AN: Hey, sorry for the really really long wait that lasted ages and ages…*gasp* Over two months. I feel terrible, especially about that evil cliffie I left you with, sorry. School problems…okay, just at first. I procrastinated on some assignments, and that was all my fault, but anyway, I did a lot of writing in the last few weeks, and it wasn't fun writing, I can tell you that. So I took a (not-so-) teeny break before diving back into fanfiction/fun-writing.

Thank you for your patience and for reading my story! And definitely for reviewing. I love reviews. Cookies and hugs for everybody! And chocolate. Yep, I'm bribing you, but come on—chocolate.

Also thanks for all the reassurances that 40-year-olds can get arthritis after the last chapter, hehe. I was kind of worried about offending some people, still being pretty far from 40 myself. I guess I needn't have worried.

And, getting back to my story…

Chapter 7

Dean whipped out his gun in a blink-and-you-missed-it motion and pointed it at Frank. His chair banged back against the wall as he shot up.

"How do you know about that?" he demanded, his eyes glinting with a feral light. "Tell me."

Sam gaped in confusion at his brother and the gun. What on earth? What were those numbers and how did Dean know about them? Why didn't Sam know?

Frank simply stared down the barrel calmly with a serpentine smile. "I know," he said, "because I am their father."

The 1911 Colt wavered. "What?" Dean's voice cracked. "You? You made them? All of them?"

"Yes." The old man blinked long and slow. "My creations. My children."

Dean kept the gun trained on Frank. "Why?" he growled, the disgust leaching from the low voice. "Why would you do that? How could you do that to those kids? Creating them to be soldiers," he spat out. "Letting them be raised by the freakin' military, to kill? What the hell is wrong with you? Who do you think you are, God?"

Until now, Sam's gaze had bounced from his brother to the old man seated across from him, but realization dawned at Dean's words. "Sandeman? You're Carl Sandeman?"

The old man chuckled. "Oh, what's in a name?" he said lightly. "There was a time when I was called that, yes." He turned his attention to Dean, completely ignoring the firearm still pointed at his head. "You want to know why I made the Transgenics?" He raised his chin up proudly. "To save the world, my boy, to save the world."

Dean narrowed his eyes. "Yeah, we heard about that. The girl's supposed to save the world from some cult and their evil apocalypse shit, right? So why make a whole army of these supersoldiers if you only need her?"

"While I'm curious as to who your source is," Franklin Crick/Carl Sandeman said, flipping through the folder of printouts with barely disguised eagerness, "I propose you put down the gun and answer my question, and perhaps then I'll tell you the answer to yours." The pale blue orbs flicked back up to meet Dean's.

Dean towered over the old man. "No deal." He waved his gun. "You spill first."

The old man continued to look unperturbed. "Hm," he sniffed in apparent amusement. "That famous Winchester obstinacy. From what I heard, it was passed on directly to the both of them. There were two of them, you know," he added conversationally and tapped the folder. "This is just one. I assume you've come across him and…become attached to him?"

He met the intense green glare with a level of detachedness a cat would envy.

Sam spoke for the first time since he realized who their old acquaintance really was. "The 493 and 494 you were talking about? By the way, what do the numbers mean?"

"You mean their designations?" A look of something that Sam could only describe as pride flashed through the old man's eyes. It sickened him. "They are how we kept track of them all. Each specimen had a unique code encrypted into their DNA, manifesting in barcodes on the back of their necks. This one is either 331845739493 or 331845739494. They're X5s."

Sam caught the miniscule twitch in Dean's expression. Dean had one hell of a poker face, and most of the time even Sam couldn't read behind it, but now he saw the slight shift in Dean's stance. Protectiveness, he recognized. Obviously, one of the two designations was Alec's, and the oldest Winchester knew it.

Dean sat, the handgun still pointed at the Minoan scholar. "Keep talking."

Sandeman sighed and leaned back into his chair. "Well," he said, "I suppose I'd better start at the beginning."

AN: *Bounces in glee* I can't believe no one guessed who Frank really is…all the snake references in Chapter 6, ya know?

The name "Franklin Crick" came from two scientists who were instrumental in discovering the double helix of DNA, Rosalind Franklin and Francis Crick. And "Frank" sort of sounds like "Francis."

You might be in for another long wait because I'm doing a research project on some aspect of the Minoan civilization, and since I'm planning on having a lot of Minoan mythology in this story, I might want to change some of the details in my story plan based on things I might find while researching. But I will try to get the next part out as soon as I can while still making (keeping?) the story interesting.