Over the Hills & Far Away (Chapter 2a)
Title: Over the Hills & Far Away - CHAPTER 2A
Author(s): operationhades
Artist: evian_fork
Warning: few curse words, once or twice, primarily from Dean.
Summary: Sam was a fourteen year old mutant when he walked in on an injured Dean staring up at the barrel of a gun held by John Winchester. And after that, with Sam at the Xavier Institute for Higher Learning and Dean throwing John, every other hunter in the country, and a pissed Yellow Eyed Demon of their trail, thing's only get progressively worse.
2A
CHAPTER 2 (2A)
One of the hallways in the mansion was long. Sure, they were all long, but this one was long and wide, with large arcs of windows lining a side presenting a gateway to the grounds. The opposite wall was littered with art that looked priceless, vases and small sculptures Dean had spent a brief stage when he was fourteen learning how to forge, knowing by a glance they numbered four digits in the currency margin - more than enough to feed Sammy on the long hunts John took.
To be honest, it had taken him some time to realise what this meant. Xavier's School for Gifted Children, no matter how much of an understatement the 'Gifted Children' was, could give Sam everything Dean wished for his little brother, everything he knew Sam wished for himself, and everything they both knew he wouldn't have gotten anywhere else. Dean still wanted to believe in their Dad's promise - "When we get the sonuvabitch Demon, we'll settle down somewhere nice, with a white fence, and get your brother a dog." - still wanted to hold on to the admittedly less clear memories he had of his Dad before mom died, shouting at him from behind a fence along with other parents, a huge smile on his face as Dean batted a ball out of the park, childish joy at making his father proud. And to an extent, he still did - believed it all, still thought it was probably a possibility, not yet off the table - even with the sudden, drastic change in their set-up.
Because now Dad thought he was a monster, and Sam needed to be saved.
Dean didn't have much to say to that.
After Hank had left, a young adult wearing red sunglasses had come in, introducing himself as Cyclops, saying he'd lead them to their room. Sam said the guy was one of the people who'd first come out when Sam had parked outside their mansion, not to mention dragged Dean's passed out ass into the clinic, which was damn embarrassing. Apparently though, as Cyclops led them through multiple hallways to their room, it turned out whoever had arranged it was clever enough to know Dean wasn't going to let Sam out of his sight for at least the first four days, or maybe it had been Sam's glower when Hank had first made the mistake of saying room in the plural tense, quickly correcting himself with a cough and nothing more.
. . .
They hadn't seen the old bald guy in the wheelchair again, for which Dean was just plain ol' grateful as fuck for, because something about that man just creeped the hell out of him, made him want to hide his face from sight, leave the room, make himself as small as possible and hide the soft, vulnerably, parts of his body. It was probably just logic, making Dean feel that, because the man was the head of a whole institute of mutants, was in control, the leader of a whole rainbow of powers from one extreme to the other. Logically, that meant the Captain Picard lookalike was stronger than them all. And that amount of power was just...
… Or maybe it was biological? Something in Dean, a six sense, rattling his self preservation instinct, something as primal and base and integrated in all animals telling him that this was a predator, and he was the prey. Sometimes, Dean felt the same thing on a hunt, and he'd grown to trust it as impeccably as John had always lectured him to do.
"Son, sometimes there're going to be things you don't understand, that don't make sense, don't compute, but make something in you just scream at you to run and never look back. And when that happens, don't think - just do."
Outside the large windows, in the green of the grass, a bunch of kids stood about, all of different ages and ethnicity. Dean peered out of the window, watching Sam hesitantly trot over the perfectly mowed grass towards them, in that stage of growth where you could see that he was sprouting, but was still a boy, still young and barely a teenager. They were all being supervised by a darkly coloured woman with startling white hair, respected and maybe even awed a little by those around her with the way the kids stayed close.
Dean watched, too far away to see the movement of lips, but too protective to not witness the exchange between his little brother and the kids. It was always dangerous, that first touch with others, knowing just how life was going to be at this place all depended on the first impression a stranger or group of strangers got. And you couldn't control it, couldn't control the impression their brain decided to stick too, not really, not unless you went out of your way to imprint one on them, like Dean liked to do. Act like a cool douche bag from the start, get treated like one. Sam always started out uncertain, portraying nothing but 'New kid! New kid!' at every turn, leaving it to his judger’s to make of him what they will.
Tucked all the way in the mansion, so far away but not too far if he broke the window and hopped out, Dean could see one of the boys slowly falling into the negative territory, not quite there but a risk all the same. It wasn't until one of the girls, a little petite blonde thing with bounce, enthusiastically clapped Sam on the shoulder and ushered him in did the tension break, the risk unfounded, the boy - some well kept, normal looking kid with broad shoulders - deciding to follow suit with the general consensus, face breaking out into a welcoming grin. Which was all great and all, because that meant Sam had been accepted. If worst came to worst - i.e. Whatever other kids were around hated Sam's guts - he still had a group to come back too.
Snorting to himself in morbid amusement, Dean rasped the window with his knuckles, knocking once, twice, thrice, before moving on down the hallway, the corridor, wondering absently what the difference between the two terms even was. He'd been in their shared room - two beds, at the opposite sides of the room - proofing it up of anything and everything he knew after being told it'd be Sam's and whatever room-mate he'd get after Dean left. He'd worked hard to make everything barely noticeable, hidden the salt underneath the carpet, duct taped it over the window sill, used the free Wi-Fi to get those symbols Dad and Bobby seemed so fond off. He'd made little crooks and nanny's for Sam to hide things in: a safe behind one of the paintings for half of his finance, a slot inside the bed's frame for the other, a false bottom in the drawer to hide the weapons (three knives, and a single, government issue glock), and another for the protections (three bags of salt - enough to circle the room -, cats eye shells, and a small notepad full of names and numbers of Dad's friends - for Sam, and only for Sam). He'd only just finished about a few minutes ago, and so had decided to scope the place out, see where security was lacking, see if whether the government had a right to be wary or not, try and get a feel for the place.
