FIC: Ride The Skies 3/?

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—PART THREE—

Castiel sobers up pretty quickly upon realizing he may have loaded the Winchesters down with more than they can handle in one night, and it's like magic, his instant coherency, the kind that makes Sam want to pummel him for not casting it sooner. He'd just hurt his fists more than the angel's face, though, so he simply lets Cas pick Dean up off the floor like he's a bag of feathers and dump him on his bed, drool-pillow and all.

Sam catches his breath after hurling out a whirlwind of colorful vocabulary even he didn't know he possessed, face burning and undoubtedly aglow, realizes Dean's phone is yelling from where it's been flung against the baseboard.

“Bobby,” Sam says in a neutral tone that surprises himself, especially with the way his hands are shaking as he watches the boys sit up and take stock of their new environment. He has no freaking clue how to even begin dealing with them, just stares and mumbles things that may or may not be English in response to Bobby's tirade.

He hears himself say, “Dean kind of passed out a little bit,” and Bobby has got to be turning blue by now. No one can achieve that decibel without serious oxygen deprivation.

Sam doesn't even know what he's hearing anymore, so he mutters something along the lines of, “Uh, Dean told about the kids running loose, right? You should see about those kids. I gotta call you back.”

He ends the call and drops the cell onto the table, knows distantly that Bobby is going to tear him several new assholes next time they see him, but that's not even worth thinking about right now. He's pretty sure he's going to be in a million different pieces before that time comes, because Christ, look at them. They're Dean. They're Dean of twenty years ago right down to the freckles, and there's no way Sam's leaving them in the care of some stranger.

They're Dean, and the angels want them because of it, the war is roaring right along with them stuck in the middle and the end is going to come too soon, too bloody. It's a tragedy in the making, and he and his brother don't have a prayer. They thought Adam was the new vessel even though they weren't saying it aloud, but if the winged bastards are scoping out alternatives, Sam doesn't know what to think of where their kid brother is now. Being held hostage, maybe, a future bargaining chip if the angels don't think he's outlived his usefulness and haven't already splattered him back into the afterlife.

This whole thing blows harder than a virgin-less volcano, is what Dean would say if he were awake, but he's not, and his little mini-replicas are smiling at Cas now, the angel perched on the bed and murmuring something in low, soothing tones. And Castiel was right, they are reverent, little faces lit up in pure awe at him, confounded at the attention from such a being but utterly assured all the same.

It's so fucked up, Sam thinks, the looks they're giving him like they can't understand how or why they matter, and he might go blow up that pile of rubble Cas left just for some semblance of payback if it's all he can get.

Sam realizes he's sitting in the chair Dean fell out of, doesn't remember the descent but that's how this panic thing goes sometimes. What the hell is he going to do? He needs Dean to snap out of it and do his bossy thing right about now, never thought he'd yearn for that after all his lamenting about being babied but dammit, Dean is the oldest and he's supposed to take charge, not pass out like a fucking girl.

Sam is going to make so much fun of him for that later, he doesn't even care if it's fair. That's what he gets for leaving him alone with this mess. Maybe he should be more worried that Dean's take-charge ideas have bordered on ultimate stupidity lately but he's pretty sure Dean learned his lesson. He can bargain with the angels over certain people's safety until he's blue in the face, but the angels have proven repeatedly that they can't be trusted. Not one iota. Dean won't be able to save anyone that way.

Castiel's done talking, and the uncertain fear has given way to unbridled curiosity. They really are like kittens, stretching lazily with their bright eyes dancing around the room, and Sam knows that look. It's Dean when he's just found a new den of raunchy fun and can't figure out where to start.

Sam doesn't know what expression he has plastered on, but when their eyes land on him he knows it can't be good, because the dirty one sort of shrinks back while the ship-shape guy glares at him, clearly offended.

“Sam,” Castiel says, low and serious as he rises from the bed. “Ben has requested use of the facilities.”

“Huh?” Sam says intelligently, tilting his head at the boys and trying to discern which one Ben is. Jesus, they have names and he doesn't even know them. That's got to make him the worst... what? Brother? Uncle? Fuck, he doesn't even know.

DNA-tampering, and it doesn't take a genius to figure out they're Dean's clones. How they got Dean's DNA in the first place is up for grabs, because they've both left various fluids and pounds of flesh across half the countryside, and all it takes is one person paying too much attention, one nurse or doctor on the super-secret-government-conspiracy payroll while one or both of them were beaten half to death and vulnerable in a hospital bed.

Castiel affords him that all-important glare only a divine being can manage, scolding Sam for his obtuseness like he can't believe this is what he has to work with. Sam would kindly remind him that he was not the one warbling some amalgamation of Crazy Train in the key of Jesus Loves Me in the backseat the other night, if he wasn't busy berating himself for not figuring out that Ben is obviously the one who needs use of the facilities the most, covered in muck the way he is.

“He can, uh, yeah.” Sam waves a hand in the direction of the bathroom and Ben immediately hops to, can't follow through on shutting himself behind the door fast enough.

Sam frowns. He's going to have to get his shit together.

“What's his name?” he asks, immediately wants to take it back and direct the question at the boy who can clearly speak for himself, but it's too late, the kid's already looking away as if to punish Sam by blatant lack of attention.

