of reply; this isn't funny. Instead, he puts an arm around him and tucks him close against his ribs, which is all the invite Ben needs to claim the same position on his opposite side. If they're going to break the rules he'd rather they do it close to him so he can keep them safe should things escalate and blow the fuck up in their faces (as things have a tendency to do when it comes to Winchesters.) Dean's pretty sure it won't but he's been in this game long enough to know you don't lay important bets down on 'pretty sure' and the memory of teeth and shadows and pint-sized monsters in Indiana is still yet too fresh to allow for any lapse in vigilance. "When I tell you to stay in the car, you stay in the car."
"He's not very little."
Dean's mouth automatically opens to say something suitably patriarchal like don't talk back or because I said so before he realizes that neither of those are appropriate responses at all. The voice that just spoke wasn't Alec or Ben. It's too hesitant, too softly high-pitched and whisper thin. Three pairs of vivid green eyes dart back to the bedraggled figure in front of them and Dean wishes he were a little more eloquent because the only thing he can manage is a somewhat surprised, "Huh?"
The boy, the Sammy, bites his lip and lets out a woozy little breath before pointing a tremulous finger at Sam. "He's not very little. For a little brother."
It must be Sam who makes the strange, swift choking noise because Dean is too busy laughing to bother with something that subtle. He tilts his head back and it rips out of him like a thunderclap, vibrating in the close air in short, echoing bursts. The tension is suddenly cut and he feels the pull on his shoulders he didn't even realize was there relax. "No," He agrees when he can speak again. "No, he's not."
"It wasn't that funny." Alec is glowering. He's looking at this boy the same way he looked at Ben those first fragile weeks they were all together, mistrust and sharp calculation pooling in his eyes. "And you still haven't answered my question. What's your--"
But he's cut off by Ben, who looks more worried than angry. "What's your designation?"
There's a sharp intake of breath and the boy steps back, shaking his head. He's trembling life a leaf instantly, violently raw fear bred by four simple syllables before so much as an eyelid can flutter. It makes Dean's gut twist, that swiftness. "How did--I, I d-don't..." He's stumbling back and looks like he's about to sprint, his quaking legs bending low to push off, feet poised in imaginary starter's blocks. Ben turns his back on him easily, fingers gripping Dean's shoulder in a silent display of nerves (because you never, ever turn your back to the enemy, not unless you want a bullet or a blow to the back of your head) trusting him to be his guard and tugs at the hood of his sweater. The material bunches in his fist and stretches to the side when he pulls it. It's been months, almost a year, but even now the dark, mechanical lines of the barcode is startling to Dean. He feels the same old anger rise up in him before he looks away and over to the boy, stomach bubbling.
The boy isn't breathing. He's so still he looks like a stone sculpture. There needs to be a garden around him and a fountain, not dirt and dust and a rusted out gas pump.
"You're," He says finally in a terrible whisper. "You're like me."
Ben turns and nods. "X5-493. You can call me Ben. This is X--"
"Alec." Alec spits. "M'name is Alec. Now what's your goddamn name?"
Mini-Sam scrubs at the back of his neck. His little hand stays there, grimy and dust-stained and the only shield he has for his Big Secret. "X6-785."
Beside Dean, Sam suddenly twitches. It starts with his shoulder and then travels down until he's sinking to the ground slowly, wide palms hitting the gravel and dirt as his legs sprawl out beneath him. He's breathing hard. Dean remembers the first time Sam ever saw a clown at that carnival in Louisiana. He remembers the way Sam's lungs had suddenly shrunk so that his breathing came fast and loud, how his eyes had grown impossibly wide and how he'd gone paper-white. He remembers because Sam looks like that now only worse, a sheen of sweat on his upper lip and something like exhaustion and terror flashing across his face in steady waves. If Sam blows chunks, Dean is never going to let him live it down. He will tease him until the end of time. God, he hopes he throws up.
But Sam doesn't. He just sits there, gulping the hot, rough air and staring at the tiny version of himself like one of them will disappear if he looks away. "Holy shit." He mutters.
And yeah, that about sums it up.
* * *
It takes surprisingly little after that to convince the kid, X6-785, to come with them.
