SPN/DA Fic: The Wellspring (25/?)
Title: The Wellspring
Author: scourgeofeurope
Fandoms: Supernatural, Dark Angel
Rating: R (gen)
Summary: Sam and Dean find a tiny smartass in a barn. What are they to do?
Warnings: Excessive swearing
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Author's Notes: Happy holidays, kids. ♥
Additional author's notes and previous chapters can be found here.
_______________________________________________________
The snow is melting. Dean takes a long pull on his beer and watches from the kitchen window as the white accumulation drops from the tree branches. He kind of wants to be outside, wants to hear it falling from those bare wooden arms, its deaf thud as it hits the ground. He wants to hear the sound of it dying under his feet.
He wants to kill it.
Dean hates the fucking snow. He hates the way it reminds him of being nine years old, of Sam in mittens and puffy coats and cheeks red with fever because Dean agreed they could stay outside long enough to finish that bastard snowman, the one lacking in eyes and buttons and a top hat. It had a carrot, though. Dean stole it from the supermarket down the street and the lady cashier chased him halfway down the block screaming about how she was going to call his mother, the heartless bitch.
Dean remembers his gloves, the ones with holes at the tips of his fingers. He remembers how numb his skin was, but how he kept going, kept helping Sammy roll that fucking snow into something big and round and perfect. And Sam…Sam was so small, and his tongue would stick out of the corner of his mouth as he judged whether or not their work was lopsided, whether it was adequate anatomy for a three-tiered man constructed by Winchester hands.
Daddy says if you’re going to do something, don’t half-ass it.
Dad did say that. Dad, who wasn’t there when the motel manager, drunk off his ass, chased them back into their room because where did they even think they were? That was his goddamn parking lot, you stupid kids. You stupid fucking kids.
Sammy was cold and a bit agitated afterwards, but generally happy as Dean drew him a hot bath. He sat on the lid of the toilet rubbing his frozen fingers together while the kid hummed and went about cleaning himself, sat patiently until it was time to wash his brother’s hair. Dean always washed Sam’s hair. Never got soap in his eyes, either, and when he came down with that fever, Dean was the one pushing the sweaty tresses from his forehead - and when he started sneezing, Dean was the one with a fistful of tissues, helping him wipe the snot from his stupid little nose.
And when Dad came home, Dean was the one who got pulled aside for a stern reprimand about judging weather conditions and taking his little brother outside of the motel room, and you know better than to go outside of the motel room, don’t you, Dean? He did. He does. He can still feel Dad’s rough fingers gripping his arm just a little too-tight, can still feel the jostle of the are-you-listening-to-me shake, still hear Sammy’s little voice asking for Daddy.
I don’t care what he wanted to do, Dean. I put you in charge and you damn well better learn when to start saying no.
Dean knows when to say it now. No, Sam, not without backup. No, Brandy Alexander, that was your last one, I’m cutting you off. No…No, you can’t use those freaky mind powers connected to that demon that killed our parents and fucked our lives to shit.
“Dean?” The voice maybe clears Dean’s waist, it’s so quiet. He’s kind of surprised to find himself still here, still staring out this window, seeing another clump of snow fall from another dead branch. A throat clears behind him, and the voice tries again. “Dean?” Dean turns around and the moment’s not gone. He needs to stop remembering shit, he does, because Benny isn’t a decades old ghost even though he looks like one, small and nervous and desperate to please. “Um…d’you think Alec and I could go outside?”
Dean hesitates even though he tries not to and Ben’s face falls before creasing in worry. The kid opens his mouth. He’s about to start stammering out apologies for asking, but Dean’s quick, cuts him off with, “Sure thing, kiddo” before taking another swig of his beer. He sets the now-empty bottle on the countertop, claps his boy on the shoulder. “I was gonna go out there, anyway. Bobby’s puttin’ up some new surveillance cameras.”
“Okay.”
“You alright?” Kid’s not even looking at him anymore. He’s looking past Dean’s left thigh at the kitchen cabinet, fidgeting all nervous-like, and it makes Dean feel like someone just impaled his chest with a huge fucking tree stump only to leave it there while Dean continued to breathe. Ben’s so scared of him now. No matter what he does or says, that fear’s still there.
“M’fine.”
“You sure?”
Ben’s eyes lower to the floor. His teeth dig into his lip. “Alec’s being…bad.”
Bad. The word comes out barely above a whisper and Dean’s suddenly thrown back into that day surrounded by stone-faced children, pale as apparitions, their will demolished simply by the fear of being “in trouble.” Dean doesn’t want to know what “in trouble” means, and he doesn’t want to know what “bad” means, either. Three-letter words should never be this heavy.
He places a light hand on Ben's shoulder to guide him out of the kitchen. “Yeah? What’s the little hellraiser doing now?” The question dies on his lips as soon as he steps into the living room, as soon as he sees Sam’s big hand seizing Alec’s tiny arm, a furious expression etched into his little brother’s tired face as he leans down ridiculously far to lash the kid’s ears with words that are rough and low.
“Sammy?”
Alec turns around and meets Dean’s gaze, a fleet of emotions passing through his eyes as he tries to wedge his arm out of Sam’s hold. Sam yanks him back and shakes him a little and that’s enough. Dean’s seen enough.
“Sam.”
Seeing isn’t having, though, and Dean wonders how long this has been going on because Alec’s apparently had enough. He wrenches his arm out of Sam’s grip, pushes the guy hard enough away to land him on his ass. Dean waits for the kid to come to him after the fact, but Alec just stands frozen with his eyes on his fallen uncle, panting like he’s been running for miles, and Sam’s breathing equally as hard, eyes not leaving Alec’s unwavering stare.
Nobody moves. The room’s a statue that breaks when snow falls from the roof right outside the window. Dean hates the snow. Sometimes he hates his sibling, too. It’s always been about Sam, what Sam wants and needs, and the conflicts Sam creates.
“Alec.” It’s not a question, but it’s not a reprimand, either, even though Alec seems to think it is.
“Uncle Sam’s a humorless prick,” the boy mutters, hurt overpowering the aggression of his words. “I was just tryin’ to make him laugh.”
“C’mere.” Alec moves a step towards Dean, but his eyes linger on Sam, who’s finally getting to his feet. Dean scrubs a frustrated hand over his face, growls, “Alec. Come here.” The kid heaves a sigh and stomps over, stands at Dean’s toes, keeping his eyes straight and level with Dean’s midsection. Ben’s still at his side, quiet and motionless, and Dean looks down at him, notes how the kid’s looking at the floor again.
