FIC: Ride The Skies 7/?

[dollarformyname]

—PART SEVEN—

That's gotta be the most adorable fucking thing he's ever seen.

Dean can feel his machismo taking a solid, devastating hit and crumpling in on itself as he watches a lightly snoring Gigantor and his sleeping chest adornment. He's a little hurt that Ben didn't even spare him more than a passing glance before cozying right up to Sam, but Alec, noticing his furtive looks, was happy to inform him that Ben is just shy and a little weird sometimes, but not to worry, he'd come around as soon as Dean swung him through the air a couple of times. Alec also delighted in telling him everything he missed, including the spectacular discovery of things like chicken nuggets.

Dean can't deny that he's just downright proud of his brother for taking the reins of the situation while he was out for the count, even if he's never going to admit it aloud, because Sam's already giving him so much shit and doesn't seem like he'll be letting it go anytime soon.

“Are you even listening?” Alec's disgruntled, smacking the table to regain Dean's attention, and Dean smirks as he refocuses on the kid, leans back in his seat and motions for him to continue.

It's fucking surreal, looking at himself from a couple of decades ago, but he's adjusting pretty well if he does say so himself. Angels, demons, and the Apocalypse are all sitting on his doorstep waiting to be acknowledged, but if he wants to keep his sanity, he's going to have to take one step at a time. These kids present new, terrifying factors under normal circumstances. Add in the rest, and it's too huge to take in all at once.

Everything's different now. A single night, and priorities have shifted radically, tactics and routines in need of severe reevaluation, because going in kamikaze is no longer an option of last resorts. He doesn't exactly get what the hell he's even doing here if there are all these alternate vessels running around, but one thing he knows: Michael's not getting these kids. Dean's done losing people. He's been heartsick with all of it, and he's just fucking done, end of the goddamn line. He deserves to keep something for himself after everything, and Sam and these boys are it, claim staked, universe must oblige or it can fist itself and rot. While he's being selfish, he'll throw out a return slip for Adam, too. He and Sam are going to have to have a chat alone about how to bully their dismal future into something less dismal for the kids' sakes, determine their little brother's state of being and whereabouts—and fuck knows how they'll even begin to accomplish that—but that's for later, that door firmly latched and locked. For tonight at least.

Dean's more immediate task is to wrap his mind around this new responsibility, what it entails, how it's defined, et-fucking-cetera. Is he still the big brother or... something far more frightening? He can't decide, so he's just trying to get to know Alec, because Ben's clocked out for the moment, and he hopes the kid'll give him a clue.

Presently, he's wondering why no one ever bothered to inform him he was this awesome all those years ago as Alec picks up his tirade about misleading advertisements. Except Alec is currently acting more like Sammy was at that age, babbling on and on about anything and everything to anyone who will listen.

“I mean, it said it would grow. There were pictures and everything.” Alec rubs a hand over his shaven head, scowling. “But then Sam said it was just a computer simulation and it doesn't actually work that fast, and most of them are just some form of spray paint.” He tosses his hands up, so concerned with this subject it's too cute for words.

“Sam's usually right about that stuff,” Dean agrees, trying so damn hard to take this shit seriously, but fuck, the kid's bitching about men's hair loss treatment like he was personally affected by a bogus product. “He's an encyclopedia of random shit, so you can usually trust what he says.”

He presses his lips together to keep from laughing his ass off as Alec releases a huff for all those wrongfully scorned by such deceptions.

“I just,” Alec shakes his head forlornly, flops back and crosses his arms. “I don't even know what to think anymore. It has all these pretty colors and people doing humorous things, but then it bombards you with lies.”

Dean's shoulders are shaking with his effort to contain himself. The kid's been jilted by the goddamn television, and maybe it makes him a bad person but it's fucking hilarious. He guesses that explains why there's a sheet draped over it, like someone needed the obstructed view to resist temptation.

“Life's like that sometimes, dude,” he manages. “You'll learn to cope.”

