A/N: Same stuff applies as in the first chapter. Oh, and I neither own Supernatural nor Dark Angel. Just this.
A/N part two: Specific episodes of Supernatural mentioned are: none. Specific episodes of Dark Angel mentioned are: none.
Of Desire and the Status Quo
Chapter XXI: Time Waits for No One
Anyone on the street taking a casual glance at Dean and Alec would simply pass them off as brothers, the older just taking a walk with the younger, rare family time as it were. No one would guess they were somehow part of a convoluted government genetics project. And, actually, for both men there are advantages: for Alec, he'd be recognized not as easily, not with Dean there; for Dean, no one would question his skittishness, since Alec exudes enough extroversion for the both of them.
Internally, on the flipside, each are having their own battles. Alec, for the most part, is still wondering—since he'd first voiced his offer, to be honest—what the hell he's doing. Why, for the love of God, he's following Dean Winchester, who, by all counts that Alec had found, is a socio-psychopath. All logic tells him he's going crazy himself for participating in this foolhardy plan. It is foolhardy, to be sure: Alec knows Dean doesn't really have a destination in mind, nor does he have a methodology for finding Sam. Yet Alec's walking alongside him. Why?
Dean is wondering much of the same things, at least the parts about allowing Alec to tag along. A few hours of walking with the X5 had started to acclimate Dean to a twin of his face, in looks anyway, but the disposition still floors him. He guesses he continuously expects Alec to act just how Dean had when he was younger, but Alec doesn't. Sure, he's got Dean's propensity of being a smartass, of leering at women, of hiding emotions away. But the soldier inside Dean isn't like the soldier inside Alec, and while Dean feels he was completely robbed and gutted from a childhood because of Mary's death and John's crusade, he knows Alec's might as well have also been Hell. (Dean's probably the one person who can say that with firsthand knowledge.)
That said, at least Alec is acquainted with this gone-to-seed version of Seattle, of the world, regardless of that he was abused as a kid. All Dean's seen is destruction, gotten tortured, withstood more nightmares, and been studied like he's some damn new kind of insect. Well, Dean's had enough of that. If the only thing Max, Logan, and even Rade to an extent, are going to do is look at him like he's the freak of nature, then he's not going to stick around. Dean's never been one for waiting, anyway. He dislikes staying in one place for more than a week—maybe more if there's a particularly long hunt—and Seattle's (or at least that Terminal City place) worn out its welcome with him.
There is one good thing about Alec coming with him, though, Dean has to concede. The kid is pretty observant. For instance, he can tell to precision that Dean doesn't want to talk. That Dean's one wrong remark or step away from completely blowing a gasket, which would be okay, except Alec doesn't know whether it'd be a mental or physical one. He'd be cool with getting clocked a time or two, fine, but he sure as hell doesn't know what he'd do if Dean had another cerebral meltdown. Alec doesn't have nearly the patience and fortitude that Joshua had had; he's not sure if he could just play into Dean's visions or not.
But Alec's made his choice, he and Dean are already out of the inner city, Seattle's skyline and Puget Sound to their backs, and although Alec can ditch Dean whenever he sees fit, he hasn't seen it quite yet. Truth be, if he's read Dean right, the poor guy wouldn't do very awesomely alone.
However, even Alec, while he knows Dean wants quiet, has to have some sort of outline in mind. He's about to ask where exactly Dean plans to go, how long he plans to just walk (Alec's not too keen on strolling the entire U.S., thanks), when suddenly Dean veers off to the left, toward a row of houses—if they can be called that—that are some of the last before they wander outside of the Seattle outskirts.
He merely stops in his place and watches Dean, pondering what Dean's intending to do, and whether it's sane or not. Dean takes a few seconds, obviously debating something, before calmly walking over to an older-model Mustang, searches around, going all the way to the side of the house, before bending down to pick up something, snapping his fingers, and walking back over to the car. With a speed and agility that impresses Alec, Dean slides the newly-straightened coat hanger between the car's weather stripping and window, only fumbling for a second before Alec's sensitive ears pick up the sound of a lock opening.