Sam's fucked up worse than he realizes when the boy stands up, all straight-backed and eyes forward, a familiar stance of a child eternally awaiting orders.

“X5-494, sir,” the kid clips, and Sam's in another time warp because remembers that voice, soft and untouched by puberty.

Cas scowls at him, an entire lecture about fixing what he broke in a single glare, and Sam scrambles for an instruction manual. His mind is abysmally lacking in such literature, though, so he's going to have to wing it. His indirect acknowledgement seems to have set some structure in place in the kid's mind and Sam doesn't like the structure he's seeing.

“That's not a name,” Sam says, realizes that was a little too harsh when the kid flinches, tones it down. “And you don't hafta call me sir. My name's Sam.”

The boy shifts in place uncertainly, glances at the angel. Castiel nods in encouragement.

“I don't have a name yet, si—Sam,” he admits, eyes plummeting to the floor.

Sam furrows his brows and also looks to the angel. “What the hell does he mean he doesn't have a name?” He knows these kids were concocted and packaged but Jesus, numbered? That's completely unacceptable.

“He has a name,” Castiel corrects. “He just hasn't been informed yet.”

“What the fuck does that mean?” Sam's not in the mood for Castiel's riddle-mode.

Castiel smirks, hands clasped behind his back and his chest all puffed out in pride at whatever thing he feels he's accomplished. “My arrival startled him at first,“ he recalls, like that much isn't obvious. An angel flapping into your room in the middle of the night tends to catch you off guard even when you're used to it. “He knocked me down and said I smelled like a combustible sparrow, then proceeded to tie me up in my own coat. When I clarified my intentions, he told me my malfunctioning mental faculties were riveting but I was still on the fast track to becoming basement chow.” Castiel quirks a brow, looking down at the boy with a small smirk. “I suspected he was lying about being riveted until I glowed. Then he said my radioactivity was compromising his carefully engineered good looks and tried to push me out the window. The bars made it difficult.”

Sam snorts despite himself, easily picturing the rough introductions and equating Dean so easily with the attitude it's a little scary. Well, scarier.

“So you're saying he's a little smart-as— smart-alec?” he corrects himself at the last second, eyes falling back to the kid, who's holding his chin a little too high in defiance, unsure if he's being mocked.

“I'm saying he's Alec.” Castiel beams and ruffles the child's practically nonexistent hair, and Sam grins.

“It's nice to meet you, Alec.” Sam sticks out his hand and Alec eyes it curiously for a moment, steps forward and lets Sam's huge appendage swallow his terrifyingly small but strong grip right up.

“I guess it's nice to meet you too, Sam,” Alec returns, cocking his head to emphasize his uncertain assessment of the large, foul-mouthed and quick-tempered man before him.

Sam's smile falters when he remembers he is woefully unequipped for any of this. Quick-tempered is putting it so lightly it may as well float away, and Dean. Hell, Dean's mouth needs its own maid service. Role models, the Winchesters are not.

Shit.

Sam's attention catches on the gray uniform as Alec's gaze wanders over to Dean, more blatant curiosity, and Sam wants him the hell out of that military get-up as quickly as possible, which leads him to thinking about clothing and feeding and sheltering, and Ben's still in the bathroom and his rags are not going to cut it and damn it.

Sam shoots up to his feet just as Alec's inching ever closer to the bed, like he's seriously contemplating how shaving cream would look on Dean's face. Alec flinches at the sudden movement, eyes flashing the startled predator Sam knows is in there but is still surprised to see.

“Um, shit. Sorry.” Sam spreads his hands in front of him in a placating gesture, and Alec shakes it off, trying to pretend he didn't overreact to anything at all, nothing to see here. “You can mess with him if you want,” Sam assures a little too gleefully, grins at the light in Alec's eyes.

The kid obviously doesn't need permission twice and hops onto the bed, sticks his nose right up in Dean's face, and that's exactly what he gets for passing out, the big girl. Sam can't delight in it enough. Dean will never get away with making fun of his emo mood swings ever again.

Clearing his throat, he looks to Castiel, who's placidly observing the way Alec's little fingers are pinching Dean's nose and seeing how far out of shape he bend it before something cracks.

“When was the last time they ate?” Sam asks. “They need clothes and, uh, other stuff. What other stuff do they need?”

Castiel's baffled look is wholly unhelpful because Sam really needs guidance from on-high for how not to be a neglectful ass. Dean knows how to talk to kids and he took care of Sam which means Dean needs to wake the fuck up and start making a list.

Sam pinches the bridge of his nose and just breathes.

“I gotta go out and get stuff,” Sam says, starts gathering his wallet and the keys, putting things like the end of the world out of his mind for the moment because it will only damage his fragile calm beyond repair. “You can watch them, right? Stay away from the booze for twenty whole minutes?”

Castiel has to watch them. Sam can't be the one left alone with them. Delicate psyches that've already been fucked over enough, and he knows he'll break something. He's done enough of that for one lifetime.

Castiel eyes him in disappointment but nods, and Sam almost trips over himself in his haste for the door.

God, Dean, please be awake when I get back.

-:-

PART 4