“Why should I have to cope?” Alec bangs a fist on the table, offended at the very idea of adjusting himself when he is clearly not the issue here. “Someone should infiltrate this conspiracy and put a stop to it! Innocent consumers are being swindled out of their hard-earned money!”

That's it. Dean loses it. There's a shrunken journalist sitting across from him, ready to blow disgusting marketing tactics wide open for the sake of the public and their very important dollars, and it's too much. It's insane how smart this kid is, yet how naive at the same time.

Alec has zero tolerance for Dean's lapse of gut-busting mirth. “That wasn't a joke. It wasn't intended to derive laughter.”

The serious glower only serves to send Dean's merriment skidding out of control, and he can't even form words anymore, doubled over his aching gut the way he is.

“You realize I'm gonna have to beat you up now, right? It's the customary reaction to wounded pride.”

“Yeah?” Dean chuckles, wiping a tear from his eye. “Where'd you learn that?”

“TV.”

“You mean the thing that done you so wrong?”

Alec's face is a scrunched distortion of utmost outrage. “I think it was right on that count,” he grates, plucking an ace from the abandoned spread of cards on the table and flicking it at Dean's face. “It definitely feels like the appropriate reaction.”

Dean catches the card and flicks it back with what he knows is an infuriatingly cocky smirk. “Bring it on, shrimp.”

Alec's an airborne missile sailing over the table and blasting into Dean's chest before he knows what's happening, and the chair tips backwards with the force of the impact, knocking the air from him as his back crashes to the floor.

Holy fucking shit! He has to think fast, because Alec's twisting him all over the place like a goddamn pretzel and he just knows he's going to be bent out of shape on a permanent basis if he hesitates. Abruptly finding his nose smashed into the smelly-ass carpet, Dean bucks and throws the lighter weight off balance, regains one of his arms and pushes up as Alec keeps a firm grip on the other one.

Alec recovers too quickly, kicks out and plants Dean on his back again. A blur of motion, and then he's sitting on top of his chest with Dean's wrists pinned into a cross, grinning victoriously.

“You can't win this. I'm genetically superior.” The already steel-like fingers tighten for emphasis, and Dean congratulates himself on not wincing. “I demand an apology, and I might be inclined to show mercy if you add an 'uncle' to that.”

“Not happenin', kid.” Dean shows him the error in judgment as he simply sits up, dislodging Alec enough to work his arms free, pushes the boy backwards and latches onto his ankles. Dean's on his feet with his kitten-enhanced progeny dangling upside-down before Alec can execute any sort of counterstrike.

He lifts his arms as high as they'll go to get the kid mostly face-level with him. “Now, say 'Dean is the most awesome to ever awesome', and I might be inclined to show mercy.”

Alec affords him a beet-red scowl, unsuccessfully trying to kick free of Dean's grip, arms stretching for the floor to get some kind of leverage. “I refuse to submit.”

Dean snickers and jiggles him lightly, then gathers his skinny ankles in one hand, freeing the other to tickle Alec mercilessly so that he's too busy laughing to think of his next assault. Dean is the one who makes the error in judgment this time, because even as Alec is shrieking under his fingers, his hands grab onto Dean's shins and he jerks his legs out of the compromised hold, executing a backflip and landing on his feet.

Oh. fuck, Dean thinks upon realizing his hands are empty. Alec's dark smirk is screaming payback, and Dean can't retreat fast enough. He's back on the floor again with bony fingers digging into his sides, wriggling and breathless with laughter before he can even blink. It's against the some kinda fucking law for the kid to tickle the grown-up, he's sure of it, but he can't heave in a breath deep enough to explain this in his special four-letter way.

“Alec is the most awesome to ever awesome and you're very sorry for not understanding that sooner. Say it.”

Dean can't say much of anything. His goddamn gut is going to split right open.

Alec seems to realize this and eases off, fingers crooked in warning as he stays straddled across Dean's waist.

Dean has to take a moment to enjoy the ragged bursts of air he's being allowed, then says, “Never,” bucks upward and over in a sloppy somersault that sees Alec pinned to the carpet.

