A/N: Same stuff applies as in the first chapter. Oh, and unfortunately neither Supernatural nor Dark Angel belongs to me. Just this.

A/N part two: Specific episodes of Supernatural mentioned are: "All Hell Breaks Loose, Part I," "Hunted," "Mystery Spot," "No Rest for the Wicked," and "Lazarus Rising" (from which both references and city liberties are taken). Specific episodes of Dark Angel mentioned are: none. I've slipped in a line from Leverage, by the way, because it's awesome. Yay to those who find it.

A/N part three: This chapter was delayed because my computer hard drive crashed. I had to leave it with Apple for a few days in the hopes that they'd be able to restore it, and remarkably, they were. There's some stuff that's not as it was before, which'll take some time to sort out, but I've got most of it back. So hopefully, no more delays. It wasn't my fault, promise.

Oh, the end of that last episode of Supernatural? Slayed me. Slayed me DEAD. I'm only halfway through tonight's episode, and already it's friggin' soul-crushing…

Of Desire and the Status Quo

Chapter XXIX: Down the Rabbit Hole

Alec's no stranger to adopting aliases, and he's never had much nervousness regarding it, but as he and Dean approach the NESDIS office in a cheap suit and ID that he doesn't quite have faith is legit enough, accompanied by a man who's supposed to be dead and whose sanity is still up for debate, he does have a certain level of apprehension.

Of course, looking at Dean, he sees a man totally at ease and, if Alec'd be so bold to think it, excited. It's this unrivaled confidence that sets him to a comparative state of okay, and he follows Dean into the lion's den, so to speak, hoping both that these government officials don't recognize him as the co-leader of the transgenics, and that he doesn't fuck this up.

Well, come to think of it, there's also one other thing that worries him.

"You sure this'll work?" he mutters, rolling his shoulders in the tux that's still not fitted quite right. "I mean, there's bound to be some people here old enough to remember you."

Dean, having been through the motions since he was four and thus with no such reservations, rolls his eyes. "Calm down," he chides. "I've done this hundreds of times. And stop your squirming."

"Look, I just—"

"Can I help you?" asks the "receptionist"— who Dean thinks definitely has a Glock hidden somewhere beneath the desk—effectively cutting off the whining.

Giving Alec a virtually unnoticeable elbow to the ribs to do the same, Dean withdraws his badge, dropping it open to show Michaelson (or so the nameplate suggests). "NSA Agents Bloom and Sarzo," he introduces with practiced ease, knowing Alec won't get the reference but hoping he'll play along. "We need to access your GPS feeds."

Taking their badges—thankfully, Alec had caught on quick enough and mimicked Dean's actions—and giving them a careful study before handing them back, Michaelson returns his eyes to Dean. He still has that face of suspicion (hey, it's not Dean's fault he doesn't look like a Fed), but as far as he can tell, the credentials are authentic.

"GPS?" asks Michaelson. "What for?"

Dean puts on his don't-ask-questions-son face. "Matter of national security, Mr. Michaelson," he says stiffly. "All I can tell you is that we've got a P.O.I. who we can best tail through his cell phone. The satellites we got aren't broad enough. Now, how about you stop being belligerent and let us in, huh?"

Michaelson purses his lips, obviously not happy taking orders from a man twenty years his junior and better looking to boot, but unable to refute perceived chain of command. NESDIS operatives have a lot of clearance, but NSA trumps them any day of the week, even now. Unfortunately for Michaelson.

Getting up from his desk in unhindered annoyance, Michaelson leads Dean and Alec over to a door on the other side of the room, swiping a keycard, the red light changing to green with a soft beep.

"Go down this hallway," he says briskly. "You'll be talking to Agent Bradford there who'll accompany you to where the monitors are."

"You're a good man," says Dean condescendingly, clapping Michaelson on the shoulder. Alec looks on with masked shock at the brazenness, finally seeing first-hand how Sam and Dean had worked back in the day, how in tune with one another they must have been to deal with the nuances and off-the-script one-liners Dean must've pulled. Alec's not really sure what to do with the revelation.

But Dean's grabbing his arm with undue force and hauling him through the door, not once looking back at the disgruntled employee.

As Michaelson had said, there's a man at the end of the hall whom, as Dean and Alec approach, already looks more amicable than Michaelson had been. His face is stoic, and his stance is that of ex-CIA—it's a very distinctive stance—but Dean sees the man scrutinize him and Alec, and the way he relaxes the slightest bit almost makes Dean smile. He may have spent millennia in Hell, but he's still a charming son of a bitch.

