A/N: Same stuff applies as in the Author's Notes chapter. Oh, and unfortunately I neither own Supernatural nor Dark Angel. Just this.

A/N part two: All of the information regarding Sam and Dean is accurate according to the episodes "The Benders," "The Usual Suspects," and "Folsom Prison Blues." Other specific episodes of Supernatural are: "Route 666," "Salvation," "Nightshifter," "All Hell Breaks Loose, Part I," "The Magnificent Seven," "Dream a Little Dream of Me," "Long-Distance Call," and "No Rest for the Wicked." Specific episodes of Dark Angel mentioned are: "The Berrisford Agenda," and "Hello, Goodbye."

A/N part three: Go here: http:/www(dot)flickr(dot)com/photos/40075795(at)N07/sets/72157620891780750/ for screenshots of the reports, in order, mentioned later in this chapter. Remember to change the symbol words into their respective symbols.

Of Desire and the Status Quo

Chapter II: Sixth Sense

A knife comes at the unsuspecting man who holds his arm like it's hurt. "Sam, watch out!" a voice yells, and then the knife stabs and cuts the spinal cord, you can tell. The man is already almost dead, can't even scream. "NO!" the voice shrieks, dropping a shotgun and sprinting towards the dead man. He gives the same litany over and over—"I'm gonna take care of you," "Sam? SAM!"—but the other man's body is broken.

"How could you make that deal, Dean?" "'Cause I couldn't live with you dead, couldn't do it."

"I didn't deserve all he put on me! And I don't deserve to go to Hell!"

"I'm staring down the barrel at this thing. You know, Hell, for real, forever. I'm scared, Sam. I'm really scared."

"No…no…Dean…" Fires of Hell, meat hooks searing skin, life pouring away—sometimes literally—but comes back again, this time it's koummyas coming towards the tongue…

Alec screams himself awake. He still feels blindingly white-hot heat over his entire body, wants to reach up and rub his shoulder where the muscle was carved into. He feels like crying, and doesn't know why. Goddamn it, he hasn't cried since Rachel, and he swore to himself he'd never show that weakness again.

He has had nightmares before. But never like this. This felt like he'd lived it before. Not like he had. With all the training Manticore gave, it wasn't like he'd even have time to go to Hell.

He's alerted to another presence once he hears a small pile of books slam to the ground. "Damn," is muttered, and Alec looks over. It takes a second to register that it's Max. Right, the Max who makes his life a living Hell. Alec winces. Okay, wrong choice of words there.

Max glares at him, probably to blame him for her dropping the papers, but her mouth snaps shut, her eyebrows immediately creasing when she sees Alec's face. It's the same handsome flawlessness—Max tries somewhat unsuccessfully with a sneer and a snide comment to ignore that every single day—but overwritten by an odd mixture of grief, pain, and pure confusion. It's emotions she's never seen Alec wear before. She internally scowls when she acknowledges that he's probably experienced them in the past, but never let her see.

"Alec?" she ventures. Her voice is still bitchy. Good. She can do concern, but she just doesn't do empathy. And plus, this is Alec.

Alec doesn't respond. Max practically looks out the window and expects to see the sky raining fire because surely the Apocalypse has started. But the sky's the same gunmetal gray, which means that unless the rain has turned to hydrofluoric acid, there is something seriously wrong with her second-in-command. Which is still a really weird title to think about for the guy whose previous epithet was thorn-in-her-ass.

She chucks her pen at his head, and it hits its mark. "Alec!" she says again, her voice irritated now. Better irritation than oh-God-he's-breaking-down. "What's your glitch?"

"Huh?" Alec says, disoriented. He catches Max's stare, and she watches—literally sees—his expression go from that weird concoction to perfectly blank, a white canvas that he abruptly paints with rainbow colors; Max can't help but draw on what Joshua had once said. Outside, lots of pretty colors, lots of tricks and treats. Inside, darkness. Confusion. Alec. The thought is uncomfortable, and she wishes she didn't have a photographic (and phonographic) memory. "Sorry. Dozed off. What was I in trouble for again?"