But before that; food.
Sunglasses Cyclops had told them both where to get the grub, said it was open at all times except after 10, and Dean couldn't help but wonder just how rich the bald Professor was to be able to afford taking care of a bunch of kids with powers and hire staff always on call till night. Plus it didn't make sense, where was the guy getting all his funding from? It couldn't all be from his own personal fortune or whatever, that would just be nuts. And didn't Sunglasses dude say the mess hall was somewhere around here?
He turned a corner, then another, caught a parting glimpse of something sleek and blue disappearing in a puff of clouds, wanted to brandish his knife and stab it, held himself back by the bare scruffs, and turned another corner. The smell hit him first, sweet glorious food, scents upon scents of a bunch of different things wafting over to him. Then he saw the actual 'mess', and realised with some thought of irony that he should've seen it coming.
Damn room looked like it came out of a Tudor's video.
Right smack down in the middle was a long dining table, huge in how it filled three quarters of the room, covered by a white table cloth and the most delicate dishes and glasses Dean had ever seen. He figured they were the ever elusive china he'd always heard about, knew about, even seen on TV, sure, but had never actually seen in person, the glasses tall and splendour right next to the dishes, just waiting to be used by people with six digit paydays. Like hell he was going to eat here, just- no. God no. So, Dean spun on his heels and left, walking a few steps again until another door greeted him.
The smell of food was stronger here, more enticing, and Dean grinned impishly to himself, recognising the hubbub and noise inside to be that of a kitchen. A glance at his watch confirmed it, the kitchen staff just starting to prepare for lunch - both Sam and Dean had missed breakfast, too busy as they were hashing things out the way only brothers could (i.e. wrestling). He opened the door slowly, not too willing to push it wide and smack someone carrying boiling soup or something on the other side. His caution paid off, someone came all but flying past the just opened door with a steaming bowl of who knew what, another shouting at a third to "check the potatoes! check the damn potatoes!" Entering the room and closing the door shut, Dean took a moment to watch everybody rushing about, tracking their movements, words, actions, trying to see if anyone of them were like Sam. He couldn't tell, wondered for a moment why none of them were using some weird cutting power to do the carrots, or cheat and make the temperature of that chicken broth just right, and then he shrugged and instead moved further in, tapping the shoulder of a motherly woman who looked to be in charge of things.
She turned around, eyebrows burrowed together, relaxing and going up towards her hairline once she noticed Dean, probably not a member of her team as she'd been expecting. "Anything I can help you with?"
Cranking up the charm, Dean grinned roguishly at her. "I'm sorry, I sort of missed breakfast this morning, both me and my kid brother, so I was wondering if you had anything? I'm willing to pitch in with the lunch efforts."
She cocked an eyebrow at him, crossing her arms over her ample chest, and looked him up and down in a quick study. She didn't seem impressed by what she saw - a normal reaction, Dean was used to being underestimated everywhere - but surprised him by not dismissing him immediately. "You good with a knife?"
Somebody made a horrified noise next to them, a younger woman with an equally motherly disposition about her. "Laura, you can't be serious! That's child labour!"
Dean snorted, waving off her concern and wondering for a split moment just how bad he looked to be mistaken for a child. He hadn't been thought a minor since he was fourteen. "I'm nineteen," he said, wanting to tack on lady at the end but holding back at the last minute. He liked these sort of women, kind but stern, willing to turn a blind eye if only to help a kid because they had ones of their own. Maybe it had to do with his own mom - he wasn't too stupid to not see the plausibility of it - but he just didn't care. "And I'm very good with a knife."
Laura, eyebrow still raised, jerked her head to a cutting board with a bucket full of tomatoes on top, a gleaming knife resting right next to it. He went over, aware of practically everyone in the kitchen watching, washed the tomatoes in the sink next to the cutting board, and one by one bore into them with the knife like the star of a Japanese cook show.
Thank god he'd had worked at the Dragon Palace when he was sixteen, getting yelled at in Japanese while boiling sparks of oil singed his arms and chest. Even if he didn't appreciate how every time he passed Boston his fingers ached.
Laura grinned over at the other woman - Jenny? - and barked at her crew to get back to work. Dean finished off the tomatoes.
. . .
As the sun struggled to reach midway in the April sky, and Samuel Winchester became acquainted with the other mutants his age, Charles moved himself to stand next to Storm, watching the group converse with the energy of teenagers. He couldn't deny his immense curiosity with the Winchester brothers, nor even differentiate which of the two he was more enamoured with, but at that current moment, his focus was fastened onto the younger of the two, watching as Kitty pulled Sam towards her and introduced him to the rest of the group. Jean had come with him, curious despite herself, wanting to watch and take part in the customary test of skills they always put a new student through to grasp how far along they were with their mutation.