Alec's curious just as to how many times Dean's done this before (not sure he wants to know), but strides over to Dean anyway, without questioning him just yet. Dean doesn't signal that he notices Alec's there, instead just opens the door and reaches down to finagle the steering column covering off, revealing the complex series of wires underneath. It's total second nature to Dean, this process, and whipping out his pocket knife—the same one that was previously embedded in Alec's thigh, and Alec's still very unhappy with that fact—he quickly strips two of the wires' protective coating. Tapping the exposed ends of the wires together, the engine gives no fewer than a dozen false starts before finally turning over.
Standing up straight with a self-satisfied, yet still not reaching his eyes, smile, Dean looks at Alec. "Last chance, kid," Dean says frankly, vaguely gesturing to the six-cylinder. "I ain't gonna quit until I find Sam. You really want to help, get your scrawny ass in. You want to go back to your scrap of city, better get going. Sun's goin' down."
Alec shrugs, his faster-than-normal-processing mind already having gone through all possible outcomes. A grin is all Alec gives (he doesn't choose to point out that even if the sun did go down, Alec could see just fine) as he meanders around to the other side of the car, sitting down in the torn leather seat and shutting the door with an oddly final slam. From his position, Alec doesn't see the small sigh of relief Dean gives before he himself takes the driver's seat. He won't ever admit it, but just having someone sitting next to him, even if it's not Sam, feels closer to familiar than he's had in two millennia. And, Dean thinks, that's a good thing.
Finally dragging herself out of the medical room after seeing Dix's motionless form, Max retreats to her office, where anyone with half a brain knows not to disturb her unless it's of utmost importance. She honestly doesn't know what to think about the whole situation, about Dix, about Dean, about Alec, about Logan, hell, about Sam, about everything. It's just too much swirling around in her head, enough to make her nauseas, trapped inside of her own body. She'd thought about asking Rade for some analgesics, but knows Rade's answer. They're not for transgenics, she'd say, unless you draw out three times the amount for Ordinaries, and I won't let you do that. They're for Dean, she'd say, if he'd need more.
Well, that and Max doesn't think even morphine is really the thing to cure her of her current thoughts. The newest one being, obviously, what the source of the explosion was; why there was an explosion to begin with; who had done it? She has faith that her people can discover the answers to her questions, but how long would it take? Dean's already gone. Does that, Max wonders, make him obsolete on her mental list of things to fix? Out of sight, out of mind? She hopes not. Generally, she doesn't like to part with someone on bad terms, unless it's purposeful.
Feeling that she'll need someone to bounce things off of, she gets up wearily out of her chair and walks into Command, studiously trying to ignore the demolition still in sight. Instead, she walks around, looking for her second-in-command, wondering where in the world he'd gone off to. It just figures that when she actually wants to find him, he'd be incognito, but when she really didn't, he'd be buzzing around her like a particularly annoying, malaria-toting mosquito.
She does find Mole, though, and goes up to him. "Have you seen Alec around?" she asks, letting nothing show on her face, but taking in the drawn expression of Mole's.
"Nope," Mole replies curtly. "Why?"
"I just need to talk to him," Max answers vaguely, glancing over Mole's shoulder to where the front gate is, thinking maybe Alec would just stroll in, but also knowing that he wouldn't. "You haven't heard from him?"
Mole stares at her, like he's disbelieving she's actually asking the same thing twice. "I haven't seen him," he responds again. "We done here? I have to…"
He leaves the sentence unfinished, but Max fills it in silently anyway. Nodding, she leaves him to walk away from her and grouch at someone for something that probably isn't their fault. She heads back to her office, finding the sojourn completely unhelpful.
Beyond that, however, she can't help a very persistent nag in the back of her mind. A persistent nag that's whispering a possibility that she really doesn't want to be true. She doesn't think Alec would be so quick to jump on the Dean bandwagon, but…Alec's never been one for predictability. Sighing, and running a hand raggedly through her hair, she takes out her cell phone and dials Alec's, for once glad he'd been so insistent upon procuring them both one.
The phone rings once, twice, three times, four times, and then clicks to the automated voicemail that has no personalized message whatsoever. "Alec, pick up your damn phone," Max snaps into the speaker. "Where the hell are you?"
She hangs up and tries again, to the same result. And the persistent nag gets worse and worse.
