FIC: Ride The Skies 4/?

[dollarformyname]

—PART FOUR—

Dean's not awake when Sam gets back, the bastard.

Sam's nerves are even more frazzled, if that's possible, as he fumbles with the keys and kicks at the door trying to slam back in his face, arms loaded down with a ridiculous number of smiling bags. His hair's all frizzed and poofed out from the humidity, face still drawn with the memory of his trying ordeal at the local Wal-Mart.

It was the only place open at this hour, and it doesn't matter what time it is or which bumfuck-middle-of-nowhere you're in, the store never fails to be brimming over with society's most obnoxious hordes and self-propelled shopping carts. He had a close call with the Impala's paintjob more than once, and he really wasn't in the mood for Dean to kill him after everything else that's happened tonight.

He huffs and kicks the door shut, drops everything on the table and has to wrestle with a few lemmings intent on the cliff's edge for a second, straightens and takes deep breaths.

Castiel is coat-less and sitting on the other side of the table, a disapproving glower all ready for Sam as the hunter takes in the kids ensconced on his bed again. Ben is freshly scrubbed and swallowed up by the angel's trenchcoat, the TV on at a low murmur. Their gazes are rapt on the screen and completely in love with Nick-At-Nite reruns. Sam can see why. Pies in faces will never stop being classic entertainment.

Dean is still a useless sprawl of nothing, of course, and Sam finally meets the angel's eyes, shrugging for the hour he was away instead of the proclaimed twenty minutes.

There might have been a couple of small panic attacks in the car when he remembered the part about snap-decisions that basically entailed adopting a pair of bio-weapons without even consulting Dean. Maybe three.

But fuck, look at them. Alec's face is glowing with the sheerest glee as he bounces giddily next to Ben, who's a little more subtle with his new TV mistress but no less adorable in his waddle of fabric. There's no way Dean's not going to be completely smitten, narcissist that he is.

Sam clears his throat to garner their attention. He's going to do this, he's already been around the labyrinthine track of his head a dozen times, and there's no sense flipping his shit any more until Dean wakes up and introduces whole new angles of how fucked they are. Sam's just going to coast along for now, maybe hum to himself a little bit in his boat of denial.

“You guys hungry?” he asks when they're still too preoccupied to acknowledge him, and that gets their bright eyes trained on him lightning-quick. Dean and his stomachs, it never fails.

Sam rifles around in his sea of plastic for a minute before he locates the goods. For the first time ever, Sam is grateful those golden arches that are constantly attached to the evil smiley-face of rollback doom were illuminating his exit. He can even forgive that bastard clown for unapologetically grinning its cardboard grin at him.

The smell of fries permeates the room and gets those noses twitching eagerly before he's finished opening the sack, and he's glad he had the forethought to double up, because if their appetites are anything like his brother's...

“I, um, got you guys some stuff to wear.” Sam ferrets around some more and yanks out two sets of flannel pajama pants and white tees, a pack of underwear, tosses them casually over to the bed. Alec snatches them out of the air and looks completely betrayed at the idea of being forced to do anything other than immediately assault the food. Sam smirks. “Go change, and then you can come to the table and eat.”

They're off like rockets, slamming into the bathroom as one. Ben gets his coat tangled up in the door but quickly rectifies it, and Sam swears those kids have set a world record when they emerge in rumpled cotton-blend not twenty seconds later, blurring into their seats so fast Sam has to blink to clear his vision. It's like they think he's going to change his mind at any given moment and gobble it down when their backs are turned.

“Wow, okay.” Sam has to move all the bags again so they'll have space to eat, decides to dump them on the floor next to Dean for the time being. “I got chicken nuggets and burgers for each of you 'cause I wasn't sure what you'd like, so have at it.”

