Yeah, I'm pretty sure Cameron used all the clichés. *shakes fist* That made this a lot more difficult to write.
I've been sitting on most of this for a while, so I went ahead and finished it up so I could get it posted. Cue flashbacks!
Every Snowflake….9/?
Dean had been thinking about names for a while.
Real names, that is. Individual names. Not titles or classifiers, ID marks or even nicknames. Dean was thinking about real names, the kind that people had, out in the world. He understood the concept pretty well, he thought. He'd seen enough movies and done enough reading to understand the nature of designations applied to individuals, in a whole bunch of cultures. He thought it was interesting that while in most parts of the world, names were something given at or around birth, there were quite a few that had existed in which a person wasn't named until they turned a few weeks, months or even years old. And, he'd discovered, some people were given new names at various points in their lives, as they grew and achieved various cultural milestones. He was sort of in love with that idea, if he was being honest with himself.
He hadn't told anyone about it, of course. Not even Sam. An admission of that magnitude would do more than make him the laughingstock of his entire class—even the other Deans—it would also draw the unwanted attention of the administrators. It was, in fact, an excellent way to get tagged in the database and frankly Dean had enough flags attached to his file as it was. This last one might very well push him over the edge, and he had no intention of letting anything of the sort happen.
He wasn't keeping a list, or anything. It wasn't as if he'd spent time flipping through baby-name books or scouring the AV libraries and then carefully noting down names that appealed to him. Okay, he'd thought about doing something like that, sure, but contrary to popular opinion, Dean was not actually particularly stupid. Yes, he had a history of certain…regrettable behaviors that had gotten him in trouble in the past and, yes, he was definitely on the Blue City's short list of Element Considered Potentially Unsatisfactory, but the fact that they hadn't yet bounced him out to be recycled meant that he knew when not to push things. He could play ball just as well as anybody else, when it was in his best interest to do so.
It wasn't that individuality was frowned upon, of course. Personalities were expected and even encourage to develop. Just not, Dean was pretty sure, to the extent his had.
Even his Sam tended to look askance at some of the things Dean did. It…well, it kinda sucked, actually. Sam was supposed to be the one person who stood by Dean no matter what. Something had definitely gone wrong in the programming there—Dean just wasn't sure if it was his own or Sam's that was the problem. He tried not to think about it.
At the moment, there were no Sams in sight—or anybody else, for that matter—and Dean was enjoying a rare solitary moment in the courtyard, bathed in the pale light of a mid-spring sun. Life in CR-Block-5 had certain benefits, not the least of which was the west-facing position that allowed the afternoon sun to sweep through the rooms, corridors and courtyards. A few Sams had taken it upon themselves to stick various green things in pots and scatter them in the best locations, and although Dean was pretty sure some of them were cactuses, they nevertheless gave the place a homey feeling. Not that he would ever tell them that. (Despite the issue of his own pride, ever other Dean in the City would shun him for the rest of his days. He was pretty sure.)
He squinted into the sky and tilted his head, trying to guess if any shapes were forming in the ragged clouds. He wasn't so good at it, he'd admit, mostly because he wasn't really sure what the point was. But it was something he'd come across on occasion as a thing that "people" did, and he was trying to fathom why, exactly, this was so.
He hadn't told Sam about that, either.
A babble of voices drifted from the far corridor. From the sound of it, a crowd of Claires was on their way to some appointment somewhere. Judging from the relative volume and a certain quality of squeakiness, he guessed they were about ten or so, and therefore probably headed to afternoon lessons.
They tumbled into the courtyard, giggling about little girl things, and Dean saw a 14y along with the three 10ys he'd expected. She grinned at him and offered a little wave. He didn't know this particular Claire, though he thought he vaguely recognized her purple scarf and copper bangles, but it didn't really matter. If she had a friendship with another Dean, even a younger model, then of course they all had a responsibility to her. He nodded and offered a small wave of his own.