Alec's cell phone rings for the umpteenth time, and finally Dean loses it and demands why Alec hasn't attended to it yet. When Alec shows the display to him, the black and white text reading "Satan's Mistress," Dean rolls his eyes. "Wuss," he remarks, neglecting to acknowledge he'd done the same thing when wanting to avoid a conversation now and again.
"Shut up," Alec replies loquaciously, finally deciding to set his phone on silent and dump it in the cupholder. "She's just needing a venting adversary, and I'm really not in the mood." Feeling now's a good a time as any, he crowbars in, "You know, it wouldn't hurt if you'd let me drive—"
"No," Dean dismisses, his hand gripping the steering wheel tightly. "Just…look out for a drugstore."
"Why?" Alec asks before he can think it through.
Dean doesn't do anything besides wince and glance anxiously at his shoulder, which is still bleeding impressively, staining the brown leather of the car. Dean knows when he needs to get something looked at, and though he doesn't feel he has time to go to a hospital at the moment, he's already feeling a little woozy from blood loss. He's gotten enough gashes and breaks like this before to know when he's in danger of passing out, and now's one of those times.
Passing a sign that gives the mileage to Ellensburg (102 miles), Spokane (279 miles), and Coeur d'Alene (313 miles), Alec's a little surprised that they're already a good distance on the interstate—courtesy of Dean's driving, which, as Alec notes, is kind of like his own—but he abides by Dean's necessities. Given his condition, it's probably better if Alec's at the wheel, but he can see that that's one privilege Dean's not going to give up without a hell of a fight.
Luckily, it's not long before Alec sees (aided by his amped-up vision) an old, abandoned fill-up joint maybe half a mile off the freeway. Letting Dean know this information, it's but a second's lapse and the car is heading toward it, tires quickly crunching over gravel and debris, the exit having long been unattended.
Just like he'd been so efficient with hotwiring the car, Dean doesn't hesitate to kick down the front door of the convenience mart, the wood splintering off its hinges and collapsing inside. Alec figures it's good enough, and follows Dean to the pathetic first aid section, grabbing a small multitude of items that reeks of having had the need to do this a million times in the past.
Dean shoves the items into Alec's hands, and Alec looks at them with disdain, their primitivism shameful: a needle and thread from a pocket sewing kit act as sutures and a surgical needle; dated wraps of gauze and athletic tape act as sterile bandages and medical adhesive; the only remotely hospital-grade equipment is hydrogen peroxide and rubbing alcohol. And, unsurprisingly, Dean's own brand of anesthetic: Bacardi 151.
"You're serious," Alec deadpans, looking at Dean's very not joking face. "This is so not going to be fun for you."
Dean's pretty confident that a glare is the appropriate response to Alec's unsupportive comment. He makes his way over to the run-down service counter and grabs the chair behind it, taking a seat. Alec exhales incredulously, but walks to Dean anyway, fully aware but not planning to inform Dean that med wasn't his specialty back at Manticore. Truthfully, they hadn't had much use for it, thanks to the transgenics' boosted immunities and coagulation. Still, he's also very cognizant of the fact that Dean's entrusting him to do this, and that's an incentive if nothing else. Alec's just glad Dean hadn't asked him to perform the shoulder surgery. That he knows he's not good at.
Dean takes a long draft of the vodka, which Alec interprets as the sign to start, and pours the hydrogen peroxide over Dean's wound before swabbing the area around it with the alcohol. Then, accompanied by a grimace, he threads the white string onto the needle and stitches it through one side of Dean's skin, across the bloody laceration, and out the other, the flesh kneading together with the suture. Alec snatches a glimpse of Dean's face, and although for the most part it's eerily stoic, the clenched jaw and multiple, quick drags of liquor don't deceive.
It doesn't take Alec long to finish, and he pours another dose of peroxide and alcohol over the stitched area, and then covers it with the makeshift bandages. He's stopped the bleeding, but, as if he can see inside of Dean's muscle, the ripped rotator cuff still screams to be repaired. Alec wonders just how long Dean plans to let it sit, and knows that any doctor worth their salt would frown massively over Dean's methods. Probably sock him one in Rade's case. If Dean is serious about their only priority being to find Sam, well, Alec hopes Sam's at most in Spokane. 'Cause he's really not positive how much longer Dean's machismo can outsmart his body before the latter simply gives out.