“I'm starting to think this could take a while,” Alec sighs, figuring out the 'never say die' attitude runs in the non-feline part of his gene pool.

Dean keeps a close eye on his wily prisoner and reluctantly backs off, slouching against the door with an arm slung over his aching stomach. Alec sits up slowly, gaze equally distrustful.

“I guess you are pretty awesome,” Dean relents, a nod of respect for the kid's ability to kick ass as he catches his breath. Jesus, it's been ages since he had this much fun with something as uncomplicated as roughhousing. He and Sam haven't spared much time for the simple things in life so much lately, and he's starting to understand why his brother couldn't wipe that goofy smile off his face earlier. He's losing the battle with his own grin.

Alec is trying not to smirk at the affirmation, but it's not really working out. “I guess you could give Sam a run for his money on a good day.”

It's a half-ass concession, because he's still a little resentful at not becoming the ultimate champion, so Dean can let it go for now. Alec will have no choice but to admit Dean's supreme awesomeness in the very near future, anyway. It's just the way of things.

The tinny warble of a ringtone cuts into the uncertain truce, and Dean shoots the kid a wink as he reaches up and plucks the cell off the table.

He sobers upon seeing who it is. Shit. He totally smashed his own fucking brains in in the middle of a distinctly world-rocking conversation, and now he's in for it. “Yeah,” he greets, slumps back and prepares to take his reaming like a man.

“Tell me somethin',” Bobby grouches. “All those times you been here, did this dump ever look like a damn halfway house to you?”

“Uh...”

“You need to rein in your angel and tell him to quit droppin' kids on my front porch,” Bobby plows through his awkward pause. “I been reachin' out to people but it's the middle of the goddamn night and I ain't heard back yet. My crippled ass can't keep up with all these super-babies.”

Fuck. Dean rubs his brow and tries to think. Sam mentioned Cas had flown off to round up the strays, but he didn't give what he would end up doing with them much thought. “Where the hell else is he supposed to take 'em?” Bobby's the fucking thinker here, so why's he asking Dean? Dean's still trying to get a grip on the two that belong to him.

Bobby huffs into the speaker. “Knew you were gonna say that,” he grumbles. “I don't know what the hell I'm supposed to do with this mess. I ain't in no shape to be wranglin' traumatized children.”

Dean feels for him, he really does. That feeling is mostly guilt, because it's his fault Bobby's confined to a shit-ass wheelchair, and it was him who called and dropped this bomb, apparently inviting Cas to include the elder hunter in all the chaos. “Okay, just. Can you hold out for a few hours? If I wake Sam up now, we can probably get there by dawn and give you a hand.”

“Ain't got much choice, do I?” It's not bitter, just tired facts.

“I'm sorry, Bobby, I didn't... is Cas there right now?”

“No. He's busy roundin' up more. How many of these poor kids are there, anyway?”

Dean doesn't really want a definitive count. He's feeling that bubble of rage that begs him to blow something up again, only this time it's more potent, given the fact that his kids were among the mistreated.

Shit, his kids. Holy fucking Christ.

“Dean?”

Dean gulps down huge breath to recover from the near-hyperventilation. “I'll call him up and tell him to help babysit until we get there.”

Bobby grunts his appreciation and hangs up, and Dean stares dumbly at the phone for a minute before he works up the courage to look at Alec again. It's all in a new light, that slip of thought changing his whole perspective, and Jesus, there's so much. Angels, the boys have had a crash-course in, but the rest?

Dean's going to fuck their whole world up with the knowledge, but they need to have it, because he's just been rudely reminded how very targeted they're going to be by every fugly to ever shamble, groan, or slash once word gets out that the Winchesters are carting a couple of tykes around.

Shit on motherfucking stick.

Taking another deep breath, Dean straightens, noticing the way Alec has dropped his petulant air and is mirroring the posture, expression deeply solemn and expectant. He stands and goes to pick the plastic bags off the floor, plops them on the table and looks through them. He's not disappointed in his brother's forethought when he locates two pairs of generic black sneakers, jeans, and a package of socks.