“Benny, you wanna go get your coats? Hang out in the kitchen for a bit. Alec and I’ll be ready in a sec, okay?”
Ben nods and drifts away, out of sight, head still lowered. Dean will deal with that later. Again. He’ll try. He’ll fix this. He’ll try to fix everything, like he always does.
He picks up Alec’s arm, dances his fingers over the pale skin, trails the pad of his thumb over the fading red fingertip-shaped imprints left by Sam’s hand. “Kitten?” Dean’s kind of surprised he can’t feel the boy’s eyes burning into his navel. “Look at me, kid.” Alec’s head doesn’t move. Dean draws in a breath and lets the arm drop, places both hands on Alec’s shoulders. He pushes him far enough away to see the sullen eyes, doesn’t remove his touch as he leans down. “Did he hurt you?”
“Dean.” Sam’s offended. Dean flicks a look up at him, at his crossed arms and his scowl. “I would never-“
“Do I look like I’m talkin’ to you?” He keeps his eyes pinned on his brother long enough to see the teeth grit and the fists clench. Then he looks back down at Alec. “Kitten? Answer.”
“No, he didn’t hurt me.” Alec’s tone is steady and strong, and his back is still straight as an arrow, but he’s tense as fuck. Little boy bravado. Dean knows it quite well.
“Looks like he had you by the arm pretty tight. Are you sure?”
“What do you mean ‘looks like’?” Sam demands, and this time hostility is giving way to something more akin to worry. “Did I leave marks?” Dean lifts his head again to stare at him. He’s learned over the past twenty-six years that sometimes just staring at Sam is enough to convince him of whatever he needs convincing. Sometimes it’s even enough to break him. “Shit…shit. Alec? Alec, did I-”
“He didn’t hurt me.” Alec sets his volume at just the right amount to overtake Sam’s increasing panic. “It doesn’t hurt. It didn’t hurt.”
“Then why did you push him?”
“Dean-“
“Sam, shut up. Alec?” Kid won’t look at him. Dean’s starting to wonder if there’s something wrong with his face. He hopes not, even though there’s no reason to hope. It’s impossible. He looked in the mirror this morning and aesthetic perfection was still looking back at him. “Alec?” No dice. Dean’s sick of this shit and it’s too much effort, anyway. Kid can look at the floor. “If you don’t think he’s going to hurt you, you don’t hurt him. You show him that respect even when he’s being a douche, understand?”
More snow drops from the roof. It hits and slides down the window in its fall.
Alec doesn’t say a word.
“Alec.”
Kid’s will is fading fast. He’s scuffing his toe against the wooden floor, breathing quick and shallow, and then he’s pushing his way past Dean’s hands, burying his face into Dean’s T-shirt, and mumbling words that Dean can’t quite make out. “Kitten?”
“Why does everything suck so hard? Why is everyone yelling at me?”
Alec never asks questions like these. Then again, Alec doesn’t cry either, but yesterday he was a rainstorm. Dean gets that. There’s been a build-up of the worst kind of shit, and it’s consuming them all whole. Sometimes it gets too big to contain.
“Was I yellin’ at you?” Maybe it’s a nod, maybe not, but there’s movement against his stomach. He’s unaware at first of his palm running up and down the boy’s spine, but then he feels Alec go boneless, limp, melted into his abdomen like he just sprung up from there one day, like a blade of grass from the earth. “M’sorry, baby.”
“We’re cool,” Alec mumbles. “I won’t push Uncle Sam again. Even if he’s being a douche.”
“That’s my boy.”
He is. He’s Dean’s boy, Dean’s resilient boy who sucks it up and pulls away, shakes it off, even backtracks to Sam, who’s looking all guilty as fuck and spewing apologies and tenderly examining the arm he was just squeezing in a hand wrapped like steel.
“You were a dick,” Alec agrees, peeling Sam’s now-gentle fingers away. “S’okay, though. I think maybe you just need to get some shut-eye. Preferably on the naughty bed.”
Sam barks a silent laugh as Alec walks into his arms. The hug is quick, but firm, and the boy trots back to Dean looking significantly happier. Dean grazes his lips over the kid’s temple, pushes him towards the kitchen, orders, “Go outside with your brother. Let Bobby know you’re out there.” Alec disappears and Dean waits, listens to the rustling of arms being stuffed into coats, to the creak of the door opening and then shutting closed.
Sam’s looking at the floor. Dean really wants to know what it is about the fucking floor.
“Just so you know, I’m about five seconds away from completely losing my shit on you.”
Sam’s eyes seem to skitter across the wood, to Dean’s feet. They inch up at an excruciatingly slow pace, but Dean’s somewhat glad that this one, at least, seems to have mastered the art of looking at him.
“Dean, I-“
“Tell me what he was doing that was just so fucking bad.”
Sam obviously can’t. He pinches the bridge of his nose, swipes at the corner of an exhausted eye before shaking his head. “He wasn’t…he just…I told him I needed time alone and he just kept…He wouldn’t leave me alone, Dean. I lost my temper. I shouldn’t have.”
“Damn straight, you shouldn’t have. Kid’s been through Hell in case you’ve forgotten.”
“I know. I was there.”
“We were there. For seven days. You know how long we weren’t there, Sam? Nine years. Nine fucking years. Their entire fucking lives, treated like machines that needed to snap to on command. And what do you do when he doesn’t listen to you?” Sam’s staring at someplace behind Dean’s left ear now, rubbing an absent hand over his plaid-covered arm. He’s ashen-faced and not answering the question anytime soon. “You give him a reason to be afraid.”
“I didn’t-“
“You grabbed him. You fucking grabbed him and made him feel like he had to push you away. If I see you pulling something like that again without reason I will kick your ass so fucking hard, they’ll hear you wailing in Canada.” Sam’s eyes are tired and now they’re wet, too. Dean curses under his breath and looks away long enough to fortify his walls - it’s unfortunate, but sometimes (most of the time, but Dean tries not to admit this to himself) when he looks at Sam, he still sees that snot-nosed little boy, the one with his eyes closed and trusting as Dean washed the dirt from his hair. “Do you understand me? Have I made myself clear?”
“Dean, I wouldn’t-“
“Answer the question, Sam.”
“I…Dean, of course, I understand. I didn’t mean it. I would never. You know I would never…right?” Sam looks away and scrapes a hasty finger over a damp cheekbone.