They have at it with a little too much enthusiasm, and Sam has to remind them to chew before inhaling so they don't choke themselves. He sits and just watches them for a minute, how they're so attuned and attached already despite the fact that they never even knew about each other before tonight. It's just patent Dean shining through again, that innate need for family and the instant bond to anyone sharing his blood. It's so damn weird and makes him all warm and fuzzy, something he hasn't felt in so long because it's too dangerous to be feeling shit like that.

Ben's eyes blaze with surprised joy when he slows down enough to actually taste what he's cramming into his mouth, and he stops eating, inspecting his chicken with a critical eye.

Alec seems to be the more vocal of the two, says around a mouthful of goop, “This is the best thing ever to hit my tastebuds! What is it?” and he's scrutinizing Ben's nugget too, not bothering with his own because his own clearly need to be ingested straight away.

Sam can't believe what he's hearing. “What is it?” he repeats incredulously. What kind of kid asks such things?

Castiel just looks at him and oh, right, the kind of kid who's been kept in under a disciplined rock since birth. Man, that opens up so many new levels of insanity because he has so much to show them. The possibilities of things taken for granted that these boys have never experienced is mind-boggling.

“It's McDonald's,” Sam says, pointing at the logo on the back as if to say, learn it, live it, love it. “And you're probably gonna be eating a lot more of it.”

They offer him twin expressions of utmost pleasure, like they can't believe their birthdays are coming every day until forever and shit, when are their birthdays?

Sam shakes his head. There is so much to figure out it's actually hurting his brain. He remembers the beverages and scoots the little bottles of milk over, and they aren't very overjoyed at that so it's probably not anything new and foreign as they drink obediently, but Sam still has a surprise or two up his sleeve.

Their various reactions are quickly becoming a new spectator sport, and he reveals the milkshakes with a flourish. “You think the chicken's good, you oughta check this out,” he says, tempting them with a grin and a hand flutter. “Go ahead.”

It's nothing spectacular, just plain old vanilla, but the exultant glow of their faces upon the first sip says he may as well have pulled a sparkling rabbit out of a grungy baseball cap. It's pretty awesome, that feeling, and again, dangerous. Sam's long passed declaring himself screwed, though, so no sense dwelling.

He looks over at Dean. “Can't you do something about him?” he practically whines to Castiel, who glances over and shrugs. Cas may be cut off from the Host but he still has a few feathers in his cap. Maybe he can dream-walk Dean out of it.

“Perhaps, but I suspect there will be more shouting.” He aims a pointed glare at Sam, splays a hand over his own chest. “Your epithets have already wounded me, and I do not wish to suffer a repeat so soon.”

Sam rolls his eyes because ohdeargod Castiel is such a drama queen when he comes down off his benders. Warrior of heaven, Sam's ass.

“A TBI with a GCS of ten is moderate. LOC could be anywhere from thirty minutes to twenty-four hours,” Alec tells them helpfully, chomping happily and swinging his legs with such abandon that his whole body's swaying. “PTA could last up to seven days, if there's any at all.”

“Uh...” Sam gawps at him, running over all that in his head. He knows the terminology somewhat but it's not like he's ever really used it to assess anyone. It's more efficient in their field to say, yeah, he's gonna be out for a few hours, might take him a while to remember some shit. Sam's more impressed that Alec's even determined a GCS, a system used to determined level of consciousness. “How'd you come up with ten?”

Alec angles his head around, considering Dean. “He opened his eyes for a second when I pinched his nose, that's a two. Randomly utters inappropriate words,” at this Alec smirks, undoubtedly privy to some interesting mutterings if he was over there poking at Dean's face for very long, “that's a three. Five more for trying to slap my hand away when I pulled his hair.”

“Huh.”

Sam's becoming horrifyingly aware of just how full his hands are going to be. Not just with the Apocalypse and keeping these kids healthy and happy, but with the fact that they are indeed smart-asses. Genius-asses, to be more precise. Holy fuck, they're going to dance around him in circles when they disagree with a rule or want something. Sam suddenly has a new level of respect for what his father dealt with when he was a young smart-ass himself.