“Do me a favor and wake up your brother. Put these on. You can keep the shirts,” he gestures to the white tee the Alec's wearing, and piles the clothing in his arms. “Then see if you can fit all this stuff in our bags. We'll see about getting you your own later,” Dean orders, not even registering the tone he's taken. It's just automatic when it's time to get shit done.

Alec nods with a, “Yes, sir,” and quickly moves to follow through.

The swift obedience is a little too much like a young Dean, and he frowns. As the kid turns away, Dean catches the stark lines of black and drops a hand on his shoulder to stop him. Alec goes stiff but allows himself to be pulled back. Dean's thumb traces over the bar code as if to smudge it away, rage flashing through him like electric shock. A million epithets are going through his mind, a possessive urge to banish this evidence of a previous existence in which Dean wasn't around to protect them, in which someone had the audacity to mark them.

He wants to detonate the fuck out of something.

His face is stone-cold murder, but somehow he manages to keep his touch and his voice gentle. “It's Dean, Alec. Not sir.” He removes his hand when he realizes he's probably making the kid feel like a freak, having his glaring difference from the rest of humanity pawed and stared at.

Alec relaxes instantly at the withdrawal.

“Here, take these.” Dean liberates the lightweight denim jackets he saw among the purchases. It's too warm for layers but it's the best he can do as far as concealment goes at the moment. He passes a hand over the boy's head, eyes going soft.

Alec gives him a wan smirk and moves to wake up Ben, and Dean starts to gather his own things with a sigh. The kid's firmly switched into soldier-mode now, and Dean's not down with that shit at all. They're him, but they're not him, and he sure as hell doesn't want them to turn out quite as jacked in the head as he is, though he supposes dysfunction is inevitable given their origins. On top of being whipped up in a test tube and treated like robots, they hit the Winchester DNA jackpot for that extra-special guarantee of life-fuckery.

Dean's got countless tangled webs of bullshit to undo in those kids' heads. There's gonna be ice cream and toy stores, maybe even a puppy, he thinks unrealistically, but hell, it's the time of the apocalyptic fucking season for unrealistic.

Alec and a groggy Ben disappear into the bathroom, and Dean knocks his brother's foot as he passes him. “Get up, dude. We gotta go.”

A lifetime of these kind of wake-up calls has Sam sitting up before he's even fully alert. He forcefully rubs his eyes to banish his exhaustion, already yanking his duffel up and tossing his stuff inside when he asks on a jaw-cracking yawn, “What's up?”

There's a muffled thump from the bathroom before Dean can fill him in, and they both turn to regard the closed door about half a second before Alec's alarmed shout has them growing blasters and lifting off. Fear screeching like a freight train in his head, Dean's shoulder gains destructive entrance into the small room as Sam is practically riding on his back.

He stops dead in the doorway, heart leaping into his throat at the sight that greets him.

Alec is sprawled on the floor, eyes shimmering wetly and his face taut with terror as he tries his damnedest to keep Ben pinned against his own chest. But Ben's little frame is quaking so violently he can't keep all of the boy's jolting limbs from cracking out against the tub and tile.

“Oh god,” Sam croaks, and that jerks Dean into action. He drops to his knees, Sam tripping over the sudden blockade removal.

“Alec,” Sam orders as Dean scoops Ben up and swallows him in his arms, outright terror demanding immediate physical contact that will surely hold the kid together. “C'mere.”

Alec doesn't hesitate to leap up into Sam's beckoning arms and latch on, burying his face in a broad shoulder as if to blind himself to the entire scene. Sam folds him up in his embrace and clears the bathroom so Dean can maneuver.

-:-

A/N: Yeah, sorry for the POV/drama jolt there, folks. It was unavoidable—so says my muse. *bangs gavel* :)

NEXT

Comments

[vilnolin.livejournal.com]

i love you for writing this!

there have been a lot of these, and this is awesome! the whole drunk cas in the beginning did it for me (it was a marathon read!)

more more more more

[dollarformyname.livejournal.com]

Thanks so much! Glad you're diggin' it. Hope you'll continue to do so. :)