A/N: Same stuff applies as in the first chapter. Oh, and unfortunately I neither own Supernatural nor Dark Angel. Just this.
A/N part two: Mua ha ha on the cliffhanger. =D
A/N part three: Specific episodes of Supernatural mentioned are: "Dead in the Water," "Croatoan," "Playthings," "Roadkill," "Heart," and an Ellen-ism from "Good God, Y'all." Specific episodes of Dark Angel mentioned are: "Brainiac."
Of Desire and the Status Quo
Chapter XXIV: When Worlds Collide
Dean retreats into himself again as he's overcome with internal musings Alec is far from privy to, and even when he comes out of the thoughts, he can't bring himself to confide in Alec any more than he already has. Which, judging by Alec's thoroughly confused workings, isn't a whole hell of a lot.
But there's no use in trying to coax Dean out of it, Alec's figured that much out so far. Both knowing neither will sleep one wink at this point, Alec shuts off the light and Dean turns on his side, facing the wall away from Alec. Alec lies on his back, staring up at the ceiling with a hand on his stomach, idly wondering what everyone back in Terminal City is doing. He still hasn't talked to Max (last time he checked his cell, the missed calls count was at eleven), but she hasn't called in a while, either, so he's narrowed it down to her being too preoccupied with something else to bother with getting a hold of him again, she's sent out a search party for him (fat chance), or she concluded that Alec's with Dean and just fine.
In a manner of speaking.
The hours pass phenomenally slowly, the musty smell of the motel and nauseating sounds of fornication from the room across the hall amplified with Alec's increased senses. He doesn't know how Dean's faring, but he sincerely doubts the guy's having much more luck. He's probably used to the odors and noises of seedy lodging, but he's also probably trapped within the confines of his own mind, which likely is worse. It doesn't make Alec feel better, but there you have it.
When the sun finally breaks on the Cowboy State horizon and a half dozen or so birds begin chirping, the clock flashing 6:44 in bright blue numbers, Alec can't take it anymore. Getting off the bed stiffly and stretching his arms above his head, he ambles into the bathroom and turns on the shower. He suspects the water is straight from the nearest river, and the pipes may be rusty (not that in recent months that's been abnormal), but the temperature is scalding the way he likes—and, good Lord, he hasn't had a warm shower since he lived in Brain's apartment—and as he steps under the spray, he does his best to shut out all outside stimuli. It doesn't work very well, but it gives Alec something better to concentrate on than anything else so far.
For Dean's part, ache is all he feels. The aspirin and vodka had long since worn off, and his pain receptors are very much back in effect, with renewed vengeance. He knows the upcoming drive would be filled with awkwardness, the unfortunate backfiring of Dean starting to tell Alec about Hell. He caught Alec's disappointment when Dean withdrew from him, Alec wishing most likely that Dean would just allow Alec to be the confidant that both know he needs. And Dean feels bad, truly he does, but he can't help but push him away. For Alec's sake, he hopes that after he sees Sam, he won't be as frigid to the X5. God willing. (Pardon the phrase.)
Worse than that, though, is his shoulder injury returning quite vocally. It isn't like the rest of his body, that dull pulsating discomfort, but rather more exacerbated than yesterday. Which, in Dean's experience, unless it's a fever breaking, pain getting steadily heightened never bodes well. He doesn't know if it's just the unrepaired injury by itself or if the wound had gotten infected or something else entirely, but he does know that he has to get it looked at.
He thinks it can wait until they get to Bobby's, though. And while Bobby won't be able to patch it up himself—the guy's practically a walking encyclopedic House, but he's not omniscient—but Sioux Falls is a large city, and Dean knows there's a hospital there. Given Bobby, the man probably already has a reputation there. At the very least, faked insurance and ID that Dean can use. He doesn't know how he's going to explain Alec's presence to Bobby, but he'll cross that bridge when he gets to it.
Dean can hear the shower running, and billows of steam escaping underneath the doorframe, the empty bed next to him signaling Alec's foray into the shower. Dean had heard the kid trying to get comfortable the whole night—post almost-confession, that is—and he felt bad since he was the cause of it, but he honestly had assumed that Alec would be able to sleep just about anywhere and anytime. Dean's never liked cats, and he's never had one, but he knows they're prone to plopping down wherever they feel like it and snoozing the hours away.