Max sighs, suddenly wanting half a bottle of painkillers. But she barely has access to Advil, let alone more hardcore stuff like Vicodin, Valium, or Oxycontin. Not that she's picky.

"You're not in trouble, Alec," she says, the yet invisibly tacked on at the end. "You were having an intense dream or nightmare or whatever. It better not be anything important you have to work out. Gotta have you sharp. There's that supply run we're supposed to take tomorrow night, you know."

She's given a grin, a crooked smirk that generally charms all the girls and gets him into whatever establishment he needs to infiltrate. Max, on the other hand, has known him long enough to where her enhanced eyesight and recall associate that particular smile—slightly different than the one Alec actually uses for the girls, and also different than the one when he isn't really feeling amiable, where his mouth would tighten, his shoulders would stiffen, and she has to jab the pressure point in his back to get him to wind down—to the one where he's worlds away from okay. The last time she'd seen it, it'd been after he had very, very nearly gotten the pristine Berrisford walls wallpapered with his gray matter. And the one she imagines he'd worn after Psy Ops.

Which means that no level of prying, a skill she prides herself on, would allow Alec to tell her what got him so spun. It'd had to be killer, bearing in mind that before he'd fallen asleep (he accused her of having no heart, but come on, all scrunched up on the dilapidated couch, face oddly innocent, made him look like a kid and not the wily smartass he usually was; he was almost purring, she can't be blamed for tossing a blanket over him, come on now) he'd been as bright-eyed and bushy-tailed as ever, and now he looks like a fifteen years older, PTSD war veteran. She doesn't like the former Alec, but she is damn sure she likes the latter one way less.

"Got it, boss," Alec retorts, giving her a sarcastic salute. When he notices the blanket, all he does is cock an eyebrow at her.

She shrugs. "It was already on the couch, you pulled it over you. What, you don't remember?"

The corner of Alec's mouth lifts, a genuine one this time, but he doesn't say anything, doesn't call her out on her lie. Max takes that as a thanks slash I knew you didn't hate me. She turns purposefully back to her paperwork, and Alec's quiet for a minute before he sets the pen she'd used as a missile back on her desk, along with draping the blanket over her shoulders. It's a curiously sentimental gesture, if timely because her office is uncomfortably chilly, and she frowns at his retreating back.

"I'll just go get those finance reports from Command," Alec announces softly. His green eyes are dark, shadowed, and Max is now a hundred percent sure he's in deep shit just from that nightmare. She exhales heavily again, and pulls the blanket tighter around her, which now smells of what Alec usually does—gun oil, sweat, and worn leather—and tries to concentrate on the blueprints of the medical facility.

But all she can see is Alec's thrashing form (he'd socked her in the face without waking up, and she knows a shiner is coming her way), and his straining, suddenly deeper and huskier voice moaning SAM! and then, 'Cause I couldn't live with you dead. What the fucking hell they meant Max has about as much idea as why Alec is sticking around in the first place. That is to say, none whatsoever.

Fuck.

It could have been hours, or it could have been minutes until Dean starts to feel only raindrops on his face. The soaked sky doesn't show much in the way of time passing. Dean didn't notice whether anyone strolled by him, but he figures either they simply ignored him, mistaking him for some random vagrant (which, okay, maybe he does look a little…disheveled, and maybe he doesn't really have a home, but he isn't a vagrant), or there really wasn't anyone. Dean's not sure which is worse.

What he is sure about, though, is that if he doesn't get out of the weather, he's going to die of pneumonia. And wouldn't that just be a kick in the head. He survives (by some way he has no freakin' idea) Hell, but succumbs to bacteria. There's some irony that Dean would really rather not come to fruition.

So he stands up to the best of his ability, more like stumbles in the general vertical direction, and seeks support in the brick wall. His clothes are drenched past waterlogged, and he feels small puddles in the bottom of his boots. His leather boots, which makes him sigh, given how completely craptastic wetness is for leather. Brushing it aside for the moment, he looks around, trying to get his bearings.