"They take care of us." Ben tells him, meaning Sam and Dean, and that's enough. 785 nods and waits until Dean gets up, hauling Sam with him, and steps aside before skirting around them and following Ben to the Impala. Alec stays behind, a hand latched firmly onto Dean's sleeve, his meaning clear: They belong to me, not you, not yet and maybe not ever.
It's the same way in the car. He climbs in and instead of claiming his usual spot behind Sam's seat, he wedges himself into the middle, pressing Ben against the door until his twin protests indignantly and elbows him in the side. "Calm down, Alec."
"Why should I? He could be a sleeper operative."
"He's not a mole."
"You don't know that." Alec all but snarls, sitting ramrod straight because it gives him an extra couple of inches. "They could have sent him. They could have sent him to find us. He could be one of your stupid Nomlies."
"He's not." Sam's voice is strained, like he's been shouting for hours at a concert. "Alec, buddy, he's not." It's not enough for the little boy though and he makes a dismissive noise, prepares to say something else, probably something particularly scathing by the set of his jaw and the determined slant of his mouth; Sam carries on. "He's... he's me. I promise. I promise you." Sam twists in his seat and it looks awkward as hell, the way he has to wedge his broad shoulders against the seat to hold himself steady, one hand braced hard on the window, fingers splayed out so that his hand looks like a dead spider catching a free ride to it's own funeral. He looks at the furious little face, doesn't once flinch or turn away, until Alec begrudgingly settles back in his seat, body rigid with the effort to maintain the six inches of space between him and this new intruder. Sam thanks him in that silent way he has, the almost-there half smile and the grateful gaze that's always softer when directed at one of the transgenics.
Dean wants to press down on the accelerator. He wants to get the hell out of South Carolina and he wants to do it fast, wants the wind howling and the stereo blasting because maybe, just maybe, if he goes toe-to-toe with the giant force that's been squeezing his chest ever since they saw the kid, it'll chicken out and back down and then he'll know what to do. Because right now? Dean doesn't know what to do. Not when his brother is suddenly glitching out like a computer with a fucking trojan, speaking in half-sentences and swallowing thickly every two seconds. Not when his boys are trying to balance the backseat scales by playing good cop/bad cop. Not while a face from twenty years ago is staring at him from the rearview mirror, filled with a crushing mixture of apprehension and hope and something that might blossom into curiosity if given half a fucking chance that it never got before, not where it came from.
"Kid," Dean says. He can't say 785. He won't. It's fucking stupid, is what it is. "How long've you been out here alone?"
The boy is quiet for a split second, nose crinkling before he replies, "They caught Jatayu eight months, two weeks, and four days ago." Dean doesn't miss the way his hands curl into minute fists, knuckles plaster-white in stark contrast to the unmarred little boy skin of the dorsum. "Since then. But I wasn't here." The rest is unspoken because it's as obvious as breathing; don't stay in one place, keep moving, keep running.
"Who's Jatayu?"
This time the kid nearly flinches, caught out. "X6-620. I meant to say--"
"What'd they call you?" Dean's hand wants desperately to reach out and twist the dial on the radio, tune it to something low even if it's mostly hissing static, just to have something underneath this conversation, anchoring it back to normal. "I'm no good with numbers, kid; what'd they call you?" Dean Winchester does not believe in god but he sends up a silent plea to out there, hopes like hell that someone had the decency to give the boy the simple courtesy of something as solid and real as a name that doesn't belong in a trigonometry textbook. "Your buddy, uh, Jat-a-yu?" He glances in the mirror and the kid nods. Christ, please let it be easier to pronounce, he thinks. "What did Jatayu call you?"
When the boy doesn't answer him after they've passed two electric poles, he begins to wonder how long this is gonna take; how long until they won't need a transgenic intermediator to confirm that they're the good guys, here. Probably a while. Sometimes he watches those stupid documentaries on the nature channel, the ones where people in khaki shorts and thick, sturdy boots approach scaly, prehistoric creatures with teeth and tempers and coo at them and say things like 'we've got to prove to him that we're on his side,' while holding out a chunk of raw meat; it seems like a spectacularly stupid thing to do, really, but the general point is valid and while he knows that slapping down a slab of rare hamburger isn't going to do anything for the kid in a literal sense, there's a lure out there that'll--
"Icarus."