But Alec's not, so Dean takes the brief moments that he's out from under his microscope, and takes a deep breath, the stale air in the room like an old friend. A really unsanitary old friend, but who's splitting hairs? If he closes his eyes, he can almost envision the rickety table loaded down with multiple guns in various states of cleaning and deconstruction, maps spread out on the bedspread, Sam hunched over uncomfortably at his computer. He's perfected this particular art over his years in Hell; oftentimes, it was the only thing that could help dissociate his mind from his body. He's a little bemused his intense psychological strain hadn't made him dissociate permanently, create another personality, but chalks it up to the fact that he can barely handle one of him in his head at a time, let alone two or more.
The illusion is shattered when Alec shakes Dean's shoulder firmly but carefully. Dean opens his eyes, blinks a few times, and looks over to see Alec already dressed, and towel drying his hair. Dean avoids his gaze and walks past him into the bathroom, itching to reach South Dakota and the person who's the closest thing he has to a father.
According to the car's clock, it's only been three hours, but Alec's already this close to disproving the theory that you can't die from boredom; the fact that he's driving and not sitting in the passenger seat doesn't help even a little bit. Only three hours may have elapsed, but in Road to the Badlands time, it might as well have been twenty. Dean seems just fine, if amused at Alec's frustration, the only possible fidgeting he does coming simply from anticipation of seeing his surrogate parent, and perhaps his shoulder.
"Favorite vacation," Dean offers, starting the game that he and Sammy would occasionally play when they were younger. Dean thinks it'll be more interesting with Alec, considering that Dean basically knew all of Sam's answers. Being in the same proximity to someone for twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, three hundred sixty-four days out of the year would do that to you.
Alec snaps his head over, like he's skeptical Dean's really asking him that question. But, really, what else is there to do? Count tumbleweeds? He thinks back, somewhat depressingly realizing the only "vacations" he's had are the ones to locales for Manticore missions. He'll just try to ignore the killing parts if he can.
"Mont Saint-Michel," Alec answers finally, his accent, predictably, flawless. "It's an island north of Normandy, pretty awesome."
"What'd you do there?" Dean asks.
Alec stiffens, trying to assure himself that Dean hadn't realized the weight of his words. But, he relents, there's already enough discomfort between them. He doesn't want there to be more. "I killed the sightseeing CEO of a genetics research firm from a thousand meters away."
Dean's mute for a few moments, obviously regretting asking the question. "Sorry, man," he says. "I didn't know." Alec shrugs it off, grunting in dismissal. "If it makes you feel better, I missed shooting a werewolf from ten yards away once."
Blinking at the absurdity of Dean's statement, he peruses his face for signs of falsehood, but it's not there. Smirking maybe, but no falsification. "You're crazy," he says with conviction.
"It's been said," replies Dean as if the phrase had been uttered a million and one times before. "Listen…you know it's not your fault, right? I mean, you'd'a been killed if you hadn't shot that guy."
Alec gives Dean a small smile, truthfully grateful at the effort. "Sure as hell doesn't feel like that," he replies, looking down at his hands and seeing blood that isn't there. "That guy didn't do anything wrong."
Dean switches his gaze from out the window to Alec, recognizing the twisted features as the same ones he's had many instances before, even before he'd gone to Hell and not had the incidents shoved in his face (literally). The one of acknowledging that committing the dirty deeds was your job, yet it doesn't make the emotional repercussions any less, or make you feel any better. It doesn't even help to get completely forget-your-name, bang-the-ugliest-girl-in-the-bar, swaying-beyond-belief plastered. Dean knows. He's tried.
Alec hadn't had to see a child nearly drowned by a supernatural creature because of someone's fatal mistake, he hadn't had to listen to his brother execute a woman he loved, and he hadn't had to go through the turmoil of emotions and morals to determine whether or not to kill someone because he might have a demonic virus in him. But, in some ways, what Alec had had to do was worse. At least Dean hadn't been under threat of death by the people who raised him if he didn't slaughter his target. At least he knew he wouldn't be physically abused if he'd left a woman to haunt a freeway and didn't tell her she was dead.
Not that Alec would've had to do any of that otherworldly stuff, but the point still holds. And Dean'll be damned—again—if he doesn't help Alec see that. God knows Sam had done that a hundred times over.
"I'd say we could just go get hammered, but somehow I don't think that would cure any of the guilt you got going on," Dean says, not understanding the chuckle of irony that Alec gives.