He's a little disconcerted—almost more disconcerted than just having sprung from Hell, surprisingly—at the sight that awaits him. It looks like something out of Independence Day, what with the buildings looking so decrepit he wonders just how many of them are inhabited and how many have been foreclosed or simply shut down out of neglect. The streets are littered with debris and grime, and the peeling sign left over from the obviously long since unoccupied structure next to him reads "Safeway," a grocery store that Dean's been to before and never thought would close.

With a frown that he wishes didn't feel so familiar, Dean squints through the driving rain at the city's pseudo-skyline. And when he notices a particular monument, his eyes widen. It's the Space Needle, Dean's been to Seattle enough times to know that, but it doesn't look like the Space Needle. It's all ramshackle and crumbling, and Dean sees no lights on where the rotating restaurant should be.

"What the fuck?" he says to himself. Or tries to say; really, it's more of a croak, but Dean knows it's what he would say if his vocal cords would just get their damn act together.

He then calculates just how long it's been since he went Downstairs. His mind's a little labored at the moment, but it doesn't take too long for him to work out that it's been a little over thirteen years here on planet Earth. God, if only he'd been in Hell for a mere thirteen years. That would've been like fucking paradise.

But really, thirteen years isn't enough to cause this much destruction in a major city like Seattle…is it? Sure, maybe if it were some scrawny town in rural North Carolina or wherever, but Seattle?

Oh, God, Dean thinks with a jolt, please tell me this isn't another mind fuck.

After so long, Dean learned not to underestimate the imaginations of Hell's minions. Those suckers had creativity. But…this? In the past, all of the false returns that Hell had presented to Dean felt a little off, not quite like the djinn's reality, but not quite tangible, either. Dean'd passed it off as a shock to his system going from Hell to Earth, but then after a while he began to notice the visions always felt the same, that little not-quite-right feeling. This, on the other hand, feels legit. He has to be actually living this. No way could even Hell create such a vivid image.

That's all it takes for Dean to be sure this is the real world, and whatever had happened to Seattle is crazy hard to believe, but Dean's eyes haven't betrayed him yet, and he doubts they'd start now. So he does what he does best: he walks. He walks with a purpose, walks down the street that is deserted. And he feels like he's the only one who knows what's up in a sea of outsiders, but hesitantly acknowledges that it's really the other way around. However, he's a steadfast son of a bitch, and he walks. Downtown Seattle comes closer with each lumbering step, and although each one hurts like a thousand knives, Dean's definitely had worse. So he walks.

Max is adept at a lot of things, two of those being her spot-on perception and scrutiny. Yet she also has a caveat to that: Manticore's creations. More specifically and relevant to the moment, Alec. She always misread what others of Manticore's experiments could sense, and Alec wasn't regarded as one of the best of the best for nothing. He can feel her dark eyes follow him as he strides out of the room, and his jaw clenches at the fact that she's probably thinking that he's going to have some kind of meltdown.

Which he's not. Mainly on account of the fact that even if he felt the need to, he doesn't think he could. He doesn't even know what his nightmare was about. He doesn't know, but then, he never was good with the whole patience bit, the waiting for answers. Oh, he could be patient if the situation called for it (a mission, for example), but now is not one such instance.

He'd only half-lied to Max, which was better than a lot of times. He is on his way to Command, but he doesn't intend to get the finance records. No, now he intends to cash in a favor with Dix for that one time the mutant had asked him to filch a hard drive from some yuppie computer firm when the mission was actually aimed for something entirely different. Alec hadn't known what he'd need a favor from Dix for, but now he does.

He walks up the stairs to the platform where the central computers are, and claps the transhuman on the shoulder. Dix jumps a little, and Alec apologizes—it isn't his fault he unknowingly tends to walk silently—but his face is grim, and Dix could never hold a grudge against the X5 rogue, let alone when he looks like…that.

"Dix, I need you to make good on that favor," Alec says by way of greeting. He always could whip out the charisma when needed, but at this moment, he can't quite muster it up. Besides, he knows he has Dix in the palm of his hand anyway.

Dix raises an eyebrow behind his monocle. "What do you need?" he asks, fingers already moving to his computer keyboard.

