FIC: Ride The Skies 2/?

[dollarformyname]

—PART TWO—

Dean is a spastic force of nature in the tiny motel room by the time story hour is winding down. He's pacing and flapping his arms and running his hands over all parts of himself, grumbling curses and making incomprehensible sounds of rage and disbelief at such a rate as to create unnatural winds.

Sam is having trouble moving at all, frozen to the edge of the mattress with his hands gripping the sides so hard the fabric is sure to tear any second, and he suspects his lack of mobility is due to Dean sucking it all up for his own use.

Castiel is half-asleep, his tale trailing off into incoherency as he succumbs to the effects of his latest binge, but he's given them enough to have them completely flipping out, not easily done after all they've been through.

So kind of him, really.

Kids created in labs and raised as soldiers, penned off in units and deprived of basic human rights, justified by the fact that they aren't completely human. Animals, Castiel said, spliced into their DNA. But they feel and they think and they have souls, Cas was adamant about the latter, as if it would make all the difference. It doesn't.

The Winchesters hunt evil. They don't hunt animals. They don't hunt humans. They certainly don't hunt any combination of the two, especially in tiny little person form. Not without some supernatural factor, at least, and these kids are man-made, nothing supernatural about them.

The revelation of their existence and treatment is horrifying enough all by itself, and if Castiel hadn't already laid down his angelic wrath, they'd probably be gearing up to blow a few government officials sky-high themselves.

It's what else Castiel did that's adding to their combined freak-out.

Someone's going to have to do something about all those kids running around in uncertain freedom, or they'll just be hunted down and caged again.

And then there are the two Castiel targeted for his specific purpose.

Sam doesn't know what the fucking hell he and Dean are supposed to do with them. Taking care of them in the middle of the Apocalypse is such a ludicrous concept as to be laughable. In the hysterical, strap-me-down-and-deny-me-sharp-objects sense.

But Castiel promised.

Castiel swooped in and saved them, all divine glow and feathered presence, and they were utterly entranced, downright reverent in the face of heaven's excommunicated rebel, at the hard evidence that something above not only sees them but cares. Castiel told them they would be safe.

How the hell are the Winchesters supposed to just walk up and crush their fragile little hopes?

Nope. Sorry, kids, that angel is a drunk and a liar. We're up to our necks in demons and we don't want you to die bloody because of us. Better luck on the next heavenly express.

Of course they'll understand.

Sam kind of wants to punch Castiel in the face a whole bunch of times for his presumptuousness, but it's not like he doesn't understand why he did it. Sort of.

The angels want these boys in particular, want to use them for something. That's the part Castiel wasn't too clear on, thanks to his world-breaking record of inebriation. Sam doesn't get it, and neither does Dean, but given the angels' recent stunt with Adam, Sam knows the bastards have zero compunction about dragging unsuspecting innocents into the disastrous mix, and whatever they want these kids for won't be pretty.

And shit, they couldn't even keep their own little brother safe. It's just more evidence in a long line that proves the Winchesters are completely incompetent caretakers. They are going to fuck this up so royally there'll probably be whole encyclopedias on what not to do when their prophecies start rolling out again.

Jesus.

Fuck.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Sammy,” Dean mutters, and Sam looks up to see his brother's frantic movement has ceased, Dean hunched over and bracing his hands on his knees. His breaths are dangerously on the verge of hyperventilation, and it's time for Sam to quit losing his mind and whip together some kind of plan.

The plan doesn't even have to make sense. Usually if he pretends to be rational and in control, the rationality will sneak up on him and take over. Usually. He's not going to even think about Ruby or the last year of hell on Earth because he will be a useless puddle of delirious goo on the piss-stained floor going through all the scenarios of just how badly he can fuck this up again.

Sam hauls in a steadying breath and straightens. “We gotta call Bobby,” is the first thing that pops into his brain and straight out of his mouth. Bobby will know what to do. Bobby knows everything.

Dean's vertebrae crack in loud succession as he whips upright, face smoothed over in immense relief. “Fuckin' Bobby,” he breathes, the same way someone might say, fuckin' A.

“He might have an idea about the other kids,” Sam goes on, gaining steam. “It's not like we can call social services.” He pauses, uncertain. “Can we?”

Dean looks equally uncertain, shakes his head after a beat. “Nah, probably not.”

Sam engages in some more oxygen intake, nodding to himself. “Maybe he knows someone who can take care of...” He jerks his head in lieu of saying 'the angel fodder', because it's a little callous even for him. Dean knows what he means, anyway.

“Yeah, good. Okay.” Dean claps his hands decisively and fishes his pockets for his phone, shakes his head once more as he jabs hurriedly at the appropriate buttons.