"I can't get drunk anyway," he explains. "Damn metabolism is great for keeping fit, but total shit for days that really, really require a keg, let me tell you."
Dean laughs in sympathy, feeling it's an appropriate, yet inappropriate, reaction. The lightness fading, he hits Alec's arm. "Seriously, man," he says, his tone getting Alec to look solemnly at him and away from the road for probably longer than is wise. Dean senses the significance of the attention, the same significance he'd sense when Sam was in need of older brotherly assurance. It fortifies Dean a little.
"You can't take these things home with you, 'specially when you actually got a home—kinda. You seem like a decent kid, and you don't deserve what you're goin' through. I'm not going to lie to you, it doesn't get much better, but think of the good you're doing now…it's what got me through most days."
"Yeah? What good is it that I'm doing now? Far as I'm told, I'm the biggest fuck-up to ever darken the streets of Seattle," Alec says bitterly.
Scorning in rebuke, Dean shakes his head vehemently. "That what that Max chick tell you?" he asks accurately, Alec sinking back in his seat by way of response. "The way I see it, sounds like it's just some kind of backlash; you're the guy she can vent to and knows will stand his ground. For what it's worth, I don't think you're a fuck-up."
It's silence that greets Dean, but Alec takes his words to heart, absorbing them like they're gospel. He's never really had someone to comfort him, as it were, and although Alec's afraid that he's turning too soft, too needy, he can't help but be affected by Dean's comfort. They may be nearly identical in terms of genes and appearance, but when it comes down to what truly matters, Alec has to admit that Dean's the only one out of the two of them to have the older sibling devotion thing down. He has a shrewd suspicion Dean would possess that kind of trait even if he didn't have a younger brother, yet that same suspicion surmises that having Sam (even if not at the present time) only intensifies that compassion.
"You're a good guy, Dean," Alec says quietly, glancing at Dean again in gratitude. "Thanks."
Dean only gives him a lopsided smile, but inside, his heart warms for the first time in over two thousand years. And he doesn't regret that it's Alec who engendered it instead of Sam. He doesn't.
Really not wanting more dead air to ensue—damn it, now even Alec wants that stupid radio to get its ass in gear—Alec clears his throat. "Okay, so…what's the story on this guy?" he asks, simultaneously trying to decide whether it's the heat off of the asphalt that's making the road ahead ripple, or if he's been staring at that road and squinting into the sun so long that his eyes are the ones making weird shapes. He's still marinating on that one.
"Who, Bobby?" Dean inquires with a chuckle. "That could fill books, kid."
"I have a name," Alec mutters huffily. "It's not going to kill you if you use it, you know."
Dean, looking very much like he'd like to laugh, merely quirks a grin. "Hey, it took Sam years to grow out of it, so you know what, you're going to have to wait a while until you get your name back."
Alec's mouth is open to give a scathing reply before he acknowledges what Dean's doing. "That's cold, dude," he says, realizing Dean's whole intent was to get a rise out of him. "And totally juvenile. Jeez, you're thirty. Grow up."
Dean begs to differ. "Twenty-nine," he iterates, acting as if there's a huge discrepancy. "'M only twenty-nine."
"What happened to that Hell crap?"
Alec instantly regrets the flippancy of his words, but Dean doesn't act on it. For the moment at least, he's done with any upcoming chick flick moments, and by God, he's not going to devolve into a pile of snot and tears every time Hell is mentioned. That won't do him any good, in any universe.
"Doesn't count," Dean replies lightly, kindly ignoring Alec's soft sigh of relief. "Do over."
"Cop out."
"What are you complaining about?" Dean grouses. "You've got that face goin' on, and you're whining about it? Priorities, man."
Alec can't decide whether to be insulted at Dean's ego, or feel complimented. His brain's trying to work through which one would be less Freudian. "All right, first of all, it's kind of hard to think about that when there's real slim pickings and your life is constantly in danger," Alec replies. "I'm telling you, I had more luck before Max started that little venture of hers. All work and no play makes Alec a dull boy."
Raising an eyebrow at Alec's grumpiness, Dean reaches down and grabs the bottle of heavy whiskey that Alec had somehow missed him nick. "So why do you stick around, then?" he asks curiously, swigging some of the alcohol before holding it out to Alec. "I mean, even before that government interference crap, you didn't have to, right?"