Dean sighs into a frustrated hand because Jesus Christ, when was the last time Sam slept? Kid’s been in the study since they’ve gotten here, practically, trying to bend spoons or what have you and Dean’s barely said shit, has just left Sam to his freaky little devices. To his credit, though, it’s hard looking after three of them.
“Dean?” Sam’s all earnest eyes now, reiterating the question Dean never answered. “You know I’d never mean to hurt him, right?”
The guilt is like spilled milk all over his brother’s face, and Dean has to bite into the side of his cheek to keep from saying something he doesn’t mean. He knows this is the reason Sam’s been doing this, knows the last thing Sam wants to do is hurt anyone.
“Yeah, Sammy. I know.” The relief is blatant. Dean’s glad for it, but he knows it won’t stay there. “I want you to cut this shit out and get some sleep. You’re no good to any of us like this. And when you wake up, I expect to see you. This disappearing act is over, dude.”
Dean looks the way he does because his parents looked the way they did. He’s always taken more after his father than his mother, though. Sam’s the opposite. Sam doesn’t look like Dad or Dean, but he has the girly hair and the blue eyes and that calming manner in which he speaks. Sometimes. Not now - not now, when he’s eyeing Dean like an enraged bull, his cheeks heating with ire, his big hands clenching into the tightest of fists. That’s not Mom, not to Dean’s recollection. That’s all Dad.
“You need to stop treating me like this. Like I’m some sort of dumb fucking kid.”
“Then I guess you need to stop acting like one.”
Yeah, Dean’s learned when and how to say ‘no’ over the past twenty-six years. He’s also aware that it doesn’t always go over well - like now. Like now when he’s saying no, no, no fucking no, you little fucking bastard. Because Dean’s in charge, Dean’s responsible, Dean’s not going to let Sam fuck himself or anyone else over. Dean’s going to make sure Sam’s alright, that Sam will always be alright. Sam has to always be alright or Dean will lose his fucking mind.
Not that he’s not losing it now. Little brothers should never be able to muster the physical strength to pin big brothers against the wall. It’s wrong. It’s unnatural and wrong. It’s about as wrong as it gets - even more wrong than when the big brother hits the little brother, socks him across the jaw, sucker punches him in the ribs while he’s still dazed from lack of sleep and that first staggering blow.
“I’ll let you hit me back later,” Dean says. Sam’s hunched over and gripping his side, panting. Dean feels horrible, he does, but he’s not going to admit to it more than he already has, he’s not going to apologize beyond helping Sam to the couch, getting him situated so he can sleep. Sam’s eyes are dark as he glares up at Dean through a mess of bangs. “Sam? C’mon...I’m...” No. Not going to apologize. “You just need some sleep.”
He takes a step forward which is apparently a mistake. Leaving Sam to his own devices for these past couple of days was also a mistake, a big, fucking mistake because there’s a snow-globe on Bobby’s mantelpiece. It doesn’t look like anything special - just your old run-of-the mill touristy shit from God-knows-where, something inherently harmless until it’s flying at your head so fast you just barely manage to dodge it. Harmless, until it’s smashing to bits against the wall, littering the floor with water and glitter and glass.
“Oh, fuck me.” Dean’s not sure if he’s pissed off or terrified or both, but he does know that this is shaping up to be a bad fucking day.
“Yeah, fuck you,” Sam agrees. He’s trying to pass this off as deliberate, but Dean’s pretty damn sure it wasn’t at all. Sam looks beaten and scared and exhausted as fuck, and Dean can’t take anymore of this, not right now.
“Get some sleep, will you? And if you can’t, at least calm the fuck down.” He should leave it there, he really should. But he can’t. “You’ve already freaked the kids out enough today and I don’t want random heavy shit flying at their heads just because you’re a sleep-deprived little bitch who can’t control his temper.”
Sam’s face is naked and the pain is raw. Dean feels vaguely satisfied as he spins on his heel and heads for the door.
“I wouldn’t-” Sam tries after him.
“Not on purpose, you wouldn’t.” Dean doesn’t even turn around as he says the words. “Nap time, Sammy. M’sorry I don’t have one of those awesome blue mats and a tiny carton of milk for you, but you’re just going to have to deal, I guess.”
Sam’s just going to have to deal. Dean’s already out the door, outside where the snow is melting over thin layers of ice, which, in turn, is melting into the dirt and turning that dirt into mud. Dean’s not entirely sure why he hates the snow so much when his real problem is with what it leaves behind - sick little boys and angry voices and messes that are hard to clean up.
_____________________________________________________
The marks disappeared from Alec’s arm within minutes, but Ben still sees them. He sees them through Alec’s coat, through Alec’s playful smile and shining eyes and insistence that it’s alright, that everything’s fine now. He sees it from forty feet in the air with his legs dangling off either side of this tree branch he’s been straddling for the past half hour or so.
“Have you named your bear, yet?”
And he’s really kind of sick of this question.
“No.”
The snow is cold and it stings a little as it hits his cheek. “Alec...” Alec’s in the same position on the opposite branch, swinging his legs and grinning, nose and cheeks red and glowing from the biting air.
“You’re gonna give him a complex if you don’t give him a name.”
“He’s not alive.”
“Neither is the Impala.”
“The Impala doesn’t have a name either,” Ben points out. It’s true - the Impala only has throwaway names, like “baby” and “sweetheart” and “my girl.” Ben has these names, too, if you substitute girl with boy.
“That’s because the Impala transcends names. Your bear doesn’t have such power.”
“Your logic fails and I don’t understand why you still expect me to answer this question.”
“Maybe I’m a good brother.”
Ben doesn’t know what that has to do with anything, but Alec’s lifting his hand from the branch and unconsciously rubbing at that same sleeved arm Ben swears he can see through. “I never said you weren’t.”
Alec smirks. “I know you appreciate me. That’s not even a question, really. S’not about that, Ben.”
“What’s it about then?”
“You. Thinking about something else. If you’re thinking of a name, you’re probably not thinking of much else.”
“Who says?”
“I say. You think of good names. That takes thought and thought takes preoccupation. You named me, after all. I like to think that took about three years of your life, naming me.”
“It took five minutes, Alec.”
“Three years of your life.” Alec scooches the last bit of snow off the branch with his finger. They both watch it fall to the ground, are quiet afterwards for some time until Alec decides to talk again. Alec always decides to talk again. “I really think you need to think about something else. Something other than the things you think about.”
“You don’t know what I think about.”
Alec gnaws on his lip, looks past Ben, to the salvage yard, to the rusted and wrecked cars that are almost snow-free now. Ben watches him, watches the careful manner in which Alec doesn’t meet his eyes, watches Alec’s lips move as the words come flooding out of his mouth. “You think about bad things.”