He looks like he's aged ten years in the past ten minutes, the prospect of such a huge responsibility taking its time lifting itself from his shoulders, and Sam doesn't even want to see a mirror right now.

“Bobby, dude, I am so glad you never sleep,” Dean greets into his cell. “Remind me to grovel at your feet next time we're in town.”

Sam smirks, can practically hear Bobby's weighted sigh and: 'What the hell have you idgits gotten yourselves into now, and just how much whiskey do I need for this? '

He tunes his brother's lengthy retelling out because, really, he doesn't need to hear just how insane it is again. He got it the first time. Instead he focuses on Castiel, who is snoring softly and drooling a whole pond all over the pillow. Sam is so glad Dean's bed was the most convenient landing strip when he crashed into the motel room, not that it appears either of them will be sleeping anytime soon. It's just the principle of the thing.

The most obvious and completely forgotten factor of it all zips into his overwrought head, and Sam has to refrain from smacking himself. He stands and proceeds to rattle the angel around like a maraca.

“Cas! Hey, Cas!” he hisses, shaking him harder and harder but the guy is checked right the hell out. “C'mon, dammit! Wake up!”

Shit, Sam is going to start panicking again, images of little boys cowering in some dark warehouse with angel protection scrawled all over the walls in blood.

Finally, Castiel stirs, pops one eye open to grant Sam a brief audience and looks none-too-pleased about it. “What?” he snaps.

“Where'd you put the damn kids?”

Castiel's features crumple in confusion, and oh god, if he forgot Sam is going to kill him. Right in the face. You don't rescue kids and fly them across the country on your back and carve into their ribs and misplace them, it's fucking ridiculous.

When Castiel mumbles something about a llama, Sam is envisioning unending deserts and giant scorpions, thinks he might actually faint with all the blood rushing to his head the way it is.

“Cas, you go get them right now!” he bellows in the angel's face, and Castiel just blinks at him.

“It's not even two yards out the door, Sam,” he says slowly, starting to get that maybe he's being misunderstood. “The Impala? That absurdly obnoxious and slow machine you insist on using for transport?”

Sam slaps a hand into his hair and tugs. Castiel has decided he hates him after all, and he's trying to see just what it takes to make his head explode. “You're friggin' impossible lately, you know that?” he huffs, but the angel's already passed out again.

The car. He can't believe they've been in the goddamn car this whole time. God, they've gotta be freaking out in there. Did Cas lock them in? Crack a window, at least?

Sam pulls in another breath and skirts his once-more pacing brother, whose strides are a bit more leisurely this time around as he continues chattering to Bobby, the elder hunter's voice growing shriller with each word Dean spills. Sam kind of envies him the task. He'd trade in a heartbeat, because he has no idea what he's going to say to these kids, his legs carrying him forward of their own accord.

He'll just... get it over with. Surely as soon as he opens his mouth some inspiring bit of wisdom will pour out, reassuring in its awesomeness. Yep, that's the ticket.

Castiel said they were, like, ten or something. Ten-year-olds are fairly reasonable people, he thinks, the muggy night air immediately sticking to his face as he steps outside and stops dead about two inches from the door. His body's automatic mobility seems to have malfunctioned once the Impala is in his line of sight, the walkway's fluorescents humming much like the renewed terror in the back of his skull. His palms are slick with ice, fingers fluttering against his thighs. He can't see any frightened little bodies bouncing around in the too-still darkness of the Chevy's interior, no one throwing themselves against the doors in a bid for freedom, so that has to be a good sign.

Right.

It's good.

It's fine.

Castiel promised and they believed him, Sam reminds himself. They have no reason to be scared.

Except that he totally would be if he were shanghaied by a bird-man with no previous knowledge of such things, holy associations or no holy associations, and he's a grown damn man.

Shit.

Okay, Winchester, suck it up and just get it done.

Sam blows out a forceful burst of air to regain his fragile equilibrium. He's not good with kids, not at all, but Dean. Ha, Dean! Dean is awesome with kids, so Sam'll just scoop them up and throw them at his brother.

It's a solid plan, and it gets him moving forward again, which is the important thing.

He's a Winchester, built from the toughest shit humans can be built from, has faced the scariest shit heaven and hell can conjure, and he's not going to run away screaming from a couple of innocent boys who need help. It's not like he's responsible for them so all this freaking out is absolutely unnecessary. So what if they haven't found anyone to take them in yet? They will. They conquer impossible odds every fucking day.

Sam scouts the windows on approach, quickly discovers the lumps in the backseat, intertwined under one of the ratty motel blankets they've accrued over the years, and he can't believe he didn't remember Castiel's fondness for brandishing his sleepy fingers. Of course he put them out for the count, it's so obvious.