"Gesundheit." Dean shakes his train of thought, reaches a hand toward the glovebox where Sam stashed a travel pack of Kleenex.
"Sometimes they called me Icarus." Says the kid. The kid who apparently isn't allergic to the pollen in the air but simply has an uncannily hay fever-reminiscient denomination.
Oh. Oh. Dean lets it settle in his brain and feels it out silently before trying his tongue at it. "...Icarus?" He gets a solemn nod. "Oh Sam, man. He is totally your clone."
"What's wrong with Icarus?" Icarus sounds a little miffed though he's not brave enough yet to add the raised volume that goes with that particular brand of Sam-offense. It'll come in time. Dean's going to make damn sure it does because suddenly Dean gets it. He knows what to do. The kid has a name--a geeky, nerdy, beautiful name--and it doesn't really change anything except that it does. This isn't X6-7whatever, soldier extraordinaire. This is Icarus. Icarus is a little boy who looks exactly like a little boy that Dean loved and loves still and when it comes to that little boy, Dean knows precisely what his job is; it's as simple as that.
"Nothing. There's nothing wrong with it." Dean smiles and maybe it's not a real smile yet, but it's the promise of one. What they need is a plan and a good plan requires fuel. "So Russ," He starts, because there's no way that he's going to be able to say the kid's full name without laughing and he doesn't want to offend him again so soon, "Are you hungry?"
And Icarus, who's been alone for eight months, two weeks and four days, looks at Dean for a long (almost uncomfortably so) moment, and nods. Dean breathes out. "Alright then."
They roar out of Manning one passenger fuller, with Creedence bleeding out the windows in farewell.
Food. And a plan.
Next part...
scourgeofeurope* ) and do so now. Like, right now. Before you read this. That's the one condition (well okay, I have a couple but we'll deal with those as they come up) I have.
Right, before you read any further (and by that I mean 'before you go over and read The Wellspring) you might need to know just who the hell Icarus is. For that you can read here and here.
Right, are we ready? Here we go then.
Title: Lacrimosa (pt 1/?)
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.
Disclaimer: If I owned them, I would be cuddling with them right now, not posting on the internet.
Author's Note: This is entirely because the love of my life (
scourgeofeurope* for those of you not paying attention) created a stunningly beautiful world and was gracious enough to let me muck about in it. This is for you bb.
(cut words and title taken from the Regina Spektor song Lacrimosa)
When they find him--lurking behind an abandoned Shell station in Manning, an oversized t-shirt that's more dirt and holes than it is cotton hanging from his wire-narrow shoulders like a flour sack dress--Sam think's it's a joke. Or a shapeshifter. Maybe a shapeshifter who's trying for a career in stand up comedy, telling a really fucked up and unfunny joke. It's something not real and very probably a trap because it's just that ridiculous; more than that, even. The first time was ridiculous and mind-boggling but it was at least conceivable. It made a bit of sense, enough to be acceptable as truth. This isn't. This is a joke. Or a shapeshifter. It has to be.
Sam hisses a Christo and has his Glock out and pointed at the kid's face in a heartbeat. The boy's eyes--blue, blue, blue except for a starburst of honey-gold bursting around the pupils--widen and he stumbles back at the same moment that Dean lurches forward and grabs Sam's arm, jerks so the weapon's sight flies wild.
"Jesus, Sam," Dean says. His grip doesn't ease as he stares at his brother's profile. "He's just a kid."
Sam shakes his head and he's all fierce timbre when he replies. "No, he's not Dean. Look at him."
Dean looks. Again. And again he sees the knobbly knees and spindly legs that will one day grow long and coltish when the kid hits puberty; he sees the scuffling feet (stuffed into ratty, peeling sneakers) and the little hands that are twisting anxiously, nails ragged and bitten to the quick; he sees the trembling lower lip that’s jutting out ever so slightly and the tiny button nose and the mop of unruly brown hair that’s gone too long without cutting. Dean looks and he sees Sam -or more accurately, he sees his Sammy, who can’t be more than seven by the looks of it.