The mere fact that Samuel Winchester seemed to have two abilities rather than the customary one was even more surprising than usual - visions of the near future and telekinesis? Practically unheard of, save for Jean herself with her telekinesis and telepathy. But the mere fact that the new fourteen year old had telekinesis and precognition, of all powers, was enough to pique almost all of the older X-Men's attention. They needed to quickly determine just how far Sam's potential could go, whether or not the strain of both psionic powers would force the young boy to buckle, or worse. If Sam ended up going the same road as Jean and himself had done, it could end horribly for everybody, and Charles wouldn't be able to forgive himself if he failed the boy.
Jean walked off towards the main building, coming back moments later with the training obstacles Logan and Scott favoured when training the kids. She placed them around at different intervals, spacing out the items across the field in terms of size, from lightest to heaviest, then returned back to stand next to Charles with a small smile.
“I wonder how good he is at it.” She mused, watching as Storm led Sam towards them with Kitty and the gang watching on in teenage curiosity. “Have you caught any of his thoughts?”
Charles chuckled in good nature. “Ah, but listening in on another's thoughts is quite rude, Jean.” He admonished, not putting too much heat into it because he was a hypocrite. “And the one time I tried I was quite... Overtaken, for lack of a better word. He is a very intelligent young man.” A very intelligent young man that thought far too much with very little structure to his thinking. It was chaos in there, pure and simple, an explosion of thousands of different topics that never reached the end before being cut off and overtaken by another. Samuel's mental process jumped from one train track to another, from the most obscure and confusing to the simple worries of a young teenager, and Charles had all but forced the door closed on that brain.
“Alright,” Jean huffed, reading between the lines and accepting Charles advice. Neither of them enjoyed violating anybody's sanctuary, despite it sometimes being a necessary part to the safety of those already in the mansion with the worries and threats looming in the horizon against mutant kind, yet sometimes neither of them could resist the temptation to simply take a peak for curiosity’s sake. As if reading his mind, Jean laughed under her breath. “They do say curiosity killed the cat, Professor.”
He only smiled fondly in response, nodding in thanks to Storm as she brought the youngest Winchester to them. “Hello, Samuel.” He greeted, extending a hand to shake. “I hope you don't mind if we borrow some of your time for this. It is quite important.”
Samuel shook the offered hand, strong and lacking in the self consciousness so common in teens, piquing Charles interest again right from the start. “Please, call me Sam. And it's OK, I get why you want to see how much I can do with the telekinesis thing.”
A very intelligent young man, with a level of maturity so very rarely seen. Charles continued smiling anyway, waving his hands towards the different objects Jean had strewn about around the mansion's grounds. From the beginning was a football, and from there on varied in length and weight until finally the last item was Nightcrawler himself, looking awkward and slightly afraid of his participation. Charles shook his head in bewilderment at Jean, wondering how she'd coerced the young mutant to join in the test, though it was a wonderful idea. If worst came to worst, Kurt could always teleport himself to safety, which was far different than what others could do, thus limiting the possibility of injury to a bare minimum.
“Very well, Sam. Though we must find you a codename for you to use.” He conceded, amused by Sam's reaction to Kurt. Besides the small widening of his eyes and uncomfortable shift of his feet, Sam showed no other outward signs of his surprise, perhaps less affected then he would have been had he not already met Hank. “As you can see, there are multiple objects - and Nightcrawler - displayed in front of you. Try to start from the football and work your way up to Nightcrawler.” Kurt waved, receiving a surprised look and an enthusiastic wave back from Sam. Charles warmed at the display of acceptance, thinking Sam would make a great addition to the team if for nothing else but that, and carried on. “Please, don't hurt yourself with the strain and only do what you feel comfortable. This is in no way an admittance test, just something for us to gauge on what level you are and how best to proceed in your training.”
“Training?” Sam parroted, turning to look at Charles with a question.
He nodded, waving a hand at himself and Jean. “Yes. Here, we have teachers of different abilities to try and teach young mutants such as yourself how best to control their ability. You've already met Storm and know of her ability, yes?” Sam nodded. “Jean here and I are both telepath's - mind readers, if you will - yet Jean is also a telekinetic, just like you. She'll be your primary mentor in this particular field of your ability. Unfortunately, we do not have any experience with anybody of precognition abilities, though if what you've told us is true, there is very little we could have done for you in that aspect anyway.”
Sam nodded, massaging at his temple in a way that spoke of familiarity. Charles felt a pang for the boy, already seeing the strain of his abilities affecting a person so young. They'd all been given the summary of the fourteen year old's ability - the ability to move things with his mind and the random flashes of the future, visions mostly, that were never pleasant - and how it usually left Sam with a fierce migraine and even a dangerous nose bleed. Maybe they could teach him relaxing techniques, like meditation, and get him on herbal teas that would soothe the mind. He'd have to speak more in depth with Hank on that.
“Okay.” Sam answered, turning to face the objects. He breathed in deeply, relaxing his muscles on the exhale, shaking his limbs to loosen himself up. Then he closed his eyes for a short moment, centering his mind, and Charles could feel the loud din of words and thoughts meshed together into an undecipherable mess quieten down into a veritable silence. He marvelled at the fourteen year old's ability to control his thoughts, to silence them, and smiled wildly as the first item - the football - propelled backwards across the field with no one around to have touched it. Sam sighed, scratching at his neck in a sheepish gesture and shrugged awkwardly. “Uh, guess that was too strong.”
They all encouraged him to continue, to move on to the next objects, to the heavier ones, and watched as Sam easily moved the next three with some amount of focus. The fourth had him frowning, but it also moved, slowly meeting the ground next to the football three feet away from its original position, and the fifth had Sam clenching his fists. Charles would have liked to see Sam attempt the sixth - a piano Jean must have used her own abilities to bring - but decided the traces of sweat that had broken out on the boy's forehead was a sign that they should stop. Interestingly enough, Kurt was the eighth, meaning only a piano and an ornate bookshelf were the only things separating Sam from all but being able to move a being.