Alec shifts a little in his seat, all of a sudden uncomfortable with the topic and really wishing he could retcon on his previous statement. He takes a drink from the proffered whiskey before replying, "Would I totally lose my manhood if I said I'm really bad self-company?"
Dean regards Alec for a second or two. "Only some. To your credit, Max is a good-looking girl."
He doesn't mention the fact that it was he who had driven almost twenty-five hundred miles from New Orleans to Palo Alto to get Sam, whom he hadn't talked to in two years, with the excuse to find John and the Yellow-Eyed Demon (an excuse on which he thoroughly thought Sam would call bullshit), when really he was just sick and tired of being alone, and so sue him if he just wanted his little brother alongside him.
No, he doesn't mention that fact. Chiefly seeing as how he already knows the way Alec looks at him with pity in his eyes because of Dean's nightmares, and he doesn't want to have sissy tacked on there as well.
"Sure," Alec responds, like the good-looking part of it was an afterthought. "No, I dunno. It just seemed like the least destructive idea at the time."
Dean senses this isn't the half of it, that there's an underlying reason—or at least a longer story to the one Alec had said—for staying. But he doesn't press; he'd be the biggest hypocrite in the world if he did. And yeah, he could play the my-dick-is-bigger-than-yours card with his "I was in Hell" as opposed to Alec's "I wanted a de facto family," but Dean's not that big of a douche. Not right now, anyway.
"Yeah, well, if you're serious about it, don't stay away for too long," says Dean hollowly. Alec flicks his eyes over at the new tone, to see Dean's expression just as empty as his voice, obviously reminiscing over some memory he'd rather forget.
It's an easy enough one to deduce, though, especially with what Alec had found out. "You're talking about Sam," he says, more in the form of a statement. Dean just takes the shared liquor bottle from Alec and drinks. "I heard about you guys, you know, before now. I just hadn't remembered."
Dean looks over, the obvious question in his face.
"When I was sent out on…jobs," Alec amends, carefully sidestepping the real purpose behind those them, "I'd heard stuff about you and Sam. They talked about you reuniting in '05 after years of discord or whatever."
Dean chuckles. "You got some memory," he remarks complacently, wondering if he himself would have remembered stuff like that. He doesn't have an answer for it. "They kinda abbreviated it, though. Shoulda known Sammy was going to jump ship soon 's he could. Didn't think college, but you know."
"Everyone said Sam was the brains of your guys' operation," Alec says with a small frown. Yes, he distinctly remembers that. Sam was the brains, Dean was the brawn. Admittedly, they both did okay in the opposite areas, but that's always how Alec had heard it described.
"Really? Everyone?" Dean asks in disgruntlement, thoroughly dissatisfied with Alec's response. "Just 'cause Sam went to friggin' Stanford…"
"You think that was a bad decision?"
Unsure of how he wants to proceed, Dean takes another sip of mind-numbing alcohol. "Yeah…no…I mean, Sam deserved to go to college," he fumbles, wincing. "It's just—never mind."
"Whoa, whoa, whoa, wait," Alec says firmly, wishing he weren't somewhat undermining his tone with the fact that he can't look at Dean for too long before the car would veer off the freeway. Not that they'd really be crashing into anything besides corn—and what a rarity that is in this part of the States—but Alec doesn't exactly want to crash. "What are you talking about? Why wouldn't you want Sam to go to school?"
"I told you, he did deserve to," Dean says again, eyes dead set on the horizon.
Alec's not buying it for a second, and this is one instant where Dean wishes his DNA weren't so coded with perception that it transversed over to Alec. Who, by all means, just had to have it enhanced beyond normality. "Don't give me that," Alec persists. "You totally don't. Come on, man, fess up. What inferiority complex thing you got going on?"
"I don't have any complexes," Dean rebukes reflexively, pretty much staking claim in precisely what Alec had said. Dean doesn't say anything else at first, and considering Alec can't just stare at him for an uncomfortably long amount of time until he talks, he goes for socking him in the arm. He'd go for the shoulder, but he isn't that mean. "You hit me one more time and I'll kick your ass out of this car. You can hitch your way back to Seattle."
Alec grumbles an assent.
"Look, Sam did deserve it, I'm not reneging on that," Dean says with vindication. "It's just…I don't know. I think it woulda been nice to see what all the hype was about is all."
"You wanted to go to school?" Alec asks, carefully keeping all surprise out of his voice. Truthfully, Dean hadn't really struck him as the Joe College type.