Dean gives his brother’s arm a meaningful shake and steps in front of him. The kid skitters back a couple of paces and opens his mouth, though no sound comes out. His tiny chest heaves and Dean is reminded of a hummingbird, all close movement and flickering frame. Slowly, slowly like he’s approaching a jumper on the Golden Gate, Dean crouches. “Hey,” He says, soft and low. “Hey kid. It’s okay; we’re not gonna hurt you.”
Tiny eyebrows pinch together in dubious suspicion and the boy looks at Sam and then back at Dean. Dean nods and smiles faintly. “He won’t hurt you. It’s okay.” An elbow finds it’s way to Sam’s calve. “Put the gun away, Sammy.”
“Dean-"
“Now, Sam.” It’s an order and they’re both surprised when Sam complies, tucks the gun into the back of his jeans and settles his shirts back over it. They’re being watched intently by sharp little eyes from both sides; Dean knows if he were to turn around, he’d see Alec and Ben pressed against the windows of the Impala where they’ve been told to stay. It's been about ten minutes since the elder Winchesters herded them in there, a ghostly movement in their peripheral vision stoking parental instincts into action, and Dean figures they've got about five more before one of the boys (Alec, probably) rolls down a window or cracks a door to ask what the fuck is going on.
Which is a great question.
Resting his hands lightly on his knees (open-palmed and loose, gentle) Dean catches the boy's gaze again and this time manages to hold it. "What's your name, kid?" Silence. It's not exactly surprising and Dean is almost glad for it; means the kid isn't an idiot. Only an idiot would talk to strangers, especially strangers who pull loaded semi-automatics on children. He pats his left knee. "Me? I'm Dean. This is my little brother Sam." Dean motions with a steady flick of his head at his brother, who has neither moved from where he stands nor relaxed his iron pose. Dean tries not to let the frustration read on his face because he doesn't want to freak the boy out any more than he already is but Sam's intimidation act isn't doing them any favors in solving the mystery of the day and he sort of wants to punch him, hard and somewhere it'll hurt enough to make him realize that this isn't the fucking time to be a stonewalled asshole.
When the boy jerks back again Dean figures he must have telegraphed his irritation anyway, until a small, blatantly unimpressed voice sounds from behind him.
"Who the fuck's he?" Dean twists and there's Alec, regarding the tiny urchin with open dislike. Ben is behind him, looking equal parts suspicious and this-wasn't-my-idea. Great.
"I told you to stay in the car."
"You're taking forever. We were worried. And bored." Alec is stubborn and unapologetic as he places a territorial hand on Dean's shoulder and eyes the other boy again. "Who're you?"
There's nothing but wary silence and Dean has to actively stop himself from chuckling when Alec's face becomes offended at the lack of reply; this isn't funny. Instead, he puts an arm around him and tucks him close against his ribs, which is all the invite Ben needs to claim the same position on his opposite side. If they're going to break the rules he'd rather they do it close to him so he can keep them safe should things escalate and blow the fuck up in their faces (as things have a tendency to do when it comes to Winchesters.) Dean's pretty sure it won't but he's been in this game long enough to know you don't lay important bets down on 'pretty sure' and the memory of teeth and shadows and pint-sized monsters in Indiana is still yet too fresh to allow for any lapse in vigilance. "When I tell you to stay in the car, you stay in the car."
"He's not very little."
Dean's mouth automatically opens to say something suitably patriarchal like don't talk back or because I said so before he realizes that neither of those are appropriate responses at all. The voice that just spoke wasn't Alec or Ben. It's too hesitant, too softly high-pitched and whisper thin. Three pairs of vivid green eyes dart back to the bedraggled figure in front of them and Dean wishes he were a little more eloquent because the only thing he can manage is a somewhat surprised, "Huh?"
The boy, the Sammy, bites his lip and lets out a woozy little breath before pointing a tremulous finger at Sam. "He's not very little. For a little brother."
It must be Sam who makes the strange, swift choking noise because Dean is too busy laughing to bother with something that subtle. He tilts his head back and it rips out of him like a thunderclap, vibrating in the close air in short, echoing bursts. The tension is suddenly cut and he feels the pull on his shoulders he didn't even realize was there relax. "No," He agrees when he can speak again. "No, he's not."