Remarkable.
“I must say, Sam, you have an incredibly amount of talent at this. When did you first realise you could move objects with your mind?”
Grinning in satisfaction, Sam shrugged a bit. “The first time was when I was ten. I don't really remember it since I was sick, but Dean says I really wanted a bottle of water that was across the room, but I was too tired to say it, and next thing he knew I had it in my hand and was drinking it.”
Curious as he was about the brothers, this was a perfect time to catch some perspective on them. “And how did he react to it? You being able to do something like that?”
Another shrug. “He took away my water bottle, put it back where it was, then told me to do it again.” 'After throwing holy water on me, testing silver, rock salt and iron, and raiding Dad's journal for the exorcism in it.'
Trading pointed looks with Jean, Charles hummed in an affirmative. “How about your parents, Sam? And you were very good with the objects today; surely you must have practised when you could?”
A scowl marred the young teens face, making Sam look older than his mere fourteen years. “Dad doesn't know. And he won't. I didn't want to do anything at the start, thought it'd bring nothing but trouble, but Dean kept pushing me until I'd snap and something would explode. After that, I just did it to make sure I never accidentally hurt someone just because I was angry, but then somehow that went to practising just to make sure I could help, you know? Make the best of a bad situation.”
Ah, there it was, the self-loathing of his talents Storm had mentioned. Samuel saw nothing good in his abilities, only the bad, just like every mutant did when they first realized their ability. But Charles had a feeling it was linked in to the father, and perhaps even whatever life the Winchester family led. Surely they didn't live in a normal suburbia, not with the injuries the older brother Dean had come in with, and especially not with the knowledge of firearms and stealth tactics both Wolverine and Storm had informed him Sam seemed capable off. But he'd dug enough for the day, and any more questions would force Samuel to close up like he was already thinking to do.
Looking at his watch, he realised lunch was only moments away, a perfect ending to wrap this up. “Hmm, be as it may, you were quite impressive today.” Sam smiled, lighting up from the inside with the praise - a tell, Charles wondered just how little praise the boy usually got - and blushed. “Lunch will be due in a few minutes. Kitty, why don't you show Sam here where the mess hall is?”
As the young energetic Kitty led Sam away towards the mansion, Charles sighed and turned to face an uncharacteristically silent Storm. “You're worried about him, aren't you?”
Ororo ran a hand through her long white hair, tugging at the ends loosely in distraction. “I...” She began, hesitating for a moment before clearing her throat. “There is just... Something strange, about that child. About him and his brother.”
“What... Do you mean?” Jean asked, confused but wary all the same. They'd all grown to trust Storm's instincts, if for nothing more than the mere fact they were always right.
But she shook her head instead, trying to search for the right words to explain herself. “They feel... Wrong. There is something very... troubling... about them both.” A heavy sigh, a resigned look coming across her beautiful face. “My people would say they are cursed because of this... sense. Both of them. Evil hangs off them in a... great amount.”
“I'm very... interested, for lack of a better word, in the two.” Charles admitted, undecided on how to take Ororo's worrying words. “Right now, the greater mystery surrounds the older brother, Dean. Not only have we yet to know why he was injured as he was, but...”
“You tried to get a reading on him, didn't you Professor?” Jean finished off knowingly, a small smile playing on her lips.
Chagrined as to be so easily understood, Charles nodded. “I did, unfortunately, and I came up short. Perhaps it has something to do with your... instincts, Storm.”
“I'm not certain I follow, Professor.” Ororo admitted, watching as the group of children finally disappeared into the mansion. “What happened when you tried to... get a read on him?”
“Nothing.”
Jean raised her eyebrows at him as Ororo turned to look at him. “Explain.” They both said, waving a hand for further clarification together.
Charles chuckled, amused despite himself at the mirror image. Both beautiful women with deadly powers that could take on whole armies with ease. Heavens, was he glad they were on his side. “I believe Dean is a mutant with abilities of, at the very least anyway, to block us telepaths, but just doesn't realise it.” He went on to explain how he'd tried to find out what exactly had caused the injury - along with whether Dean would be a threat to any of the other mutants on campus - by reading his mind, and had been rewarded by hitting a block that threw him back to his own. He'd tried again, only to the same results, and had begged off the third attempt due to the uncanny perception of something wrong. “Dean will be staying with us for only a week, but afterwards, I believe I might send Logan after him to keep an eye on him...”
“You fear for the worst, don't you, Professor?” The dark skinned woman said knowingly.
Sighing, Charles nodded. “The X-gene is genetics, and usually among siblings. If Samuel is any indication of what the Winchester's version of the mutation is - and that power, my, did you see the boy? - then it's only plausible Dean may have something far stronger than a simple mental block. Something like that... It could end horribly for everyone involved, especially him.”
“I'll... try and keep an open mind on him during lunch.” Jean offered, eyebrows furrowed together in thought. “Maybe he'll ease up on it when he's distracted, or relaxed. Though he has to be a mutant if he can keep us both out.”
Charles nodded, looking at his watch just in time to realise lunch was right that moment, and turned his wheelchair to face the direction of the mansion. “Knowing Hank, he's saved a sample of Dean's blood in the off chance case I might develop an interest in it. Hopefully, that might shed some answers to this mystery.”