Bad things. Ben doesn’t think about bad things. Ben’s good, he is, he’s been trying so hard to be good and he hasn’t taken anything and he hasn’t killed anyone and he’s not even a people stealer anymore, Alec hasn’t called him that since that one time when Ben couldn’t help himself, when everything was so new and there and Ben was still so empty and alone and aching for someone to talk to him, to touch him without breaking him. And Dean was there, back when Dean was still Ben’s, and Ben had Dean’s face and his freckles and his hands and Dean looked at Ben like he looked at Alec, like Ben was more than what he was made to be. Ben is good. Ben is good for Dean.
“You’re thinking bad things right now,” Alec says. “Sometimes I think I can see them. They’re like bugs on your face.”
Ben remembers the girl in the casket, how Alec looked at her and cringed because she was being eaten by bugs. Alec never wants to be eaten by bugs.
“You’re still thinking them. You need to think about something else before they eat you alive.”
Alec knows what Ben’s thinking because Ben always knows what Alec’s thinking. If Alec knows what Ben’s thinking, then he knows that Ben’s bad. Ben’s not bad, though. He’s trying so hard not to be bad. “M’not bad.”
“‘Course you’re not,” Alec agrees. “You’re the good one with an overactive imagination. You just think bad things and they eat you up like bugs. It doesn’t make you bad. It’s just bad that they make you think you are.”
Too many words. Ben used to visualize words as people said them, back when he was trying so hard to improve his penmanship, and this time there’s too many words to think about.
“You keep looking at my arm,” Alec says. “You keep looking at my arm and you’re thinking about it and that’s a bad thing.”
“Uncle Sam-”
“Uncle Sam is tired.”
“You got in trouble.”
“It wasn’t like it used to be. He wasn’t even in a good state of mind, and it’s still better than it was there. ‘Sides, Dad saved me.” Alec snaps a twig from the branch, runs it over the bark. Ben almost gets lost in the grating sound. “Dad saved me and Uncle Sam was sorry. He still thinks we’re awesome, I can tell. He’s just thinking bad things all the time right now. Like you do.”
Dad. It comes out of Alec so easily, that name.
“Dean likes it when we call him Dad, you know. It makes him sad when you don’t.”
“I can’t.”
“You can’t because you think bad things. You think bad things because they put stuff in our heads, stuff that wasn’t there.” Alec lets the twig fall from his fingers, lets it drop forty feet to the ground. “It wasn’t there, Ben, but you still think it was. This is why you need to think about something else. This is why your bear needs a name.”
Ben would reply to this, he would, just the moment he thought of a reply. He can’t, though, because Dean’s down below, calling for Alec, and then for Ben. For Benny.
Alec smirks and shrugs and Ben watches him as he pulls his legs up onto the branch, stands, then jumps. He lands easily on sneakered feet. Ben watches him, watches the top of Dean’s head, listens to the sounds Dean makes and wonders about them because they’re not coherent words at all. And then Alec’s looking up and calling for him to come down because he’s pretty sure Dean’s having a stroke or some shit like that. Alec’s words, not Ben’s.
The air whips at his ears and Ben enjoys the feeling of weightlessness before he, too, lands on his feet, kicking up snow on impact.
Those sounds that Dean’s been making are muttered swears and it’s only a second before Ben’s pulled in by a strong arm, is smothered by a broad shoulder, is told that being outdoors unsupervised is officially against the law and that trees are evil sons of bitches that he’s not even allowed to think about again until he’s thirty.
“Dude, we’re okay,” Alec’s muffled voice says against Dean’s other shoulder. “S’perfectly within our abilities-”
“M’gonna tie a piece of rope to your belt loops and keep hold,” Dean cuts him off. “That’s how fuckin’ serious I am.”
“Did you put Uncle Sam on the naughty bed?” Alec’s really good at changing the subject.
“We don’t have a bed.” Dean’s really good at following Alec’s lead.
“Naughty couch?”
“I’ll naughty couch you.” Or maybe not. Not that it matters, since Alec is very open about how hilarious he finds this phrasing. Ben pulls away, watches as his brother cracks up to the point where tears are streaming down his face.
“It’s not funny,” Dean insists, grabbing both of their hands. “You coulda broken your legs.”
“No, we couldn’t have,” Alec says. “And can we please remove the word naughty from our vocabulary? That shit should only be used to describe things you don’t think we’re old enough to know about yet.”
Dean doesn’t make any promises. He just drags them back inside, insisting they say goodbye to fresh air and freedom. And trees. Dean keeps saying he better not catch them near a tree until they’re forty-five, and yes, he knows he just said thirty, but now it’s forty-five and they can flip a coin, ‘cause one of them’s cutting the rope to the correct length (no longer than five inches), and the other’s writing a five-hundred word essay on why trees are not to be trusted.
He helps them out of their coats even though Alec insists they can do it themselves, touches their faces with sweaty palms. Then he pulls them back into his arms, doesn’t say anything for the longest time.
Ben’s hungry. His stomach rumbles.
“M’gonna make you some grilled cheese.” Ben can feel Dean’s breath against his head. “You’re gonna sit right here while I do it. You’re not gonna move.”
“Why not?” Alec asks.
“‘Cause grilled cheese is awesome and I said so.” He pulls them over to the kitchen chairs, watches them sit down and then points a finger in each of their faces, says again, “Don’t move.”
Grilled cheese is amazing. Dean cuts it diagonally, but he lets Alec and Ben pull it apart, lets them marvel in the way the cheese holds together for as long as possible. They eat it quickly, which doesn’t make it any less delicious, though Ben wonders during their collective inhalation why Dean keeps feeling their foreheads, touching their cheeks, and other such practices meant for gauging the temperature of normal children.
Dean doesn’t make them cut a piece of rope and he doesn’t make them write an anti-tree essay, either. Ben’s glad for it. Five hundred words is a lot of bad and trees are mostly good, to his knowledge.
“Can we go climb the tree again?” Alec asks.
“No,” Dean says immediately. Then, as an afterthought, “Maybe tomorrow. Under my supervision.”
Dean doesn’t let them out of his sight the rest of the day. Ben wonders if this is punishment, because it doesn’t feel like it. Punishment is supposed to hurt and this doesn’t hurt. He even kind of wishes the rope thing had played out. He wonders if that’s a bad thing.
It doesn’t feel like a bad thing. His face feels smooth and clean and not at all like bugs are eating it.