"Gentlemen," says Bradford, offering his hand for them to shake.

They both do, Dean relaying in the gesture the right amount of firmness that so clearly portrayed We are both badasses with guns stored strategically on our persons and martial arts moves that can knock someone out in two seconds flat, and we both acknowledge this, so let's be civilized people so we can go about this as painlessly as possible and leave each other to our jobs.

Alec's is more along the lines of I don't know who you are, and I'm just going along with this dude who I may or may not be slightly afraid of, so please don't hold me accountable for anything the jackass does. Oh, and nice tie.

"Agent Bradford, I presume," says Dean unnecessarily. The man nods and motions for Dean and Alec to follow him.

"Michaelson said you're looking into someone," starts Bradford a little too casually. "What's he done to alert the NSA?"

Dean feels Alec sneak a glance at him, but he doesn't return it. He might have if Alec were Sam, but since he can tell that Alec's hyper-intelligent brain is doing its best to keep up the NSA guise and follow Dean's lead, he'd rather have Bradford's attention solely on him. Dean's not downplaying Alec's talents, he's not, but this is something that absolutely cannot be messed up, and damn it, Dean's going to ensure it.

"We don't have anything solid on him yet," answers Dean unconcernedly. "Which is why we haven't caught him up to this point. We're hoping that if we can surveil him through satellite and get a better read that way, we can put him behind bars and get a good night's sleep, you know?"

Bradford chuckles, telling Dean he raised no I sincerely doubt you're actual NSA flags. "I hear that," he says. "Had some of those cases myself when I was back in Langley. They're a right pain in the ass."

When Bradford walks a few steps ahead to swipe his keycard to open another door, Dean looks at Alec with a smirk, fully enjoying Alec's expression of part-awe, part-incredulity. "Don't look so surprised," he says quietly. "I told you I'd done this a million times."

"Guess your crime reports on how you're a cocky—"

"But successful."

"—con artist weren't lying."

Dean lets Alec's backhanded sort-of-compliment slide, in deference to Bradford holding open the door for them to walk through. The room is a mass of computers, screens, maps, and a conference table, but Dean only requires one computer to do what he needs to.

"You know how to use these, I presume?" asks Bradford. "Haven't consulted with the NSA much, but I think you all use the same software, more or less, as we do."

"No worries," answers Dean. "Junior here's big on the pre-Pulse button-mashing stuff. Trial and error, right?"

Bradford laughs and shakes Dean's hand again. "Holler if you need anything else," he says. "And I hope you get the guy you're looking for."

Bradford leaves the room, shutting the door with a click, and Dean's smile falls. "Me, too."

Alec waits a few moments, but when Dean doesn't move, he shoves him none too gently. "Come on, dude."

Dean turns around to look Alec in the eye, and then walks past him to a terminal. The screen looking not dissimilar to that in an old spy movie, Alec's ready to call Bradford back in to help, but Dean floors him once again. His fingers typing quickly, Dean manages to bring up a screen that asks for a number, and he inputs the ten digits, waiting for a result.

"How do you know Sam's still going to be using that phone?" Alec dares to ask.

Dean looks up at Alec, and gets an expression that's one of odd fondness. "Are you kidding?" he says mildly. "What don't I know about that kid?

"Devil's advocate here," says Alec timidly, "it's been thirteen years. Sam might'a changed, might've broken his cell or something."

It's a legitimate qualm, Dean concedes; however, not only is he reasonably certain on his intuition, but he simply can't bring himself to fathom that they would have lost their only lead. If Sam had, in fact, done something with his cell and this didn't work…Dean doesn't know what he'll do. He has no other way of finding his brother short of closing his eyes and pointing someplace random on the map and hoping it's right.

So he simply stares at Alec tersely. "Not on this he hasn't."

Alec takes the cue and shuts up.

To his amazement, the satellite beeps once and then starts triangulating the cell phone's location. Dean leans within inches from the screen, his right knee bouncing in a duality of nervousness and impatience as Alec watches on, unable to pinpoint any particular emotions of his own. The arrows circle around the map of the U.S., then move to the Midwest, then to Illinois, then to a fairly wide circle slightly northeast of the state's center. It starts to zoom in further than that, but suddenly sputters, turns red, and the text at the bottom proceeds to read "Signal Lost."

Dean stares at the monitor for a second, before exclaiming, "Fuck it, Sammy."

"What happened?" asks Alec, unable to see very well past Dean's head at what had caused the ire.