It was worth a chance.
NEXT PART
MASTERPOST
Author(s): operationhades
Artist: evian_fork
Warning: few curse words, once or twice, primarily from Dean.
Summary: Sam was a fourteen year old mutant when he walked in on an injured Dean staring up at the barrel of a gun held by John Winchester. And after that, with Sam at the Xavier Institute for Higher Learning and Dean throwing John, every other hunter in the country, and a pissed Yellow Eyed Demon of their trail, thing's only get progressively worse.
2A
CHAPTER 2 (2A)
One of the hallways in the mansion was long. Sure, they were all long, but this one was long and wide, with large arcs of windows lining a side presenting a gateway to the grounds. The opposite wall was littered with art that looked priceless, vases and small sculptures Dean had spent a brief stage when he was fourteen learning how to forge, knowing by a glance they numbered four digits in the currency margin - more than enough to feed Sammy on the long hunts John took.
To be honest, it had taken him some time to realise what this meant. Xavier's School for Gifted Children, no matter how much of an understatement the 'Gifted Children' was, could give Sam everything Dean wished for his little brother, everything he knew Sam wished for himself, and everything they both knew he wouldn't have gotten anywhere else. Dean still wanted to believe in their Dad's promise - "When we get the sonuvabitch Demon, we'll settle down somewhere nice, with a white fence, and get your brother a dog." - still wanted to hold on to the admittedly less clear memories he had of his Dad before mom died, shouting at him from behind a fence along with other parents, a huge smile on his face as Dean batted a ball out of the park, childish joy at making his father proud. And to an extent, he still did - believed it all, still thought it was probably a possibility, not yet off the table - even with the sudden, drastic change in their set-up.
Because now Dad thought he was a monster, and Sam needed to be saved.
Dean didn't have much to say to that.
After Hank had left, a young adult wearing red sunglasses had come in, introducing himself as Cyclops, saying he'd lead them to their room. Sam said the guy was one of the people who'd first come out when Sam had parked outside their mansion, not to mention dragged Dean's passed out ass into the clinic, which was damn embarrassing. Apparently though, as Cyclops led them through multiple hallways to their room, it turned out whoever had arranged it was clever enough to know Dean wasn't going to let Sam out of his sight for at least the first four days, or maybe it had been Sam's glower when Hank had first made the mistake of saying room in the plural tense, quickly correcting himself with a cough and nothing more.
. . .
They hadn't seen the old bald guy in the wheelchair again, for which Dean was just plain ol' grateful as fuck for, because something about that man just creeped the hell out of him, made him want to hide his face from sight, leave the room, make himself as small as possible and hide the soft, vulnerably, parts of his body. It was probably just logic, making Dean feel that, because the man was the head of a whole institute of mutants, was in control, the leader of a whole rainbow of powers from one extreme to the other. Logically, that meant the Captain Picard lookalike was stronger than them all. And that amount of power was just...
… Or maybe it was biological? Something in Dean, a six sense, rattling his self preservation instinct, something as primal and base and integrated in all animals telling him that this was a predator, and he was the prey. Sometimes, Dean felt the same thing on a hunt, and he'd grown to trust it as impeccably as John had always lectured him to do.
"Son, sometimes there're going to be things you don't understand, that don't make sense, don't compute, but make something in you just scream at you to run and never look back. And when that happens, don't think - just do."
Outside the large windows, in the green of the grass, a bunch of kids stood about, all of different ages and ethnicity. Dean peered out of the window, watching Sam hesitantly trot over the perfectly mowed grass towards them, in that stage of growth where you could see that he was sprouting, but was still a boy, still young and barely a teenager. They were all being supervised by a darkly coloured woman with startling white hair, respected and maybe even awed a little by those around her with the way the kids stayed close.
Dean watched, too far away to see the movement of lips, but too protective to not witness the exchange between his little brother and the kids. It was always dangerous, that first touch with others, knowing just how life was going to be at this place all depended on the first impression a stranger or group of strangers got. And you couldn't control it, couldn't control the impression their brain decided to stick too, not really, not unless you went out of your way to imprint one on them, like Dean liked to do. Act like a cool douche bag from the start, get treated like one. Sam always started out uncertain, portraying nothing but 'New kid! New kid!' at every turn, leaving it to his judger’s to make of him what they will.
Tucked all the way in the mansion, so far away but not too far if he broke the window and hopped out, Dean could see one of the boys slowly falling into the negative territory, not quite there but a risk all the same. It wasn't until one of the girls, a little petite blonde thing with bounce, enthusiastically clapped Sam on the shoulder and ushered him in did the tension break, the risk unfounded, the boy - some well kept, normal looking kid with broad shoulders - deciding to follow suit with the general consensus, face breaking out into a welcoming grin. Which was all great and all, because that meant Sam had been accepted. If worst came to worst - i.e. Whatever other kids were around hated Sam's guts - he still had a group to come back too.
Snorting to himself in morbid amusement, Dean rasped the window with his knuckles, knocking once, twice, thrice, before moving on down the hallway, the corridor, wondering absently what the difference between the two terms even was. He'd been in their shared room - two beds, at the opposite sides of the room - proofing it up of anything and everything he knew after being told it'd be Sam's and whatever room-mate he'd get after Dean left. He'd worked hard to make everything barely noticeable, hidden the salt underneath the carpet, duct taped it over the window sill, used the free Wi-Fi to get those symbols Dad and Bobby seemed so fond off. He'd made little crooks and nanny's for Sam to hide things in: a safe behind one of the paintings for half of his finance, a slot inside the bed's frame for the other, a false bottom in the drawer to hide the weapons (three knives, and a single, government issue glock), and another for the protections (three bags of salt - enough to circle the room -, cats eye shells, and a small notepad full of names and numbers of Dad's friends - for Sam, and only for Sam). He'd only just finished about a few minutes ago, and so had decided to scope the place out, see where security was lacking, see if whether the government had a right to be wary or not, try and get a feel for the place.
