The Wellspring
Chapter Seventeen - Soldiers & Dogs
It's cold when Dean comes to, and he's aware of his face and how it's pressed against concrete flooring, which doesn't make him feel any warmer. And its quiet and so is the little boy voice that's calling to him from somewhere close by.
"Dean? Dean, are you awake now?"
Dean grunts in response. His head's killing him, but he trucks on, laying flat palms against the floor and shoving himself upwards into a sitting position. And, oh. It's a cell. Why does it always have to be a freaking cell? Sam's on the floor beside him, unconscious but breathing. Dean grasps a ridiculously broad shoulder, shakes it a little, but Sam doesn't come to. There's a small cut on his little brother's forehead. Blood trickles from it.
"Dean?" the voice calls again. "Dean?" The voice is small and earnest and frightened.
"M'here," he replies. "M'awake." And he twists around and it aches and he groans, but it doesn't take much to see them – the cells are side by side, and the boys are right there, two pairs of little hands gripping those bars, those bastard bars keeping them from Dean, so tightly that the teeny knuckles are bone white. They're trying so hard, Dean can tell, but their faces are so young and tense and their hair's been buzzed off. Their clothes, Sam and Dean's childhood clothes, are gone, replaced by dreary camouflage jumpsuits. "Those fucking sons of bitches."
"We're okay," Ben tries to tell him, but it's a lie. Ben never lies, but he'll lie about this and Dean can see it. It's transparent. His kid's a bad liar. And Alec's not talking. Alec's gone mute and there's a tremor to those otherwise steady fists gripping those damn metal bars. Kid's terrified of being caged. It's like that time, with the panic room, except Dean can't reach through metal and pick him up and take him the fuck out of there. Dean is made of flesh and bone, Dean is not-at-all-impervious and he can't promptly remedy this situation like he did then. And he hates himself for that.
He swallows. "S'gonna be okay," he says, and he doesn't know if it's true. He might be lying, but one of Alec's hands loosens. The kid's reaching through the bars. Dean stumbles to his feet, edges forward, takes the hand. The grip that greets him is surprisingly strong. Dean didn't think he could be surprised anymore. He says, "M'here." Alec's hand tightens, tightens so much Dean feels like his bones are about to be crushed, but he doesn't tell the boy to let go.
Ben puts a steadying hand on his brother's shoulder, murmurs something too quiet for Dean's ears and the grip loosens, soft skin drifting away from his palm. Alec blinks up at him, says in a voice little more than a whisper, "M'sorry."
"You got nothin' to be sorry for."
"Uncle Sammy…"
Dean turns back to his supine sibling. Sam hasn't stirred, but he's still breathing. Of course he is. Sam wouldn't dare not breathe, the little bitch. Dean wouldn't allow it.
"He'll come to, kitten. He's just taking a while."
"Our hair's gone. Our hair was awesome."
"It's gonna grow back, sweetheart. I promise you."
"They won't let it. They'll never let it grow back." Alec backs away from the bars, backs away from Dean and Ben and the stagnant Sam. "They put us in here for holding until they can start reindoctrination. They put you in there for holding until they find a good way to terminate you."
"Don't talk like that, Alec," Ben says through gritted teeth.
"I'm sorry that the truth hurts." Alec's eyes are blazing with hurt and anger when he refocuses them on Dean. "Why didn't you leave us there? I told you to leave us there. I told you to go. Why didn't you fucking go?" The kid's back at the bars in a flash, tiny body banging against them. Serious and somber moments are moments for eye contact. Dean insists on it. Has been insisting on it since that day Sam found teeth in the pocket of a child's pants, and Alec's looking him in the eye now. His voice is quiet and unwavering when he admits, "I hate you. I hate you for not going." And then he turns away again.
Dean is flesh and bone and more than capable of being torn open and shredded to high hell by a little boy's words. Dean is scraps on the floor.
"He doesn't mean that." Ben's reaching a hand through the bars now and Dean's taking it in his own numb hand. "Daddy, he doesn't mean that."