Dean runs a hand roughly through his hair, messing up the mostly neat style he'd had going on for the ruse, and turns around. "He must've shut his cell off while the satellite was triangulating," he answers. "And you can't locate a phone without the power on, even if it's from the GPS."

"Why would it be shut off?"

"Only one or both of two reasons," says Dean somberly. "He's being tracked, and has crushed the SIM card, or he's on a hunt and the phone would distract him. Even if turned on silent, Sam's weird about that."

Alec doesn't miss the present tense Dean's using, and wonders what it means. Really doesn't want to contemplate it. Not now.

"So…so which one do you think?" he asks instead, wary to dispute either theory of Dean's, even though they both sound stupid to him.

Sighing, Dean holds up two fingers. "On a hunt," he says. "The only time we'd ever destroyed the phone cards was when a vamp who already wanted to gun down Sam was on our trail. Somehow, I doubt that's the case here."

Alec doesn't feel like asking him about the so-called vampires. He's still adjusting to the thoughts of demons. "Okay, so…what? How do you intend to find him if you don't have his GPS?"

"Well," says Dean curtly, like Alec should have known, and points to the computer screen, "the last triangulation this showed contained six counties in Illinois: Woodford, Livingston, La Salle, Ford, McLean, and Grundy. Now we just have one thing to do—look for omens."

"Omens." Alec doesn't need to know specifics to definitely not like the sound of it. "Please tell me it doesn't include talking to anyone named Damien."

Dean rolls his eyes impatiently, primarily for the reason that he's hoping this time when they look for the signs it won't be as disastrous as when he'd tried with Zero. "No," he emphasizes. "Omens. Demonic omens. Crop failures, electrical storms, mass animal killings, that kind of thing. Maybe expand it to weird deaths, exsanguinations, missing hearts, what have you. Just to account for if Sam might be hunting a spirit, vampire, werewolf, whatever, in the area. If I remember right, Illinois State is around where the sat signal stopped that is probably still standing; hopefully, their library won't be torn to shreds."

"Dude. What the hell?"

"Come on," Dean says, clearing the search for Sam and grabbing Alec's collar, dragging him in the opposite direction they'd come. "We have research to do. And if you make a crack about me in a library, I'll shoot you."

"So, ISU, then," Alec says as they walk back to the Mustang. He undoes his tie and unbuttons his collar fastening; he's never liked suits much.

Dean nods, duplicating Alec's actions and shrugging off his jacket, throwing it in the backseat. "Yeah," he answers. "The omens—or newspaper articles—will pinpoint Sam's location. I hope."

As a result of Alec's body wearing itself out from the seizures and that he's come to more or less trust Dean, he falls into a light sleep as Dean drives toward Illinois, the warmth of the heater and the flat road keeping him in unconsciousness. Dean had intended to roll down the window and maybe even find a not so shitty radio station, but Alec looks much like Sam had occasionally when he'd pass out against the cool glass—God knows Dean's a sucker for the innocent puppy repose—and so restrains from making any noise.

It's another good ten hours to Illinois, as far as Dean's calculated, and he knows he should probably rest his somnolent body, but it's one of the very rare times that Alec is apparently feeling comfortable enough to (intentionally) make himself vulnerable in front of someone else. Given that, Dean doesn't want to jeopardize it. Fuck if he knows why.

It's well past dark by the time Dean pulls up into the school parking lot, glad that permit-only spaces are no longer in effect. He only has to barely tap Alec's shoulder before the X5 jolts awake, hands already balled into protective fists. Once he realizes it was Dean, though, he lets the tenseness out of his muscles, and looks around.

"We're here?" Alec asks.

Dean chuckles, "You slept for ten hours, man. That epilepsy thing took a lot out of you, I guess."

"It's not epilepsy," Alec negates tiredly, pinching his nose to clear his head.

"Whatever," replies Dean. He points to the clothes balled up at Alec's feet and commands, "Get dressed."

When both are back in their street attire and Alec's mostly awake again, they walk onto the campus as if they'd done it every day. With his telescopic vision, Alec studies a directory before Dean can even make it out, and guides them to the library. It's more dilapidated than Dean imagines it was a decade ago, but as they enter, the stacks and books are more or less intact.

Dean walks up to the wan librarian, crafting a false smile. "'Scuse me, ma'am," he says politely. "Could you tell me where the newspaper archives are, by chance?"

Without stopping her cataloguing, she points deeper into the building and to Dean's right.

"Thank you," he replies, signaling Alec to follow him.