He'd been young once.
They passed through the courtyard and the sun flashed off their scarves and jumpsuits and jewelry. He listened to them passing down the long white hall. Afternoon lessons meant ethics education and history of modern warfare, at that age. 14y was probably going along to ease them into the ideas of mass bloodshed and genocide from a perspective they could understand, and to help prepare them for the knowledge that was waiting a year down the line in the Practical Application module.
Sam had enjoyed Practical Application. He was a perfect specimen, really.
That was probably why Dean was sitting here alone in the courtyard.
Sam was perfect.
It hurt. It hurt, and parts of him were hot and parts were cold and someone was making noise somewhere, a voice he knew, one he recognized.
"Shit, Sammy, Jesus Christ, Jesus Christ why did you have to go and—why couldn't you just—oh God."
Hands pressed against his abdomen and he clawed at the hard surface below him. The floor? Why was he lying on the floor? It was hard and smooth and cold and didn't feel familiar at all.
Home. Wanna go…home.
He was a long way from home. He was sure. Where was…?
"Stop moving you stupid—Christ Sammy, keep still!"
He heard a kind of high-pitched whining noise and his throat constricted. It hurt, his gut was soft and bloated and shredded and someone was whispering his name and choking on a sob.
"Why couldn't you just run away?"
He shivered and hauled open his eyes. A wash of light like underwater radiance sprayed across his vision. He flinched.
"You with me?" A hand clutched at his face. "Hey, you with me?"
I'm not alone. He breathed out. I'm not—he's here. He came back.
Or maybe that was wrong. One of them had left, but he couldn't remember which one.
"You…" he breathed, and the word died in the air, thin and fragile. But the face leaning over him, wide-eyed and familiar and beloved, softened. The mouth moved.
"Sam. You're gonna be—it's gonna be fine, okay? I'm gonna take care of you."
He reached up. His hand was heavy, his arm collapsing under his own weight, but he reached anyway. Got his fingers into short dark hair, curved a thumb against a pale cheek, smearing red across the skin.
"Dean," he said. "Dean."
"Dean."
He looked up into Jimmy's face. The sympathy was too much. Too damn much. Dean pushed to his feet and crossed the room, glared at the wall.
"No," he said sharply.
"You need to come. Sam wants you to come."
"I can't. I'm not going to—to be a party to this. To watch this happen, as if it's—as if he—"
"He's been waiting for it all his life."
Dean clenched his jaw. Made fists.
"You can't abandon him on the day of his ascension. It isn't fair."
He spun on the smaller man. Jimmy, to his credit, didn't flinch.
"And what if it was Claire? Your Claire, would you want me standing here telling you to be happy, telling you she needs your support? She wouldn't even remember you—after—he won't know me. I'll just be…and then what, I wait? Until it's my turn?"
Quietly, Jimmy repeated. "You have to come."
"I'm not going to watch my brother die."
Jimmy scowled. "It's ascension. He's not—"
"It's death and you know that's all it is. I don't care what the hell they call it."
"Jesus." Jimmy sat down heavily on the sofa. "Jesus, Dean. Everything they ever said about you is true, isn't it?"
Dean stared at him, silent. Jimmy passed a hand over the back of his head. The moment stretched.
Finally, Dean said, "Get out."
"I don't—"
"Get out. Don't come around here again. Don't talk to me. Don't look at me. Don't. This is it. We're through."
Jimmy stared at him, eyes wide and upset. He got slowly to his feet and rubbed his hands together.
"Sam needs you there," he said quietly, and Dean turned away and shut his eyes.
He didn't move when the door clicked shut.
He didn't move for a long time.
Note: Okay, seriously, I forgot completely about Dark Angel when I started writing this. So then I had to go back and try to remember whatever I could about it in order to avoid just wholesale ripping it off-clichés are fun in principle but not when they just make your story basically a crossover.
TBC! Yay!