"All right, done," Alec says reluctantly, scowling at his own handiwork. The stitches are neat, precise, and as surgical as they can be given the equipment, but the crudity is still blatant. "But that rotator—"
"Shut it, kid," Dean barks in his growly-voice, before Alec can finish. He's heard enough badgering about his fucking shoulder to last him a lifetime. He knows it's bad. He knows it'll all go to shit if he doesn't get it taken care of. He knows he needs a hospital. He knows Alec's harassment is so similar to Sam's when Dean would get a gash from some creature or other and did his patented bitchface, but ultimately stay quiet.
He also knows that Alec's not nearly as apt in the self-preservation category when dealing with him.
"Dude, you could die," Alec wheedles, well aware he's going to the extreme. If his stitches are any good—which he'll say they definitely are—they should keep infection at bay for the time being, but they're not forever.
Dean stands up abruptly, turning away from Alec and shutting his eyes against the barrage of vertigo that overtakes his system. He's not going to be all weak in front of Alec, he's not, but fuck, his eyesight's tunneling for a few seconds. Alec, of course, doesn't miss this, his sharp vision catching all the affectations of Dean's body, but he won't say anything. Not just yet, anyway. It'd be a wisecrack that would only suffice if he and Dean actually knew each other for longer. Alec, with a certain amount of emptiness, wonders what'll happen when they find Sam. If Dean was telling the truth about leaving Alec's ass in the middle of nowhere, or wherever Sam is. Sure, Alec's fully capable hotwiring a car on his own, but it'd still sting a little, the abandonment.
Ah, Christ, when did Alec become such a candy-ass?
Dean interrupts his steadily more depressing thoughts with a harsh command before Alec can really do some damaging self-evaluation. "Hurry up," he says, punching Alec in the arm. "Burning daylight."
Alec decides to not let Dean in on the fact that the sun's already begun to set, along with the one that neither really has any remote idea where Sam is. Then again, Alec did agree to go with Dean, so really, he can't complain all that much.
"I need food," Alec whines (hey, he never said he couldn't complain about important stuff), already heading toward the chips and sweets aisle. "My metabolism is fast. Gotta eat."
At Alec's declaration, Dean wonders when exactly it was since he'd last eaten. He can't remember, and honestly that shocks him. He's pretty sure there's no bacon cheeseburgers in the minimart, but he tells Alec to get him some grub anyway. He won't be any use if his system is so lacking in nutrition—or a facsimile of some, that is.
Seven minutes later, both boys are back in the car, Dean equipped with his now half-drained flagon of Bacardi, as well as Funyuns, Doritos, a partially flat Coke, three Snickers bars, as well as a bottle of aspirin that Alec had nearly strong-armed him into taking, calling bullshit on the I'm-feeling-fine-with-no-pain defense; Alec is comparably stocked, though he ended up with about three times what Dean had, albeit substituting the Coke for a Dr. Pepper and a six-pack, and the Snickers for a large bag of M&Ms and gummy bears. Some of which Dean attempted to "borrow," but quickly got a stinging slap on the hand.
Unhealthily fed but sated now, Dean's current ailment—apart from the sans Sam, shoulder, and Alec issues—is finding a radio station that doesn't suck extreme balls. Not only are there not very many radio stations to begin with, but either they're a pitiful attempt at an NPR-type show (not that Dean had ever listened to it), or full of watered-down techno shit that Dean had first heard at that bar days ago.
"Jesus, just pick a station or shut it off, will you?" Alec gripes finally, after about five minutes of Dean flipping through channels.
"This reality is total crap," Dean grouses, for the moment only making reference to the radio. "There's no good music."
Alec cocks his head, intrigued. After all, he'd never heard any other music in his life than what the so-called popular tunes were. "Like what?" he asks honestly.
Dean looks over at Alec, initially dubious, but then smirks when he realizes he has the chance to, as Sam would denote it, corrupt. "Can't believe you people don't know," Dean comments, shaking his head, and very much wishing he had his box of cassette tapes. Hell, he'd even take a CD, if it meant rock music. "First thing you need to know: electric guitar. No lame synthesized crap, or whatever your anemic songs are made of. Second thing: actual bands. Metallica. Zeppelin. The Ramones. Rolling Stones. Van Halen. You've really never even heard of anyone?"