Next
Author: scourgeofeurope
Fandoms: Supernatural, Dark Angel
Rating: R (gen)
Summary: Sam and Dean find a tiny smartass in a barn. What are they to do?
Warnings: Excessive swearing
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Author's Notes: Happy holidays, kids. ♥
Additional author's notes and previous chapters can be found here.
_______________________________________________________
The snow is melting. Dean takes a long pull on his beer and watches from the kitchen window as the white accumulation drops from the tree branches. He kind of wants to be outside, wants to hear it falling from those bare wooden arms, its deaf thud as it hits the ground. He wants to hear the sound of it dying under his feet.
He wants to kill it.
Dean hates the fucking snow. He hates the way it reminds him of being nine years old, of Sam in mittens and puffy coats and cheeks red with fever because Dean agreed they could stay outside long enough to finish that bastard snowman, the one lacking in eyes and buttons and a top hat. It had a carrot, though. Dean stole it from the supermarket down the street and the lady cashier chased him halfway down the block screaming about how she was going to call his mother, the heartless bitch.
Dean remembers his gloves, the ones with holes at the tips of his fingers. He remembers how numb his skin was, but how he kept going, kept helping Sammy roll that fucking snow into something big and round and perfect. And Sam…Sam was so small, and his tongue would stick out of the corner of his mouth as he judged whether or not their work was lopsided, whether it was adequate anatomy for a three-tiered man constructed by Winchester hands.
Daddy says if you’re going to do something, don’t half-ass it.
Dad did say that. Dad, who wasn’t there when the motel manager, drunk off his ass, chased them back into their room because where did they even think they were? That was his goddamn parking lot, you stupid kids. You stupid fucking kids.
Sammy was cold and a bit agitated afterwards, but generally happy as Dean drew him a hot bath. He sat on the lid of the toilet rubbing his frozen fingers together while the kid hummed and went about cleaning himself, sat patiently until it was time to wash his brother’s hair. Dean always washed Sam’s hair. Never got soap in his eyes, either, and when he came down with that fever, Dean was the one pushing the sweaty tresses from his forehead - and when he started sneezing, Dean was the one with a fistful of tissues, helping him wipe the snot from his stupid little nose.
And when Dad came home, Dean was the one who got pulled aside for a stern reprimand about judging weather conditions and taking his little brother outside of the motel room, and you know better than to go outside of the motel room, don’t you, Dean? He did. He does. He can still feel Dad’s rough fingers gripping his arm just a little too-tight, can still feel the jostle of the are-you-listening-to-me shake, still hear Sammy’s little voice asking for Daddy.
I don’t care what he wanted to do, Dean. I put you in charge and you damn well better learn when to start saying no.
Dean knows when to say it now. No, Sam, not without backup. No, Brandy Alexander, that was your last one, I’m cutting you off. No…No, you can’t use those freaky mind powers connected to that demon that killed our parents and fucked our lives to shit.
“Dean?” The voice maybe clears Dean’s waist, it’s so quiet. He’s kind of surprised to find himself still here, still staring out this window, seeing another clump of snow fall from another dead branch. A throat clears behind him, and the voice tries again. “Dean?” Dean turns around and the moment’s not gone. He needs to stop remembering shit, he does, because Benny isn’t a decades old ghost even though he looks like one, small and nervous and desperate to please. “Um…d’you think Alec and I could go outside?”
Dean hesitates even though he tries not to and Ben’s face falls before creasing in worry. The kid opens his mouth. He’s about to start stammering out apologies for asking, but Dean’s quick, cuts him off with, “Sure thing, kiddo” before taking another swig of his beer. He sets the now-empty bottle on the countertop, claps his boy on the shoulder. “I was gonna go out there, anyway. Bobby’s puttin’ up some new surveillance cameras.”
“Okay.”
“You alright?” Kid’s not even looking at him anymore. He’s looking past Dean’s left thigh at the kitchen cabinet, fidgeting all nervous-like, and it makes Dean feel like someone just impaled his chest with a huge fucking tree stump only to leave it there while Dean continued to breathe. Ben’s so scared of him now. No matter what he does or says, that fear’s still there.
“M’fine.”
“You sure?”
Ben’s eyes lower to the floor. His teeth dig into his lip. “Alec’s being…bad.”
Bad. The word comes out barely above a whisper and Dean’s suddenly thrown back into that day surrounded by stone-faced children, pale as apparitions, their will demolished simply by the fear of being “in trouble.” Dean doesn’t want to know what “in trouble” means, and he doesn’t want to know what “bad” means, either. Three-letter words should never be this heavy.
He places a light hand on Ben's shoulder to guide him out of the kitchen. “Yeah? What’s the little hellraiser doing now?” The question dies on his lips as soon as he steps into the living room, as soon as he sees Sam’s big hand seizing Alec’s tiny arm, a furious expression etched into his little brother’s tired face as he leans down ridiculously far to lash the kid’s ears with words that are rough and low.
“Sammy?”
Alec turns around and meets Dean’s gaze, a fleet of emotions passing through his eyes as he tries to wedge his arm out of Sam’s hold. Sam yanks him back and shakes him a little and that’s enough. Dean’s seen enough.
“Sam.”
Seeing isn’t having, though, and Dean wonders how long this has been going on because Alec’s apparently had enough. He wrenches his arm out of Sam’s grip, pushes the guy hard enough away to land him on his ass. Dean waits for the kid to come to him after the fact, but Alec just stands frozen with his eyes on his fallen uncle, panting like he’s been running for miles, and Sam’s breathing equally as hard, eyes not leaving Alec’s unwavering stare.
Nobody moves. The room’s a statue that breaks when snow falls from the roof right outside the window. Dean hates the snow. Sometimes he hates his sibling, too. It’s always been about Sam, what Sam wants and needs, and the conflicts Sam creates.
“Alec.” It’s not a question, but it’s not a reprimand, either, even though Alec seems to think it is.
“Uncle Sam’s a humorless prick,” the boy mutters, hurt overpowering the aggression of his words. “I was just tryin’ to make him laugh.”
“C’mere.” Alec moves a step towards Dean, but his eyes linger on Sam, who’s finally getting to his feet. Dean scrubs a frustrated hand over his face, growls, “Alec. Come here.” The kid heaves a sigh and stomps over, stands at Dean’s toes, keeping his eyes straight and level with Dean’s midsection. Ben’s still at his side, quiet and motionless, and Dean looks down at him, notes how the kid’s looking at the floor again.