Daddy. The childish moniker slips out of Benny at random times now, times when they're not in public, times that might be considered inappropriate if Dean didn't secretly believe that it is perfectly appropriate at all times.
He kneels down and kisses his boy's palm, promises, "M'gonna get us out of this. I don't care if I have to gank every living sonuvabitch in this place." And Ben looks at him like he believes him, like he believes that Dean can do anything. Dean used to look at John like that, and he's not sure if this thought induces confidence or excruciating pain, but he does know that for all his negligence and obsessive asshattery, his father would have gotten him out of this situation. John Winchester would've ripped the throat out of any fucker who got in his way, and if it came to pass, he would have died for his sons in a heartbeat. Dean has that same blood running through his veins. "I'm not letting this happen to you again."
"We're locked in here." Alec. There's a cot pressed against the back wall of each cell and Alec's on one, knees up to his chin, arms around his knees. "There's an armed guard at the end of the hallway. There are two at every door. They shoot first and ask later. They'll kill you without sparing a thought. They'll kill us, too, if they have to."
Alec sounds like a dead boy. There's no hope in that voice, no cheek, no sardonic glee. Just a single, sad note that's as grey and uniform as the walls and the floors surrounding them. Dean's reminded of Alec's words to Ben, that day that felt like centuries ago. We left there because they didn't treat us like people. Caged animals. That's what they are. That's what Alec and Ben have always been. This is the place where liberty comes to die.
There's a sound, down the hallway, the sound of a heavy door opening and then creaking closed. There's gotta be three…no, four pairs of feet coming down the hall towards them. Ben's hand snatches out again, grips the sleeve of Dean's jacket. There's four of them and they line up in front of the cells. Three of them have guns. One of them's that ridiculous little bastard who claimed Dean's kids were his own.
"M'gonna kill you," Dean informs him. "Just so you know."
The guy, Lydecker, smiles. Smiles.
"Just because they look like you doesn't make them yours." If it weren't for the armed guards, if it weren't for the fact that Ben's attached to him and Alec's only a few feet away, and that Sam is still helpless on the ground, Dean would have this douchebag by the collar of his jacket, would be bashing his smug fucking face repeatedly into the metal. But Dean can't do that, and Lydecker continues in a cold voice, "Anything they're about to go through you can blame yourself for. You've undone years of hard work." His eyes move from Dean to Ben and they harden in disgust. "Look at the way he's clinging to you." And the fucker raises his voice, barks the order, "Stand back, 493."
Ben doesn't. He shakes his head and he doesn't. He won't. The little rebel. Dean's so proud.
"He's not a freaking number. He's a kid. He's a person."
"He's a soldier." Rage. Man's got control issues. It doesn't take much to figure that out. "Soldiers are like dogs. You train them and give them treats sometimes when they perform correctly. If you make the mistake of treating them like they're humans, they'll lose their natural instincts. And then what good are they?"
"Don't equate my kids to dogs, you fucking dick."
"They're not your kids."
"They come from me. They have my blood and my face. They're mine." Dean's vibrating. Dean's angry, so fucking angry.
"And we made them. They were created for a purpose. They aren't meant for aimless drives across the country, Dean Winchester. They aren't meant for credit card fraud, murder, bank robberies, or fake deaths. They have a higher purpose than your inherent criminality." Dean's eyes must be wide because Lydecker's face breaks into a small, cruel smile. "Oh, yes, Dean. Files are always recoverable. There's always something written somewhere. We know all about you and your father and your brother…and your poor mother. Burned alive, didn't she?"
Dean doesn't even know, can't even begin to comprehend what this asshole's getting at, but he has the feeling that was some kind of off color "yo mama" joke and Dean just doesn't have any kind of tolerance for that shit. Lydecker cuts him off before he can reply, though, turning to the men with guns and commanding, "Round them up." He waves his hands lazily at the cell containing Alec and Ben and a strangled noise comes from the latter.