"It wasn't that funny." Alec is glowering. He's looking at this boy the same way he looked at Ben those first fragile weeks they were all together, mistrust and sharp calculation pooling in his eyes. "And you still haven't answered my question. What's your--"
But he's cut off by Ben, who looks more worried than angry. "What's your designation?"
There's a sharp intake of breath and the boy steps back, shaking his head. He's trembling life a leaf instantly, violently raw fear bred by four simple syllables before so much as an eyelid can flutter. It makes Dean's gut twist, that swiftness. "How did--I, I d-don't..." He's stumbling back and looks like he's about to sprint, his quaking legs bending low to push off, feet poised in imaginary starter's blocks. Ben turns his back on him easily, fingers gripping Dean's shoulder in a silent display of nerves (because you never, ever turn your back to the enemy, not unless you want a bullet or a blow to the back of your head) trusting him to be his guard and tugs at the hood of his sweater. The material bunches in his fist and stretches to the side when he pulls it. It's been months, almost a year, but even now the dark, mechanical lines of the barcode is startling to Dean. He feels the same old anger rise up in him before he looks away and over to the boy, stomach bubbling.
The boy isn't breathing. He's so still he looks like a stone sculpture. There needs to be a garden around him and a fountain, not dirt and dust and a rusted out gas pump.
"You're," He says finally in a terrible whisper. "You're like me."
Ben turns and nods. "X5-493. You can call me Ben. This is X--"
"Alec." Alec spits. "M'name is Alec. Now what's your goddamn name?"
Mini-Sam scrubs at the back of his neck. His little hand stays there, grimy and dust-stained and the only shield he has for his Big Secret. "X6-785."
Beside Dean, Sam suddenly twitches. It starts with his shoulder and then travels down until he's sinking to the ground slowly, wide palms hitting the gravel and dirt as his legs sprawl out beneath him. He's breathing hard. Dean remembers the first time Sam ever saw a clown at that carnival in Louisiana. He remembers the way Sam's lungs had suddenly shrunk so that his breathing came fast and loud, how his eyes had grown impossibly wide and how he'd gone paper-white. He remembers because Sam looks like that now only worse, a sheen of sweat on his upper lip and something like exhaustion and terror flashing across his face in steady waves. If Sam blows chunks, Dean is never going to let him live it down. He will tease him until the end of time. God, he hopes he throws up.
But Sam doesn't. He just sits there, gulping the hot, rough air and staring at the tiny version of himself like one of them will disappear if he looks away. "Holy shit." He mutters.
And yeah, that about sums it up.
* * *
It takes surprisingly little after that to convince the kid, X6-785, to come with them.
"They take care of us." Ben tells him, meaning Sam and Dean, and that's enough. 785 nods and waits until Dean gets up, hauling Sam with him, and steps aside before skirting around them and following Ben to the Impala. Alec stays behind, a hand latched firmly onto Dean's sleeve, his meaning clear: They belong to me, not you, not yet and maybe not ever.
It's the same way in the car. He climbs in and instead of claiming his usual spot behind Sam's seat, he wedges himself into the middle, pressing Ben against the door until his twin protests indignantly and elbows him in the side. "Calm down, Alec."
"Why should I? He could be a sleeper operative."
"He's not a mole."
"You don't know that." Alec all but snarls, sitting ramrod straight because it gives him an extra couple of inches. "They could have sent him. They could have sent him to find us. He could be one of your stupid Nomlies."
"He's not." Sam's voice is strained, like he's been shouting for hours at a concert. "Alec, buddy, he's not." It's not enough for the little boy though and he makes a dismissive noise, prepares to say something else, probably something particularly scathing by the set of his jaw and the determined slant of his mouth; Sam carries on. "He's... he's me. I promise. I promise you." Sam twists in his seat and it looks awkward as hell, the way he has to wedge his broad shoulders against the seat to hold himself steady, one hand braced hard on the window, fingers splayed out so that his hand looks like a dead spider catching a free ride to it's own funeral. He looks at the furious little face, doesn't once flinch or turn away, until Alec begrudgingly settles back in his seat, body rigid with the effort to maintain the six inches of space between him and this new intruder. Sam thanks him in that silent way he has, the almost-there half smile and the grateful gaze that's always softer when directed at one of the transgenics.