Alec slides over a chair and sits in it with the backrest towards his chest. "I need you to look up someone," Alec says. "I'd do it myself, but I don't know jack about him, so I thought it's more your area of expertise."

A grin is what answers Alec's query. "I love a challenge," Dix replies. It's what Alec had been hoping for, and he grants the mutant a small, but sadly fake, smile. "What do you know?"

In general, Alec despises Manticore inside and out, and he's glad it's now ash. Now and then, though, some of the gifts that keep on giving come in handy, namely his memory. He can thusly recall exactly what his nightmare entailed, and it's a terrible nightmare, edging towards Rachel territory, but he needs to know.

"There's a guy, Sam," Alec says, feeling that maybe even Dix won't be able to find anything. Sam isn't exactly the most uncommon name in the world. "He's tall, probably at least six-four, maybe six-five, shaggy brown hair, dark greenish-blue eyes. I don't know the age, though I'd put him in the late twenties to early forties range. And he's close to someone named Dean."

He decides not to mention the whole Hell part. Considering Alec and Dix and the rest of them aren't even supposed to exist, they can all believe a lot, and many of them are cynical enough to believe they'd all go to Hell, if there is such a place, but Alec doesn't want to tell Dix just yet. The nightmare felt real, like it'd actually happened, which suggests there is a Hell, and someone—this Dean guy—went there, but it's pretty farfetched for even Alec. Plus, he sincerely doubts there's a lexicon of who's gone to the Underworld on the Web or something.

Dix waits for a second, like he's hoping Alec will give him more information, but no matter how hard Alec tries to remember, he can't make out any more specifics, and for the life of him he can't see what the other speaker looks like. It'd just never been from the taller man, Sam's, viewpoint.

The transhuman doesn't take well to failure, thankfully, and an ironclad determination graces his face as he turns to his trusty desktop. Alec waits. His knee bounces up and down, and he gets the strong indication that Dix would prefer it if he didn't watch over his shoulder, but if there's anything Alec has to witness, it's this. And he can't just pore over finances like the nightmare didn't have any effect on him. Max would chew him out for delaying, but what else is new? He'd get it done eventually.

All in all, it takes Dix three hours of such rapid-fire searching that Alec couldn't look at his typing fingers anymore because he'd get dizzy to come up with fifteen possible matches, but even he only gives a thirty percent certainty that they come reasonably accurate. Alec can't, unfortunately, give him much to go on.

Dix prints out the scant details of what he'd unearthed and hands them to Alec. Alec had stayed with him the whole time, moving nothing except his knee, but Dix thinks that now is the time he himself should leave. This is personal for the X5, and Dix hasn't the slightest clue what the hell's going on, but it's Alec, and Dix owes him, and that means something. So he leaves to get himself a cup of the black sludge they call coffee, with the whispered command to everyone that they shouldn't approach Alec. Not now.

For his part, Alec looks through the matches with such close inspection it'd seem he's looking for a needle in a haystack, which, all things considered, isn't all that inaccurate. He goes through person after person, writing each one off (too fat, too short, hair's not long enough, eyes are too brown, and the like). Each of the people meets Alec's criteria to some degree; each has the basic characteristics and knows—or knew, some of them are dead—someone named Dean in some way, but none really strikes a chord with Alec.

The second to last person makes him pause. And pause some more. He has vague recollection of dropping the other papers on the desk as he stares at the pages. There are two police records, one of them with a seal indicating it's from Hibbing, Minnesota, the other from Little Rock, Arkansas. Alec reads the first report with slower speed than usual. He doesn't want to miss anything.

Record ID: DF-23094
Name: Samuel Winchester
Born: May 2, 1983
Place of birth: Lawrence, Kansas
Physical description: 6'4" Height, 180-190 lbs, Brown Hair, Brown Eyes. No distinctive markings or tattoos
Relevant Links: Dean Winchester (deceased) – brother of subject

It certainly fits the bill, and it's weird that it says Dean Winchester, the guy's brother (which would explain why they seemed so familial in Alec's nightmare) is dead, because the date of the police report is from 2006, and Sam had definitely looked older than twenty-three. Alec switches to the next report and reads that one carefully as well. It is much of the same information, except for the fact that it mentions Sam has a brother…an alive brother. So much for Dean Winchester's "death."