"I thought about it," Dean says, abridging comprehensively. He doesn't feel he's quite buddy-buddy with Alec enough to tell him about all the applications he'd sent into numerous universities, including the Ivy Leagues. Honestly, he'd expect a snort of some kind from the transgenic, and he just doesn't want to hear it. "Didn't work out. No big deal."
Despite Dean's attempts at concealment, Alec sees right through it. The clenched jaw, the pursed lips, the staring straight ahead…fuck yeah, Dean had wanted to go off to college. Alec knows the look of regret and longing. He's seen it multiple times in the mirror; there's no way he could mistake it for something else.
"That sucks, man," he says levelly, unfortunately also knowing Dean isn't much for the apology thing. "Sorry."
"You didn't do anything."
No, he didn't, but… Alec's not sure exactly how to approach this kind of thing, not just because he still doesn't know much about Dean and Sam—from their mouths, anyway—but because he doesn't know much about the whole college thing. Manticore had made their creations with superior intellect that any higher education institution would be falling over themselves to have, but it's not like Manticore had encouraged them to go to school. They instead intended it for espionage and subterfuge, their brilliant minds to be put to criminal and completely inhumane acts. Alec was one of the lucky ones, in that he didn't trust Manticore in the least, but most of the others weren't so fortunate. True blue soldiers until the end.
Alec pitied them, but it wasn't like he could lead a revolution against Manticore. Especially not after the '09ers escaped. Manticore had tightened their already locked down security until their prisoners could hardly go to the bathroom without being escorted by a half dozen guards. It wouldn't matter if Alec had wanted to attend a university or some sort of Ordinary desire like that even if he'd wanted to. Calling for "radio silence" on a mission didn't do anything—Manticore didn't disable their comms, just stayed quiet. Alec had had to learn to have no modesty in the least in order to maintain a sane mind.
Seriously. Getting it on with the senator's daughter as per new mission parameters while his bosses were listening? So not conducive to being "in the moment."
"Regardless," Alec says, coming out of his dismal recollections. "You shoulda been able to do what you wanted."
Dean looks over and smiles, the gesture void of all humor, geniality, and totally saturated with misery. "Looks like neither of us got the long straw."
Alec, much as he'd like to refute that statement, can't.
Max glares at her dented cell phone with a type of petulant fury, the intensity of it high enough to where the phone just might ring like she wishes it to. It doesn't, however, the gray screen staying gray and not lighting up with the phrase "Alec calling." Generally, she wouldn't welcome any more contact with the X5 than necessary, but when said X5 just up and leaves with his maybe-clone without so much as a "See ya, Maxie," yeah, she would like a little heads up, thanks. It's not even so much that she wants to know where they went; more why. It's not like, last time she checked, they were real bosom buddies.
Max would like to speak with him because of what they've been doing, but, to be frank, she can't seem to find the words that she'd want to say to him anyway. What, "Get your ass back here"? He doesn't listen to her when he's down the hall. Why would he listen to her from quite possibly multiple states away? And as an extension to that, where in God's name would they have gone?
Whatever she may say of Alec's childishness, she'll readily admit the guy's not stupid. An idiot, maybe, but not stupid. She can't believe that he'd make such a huge decision as bailing on T.C. to go chill with Dean without having massively convincing grounds for doing it. She's called him more times than she cares to admit, and he hasn't answered her. Which means, as far as she can tell, he's either ignoring her because he's a wimp, or else something bad had happened to him. Possibly him and Dean.
The former option doesn't have her worried very much; she would expect him to blow her off. But the second option…so what if she's worried about them? Alec's training is as good as hers, Dean's isn't too shabby by its own right, and she's about ninety-five percent sure Dean wouldn't try and actually hurt Alec, but the worry is still there. What if White had followed them somehow? What rituals or torture would he inflict upon the both of them if he knew they're doubles? What if the cops or feds had found them?
Dean was before most of their times, but they could find it out easily enough. They wouldn't even have to hack into records. Then they'd have not only Dean Winchester—which would cause enough of a ruckus as it is, and probably a manhunt for Sam, too, if there's any left of Sam to find—but a transgenic as well. Not just any transgenic, though, as Max's luck would have it: one of two leaders of the transgenics.