You always get a double dose of payback when it's your turn to have kids. Isn't that what grandparents are always saying with those smug looks on their faces? Dad's probably laughing his ass off in the afterlife.

Sam chuffs out a loud breath and swipes at his face, notices Ben's glancing over at Dean worriedly, a question doing the cha-cha on the tip of his tongue but being held back for some reason. When he finishes his chicken and sits back with his hands folded in his lap, furtive glances at the remaining food, Sam realizes he hasn't heard this kid say a word since he showed up.

“Hey, uh, Ben?”

Ben's wide eyes flick up to his face, terrified at being directly acknowledged, and Sam swallows. Yeah, if he ever runs into any Manticore agents he's going to fuck something up with artistic precision. This is the boy who managed an escape and has been pulling a Tarzan in the wild for the last year. Sam can't even begin to imagine all the paranoia running rampant in that head of his, what might be irreparably damaged.

“If you want something and you're not sure about taking it, just ask, okay? You can ask questions all day long,” Sam assures. “I won't mind a bit.”

Ben nearly chokes on his shaky exhale, quickly nods. “Y-yes, sir.”

Alec yanks his own burger over without fanfare, his other hand sliding onto Ben's knee, the kid so easily adjusting to the changes with the simplest cues from his surroundings. “You don't hafta call him sir. His name's Sam.”

Ben glances at Alec, looks back at Sam with the question mark bouncing over his head, and Sam nods.

“You can call me Sam, or dude, or hey you. Whatever you want, okay?”

“Yes, um, Sam?” he trails off uncertainly, watching his brother glut himself on more fries as he makes an outrageous mess out of the ketchup. “May I have the other one?” Ben gears himself up to ask.

“It's all yours, buddy.” Sam tries for a reassuring smile but the kid's eyes are firmly on his food again, hands scrabbling to free the treat from its bag.

Sam's heart is being squeezed by the most unrelenting fist as he wonders at the last time this kid ate anything halfway decent. He's noticeably thinner than Alec now that Sam's paying closer attention, and they've probably gotta have, like, some absurdly high metabolism.

“Hey, Cas?” Quickly pulling out his wallet, Sam shoves a wad of singles at the angel. “Do me favor and go raid the vending machine by the lobby?”

Castiel nods solemnly, and Ben looks absolutely horrified at the idea of the angel's departure. Sam feels a stab of the same at realizing he'll be alone with them, but it's only for a minute. and he's not some diabolical sadist no matter what some people might say. He'll be fine.

“It's okay, Ben. I won't be long,” Castiel says in that low rumble, flutters out in a brush of wind instead of using the door like a normal person. And he says he's not spoiled. Dude would never make it in the world if he lost all of his powers. He'd probably stay stone drunk for the rest of his life.

There are soft gasps of amazement at the showy exit. Sam guesses the novelty of it has yet to wear off with these boys. It'll have them yawning after about a week, though, he'd bet on it. Ben still doesn't look at all comforted, jittery in his seat and all his food gone, the green pallor of his face suggesting it might make a comeback. Sam searches for some reassurance but none comes to him, and then Alec is commandeering his attention again.

“Hey, Sam-dude,” Alec says with a huge grin, face smeared in gooey red, and Sam has a feeling this one's going to be testing every length of rope he's given until it snaps, “I have a question.”

Sam leans forward and swipes a napkin over Alec's face, sits back and opens his hands, receptive. “Shoot.”

Alec frowns, entirely displeased at the order. “I don't have a gun.” He seems to want to add more but doesn't, expressing unsolicited opinions still new to him no matter how well he's adapting.

Sam sighs. “It's just an expression, kiddo. It means go ahead and say what you wanna say.”

“Oh.” Alec considers that. “I would prefer not to shoot you, even though that's not what you meant.”

“That's good to know.” Sam can't help the chuckle. “I'll sleep much better at night.”