“Benny, you wanna go get your coats? Hang out in the kitchen for a bit. Alec and I’ll be ready in a sec, okay?”
Ben nods and drifts away, out of sight, head still lowered. Dean will deal with that later. Again. He’ll try. He’ll fix this. He’ll try to fix everything, like he always does.
He picks up Alec’s arm, dances his fingers over the pale skin, trails the pad of his thumb over the fading red fingertip-shaped imprints left by Sam’s hand. “Kitten?” Dean’s kind of surprised he can’t feel the boy’s eyes burning into his navel. “Look at me, kid.” Alec’s head doesn’t move. Dean draws in a breath and lets the arm drop, places both hands on Alec’s shoulders. He pushes him far enough away to see the sullen eyes, doesn’t remove his touch as he leans down. “Did he hurt you?”
“Dean.” Sam’s offended. Dean flicks a look up at him, at his crossed arms and his scowl. “I would never-“
“Do I look like I’m talkin’ to you?” He keeps his eyes pinned on his brother long enough to see the teeth grit and the fists clench. Then he looks back down at Alec. “Kitten? Answer.”
“No, he didn’t hurt me.” Alec’s tone is steady and strong, and his back is still straight as an arrow, but he’s tense as fuck. Little boy bravado. Dean knows it quite well.
“Looks like he had you by the arm pretty tight. Are you sure?”
“What do you mean ‘looks like’?” Sam demands, and this time hostility is giving way to something more akin to worry. “Did I leave marks?” Dean lifts his head again to stare at him. He’s learned over the past twenty-six years that sometimes just staring at Sam is enough to convince him of whatever he needs convincing. Sometimes it’s even enough to break him. “Shit…shit. Alec? Alec, did I-”
“He didn’t hurt me.” Alec sets his volume at just the right amount to overtake Sam’s increasing panic. “It doesn’t hurt. It didn’t hurt.”
“Then why did you push him?”
“Dean-“
“Sam, shut up. Alec?” Kid won’t look at him. Dean’s starting to wonder if there’s something wrong with his face. He hopes not, even though there’s no reason to hope. It’s impossible. He looked in the mirror this morning and aesthetic perfection was still looking back at him. “Alec?” No dice. Dean’s sick of this shit and it’s too much effort, anyway. Kid can look at the floor. “If you don’t think he’s going to hurt you, you don’t hurt him. You show him that respect even when he’s being a douche, understand?”
More snow drops from the roof. It hits and slides down the window in its fall.
Alec doesn’t say a word.
“Alec.”
Kid’s will is fading fast. He’s scuffing his toe against the wooden floor, breathing quick and shallow, and then he’s pushing his way past Dean’s hands, burying his face into Dean’s T-shirt, and mumbling words that Dean can’t quite make out. “Kitten?”
“Why does everything suck so hard? Why is everyone yelling at me?”
Alec never asks questions like these. Then again, Alec doesn’t cry either, but yesterday he was a rainstorm. Dean gets that. There’s been a build-up of the worst kind of shit, and it’s consuming them all whole. Sometimes it gets too big to contain.
“Was I yellin’ at you?” Maybe it’s a nod, maybe not, but there’s movement against his stomach. He’s unaware at first of his palm running up and down the boy’s spine, but then he feels Alec go boneless, limp, melted into his abdomen like he just sprung up from there one day, like a blade of grass from the earth. “M’sorry, baby.”
“We’re cool,” Alec mumbles. “I won’t push Uncle Sam again. Even if he’s being a douche.”
“That’s my boy.”
He is. He’s Dean’s boy, Dean’s resilient boy who sucks it up and pulls away, shakes it off, even backtracks to Sam, who’s looking all guilty as fuck and spewing apologies and tenderly examining the arm he was just squeezing in a hand wrapped like steel.
“You were a dick,” Alec agrees, peeling Sam’s now-gentle fingers away. “S’okay, though. I think maybe you just need to get some shut-eye. Preferably on the naughty bed.”
Sam barks a silent laugh as Alec walks into his arms. The hug is quick, but firm, and the boy trots back to Dean looking significantly happier. Dean grazes his lips over the kid’s temple, pushes him towards the kitchen, orders, “Go outside with your brother. Let Bobby know you’re out there.” Alec disappears and Dean waits, listens to the rustling of arms being stuffed into coats, to the creak of the door opening and then shutting closed.
Sam’s looking at the floor. Dean really wants to know what it is about the fucking floor.
“Just so you know, I’m about five seconds away from completely losing my shit on you.”
Sam’s eyes seem to skitter across the wood, to Dean’s feet. They inch up at an excruciatingly slow pace, but Dean’s somewhat glad that this one, at least, seems to have mastered the art of looking at him.
“Dean, I-“
“Tell me what he was doing that was just so fucking bad.”
Sam obviously can’t. He pinches the bridge of his nose, swipes at the corner of an exhausted eye before shaking his head. “He wasn’t…he just…I told him I needed time alone and he just kept…He wouldn’t leave me alone, Dean. I lost my temper. I shouldn’t have.”
“Damn straight, you shouldn’t have. Kid’s been through Hell in case you’ve forgotten.”
“I know. I was there.”
“We were there. For seven days. You know how long we weren’t there, Sam? Nine years. Nine fucking years. Their entire fucking lives, treated like machines that needed to snap to on command. And what do you do when he doesn’t listen to you?” Sam’s staring at someplace behind Dean’s left ear now, rubbing an absent hand over his plaid-covered arm. He’s ashen-faced and not answering the question anytime soon. “You give him a reason to be afraid.”
“I didn’t-“
“You grabbed him. You fucking grabbed him and made him feel like he had to push you away. If I see you pulling something like that again without reason I will kick your ass so fucking hard, they’ll hear you wailing in Canada.” Sam’s eyes are tired and now they’re wet, too. Dean curses under his breath and looks away long enough to fortify his walls - it’s unfortunate, but sometimes (most of the time, but Dean tries not to admit this to himself) when he looks at Sam, he still sees that snot-nosed little boy, the one with his eyes closed and trusting as Dean washed the dirt from his hair. “Do you understand me? Have I made myself clear?”
“Dean, I wouldn’t-“
“Answer the question, Sam.”
“I…Dean, of course, I understand. I didn’t mean it. I would never. You know I would never…right?” Sam looks away and scrapes a hasty finger over a damp cheekbone.
Dean sighs into a frustrated hand because Jesus Christ, when was the last time Sam slept? Kid’s been in the study since they’ve gotten here, practically, trying to bend spoons or what have you and Dean’s barely said shit, has just left Sam to his freaky little devices. To his credit, though, it’s hard looking after three of them.