Dean wants to press down on the accelerator. He wants to get the hell out of South Carolina and he wants to do it fast, wants the wind howling and the stereo blasting because maybe, just maybe, if he goes toe-to-toe with the giant force that's been squeezing his chest ever since they saw the kid, it'll chicken out and back down and then he'll know what to do. Because right now? Dean doesn't know what to do. Not when his brother is suddenly glitching out like a computer with a fucking trojan, speaking in half-sentences and swallowing thickly every two seconds. Not when his boys are trying to balance the backseat scales by playing good cop/bad cop. Not while a face from twenty years ago is staring at him from the rearview mirror, filled with a crushing mixture of apprehension and hope and something that might blossom into curiosity if given half a fucking chance that it never got before, not where it came from.
"Kid," Dean says. He can't say 785. He won't. It's fucking stupid, is what it is. "How long've you been out here alone?"
The boy is quiet for a split second, nose crinkling before he replies, "They caught Jatayu eight months, two weeks, and four days ago." Dean doesn't miss the way his hands curl into minute fists, knuckles plaster-white in stark contrast to the unmarred little boy skin of the dorsum. "Since then. But I wasn't here." The rest is unspoken because it's as obvious as breathing; don't stay in one place, keep moving, keep running.
"Who's Jatayu?"
This time the kid nearly flinches, caught out. "X6-620. I meant to say--"
"What'd they call you?" Dean's hand wants desperately to reach out and twist the dial on the radio, tune it to something low even if it's mostly hissing static, just to have something underneath this conversation, anchoring it back to normal. "I'm no good with numbers, kid; what'd they call you?" Dean Winchester does not believe in god but he sends up a silent plea to out there, hopes like hell that someone had the decency to give the boy the simple courtesy of something as solid and real as a name that doesn't belong in a trigonometry textbook. "Your buddy, uh, Jat-a-yu?" He glances in the mirror and the kid nods. Christ, please let it be easier to pronounce, he thinks. "What did Jatayu call you?"
When the boy doesn't answer him after they've passed two electric poles, he begins to wonder how long this is gonna take; how long until they won't need a transgenic intermediator to confirm that they're the good guys, here. Probably a while. Sometimes he watches those stupid documentaries on the nature channel, the ones where people in khaki shorts and thick, sturdy boots approach scaly, prehistoric creatures with teeth and tempers and coo at them and say things like 'we've got to prove to him that we're on his side,' while holding out a chunk of raw meat; it seems like a spectacularly stupid thing to do, really, but the general point is valid and while he knows that slapping down a slab of rare hamburger isn't going to do anything for the kid in a literal sense, there's a lure out there that'll--
"Icarus."
"Gesundheit." Dean shakes his train of thought, reaches a hand toward the glovebox where Sam stashed a travel pack of Kleenex.
"Sometimes they called me Icarus." Says the kid. The kid who apparently isn't allergic to the pollen in the air but simply has an uncannily hay fever-reminiscient denomination.
Oh. Oh. Dean lets it settle in his brain and feels it out silently before trying his tongue at it. "...Icarus?" He gets a solemn nod. "Oh Sam, man. He is totally your clone."
"What's wrong with Icarus?" Icarus sounds a little miffed though he's not brave enough yet to add the raised volume that goes with that particular brand of Sam-offense. It'll come in time. Dean's going to make damn sure it does because suddenly Dean gets it. He knows what to do. The kid has a name--a geeky, nerdy, beautiful name--and it doesn't really change anything except that it does. This isn't X6-7whatever, soldier extraordinaire. This is Icarus. Icarus is a little boy who looks exactly like a little boy that Dean loved and loves still and when it comes to that little boy, Dean knows precisely what his job is; it's as simple as that.
"Nothing. There's nothing wrong with it." Dean smiles and maybe it's not a real smile yet, but it's the promise of one. What they need is a plan and a good plan requires fuel. "So Russ," He starts, because there's no way that he's going to be able to say the kid's full name without laughing and he doesn't want to offend him again so soon, "Are you hungry?"
And Icarus, who's been alone for eight months, two weeks and four days, looks at Dean for a long (almost uncomfortably so) moment, and nods. Dean breathes out. "Alright then."
They roar out of Manning one passenger fuller, with Creedence bleeding out the windows in farewell.
Food. And a plan.
Next part...