But before that; food.
Sunglasses Cyclops had told them both where to get the grub, said it was open at all times except after 10, and Dean couldn't help but wonder just how rich the bald Professor was to be able to afford taking care of a bunch of kids with powers and hire staff always on call till night. Plus it didn't make sense, where was the guy getting all his funding from? It couldn't all be from his own personal fortune or whatever, that would just be nuts. And didn't Sunglasses dude say the mess hall was somewhere around here?
He turned a corner, then another, caught a parting glimpse of something sleek and blue disappearing in a puff of clouds, wanted to brandish his knife and stab it, held himself back by the bare scruffs, and turned another corner. The smell hit him first, sweet glorious food, scents upon scents of a bunch of different things wafting over to him. Then he saw the actual 'mess', and realised with some thought of irony that he should've seen it coming.
Damn room looked like it came out of a Tudor's video.
Right smack down in the middle was a long dining table, huge in how it filled three quarters of the room, covered by a white table cloth and the most delicate dishes and glasses Dean had ever seen. He figured they were the ever elusive china he'd always heard about, knew about, even seen on TV, sure, but had never actually seen in person, the glasses tall and splendour right next to the dishes, just waiting to be used by people with six digit paydays. Like hell he was going to eat here, just- no. God no. So, Dean spun on his heels and left, walking a few steps again until another door greeted him.
The smell of food was stronger here, more enticing, and Dean grinned impishly to himself, recognising the hubbub and noise inside to be that of a kitchen. A glance at his watch confirmed it, the kitchen staff just starting to prepare for lunch - both Sam and Dean had missed breakfast, too busy as they were hashing things out the way only brothers could (i.e. wrestling). He opened the door slowly, not too willing to push it wide and smack someone carrying boiling soup or something on the other side. His caution paid off, someone came all but flying past the just opened door with a steaming bowl of who knew what, another shouting at a third to "check the potatoes! check the damn potatoes!" Entering the room and closing the door shut, Dean took a moment to watch everybody rushing about, tracking their movements, words, actions, trying to see if anyone of them were like Sam. He couldn't tell, wondered for a moment why none of them were using some weird cutting power to do the carrots, or cheat and make the temperature of that chicken broth just right, and then he shrugged and instead moved further in, tapping the shoulder of a motherly woman who looked to be in charge of things.
She turned around, eyebrows burrowed together, relaxing and going up towards her hairline once she noticed Dean, probably not a member of her team as she'd been expecting. "Anything I can help you with?"
Cranking up the charm, Dean grinned roguishly at her. "I'm sorry, I sort of missed breakfast this morning, both me and my kid brother, so I was wondering if you had anything? I'm willing to pitch in with the lunch efforts."
She cocked an eyebrow at him, crossing her arms over her ample chest, and looked him up and down in a quick study. She didn't seem impressed by what she saw - a normal reaction, Dean was used to being underestimated everywhere - but surprised him by not dismissing him immediately. "You good with a knife?"
Somebody made a horrified noise next to them, a younger woman with an equally motherly disposition about her. "Laura, you can't be serious! That's child labour!"
Dean snorted, waving off her concern and wondering for a split moment just how bad he looked to be mistaken for a child. He hadn't been thought a minor since he was fourteen. "I'm nineteen," he said, wanting to tack on lady at the end but holding back at the last minute. He liked these sort of women, kind but stern, willing to turn a blind eye if only to help a kid because they had ones of their own. Maybe it had to do with his own mom - he wasn't too stupid to not see the plausibility of it - but he just didn't care. "And I'm very good with a knife."
Laura, eyebrow still raised, jerked her head to a cutting board with a bucket full of tomatoes on top, a gleaming knife resting right next to it. He went over, aware of practically everyone in the kitchen watching, washed the tomatoes in the sink next to the cutting board, and one by one bore into them with the knife like the star of a Japanese cook show.
Thank god he'd had worked at the Dragon Palace when he was sixteen, getting yelled at in Japanese while boiling sparks of oil singed his arms and chest. Even if he didn't appreciate how every time he passed Boston his fingers ached.
Laura grinned over at the other woman - Jenny? - and barked at her crew to get back to work. Dean finished off the tomatoes.
. . .
As the sun struggled to reach midway in the April sky, and Samuel Winchester became acquainted with the other mutants his age, Charles moved himself to stand next to Storm, watching the group converse with the energy of teenagers. He couldn't deny his immense curiosity with the Winchester brothers, nor even differentiate which of the two he was more enamoured with, but at that current moment, his focus was fastened onto the younger of the two, watching as Kitty pulled Sam towards her and introduced him to the rest of the group. Jean had come with him, curious despite herself, wanting to watch and take part in the customary test of skills they always put a new student through to grasp how far along they were with their mutation.
The mere fact that Samuel Winchester seemed to have two abilities rather than the customary one was even more surprising than usual - visions of the near future and telekinesis? Practically unheard of, save for Jean herself with her telekinesis and telepathy. But the mere fact that the new fourteen year old had telekinesis and precognition, of all powers, was enough to pique almost all of the older X-Men's attention. They needed to quickly determine just how far Sam's potential could go, whether or not the strain of both psionic powers would force the young boy to buckle, or worse. If Sam ended up going the same road as Jean and himself had done, it could end horribly for everybody, and Charles wouldn't be able to forgive himself if he failed the boy.