There is a mug shot, too, in the file, and Alec stops. For right there is staring Sam Winchester, the guy most definitely in Alec's nightmare. Holy shit, Dix more than made good on that returned favor. Sam, looking to be honest rather dismayed and even annoyed, is holding a placard reading his ID number (81A3826, it says), and Alec was right on with his guessing of height, hair, all the rest.

His odd joy stutters, however, when he realizes that if Sam is an actual person, then that means that Dean is as well. And then something clicks in Alec's brain, something that he most assuredly should have put together a long time ago.

Sam and Dean Winchester.

Wanted for dozens of murders, grave desecrations, robberies, fraud, the list went on and on and on.

Alec knows them. More precisely, he's heard of them. Why he didn't catch it before, he doesn't know. Because Sam and Dean Winchester are the most famous serial killers since BTK. Alec was in Manticore for the majority of the Winchesters' crimes, but when he'd have deep cover missions, he'd catch the "anniversary" news from time to time, or hear stories or memories from civilians about the brutal brothers.

They hadn't come without controversy, of course. There'd been reports of witnesses who swore up and down the Winchesters weren't dangerous, that they'd saved their lives. Alec remembered now, some cop in Hibbing—where Sam's record was—another in Baltimore, Maryland; a hostage from a bank heist in Milwaukee, Wisconsin—where Dean was reported to be the culprit—a spirited woman in Cape Girardeau, Missouri, who unerringly claimed they caught her father's killer; a husband and wife from Salvation, Iowa saying they saved their infant daughter; and a few others, from policemen to Podunk diner managers.

They'd suspiciously dropped off the map sometime in '08, a year before Max and hers escaped, not before leaving behind death and chaos, but no traces of the brothers themselves. Alec hadn't really gotten into the whole business; he'd been on the outside for one reason only, and that was to assassinate, steal, or do whatever else he was told. Civilian matters didn't have much weight with him.

Damn it, now he's cursing himself for not paying more attention. That he didn't make note of all the particulars of the cases and of the two brothers. Would've saved him a lot of trouble. Now that he knows who Sam is, though, he can find out more about Dean, the guy unseen in his nightmare. Anticipating that Dean would be under the same databases Sam is, Alec goes over to Dix's computer and clicks the link from the Hibbing record. Sure enough, Dean has one.

Record ID: DF-23094
Name: Dean Winchester
Born: January 24, 1979
Died: March 7, 2006
Place of birth: Lawrence, Kansas
Place of death: St. Louis, Missouri
Physical description: 6'4" Height, 175 lbs., Brown Hair, Green Eyes. No distinctive markings or tattoos. Subject was prime suspect in multiple homicide investigation in St. Louis area prior to his death
Relevant Links: Sam Winchester – brother of subject

So, okay, maybe Hibbing isn't the most precise—Alec knows Dean wasn't 6'4", 'cause Sam was always looking down at him, and he isn't dead (as of that record, anyhow; Alec can't technically be sure of Dean's current status)—but the rest of it seems very plausible. Alec has a brief moment of admiration for how Sam and Dean could weasel their way out of the multitude of accusations of murder and other crimes (the guy was like freakin' Yoda, murderer or not), and then hopes that the Little Rock record will have Dean's mug shot just as it does Sam's. Dean probably has a history in St. Louis, too, but Alec figures it'll just be more of the same. Plus, he's looking for a picture, and he knows for sure Little Rock will deliver.

The first thing he notices is that the guy in the mug is doing a fairly realistic rendition of Blue Steel (and, hell, anyone who can be that brazen with the cops has a little of Alec's respect) mixed with a full-on smirk.

The second thing Alec notices is that the guy in the booking shot…is him.

Not exactly the same, admittedly, the face a few years older, the hair shorter, the jaw shaded in stubble, but otherwise it's Alec all right, and for the first time in a very long time—possibly ever—his entire being is struck silent.

There is one thing he knows for sure, though, in this newly extremely convoluted mess: He's not going to tell Max.