FIC: Shadow

[nilchance]

Title: Shadow
Author: nilchance
Rating: All ages
Fandom: SPN/Dark Angel crossover
A/N: Mostly a brain-spill. Alec, Sam and Dean. Alec isn't the only one who watches.

ETA: crap. No, I am NOT the author previously known as poisontaster. Also, I fail.



Alec isn't Dean.

Dean's mirrored face was the first, bone-deep reaction that kept Sam from pulling the trigger on Alec. He let Dean and Bobby think it was the human flare of Alec's pupils instead of a shifter's silver, the mystery of why this stranger with Dean's face was dropped on their lap, but it was mostly a gut feeling. Alec was, is, blood. And that mattered more than who Alec was, other than family.

It's different now.

Alec is lean where Dean is hard stripped muscle. He has rounder cheeks, stubborn teenager softness that Sam remembers of Dean just before he left for Stanford. The barcode on his nape was the most obvious change, the visible shadow of Alec's old life. That story changes every time Alec tells it: thief, cage-fighter, messenger boy, all of it a patchwork of exaggeration and outright lie. He's not as pale as Dean (yet), has fewer impressive scars. Alec's scars are subtler, insidious, a repeated pattern of scalpel and syringe. Sam doesn't know where they came from, can't recount each stitch he or Dad made. Alec dealt with his old scars on his own, and he's not telling their history. Sam doesn't know why, with all those boarding school pretensions, Alec's first instinct is to fight for his life.

Alec doesn't sleep. At least, Sam hasn't seen it. They work out a rotation, two in a bed and one alone, because Dean doesn't want to start with separate rooms. Alec doesn't like it, people in his space all the time, but he swallows it like he expects nothing else. He's lousy to share a bed with, cold feet and sharp elbows that somehow manage to hit Sam even while Alec clings to the other side like a virgin. Usually Alec's elsewhere when Sam wakes up, either out on a run or sitting on the floor by the muted TV seat, watching what he's supposed to be like.

Alec watches everything. Alec molds himself, rebuilds himself every day in a thousand small ways to fit what people expect. Makes it hard to see him, to hear anything beyond the white noise of Alec's chatter, but Alec isn't the only one who pays attention. Dean's working on him by degrees, prodding Alec into behaving like a real live boy, feeding him and training him. Dean shows Alec things like the proper exorcism ritual for a lesser Babylonian succubus, and why Wendy's fries taste better dipped in the Frosty. Alec's quick as hell, with a scary intelligence that he sometimes forgets to hide behind dumbass comments. Sam teaches him, too: knifework, research, how to slip hot sauce into Dean's coffee. Slowly, surely, Alec is turning into one of them. The sun paints freckles on his cheeks. He wears flannel under duress. The first time Alec fights like he's expecting them to cover his back, Sam has to chew the inside of his cheek to keep from telling Alec 'thank you'.

Could be because Alec is smaller, younger, an echo of Dean in easier years. Could be it's what Alec isn't saying about the years before they found him, the way Alec looks at their dad with his shoulders tucked in to block a punch. Whatever the reason, when they end up sharing a bed, Sam thinks about folding Alec up in his arms, the sharp scent of Alec's stolen high-end shampoo mingling with their gun oil.

And because Alec isn't Dean, Sam thinks maybe Alec would let himself be held.