"Leave them alone," Dean's voice is low and dangerous, but it's just a voice and voices do very little. He's in this cage and he can't do anything and those fuckers are pointing guns at his clones, his amazing little clones who like to eat ice cream and spew out things so smart they can make even Sam's head spin. His clones who look at him with eyes that make him feel worthwhile. "Leave them the fuck alone." Ben's gripping that sleeve and Dean's got a big hand wrapped around the tiny wrist and he never wants to let it go, not ever, and one of the fucking gunmen's grabbing his boy and Ben's snarling and pulling out of Dean's grip. He's swinging around and kicking and Dean hears something break, something that must be significant because the bastard's on the ground and swearing like a motherfucker, pointing that gun at Ben and one of the others has his gun on Ben, too. Two guns on Ben and the remaining guard's got his barrel wedged between Alec's small shoulder blades.
"We will terminate you, 493. You are expendable." Lydecker says this shit like a housewife reminding her child to wash behind his ears and Dean hears the terrible sound of guns being cocked.
"Benny…" Ben gets it. Ben's emotionally astute and he gets it just by the sound of his name coming out of Dean's mouth, he gets it like Sam would get it.
"M'don't want to." Two tears streak down the side of the kid's face.
Dean reaches a hand in, trails a finger down the stream, whispers, "I know. I know, but m'gonna get us out of here."
"Don't want them to hurt you. And Sam…Uncle Sam's not awake…"
"He's gonna wake up, Ben. I promise. I don't want them shootin' you, baby, please…"
Ben nods and it's less than a second before he's jerked away, herded out of the cell and into the hall, and Alec's being nudged forward with that barrel in his back, but he pauses in the center of the cell, turns around and glares at the persistent guard with the same kind of apathetic heat he reserves for scoldings about his language.
"Hold your horses, cowboy," the kid says. "I need a minute." And he breaks away, is at the bars in a flash, but with a lack of that earlier ire. He reaches in and grabs Dean's sleeve just like his brother had, gives it a harsh tug so Dean comes down to his height. Serious and somber moments require eye contact, and Alec's looking Dean in the eye. "I didn't mean it," he says, and his voice is rough from trying to hold back that child inside of him. "Don't…don't let them hurt you. Please. I just don't want you to go away. I couldn't. M'sorry…m'love you. Don't let them…"
"S'okay, kitten. S'gonna be alright. We're amazing, right?"
Alec sucks in a breath. "We're Batman."
"We're Batman," Dean agrees and he lowers his voice, and hesitates because he doesn't say this. Not to anyone. Not ever. "I love you, too, you little smartass. Stay strong. We're gonna get out of here and we're never lookin' back."
Alec nods and breathes and collects himself before retracting his fingers from Dean's sleeve. He turns around and waves a tiny, dismissive hand at the gun still trained on him.
"S'okay," he tells the guard. "I'll go willingly. Well, it's not that I'm really consenting or anything, I mean clearly you're dragging me and this entire thing is really disgustingly forceful on your part. I guess what I'm trying to say is that I won't raise a fuss and snap one of your bones like Ben did to that other guy. Real firecracker, that kid."
Alec turns his head, winks at Dean and smirks and it takes effort, but Dean returns the gestures. They lead him away. That kid. That fucking kid. Dean's kid.
Sam's head fucking hurts. He awakes to find it pillowed on his brother's thighs, jerks in surprise when he realizes that Dean's got one warm hand resting on his mop of hair. It's a fucking weird way to wake up and Sam can't help but feel like he's six again.
"You finally awake there, Mechagodzilla?"
Sam groans. Dean's hand doesn't move and Sam doesn't verbally acknowledge that it's there. Something's happened. Something horrible has happened. He doesn't acknowledge that, either. "Mechagodzilla? Seriously, Dean?"
"He's Godzilla's mechanical doppelganger. Don't complain."
Dean doesn't talk for several minutes after that and Sam doesn't move because he knows Dean doesn't want him to. The room's heavy with the unspoken conversation and Sam finally cracks, "Where are they?"