Bristling, yet at the same time almost in awe of each word Dean's saying to him, Alec feels the need to defend "this reality," as Dean had so obtusely put it. "It's not all bad," he says, irritated that his voice doesn't sound as sure as he would like it to be. "I mean, no drinking age, and you can always impress the women when you're fluent in six languages."
Rolling his eyes, Dean flips on the squeaking windshield wipers as rain starts to pelt the car. "You're lucky there's no drinking age, kid. Otherwise it'd be fake IDs for the next five years," Dean snarks, choosing to ignore the six languages thing. Dean's got two—English and Latin—and he's picked up a few phrases in French and Spanish here and there, but it wouldn't exactly be enough to, say, get him around one of the countries. But hey, if he's ever in the Vatican, look out ladies.
Alec looks at Dean strangely. "Bars haven't bothered to card people since a year or two after the Pulse," he says, the rejoinder a key point in Alec's puzzlement over Dean's appearance. Yeah, he'd wondered about the police reports and showing Dean born in '79, but that wasn't real.
Granting Alec with a noncommittal noise, Dean turns his eyes back to the lacking-in-maintenance freeway. "It wasn't always," Dean replies, somewhat distantly. At Alec's continued stare, Dean decides to throw current caution to the wind. Hell, if anyone, Alec's the one most deserving of information. "I mean, from '79 to 2008, at least, carding was still a bitch to get around. Damn government cracking down on fake IDs and everything. Homeland Security ones were the hardest…not that I had any trouble making them convincing, of course."
Alec waits, almost wishing Dean would just call "psych" on him, say this whole thing's a joke, that he'll pull off a face mask à la Mission Impossible, and turn out to be some member of T.C. Alec doesn't have that luck, though. "So…everything we found was…kosher?" Alec says laboriously, taking his eyes from the road to stare rivetingly at Dean's profile. "I mean, everything?"
Dean chuckles, a low guttural sound that Alec doesn't think really fits with how Dean looks. "Pretty much," Dean affirms. "They just left out the fact that most of the 'murders' were killing ghosts and demons that happened to be riding some poor bastards topside."
"Demons."
"Did I stutter?"
Offset, Alec turns back to looking out the front windshield, at the gray skies and flooded road. "No, it's just—demons? As in, not metaphorical?"
"Sammy'd be a hell of a lot better at doing the puppy dog eyed, let-me-hold-you, ice cream way, lead you into this whole thing. But I like things up front, and if you don't, tough. 'Cause that's how things are gonna be."
Laughing ironically, Alec shakes his head. "No objections here," he answers. "But, uh, there's kind of a difference between wanting things straightforward and having someone tell you evil personified exists. And, you know, the whole clone thing."
"I ain't anybody's clone," Dean snaps instantly, unaware as to why that assertion strikes a nerve with him. Maybe it's his whole insecurity thing. Fear of being cast aside, out of identity, so to speak. "If anybody is, it's you, scrawny."
In another circumstance, Alec would have been on Dean with the "scrawny" comment in an instant. Had Dean not attributed Alec as a clone in such derogatory terms. True, Alec knows Dean's unaware of the connotation it held, and Alec doubts Max had let Dean in on the verity that Ben would be in the same boat as he if Ben were alive, but it still rubs Alec the wrong way.
"There a problem if I'm a clone?" Alec bites, wondering if he could punch Dean unconscious and take control of the car quick enough so it didn't crash. He thinks he probably could.
Dean turns his concentration for a moment to look at Alec, his eyes dark. "Dude, there are so many things wrong with what you just said," he replies, thinking that if they were back in 2008, Alec's comment would earn him strange stares from everyone. "And hey, I'm not the one spouting off theories about you coming from me or whatever."
Settling back in his seat, Alec tells himself to calm down. He's not fond of letting his temper get away from him, and just because Dean had said something flippant shouldn't ignite it. Ruminating on Dean's words, Alec sits back in his seat and watches idly the tired road stretch on into the darkening horizon.