Jean walked off towards the main building, coming back moments later with the training obstacles Logan and Scott favoured when training the kids. She placed them around at different intervals, spacing out the items across the field in terms of size, from lightest to heaviest, then returned back to stand next to Charles with a small smile.
“I wonder how good he is at it.” She mused, watching as Storm led Sam towards them with Kitty and the gang watching on in teenage curiosity. “Have you caught any of his thoughts?”
Charles chuckled in good nature. “Ah, but listening in on another's thoughts is quite rude, Jean.” He admonished, not putting too much heat into it because he was a hypocrite. “And the one time I tried I was quite... Overtaken, for lack of a better word. He is a very intelligent young man.” A very intelligent young man that thought far too much with very little structure to his thinking. It was chaos in there, pure and simple, an explosion of thousands of different topics that never reached the end before being cut off and overtaken by another. Samuel's mental process jumped from one train track to another, from the most obscure and confusing to the simple worries of a young teenager, and Charles had all but forced the door closed on that brain.
“Alright,” Jean huffed, reading between the lines and accepting Charles advice. Neither of them enjoyed violating anybody's sanctuary, despite it sometimes being a necessary part to the safety of those already in the mansion with the worries and threats looming in the horizon against mutant kind, yet sometimes neither of them could resist the temptation to simply take a peak for curiosity’s sake. As if reading his mind, Jean laughed under her breath. “They do say curiosity killed the cat, Professor.”
He only smiled fondly in response, nodding in thanks to Storm as she brought the youngest Winchester to them. “Hello, Samuel.” He greeted, extending a hand to shake. “I hope you don't mind if we borrow some of your time for this. It is quite important.”
Samuel shook the offered hand, strong and lacking in the self consciousness so common in teens, piquing Charles interest again right from the start. “Please, call me Sam. And it's OK, I get why you want to see how much I can do with the telekinesis thing.”
A very intelligent young man, with a level of maturity so very rarely seen. Charles continued smiling anyway, waving his hands towards the different objects Jean had strewn about around the mansion's grounds. From the beginning was a football, and from there on varied in length and weight until finally the last item was Nightcrawler himself, looking awkward and slightly afraid of his participation. Charles shook his head in bewilderment at Jean, wondering how she'd coerced the young mutant to join in the test, though it was a wonderful idea. If worst came to worst, Kurt could always teleport himself to safety, which was far different than what others could do, thus limiting the possibility of injury to a bare minimum.
“Very well, Sam. Though we must find you a codename for you to use.” He conceded, amused by Sam's reaction to Kurt. Besides the small widening of his eyes and uncomfortable shift of his feet, Sam showed no other outward signs of his surprise, perhaps less affected then he would have been had he not already met Hank. “As you can see, there are multiple objects - and Nightcrawler - displayed in front of you. Try to start from the football and work your way up to Nightcrawler.” Kurt waved, receiving a surprised look and an enthusiastic wave back from Sam. Charles warmed at the display of acceptance, thinking Sam would make a great addition to the team if for nothing else but that, and carried on. “Please, don't hurt yourself with the strain and only do what you feel comfortable. This is in no way an admittance test, just something for us to gauge on what level you are and how best to proceed in your training.”
“Training?” Sam parroted, turning to look at Charles with a question.
He nodded, waving a hand at himself and Jean. “Yes. Here, we have teachers of different abilities to try and teach young mutants such as yourself how best to control their ability. You've already met Storm and know of her ability, yes?” Sam nodded. “Jean here and I are both telepath's - mind readers, if you will - yet Jean is also a telekinetic, just like you. She'll be your primary mentor in this particular field of your ability. Unfortunately, we do not have any experience with anybody of precognition abilities, though if what you've told us is true, there is very little we could have done for you in that aspect anyway.”
Sam nodded, massaging at his temple in a way that spoke of familiarity. Charles felt a pang for the boy, already seeing the strain of his abilities affecting a person so young. They'd all been given the summary of the fourteen year old's ability - the ability to move things with his mind and the random flashes of the future, visions mostly, that were never pleasant - and how it usually left Sam with a fierce migraine and even a dangerous nose bleed. Maybe they could teach him relaxing techniques, like meditation, and get him on herbal teas that would soothe the mind. He'd have to speak more in depth with Hank on that.
“Okay.” Sam answered, turning to face the objects. He breathed in deeply, relaxing his muscles on the exhale, shaking his limbs to loosen himself up. Then he closed his eyes for a short moment, centering his mind, and Charles could feel the loud din of words and thoughts meshed together into an undecipherable mess quieten down into a veritable silence. He marvelled at the fourteen year old's ability to control his thoughts, to silence them, and smiled wildly as the first item - the football - propelled backwards across the field with no one around to have touched it. Sam sighed, scratching at his neck in a sheepish gesture and shrugged awkwardly. “Uh, guess that was too strong.”
They all encouraged him to continue, to move on to the next objects, to the heavier ones, and watched as Sam easily moved the next three with some amount of focus. The fourth had him frowning, but it also moved, slowly meeting the ground next to the football three feet away from its original position, and the fifth had Sam clenching his fists. Charles would have liked to see Sam attempt the sixth - a piano Jean must have used her own abilities to bring - but decided the traces of sweat that had broken out on the boy's forehead was a sign that they should stop. Interestingly enough, Kurt was the eighth, meaning only a piano and an ornate bookshelf were the only things separating Sam from all but being able to move a being.