“Dean?” Sam’s all earnest eyes now, reiterating the question Dean never answered. “You know I’d never mean to hurt him, right?”
The guilt is like spilled milk all over his brother’s face, and Dean has to bite into the side of his cheek to keep from saying something he doesn’t mean. He knows this is the reason Sam’s been doing this, knows the last thing Sam wants to do is hurt anyone.
“Yeah, Sammy. I know.” The relief is blatant. Dean’s glad for it, but he knows it won’t stay there. “I want you to cut this shit out and get some sleep. You’re no good to any of us like this. And when you wake up, I expect to see you. This disappearing act is over, dude.”
Dean looks the way he does because his parents looked the way they did. He’s always taken more after his father than his mother, though. Sam’s the opposite. Sam doesn’t look like Dad or Dean, but he has the girly hair and the blue eyes and that calming manner in which he speaks. Sometimes. Not now - not now, when he’s eyeing Dean like an enraged bull, his cheeks heating with ire, his big hands clenching into the tightest of fists. That’s not Mom, not to Dean’s recollection. That’s all Dad.
“You need to stop treating me like this. Like I’m some sort of dumb fucking kid.”
“Then I guess you need to stop acting like one.”
Yeah, Dean’s learned when and how to say ‘no’ over the past twenty-six years. He’s also aware that it doesn’t always go over well - like now. Like now when he’s saying no, no, no fucking no, you little fucking bastard. Because Dean’s in charge, Dean’s responsible, Dean’s not going to let Sam fuck himself or anyone else over. Dean’s going to make sure Sam’s alright, that Sam will always be alright. Sam has to always be alright or Dean will lose his fucking mind.
Not that he’s not losing it now. Little brothers should never be able to muster the physical strength to pin big brothers against the wall. It’s wrong. It’s unnatural and wrong. It’s about as wrong as it gets - even more wrong than when the big brother hits the little brother, socks him across the jaw, sucker punches him in the ribs while he’s still dazed from lack of sleep and that first staggering blow.
“I’ll let you hit me back later,” Dean says. Sam’s hunched over and gripping his side, panting. Dean feels horrible, he does, but he’s not going to admit to it more than he already has, he’s not going to apologize beyond helping Sam to the couch, getting him situated so he can sleep. Sam’s eyes are dark as he glares up at Dean through a mess of bangs. “Sam? C’mon...I’m...” No. Not going to apologize. “You just need some sleep.”
He takes a step forward which is apparently a mistake. Leaving Sam to his own devices for these past couple of days was also a mistake, a big, fucking mistake because there’s a snow-globe on Bobby’s mantelpiece. It doesn’t look like anything special - just your old run-of-the mill touristy shit from God-knows-where, something inherently harmless until it’s flying at your head so fast you just barely manage to dodge it. Harmless, until it’s smashing to bits against the wall, littering the floor with water and glitter and glass.
“Oh, fuck me.” Dean’s not sure if he’s pissed off or terrified or both, but he does know that this is shaping up to be a bad fucking day.
“Yeah, fuck you,” Sam agrees. He’s trying to pass this off as deliberate, but Dean’s pretty damn sure it wasn’t at all. Sam looks beaten and scared and exhausted as fuck, and Dean can’t take anymore of this, not right now.
“Get some sleep, will you? And if you can’t, at least calm the fuck down.” He should leave it there, he really should. But he can’t. “You’ve already freaked the kids out enough today and I don’t want random heavy shit flying at their heads just because you’re a sleep-deprived little bitch who can’t control his temper.”
Sam’s face is naked and the pain is raw. Dean feels vaguely satisfied as he spins on his heel and heads for the door.
“I wouldn’t-” Sam tries after him.
“Not on purpose, you wouldn’t.” Dean doesn’t even turn around as he says the words. “Nap time, Sammy. M’sorry I don’t have one of those awesome blue mats and a tiny carton of milk for you, but you’re just going to have to deal, I guess.”
Sam’s just going to have to deal. Dean’s already out the door, outside where the snow is melting over thin layers of ice, which, in turn, is melting into the dirt and turning that dirt into mud. Dean’s not entirely sure why he hates the snow so much when his real problem is with what it leaves behind - sick little boys and angry voices and messes that are hard to clean up.
_____________________________________________________
The marks disappeared from Alec’s arm within minutes, but Ben still sees them. He sees them through Alec’s coat, through Alec’s playful smile and shining eyes and insistence that it’s alright, that everything’s fine now. He sees it from forty feet in the air with his legs dangling off either side of this tree branch he’s been straddling for the past half hour or so.
“Have you named your bear, yet?”
And he’s really kind of sick of this question.
“No.”
The snow is cold and it stings a little as it hits his cheek. “Alec...” Alec’s in the same position on the opposite branch, swinging his legs and grinning, nose and cheeks red and glowing from the biting air.
“You’re gonna give him a complex if you don’t give him a name.”
“He’s not alive.”
“Neither is the Impala.”
“The Impala doesn’t have a name either,” Ben points out. It’s true - the Impala only has throwaway names, like “baby” and “sweetheart” and “my girl.” Ben has these names, too, if you substitute girl with boy.
“That’s because the Impala transcends names. Your bear doesn’t have such power.”
“Your logic fails and I don’t understand why you still expect me to answer this question.”
“Maybe I’m a good brother.”
Ben doesn’t know what that has to do with anything, but Alec’s lifting his hand from the branch and unconsciously rubbing at that same sleeved arm Ben swears he can see through. “I never said you weren’t.”
Alec smirks. “I know you appreciate me. That’s not even a question, really. S’not about that, Ben.”
“What’s it about then?”
“You. Thinking about something else. If you’re thinking of a name, you’re probably not thinking of much else.”
“Who says?”
“I say. You think of good names. That takes thought and thought takes preoccupation. You named me, after all. I like to think that took about three years of your life, naming me.”
“It took five minutes, Alec.”
“Three years of your life.” Alec scooches the last bit of snow off the branch with his finger. They both watch it fall to the ground, are quiet afterwards for some time until Alec decides to talk again. Alec always decides to talk again. “I really think you need to think about something else. Something other than the things you think about.”
“You don’t know what I think about.”
Alec gnaws on his lip, looks past Ben, to the salvage yard, to the rusted and wrecked cars that are almost snow-free now. Ben watches him, watches the careful manner in which Alec doesn’t meet his eyes, watches Alec’s lips move as the words come flooding out of his mouth. “You think about bad things.”