It would put all of their lives in jeopardy, and she knows without a doubt that Alec especially wouldn't have a snowball's chance of surviving for very long before he had some "cerebral edema." Natural causes and all that. What the fuck ever. She doesn't think Dean would have much better chances than Alec, to cap off a thoroughly shitty scenario. In fact, they'd probably kill Alec on the six o'clock news, making sure Max saw it, and then dangle Dean like some sort of sick bait for her. They'd know she'd want to save him, but of course that would sic her against her people; what, she was willing to save Dean, but wouldn't avenge Alec? Great PR there.
Max frustratedly runs her hand through ragged hair, willing her brain to stop overreacting. What is she thinking? They're just fine. Probably kicking it over a few beers, recounting their respective histories. Alec most likely imbuing Max with more bitchiness than she actually has, Dean most likely…er…something having to do with ghosts, she supposes. She doesn't believe in them, but she's sure Dean's got enough charisma to make Alec think so. And if she follows that train of confusing thought, she thinks Alec's got enough of his own charisma to make Dean confide in him what his nightmares are about.
Which would be a good thing, except she has a sinking feeling that in no time Dean and Alec would develop a camaraderie to the point of being unwilling to divulge the other's secrets to, for example, her. And that would not only put her in an unsavory position of not knowing, but she'd also have to deal with the two of them sharing neener-neener glances and identical smirks. Her nerves are already shot with just Alec's—would she be able to handle two? The way her life is going, Dean's would infuriate her more, since he's got at least eight more years of refining it than Alec.
Christ.
Once they pass the sign that's got three bullet holes in it bearing proudly the words Great Faces. Great Places., it's about four hours of the complete opposite of a picturesque landscape. Dean doesn't say much, glancing despondently every once in a while toward the radio, like it'll magically decide to harness classic rock from thirteen years ago and start blasting through the speakers. It doesn't.
The quietude isn't…uncomfortable, per se, Alec muses, more of a companionable kind of mutual pondering of life, but in the wasteland that's the Great Plains, Alec would like some sort of entertainment. In fact, he'd be willing to start up the game Dean had attempted, even if it meant rehashing some more of his assassinations, but he doesn't bring it up. For the main reason that he can tell the closer they get to their destination, the more anxious Dean gets. Alec doesn't think it's necessarily nerves over actually seeing his friend, more so that he's apprehensive of what the guy's reaction would be.
Which, you know, understandable. Alec wouldn't blame the man if he passed out right as he saw Dean. (He doesn't know that Bobby's not the kind of person who'd pass out because of a huge surprise, but.) Alec himself is a little edgy, come to think of it. Yeah, he doesn't know Bobby, but from the way Dean had referred to him, Alec bets dollars to donuts that Bobby would recognize Alec's face, recognize that, holy shit, Dean's got a younger clone. Alec's not a clone, but it's a technicality he doubts Bobby would care about.
Alec hadn't thought he'd been mulling over things for very long, but he's snapped out of it when Dean suddenly speaks up. "Take this exit," he says, and Alec blinks through his haze to see the sign indicating the direction to Sioux Falls.
He's a little startled, but takes the exit anyway, getting off I-90 for the first time in a long time. Of course, the exit only takes them onto I-229, another freeway, but hey, it's progress. Thankfully for Alec, however, even on that road they don't have to be on it for long.
For the next fifteen or so miles, Dean gives Alec directions as if he'd gone to Bobby's just yesterday and not over a decade (more like over a hundred and fifty decades) ago, only stumbling once or twice when he notices some of the street signs hung off-kilter, or the road swerves in a different direction. Ultimately, Alec pulls the car alongside what looks like a salvage yard of sorts, a rusty sign hanging above the entrance with words Alec can't quite make out through the corroded metal.
Alec looks at Dean, whose face is placid for…well, the very first time Alec's ever seen it. Alec rolls the car through the archway, coming to a stop a few dozen yards from the dilapidated house. He can tell that Dean notes the state of disrepair, but in this day and age, it's far from unusual to see houses left to decay from lack of funds, or time, or simple motivation.
Getting out of the car, both boys slam their doors shut and walk up to the front door, the wood slightly rotted, but usable enough. Dean shoots Alec a quick glance, like he's grateful to have someone there—though, true to form, it goes away almost immediately—and then raps his knuckles on the entry, standing back a couple feet. Alec wonders if Dean's afraid Bobby would take a swing at him, and conjectures it's probably pretty spot on.
A good number of seconds pass, which are incidentally synonymous with the tensest seconds Alec's ever experienced, when finally, finally the handle turns and the door opens.