"They took 'em." Sam barely hears the words, Dean's so quiet. "Alec said something about reindoctrination. M'tryin' to come up with a plan, but I can't." Dean sounds so defeated and Sam can't help the lurch in his stomach, the mental voice rushing through his brain, teasing him, telling him that this is it. This is finally it. They're going to lose everything and it's going to hurt worse than he's ever imagined. And it's not going to be demons, or ghosts, or destiny that finally does them in – it's going to be the government.
The motherfucking government.
"They were so fucking scared, Sam."
They weren't the only ones. Dean was and is so fucking scared. Sam can hear it in his brother's voice, but he doesn't point this out.
"They were so scared and m'gonna kick so many freaking asses as soon as we get out of this cage."
And there's the cover-up, the brave machismo front Dean couldn't exist without. Sam lifts his head from his brother's lap, sits up and winces because it does hurt. Really fucking bad. Dean's hand is still up like Sam's head is still there and it takes the guy a moment to realize this. The hand slowly descends to rest on a now-empty thigh.
"The bastards shaved their heads and took away their clothes, put them in these little military getups."
Sam swallows. He can't process it. He can't process that the boys aren't here, that the boys are most likely being tortured and brainwashed. He doesn't want to. He doesn't want to think about these things. These things can't happen.
"They need them…right? They won't…"
"I don't know. He…that Lydecker dick, called Benny expendable."
Expendable. That's not a word you use when you're talking about an innocent kid. That's not a word you use when you talk about Benny.
"Motherfucker," Sam grunts.
"Yeah," Dean agrees.
And they fall silent. Dean's thinking of a plan. Sam's trying to think of a plan, but his head hurts and he resists the urge to tip back down, to put his head back in his brother's lap like he's six, because he's not six. Sam's a man now and he has kids in peril, kids that are his, his and Dean's, and he needs to alleviate this situation.
A door opens. Dean jumps a little, scrambles to his feet, presses himself against the bars. It's that guy, that Lydecker, and there's a beefy guy with a gun following him.
"Dude, stop it," Dean tells him. "You're not Whitney and you never will be." Everyone looks confused. Even Sam's confused, and Dean heaves a weary sigh. "You're constantly flanked by bodyguards."
"He's not my bodyguard."
"Whatever. Where the hell are my clones?"
Now Lydecker sighs and Dean's gritting his teeth and his muscles are clenching and Sam wants to tell him not to try anything because there's a gun, and these people apparently lack hesitation.
"They're exactly where they should be. Where they always should have been." Holy Jesus, the guy's voice is cold. Sam's not sure if it's just the nausea from the big fucking pain in his head, but he feels a chill in his bones at the sound of it. "I've only come to inform you that someone will bring you your dinner and that you're set to be here a week."
"A week," Sam deadpans, trying to look past his brother's clenching form so he can see this guy. "Why?"
"We're going to use you for training and our schedule is tight and filled with other things. We're using you in a week."
"For…training?" Dean's confused. Sam's confused. This is way worse than the Whitney Houston joke.
"You're going to be the fox. They're going to be the hound."
"We're going to be hunted?" Dean clarifies. "I mean, with that analogy, there could be an epic Disney friendship afoot, but you guys don't really seem to go for the sweet shit."
Lydecker ignores the snark. "Give the man a prize. I knew we chose you for a reason, Dean. You're not just another pretty face. Yes, you're going to be hunted. By tiny children with extraordinary strength. You love them so much, it should be fun. You should consider it in an honor, training them for future achievements." He doesn't wait for a response, just walks away with his bodyguard at his heels.
Dean bangs a foot against the bars and makes a sound like an enraged bull. "Motherfucker."
"Yeah," Sam agrees. "I'm so sick of people hunting us."
Dean goes quiet. Sam's starting to drift off when his brother speaks up again, "How long d'ya think reindoctrination takes?"
"Months. A year."
"Not a week?"
Sam shuts his eyes at the implication. "No…" he says, and he tries to sound like he means it, like he knows for a fact they won't do that, won't somehow force the boys into it. "Not a week."