Remarkable.
“I must say, Sam, you have an incredibly amount of talent at this. When did you first realise you could move objects with your mind?”
Grinning in satisfaction, Sam shrugged a bit. “The first time was when I was ten. I don't really remember it since I was sick, but Dean says I really wanted a bottle of water that was across the room, but I was too tired to say it, and next thing he knew I had it in my hand and was drinking it.”
Curious as he was about the brothers, this was a perfect time to catch some perspective on them. “And how did he react to it? You being able to do something like that?”
Another shrug. “He took away my water bottle, put it back where it was, then told me to do it again.” 'After throwing holy water on me, testing silver, rock salt and iron, and raiding Dad's journal for the exorcism in it.'
Trading pointed looks with Jean, Charles hummed in an affirmative. “How about your parents, Sam? And you were very good with the objects today; surely you must have practised when you could?”
A scowl marred the young teens face, making Sam look older than his mere fourteen years. “Dad doesn't know. And he won't. I didn't want to do anything at the start, thought it'd bring nothing but trouble, but Dean kept pushing me until I'd snap and something would explode. After that, I just did it to make sure I never accidentally hurt someone just because I was angry, but then somehow that went to practising just to make sure I could help, you know? Make the best of a bad situation.”
Ah, there it was, the self-loathing of his talents Storm had mentioned. Samuel saw nothing good in his abilities, only the bad, just like every mutant did when they first realized their ability. But Charles had a feeling it was linked in to the father, and perhaps even whatever life the Winchester family led. Surely they didn't live in a normal suburbia, not with the injuries the older brother Dean had come in with, and especially not with the knowledge of firearms and stealth tactics both Wolverine and Storm had informed him Sam seemed capable off. But he'd dug enough for the day, and any more questions would force Samuel to close up like he was already thinking to do.
Looking at his watch, he realised lunch was only moments away, a perfect ending to wrap this up. “Hmm, be as it may, you were quite impressive today.” Sam smiled, lighting up from the inside with the praise - a tell, Charles wondered just how little praise the boy usually got - and blushed. “Lunch will be due in a few minutes. Kitty, why don't you show Sam here where the mess hall is?”
As the young energetic Kitty led Sam away towards the mansion, Charles sighed and turned to face an uncharacteristically silent Storm. “You're worried about him, aren't you?”
Ororo ran a hand through her long white hair, tugging at the ends loosely in distraction. “I...” She began, hesitating for a moment before clearing her throat. “There is just... Something strange, about that child. About him and his brother.”
“What... Do you mean?” Jean asked, confused but wary all the same. They'd all grown to trust Storm's instincts, if for nothing more than the mere fact they were always right.
But she shook her head instead, trying to search for the right words to explain herself. “They feel... Wrong. There is something very... troubling... about them both.” A heavy sigh, a resigned look coming across her beautiful face. “My people would say they are cursed because of this... sense. Both of them. Evil hangs off them in a... great amount.”
“I'm very... interested, for lack of a better word, in the two.” Charles admitted, undecided on how to take Ororo's worrying words. “Right now, the greater mystery surrounds the older brother, Dean. Not only have we yet to know why he was injured as he was, but...”
“You tried to get a reading on him, didn't you Professor?” Jean finished off knowingly, a small smile playing on her lips.
Chagrined as to be so easily understood, Charles nodded. “I did, unfortunately, and I came up short. Perhaps it has something to do with your... instincts, Storm.”
“I'm not certain I follow, Professor.” Ororo admitted, watching as the group of children finally disappeared into the mansion. “What happened when you tried to... get a read on him?”
“Nothing.”
Jean raised her eyebrows at him as Ororo turned to look at him. “Explain.” They both said, waving a hand for further clarification together.
Charles chuckled, amused despite himself at the mirror image. Both beautiful women with deadly powers that could take on whole armies with ease. Heavens, was he glad they were on his side. “I believe Dean is a mutant with abilities of, at the very least anyway, to block us telepaths, but just doesn't realise it.” He went on to explain how he'd tried to find out what exactly had caused the injury - along with whether Dean would be a threat to any of the other mutants on campus - by reading his mind, and had been rewarded by hitting a block that threw him back to his own. He'd tried again, only to the same results, and had begged off the third attempt due to the uncanny perception of something wrong. “Dean will be staying with us for only a week, but afterwards, I believe I might send Logan after him to keep an eye on him...”
“You fear for the worst, don't you, Professor?” The dark skinned woman said knowingly.
Sighing, Charles nodded. “The X-gene is genetics, and usually among siblings. If Samuel is any indication of what the Winchester's version of the mutation is - and that power, my, did you see the boy? - then it's only plausible Dean may have something far stronger than a simple mental block. Something like that... It could end horribly for everyone involved, especially him.”
“I'll... try and keep an open mind on him during lunch.” Jean offered, eyebrows furrowed together in thought. “Maybe he'll ease up on it when he's distracted, or relaxed. Though he has to be a mutant if he can keep us both out.”
Charles nodded, looking at his watch just in time to realise lunch was right that moment, and turned his wheelchair to face the direction of the mansion. “Knowing Hank, he's saved a sample of Dean's blood in the off chance case I might develop an interest in it. Hopefully, that might shed some answers to this mystery.”
It was worth a chance.
NEXT PART
MASTERPOST