"What are we looking for, specifically?" Alec asks. "These 'omen' things, I mean. Just storms and beheadings and stuff?"

"Anything out of the ordinary, not necessarily things that obvious," says Dean, perusing a paper from three weeks ago. "Obits are usually good places to start."

"Obituaries," repeats Alec, wondering why he's even surprised anymore. He grabs a random paper, this from thirteen days previous. 'And what if I find something weird?"

"Look for similar events," Dean answers, and tosses aside his edition to pick up another. "If we're lucky, there'll be just one town that crops up."

Alec gets bored and exhausted quickly, even though he can easily read twenty thousand words a minute, and recount them all. He's somewhat worried that he might be missing something, that he'll be the cause for them not finding Sam. He doesn't know what he'd do if it was his fault that Sam skipped town before they could locate him.

It's not like they could go back to the NESDIS office without rousing precarious suspicion—Sam would be off the grid once again, and Alec has a horrible feeling that Dean would retreat back into himself, and not even Alec could snap him out of it. Worse, that Dean would never forgive him.

Fortunately, Dean doesn't appear to lose hope, regardless of the fact that he's accumulating a not trivial stack of newspapers, as Alec is. Alec glances at his watch, sees that it's been nearly an hour and a half since they'd arrived at the ISU campus. "Dean," he says slowly, setting aside his paper regrettably. Dean doesn't meet his eye, just flips through the old pages, skillfully weeding through the inane articles.

"Hmm?"

"Should we—I mean, have you—have you gotten any clues?"

This time, Dean does tear his gaze from the text. "You trying to say something?"

"No, I just—" Alec pauses. He shouldn't be afraid of Dean, not after all they'd been through. "Yes," he amends determinedly. "I don't think we're going to find anything if we haven't already. We can figure out a different way to get Sam."

"You don't," replies Dean in an odd tone. With an amused grin, he holds up three pages from two different newspapers. "Who says I haven't found anything?"

Alec frowns and comes around the table to Dean's side to lean over his shoulder. Dean normally would punch him in the arm—he doesn't like when people read over his shoulder—but truthfully, Dean's too excited—excited—to care.

"All right," he says, his voice between educational and anticipatory, "the obit got my attention first, and the rest fit together. This dude, Allen Hanks, was found mauled three months ago in a forest a couple miles from Pontiac; two years ago, a woman, Delilah Ludovich, died—same cause, same forest. Then, six days ago, another woman, Katherine Reichert."

"Okay, well, that's weird, but not necessarily anything," hedges Alec.

Dean rolls his eyes. "Did I mention the heart attacks?" he asks. "Before they were mauled? Kinda like somethin' scared them to death before something sliced 'em up, huh?"

Alec's skeptical. Granted, wolf attacks aren't that common this close together, let alone in this area, but the victims were found in a forest. Surely this wasn't something to cause founded alarm? "No offense, Dean, and I'm sure you were probably good at this kind of crap years ago, but I don't see how this leads to Sam."

"There was no 'probably,' kid," snaps Dean. "I was damn fucking good at this. Sam 'n I killed more things and saved more people than most hunters did. And apart from us dying once—well, me technically 'bout a hundred times, but that didn't really count—we rarely got more than cuts and bruises. Given the life, I say that constitutes damn fucking good."

"Jesus, sor—wait, what?" Alec stops midsentence, Dean's words catching up with him. "Died? A hundred times? You and Sam? The hell do you mean by that?"

Dean clears his throat, having let slip the information without meaning to. "Nothin'," he covers. "Figure of speech."

Alec raises an eyebrow. "No figure of speech I've ever heard."

"Just trust me on this," says Dean, changing the subject. "Sam'll be there."

Alec looks down at the newspapers, not really seeing them, and closes his eyes for a few seconds. "Dean, look…" he starts, running a finger along the cracked grain of the table. "I want to trust you, really—"

"You've done so this far," interrupts Dean levelly. "Somethin' change?"

"I just—what if you're looking for a hunt that's not really there, and you're just hoping Sam is? What if it isn't even Sam's cell, but someone else who picked it up? I mean, what if Sam's…if Sam's d—"

"Don't," snarls Dean, grabbing a fistful of Alec's shirt so quickly that, if Alec hadn't been certain Dean were human, he'd've said he blurred. "Sam's not dead, he's not." He sees the shock in Alec's irises and lets go of the shirt. "I've told you before. If you wanna leave, leave."