Alec looks confused again, glancing out the window pointedly, but chooses to get back to the matter at hand. “The TV said I need to purchase something called a 'wee' if I want to experience fitness plus fun. Where can I get one of those?”

The TV said. Jesus Christ.

Sam clears his throat and says as diplomatically as possible, “The TV is just trying to get you to blow money on things you don't need, Alec. It's called advertisement, and we can't afford to buy any Wii's, dude. Wish we could.”

Alec's lower lip scoots out and settles in place, and the pout is just too much. Sam can't take it. He looks away and tries his damnedest not to laugh. Alec would take it completely the wrong way but crap, it's adorable.

“The TV also said pie is a readily available source of slapstick deliciousness. Can we afford that?” Alec tries when it's apparent Sam's not going to budge on the gaming system. The kid's eager to try out the new world, Sam will give him that, and Sam will give him pie too, if he really wants it.

“I think I may be able to swing some pie,” Sam concedes. “But, uh, there are a few things you should know first. You see, Dean,” he swings a finger over at the form on the bed conspiratorially, “he will pitch the biggest fit you've ever seen if you try to use a pie for anything other than consumption.” It's true. Sam remembers trying to imitate The Three Stooges like it was yesterday and Dean's subsequent lecture on having the proper respect for baked goods. It was a million hours long, or so Sam's adolescent mind had clocked it, anyway. “Also, he will try to steal it first chance he gets, so you gotta keep your guard up around him.”

Alec absorbs this insider's intel solemnly, narrowing his eyes on the unmoving pie-burglar.

“W-why does he look like us?” Ben blurts, immediately jerking backward as if it took all of his lung capacity to shoot that out and he's just as surprised to hear his own voice as they are. He ducks his head, cheeks flaring a bright red.

Alec tilts his head. “That's a good question,” and Ben straightens a little at the backup, both of them eyeing Sam expectantly.

Oh boy. Ben's gonna be the kid with all the tough ones, it seems. “Honestly? I'm not really sure. I figure you guys were, ya know, sorta made out of him.”

“You think he's our human template, you mean?” Alec clarifies.

“Yeah, I guess that's what I mean.” The kids are obviously chalked full of Winchester DNA if the angels want them so bad, but Sam's not anywhere near knowing how the stir-fry insanity of animal and human genetics work. He was law student, not a scientist.

“So what does that make us?” Ben says, gaining courage at not being shot down for daring to open his mouth so far. “Are we the same?”

Yep, definitely the heavy-hitter in the questions department. “You're not the same, exactly,” Sam starts, then shakes his head.

They know Dean doesn't have any jungle cat DNA so why is he explaining this? How does he explain this? Dean would say something about how awesome he is, which makes them awesome, and Sam is awesome because Dean has dubbed him so, which really doesn't explain anything but still manages to make everyone feel awesome.

“You and me and Dean, we all share the same blood. That makes us family.”

Putting it out in the air like that seems to make it more real, somehow, and Sam sort of reels back in his seat at the revelation. Holy shit, he's got more little brothers, or worse, little nephews, and they've got those reverent expressions again, only now they're aimed at Sam and Sam is not anyone to be revering, not at all, and oh god what is he doing?

Another sudden breeze, and Cas is standing there with his arms full of colorful, rumpled goods, hair even more disheveled than usual, which is no small feat. His face is scrunched up and begging off all blame without saying a word. He dumps the snacks on the table, hands Sam his money back. Every last dollar.

Sam realizes he should've known better than to send the angel to face anything with buttons on his own. “Cas, please tell me you didn't smite the vending machine.”

Castiel has nothing to say to that, and Sam drops his face in his hands.

Dean can wake up anytime now, really.

-:-

A/N: TBI = traumatic brain injury. GCS = Glascow Coma Scale, the most commonly used system for classifying TBI severity. LOC = loss of consciousness. PTA = post traumatic amnesia. According to Wikipedia, anyway.

PART 5

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[dollarformyname.livejournal.com]

Thanks! Glad you got a kick out of that. :)