Breathing a sigh of relief for the fact that he doesn't have to try and fail to calm anyone, Sam pulls the door open with on a grating whine. Cas did crack the windows but he still doesn't know how they're not burning up in there, the night so muggy it's making his lungs sweat. They don't even stir, and he can tell pretty much right away which boy was found where, even without a clear visual of their obscured faces. One of the little heads poking out from beneath the blanket is all grass-matted tufts of hair, a visible cheek smeared with mud and dirty bare feet sticking out, while the other head is clean-shaven, feet still sporting obsessively polished boots. They're tangled up together like a couple of kittens, and he supposes the analogy is appropriate, maybe disrespectfully so.

The worst part, however, is how fucking adorable they are. They're dead to the world and he knows nothing about what kind of little terrors they might be, but he's heard people say how kids are at their cutest when they're asleep. There's probably a reason people say that, but it doesn't matter. He can't think these things, because he's not keeping them.

They're not cute. They're angel-whammied into a short coma and they're potential corpses in the Winchester's wake. They're burdens.

Kind of cute burdens, though.

Goddammit.

Sam huffs and leans inside, makes a futile attempt to extract one from the other. Little fists clench tighter into little shirts despite angel-induced unconsciousness and yeah, okay, so that's not happening.

He's a big guy, though. Certainly he can wrangle a couple of scrawny frames that are super-glued together.

Re-strategizing, Sam kneels in the gravel and tugs two pairs of feet until he gets them half-draped over his forearms, grunts and hefts until they roll against his chest, and then he's got a little blanket-burrito of twins, one head resting against his shoulder while the other is nestled into a smaller shoulder, four leg-stalks dangling off the other end. He grins at his own ingenuity and heaves himself to his feet, kicking the car door shut, makes his way back to the room.

It's like hugging a bundle of live coals with all the heat they're giving off, and he resolves to unwrap them as soon as they're inside so they don't melt away. It might not be bad at all if they manage to stay asleep for the duration, but of course as soon as he thinks this, a small sigh escapes a small mouth and a pair of startlingly familiar green eyes are blinking up at him.

Sam stops cold, his heart having the same idea as the years fall off of him and he's six, the angle of his brother's face all wrong from this bird's-eye perspective and, “Oh my fucking god.”

He's going to faint, holy shit, that is it, he is going to do a comically theatric gasp-and-faint right here.

-:-

Sam doesn't faint, but as soon as he manages to get his nervous system working again and deposits the slowly waking bundles onto his bed, Dean gets his first look at them, and he does faint.

Well, not quite. He kind of fumbles and trips and then hits his head on the table, but the results are the same: out cold on the spot.

Cas, disturbed into wakefulness at the commotion, slowly sits up and blinks at the pile of Dean on the floor, looks blearily at Sam. “Did I neglect to mention the resemblance?”

Castiel is then forced to lecture Sam on appropriate language for young audiences.

-:-

PART 3

Comments

[charlie-jae.livejournal.com]

That last bit is just too funny. I needed that, omg. I can so see Dean stumbling back and just knocking himself out cold. I love Cas here.

[pathsforme.livejournal.com]

ROFL. XD Teeny tiny Dean clones. I love you, ya know that? Least Sam didn't pass out. Something tells me this will be hilarious once Dean sees them.

[dollarformyname.livejournal.com]

Thanks! Glad I could amuse you for a minute. :)

[dollarformyname.livejournal.com]

:D It will be hilarious once Dean wakes up, but he's busy being useless for a little bit. Thanks!

[longbca.livejournal.com]

Teeny tiny clones are most adorable,
Now you need to write something most favourable,
An update of Hit or Misplace chaos,
Because I deserve treats!

Lol- i did a rhyme- I am most clever....

[piecesofrapture.livejournal.com]

you just crack me up so hard with killer lines like this one: Ten-year-olds are fairly reasonable people.
i'm so glad i found you because lately i've been reading the j2spnbigbang!fics and most of them are all dramadrama or angst or both! and i needed this, i really did.

“Did I neglect to mention the resemblance?”. this is such a cas thing to say ;__; (lolwhyamicrying)

...i'm gonna grab a hold of you and i'll never let you go >8D...and i know that doesn't make sense. bear with me here, i'm having joygasms with almost every other paragraph.

[dollarformyname.livejournal.com]

Hee. Thanks! Well, there's a place for angst and drama (and I warn you this fic isn't completely absent of either), but sometimes you gotta get a little ridiculous to make life happier. Besides, kids are downright silly, genetically-enhanced supersoldiers or no. It's difficult to stay completely serious with them.

[jebbypal]

LMAO!!!! that last 3 paragraphs has to be some of the best crack ever written....

[violettablack.livejournal.com]

Lmao... Haha! The ending is just to hilarious, and Sam when he thinks he's got a little blanket burrito of twins is so adorable.