Bad things. Ben doesn’t think about bad things. Ben’s good, he is, he’s been trying so hard to be good and he hasn’t taken anything and he hasn’t killed anyone and he’s not even a people stealer anymore, Alec hasn’t called him that since that one time when Ben couldn’t help himself, when everything was so new and there and Ben was still so empty and alone and aching for someone to talk to him, to touch him without breaking him. And Dean was there, back when Dean was still Ben’s, and Ben had Dean’s face and his freckles and his hands and Dean looked at Ben like he looked at Alec, like Ben was more than what he was made to be. Ben is good. Ben is good for Dean.
“You’re thinking bad things right now,” Alec says. “Sometimes I think I can see them. They’re like bugs on your face.”
Ben remembers the girl in the casket, how Alec looked at her and cringed because she was being eaten by bugs. Alec never wants to be eaten by bugs.
“You’re still thinking them. You need to think about something else before they eat you alive.”
Alec knows what Ben’s thinking because Ben always knows what Alec’s thinking. If Alec knows what Ben’s thinking, then he knows that Ben’s bad. Ben’s not bad, though. He’s trying so hard not to be bad. “M’not bad.”
“‘Course you’re not,” Alec agrees. “You’re the good one with an overactive imagination. You just think bad things and they eat you up like bugs. It doesn’t make you bad. It’s just bad that they make you think you are.”
Too many words. Ben used to visualize words as people said them, back when he was trying so hard to improve his penmanship, and this time there’s too many words to think about.
“You keep looking at my arm,” Alec says. “You keep looking at my arm and you’re thinking about it and that’s a bad thing.”
“Uncle Sam-”
“Uncle Sam is tired.”
“You got in trouble.”
“It wasn’t like it used to be. He wasn’t even in a good state of mind, and it’s still better than it was there. ‘Sides, Dad saved me.” Alec snaps a twig from the branch, runs it over the bark. Ben almost gets lost in the grating sound. “Dad saved me and Uncle Sam was sorry. He still thinks we’re awesome, I can tell. He’s just thinking bad things all the time right now. Like you do.”
Dad. It comes out of Alec so easily, that name.
“Dean likes it when we call him Dad, you know. It makes him sad when you don’t.”
“I can’t.”
“You can’t because you think bad things. You think bad things because they put stuff in our heads, stuff that wasn’t there.” Alec lets the twig fall from his fingers, lets it drop forty feet to the ground. “It wasn’t there, Ben, but you still think it was. This is why you need to think about something else. This is why your bear needs a name.”
Ben would reply to this, he would, just the moment he thought of a reply. He can’t, though, because Dean’s down below, calling for Alec, and then for Ben. For Benny.
Alec smirks and shrugs and Ben watches him as he pulls his legs up onto the branch, stands, then jumps. He lands easily on sneakered feet. Ben watches him, watches the top of Dean’s head, listens to the sounds Dean makes and wonders about them because they’re not coherent words at all. And then Alec’s looking up and calling for him to come down because he’s pretty sure Dean’s having a stroke or some shit like that. Alec’s words, not Ben’s.
The air whips at his ears and Ben enjoys the feeling of weightlessness before he, too, lands on his feet, kicking up snow on impact.
Those sounds that Dean’s been making are muttered swears and it’s only a second before Ben’s pulled in by a strong arm, is smothered by a broad shoulder, is told that being outdoors unsupervised is officially against the law and that trees are evil sons of bitches that he’s not even allowed to think about again until he’s thirty.
“Dude, we’re okay,” Alec’s muffled voice says against Dean’s other shoulder. “S’perfectly within our abilities-”
“M’gonna tie a piece of rope to your belt loops and keep hold,” Dean cuts him off. “That’s how fuckin’ serious I am.”
“Did you put Uncle Sam on the naughty bed?” Alec’s really good at changing the subject.
“We don’t have a bed.” Dean’s really good at following Alec’s lead.
“Naughty couch?”
“I’ll naughty couch you.” Or maybe not. Not that it matters, since Alec is very open about how hilarious he finds this phrasing. Ben pulls away, watches as his brother cracks up to the point where tears are streaming down his face.
“It’s not funny,” Dean insists, grabbing both of their hands. “You coulda broken your legs.”
“No, we couldn’t have,” Alec says. “And can we please remove the word naughty from our vocabulary? That shit should only be used to describe things you don’t think we’re old enough to know about yet.”
Dean doesn’t make any promises. He just drags them back inside, insisting they say goodbye to fresh air and freedom. And trees. Dean keeps saying he better not catch them near a tree until they’re forty-five, and yes, he knows he just said thirty, but now it’s forty-five and they can flip a coin, ‘cause one of them’s cutting the rope to the correct length (no longer than five inches), and the other’s writing a five-hundred word essay on why trees are not to be trusted.
He helps them out of their coats even though Alec insists they can do it themselves, touches their faces with sweaty palms. Then he pulls them back into his arms, doesn’t say anything for the longest time.
Ben’s hungry. His stomach rumbles.
“M’gonna make you some grilled cheese.” Ben can feel Dean’s breath against his head. “You’re gonna sit right here while I do it. You’re not gonna move.”
“Why not?” Alec asks.
“‘Cause grilled cheese is awesome and I said so.” He pulls them over to the kitchen chairs, watches them sit down and then points a finger in each of their faces, says again, “Don’t move.”
Grilled cheese is amazing. Dean cuts it diagonally, but he lets Alec and Ben pull it apart, lets them marvel in the way the cheese holds together for as long as possible. They eat it quickly, which doesn’t make it any less delicious, though Ben wonders during their collective inhalation why Dean keeps feeling their foreheads, touching their cheeks, and other such practices meant for gauging the temperature of normal children.
Dean doesn’t make them cut a piece of rope and he doesn’t make them write an anti-tree essay, either. Ben’s glad for it. Five hundred words is a lot of bad and trees are mostly good, to his knowledge.
“Can we go climb the tree again?” Alec asks.
“No,” Dean says immediately. Then, as an afterthought, “Maybe tomorrow. Under my supervision.”
Dean doesn’t let them out of his sight the rest of the day. Ben wonders if this is punishment, because it doesn’t feel like it. Punishment is supposed to hurt and this doesn’t hurt. He even kind of wishes the rope thing had played out. He wonders if that’s a bad thing.
It doesn’t feel like a bad thing. His face feels smooth and clean and not at all like bugs are eating it.
Next