Alec puts his hands on the table and leans toward Dean. "It's not that I want to leave," he disagrees softly. "I just don't want—I don't know. I just don't want you to get yourself into trouble—life or death trouble—or die yourself or somethin' because you're so caught up with finding Sam that you make some mistake."

Dean's quiet for a couple minuets, studying Alec's face. "What, you think I'm so goddamned messed in the head that I'd make some stupid mistake?"

Well, uh, kinda, Alec wants to say. He doesn't, however, given that he's thinking that's the absolute farthest thing from a good decision.

He simply doesn't answer at all. He senses that either answer he gives would backfire one way or another. Instead, he reiterates, "I'm not gonna leave."

"Great," replies Dean, keeping his tone purposely flippant. "Then let's go. Pontiac has our names on it."

He makes quick work of putting the newspapers away, and Alec gets up laboriously, wondering if Sam had ever gotten annoyed with this attitude of Dean's. Moreover, Alec wonders if he ever would leave. What would it take to coerce him to abandon the guy and hitch or hotwire back to Seattle? Is he that desperate for someone new—a brother?—that he's willing to trust a man that Alec does deem as screwed in the head?

He's knocked back into reality when Dean breezes right on past the librarian, and Alec barely has time to throw out a thank-you before Dean's started up the car and put it into gear. Alec finds himself hurrying after him, the entire way a certain part of his brain telling him to stop, damn it, stop, but Alec doesn't. Can't, for whatever godforsaken reason.

Dean burns rubber and pulls out onto the highway, confident in where he's going. Alec's too strung and self-serving to propose that they actually look on a map to locate the route to Pontiac. He just goes with the strangely comforting presumption that Dean's been this way before, and tries not to eye the map (or his fleeting sanity) longingly.

When first they roll into the city, Alec thinks that Dean was misreading the papers, that, for all they know, Sam's in Georgia. Pontiac looks like every other town Alec's seen; dim light, garbage in the street, unfinished construction, people not making eye contact with one another.

But Dean doesn't stop in the town. He drives right on through, hands tight on the wheel. Finally, on the very outskirts of the city, he pulls over behind an abandoned warehouse that's but a hundred feet from the edge of a somewhat sparse forest.

He comes around the front of the car with the almost-drained bottle of vodka in his hand, and meets Alec there. "You got a lighter on you?" he asks, picking up a sizable stick from the ground.

"Huh?" Alec replies. He confusedly hands over the requested item even as he continues, "What for?"

Dean casts his partner a glance. "We don't have the stuff necessary to actually kill a black dog, but it sure as hell doesn't like fire."

"Not a fan of canines, I take it," comments Alec, a little frightened. Not because of this so-called black dog, but because of Dean's eyes bright with the prospect of killing something.

Dean chuckles. "I love dogs. Just not ones that disappear and grab you from your bed to maul you in an Illinois forest."

"Oh," replies Alec. He guesses he should've figured Dean would attribute the slayings to something out of a bad horror movie. "Yeah. Of course. That's exactly what I was gonna say."

"Cram it, smartass," Dean growls. He takes a beat, and then reaches into the waistband of his jeans and takes out the stolen gun, holding it out to Alec. "Take this. It won't kill the thing, and it'll probably make it angrier, but it'll slow it down for a couple seconds. It'll give you enough time to get out of there. And for God's sake, if I tell you to get out, you get out."

"I think I can hold my own," snarks Alec. "You, not so much. You know, that whole shoulder thing that the good doctor warned about. And besides, I thought we were looking for Sam, not going on a hunt."

"Maybe against human or near-human adversaries you're Captain America," says Dean dangerously, "but not these kinds'a creatures. You follow my lead, hear? Promise."

Alec nods, seeing the touch of worry in Dean's expression. The agreement mostly to humor the man, but he does it anyway.

"As for Sam, that is what we're doing," says Dean. "This is just for defense. If we were going on an actual hunt, I'd be sending you out to occult shops to get stuff that'd cause you to look at me like I'm crazier than ever."

Alec's not entirely sure what to say, so he settles for clarification. "So…objective is to locate Sam, who you think'll be after this thing, and your Flaming Stick of Doom is our best weapon?"

Shrugging, Dean slaps Alec genially on the back. "Come on, coward," he smirks. "Time for you to lose your supernatural virginity."

"That's in no way not incredibly disturbing," Alec grouses, his words falling on deaf ears, Dean already heading self-assuredly into the forest. "At least there's one benefit," he says to himself as he follows Dean. "Max isn't berating me for doing something phenomenally idiotic."