Chapter Text
“Every decision you make can change the world. The best life is the one the gods don't notice. You want to live free, boy, live quietly."
"I want to be a soldier. A hero."
"You'll grow out of it.”
—Steven Erikson
Being on the lam and running from an international mega-corporation with unlimited resources and the world’s most powerful superheroes at their disposal is a shit ton more hiding and a lot less actual running than Dean imagined. Although he supposes that’s an experience that varies by Supe—you’d think, anyway. Hell, if he was A-Train, he could just keep on running, problem fuckin’ solved.
Him, though? Fuck Dean’s life, it’s all sewer tunnels and beach caves for him. Maybe the occasional spare couch and ratty afghan loaned out from some vetted member of the anti-Vought underground movement, but that’s rare, and never for more than a night. Most of them don’t trust him, anyway, despite the aggressive smear campaign Vought’s been playing that assures him virtually no safe harbor anywhere else.
But yeah, to be fair, every now and then, there’s a couch—if he’s fortunate enough to be able to stop at all, and exhausted enough to actually fall asleep.
Hey—don’t get Dean wrong, he’s not afraid. Not of Vought, not of anyone. No one’s a bigger badass than him, and that’s before you catalog the superpowers. Soldier Boy’s rocking super strength, killer hand-to-hand combat skills, mad agility—good for dodging bullets and blows alike—so he’s the goddamn total package. Plus, he’s pretty much stopped aging, which Dean anticipates will keep his dating and hookup life worth continuing to live for once he hits fifty or so.
What good is being alive if your dick doesn’t work and you’re so old and wrinkly that no one will get on their knees to suck it?
Yeah, he’s awesome. If he could fly, Homelander wouldn’t stand a chance, that’s for sure. Maybe The Angel could give him a run for his money, but—nope, not going there. No thinking about Cas right now.
Dean shakes his head to clear it.
Point—if he could fly, maybe he wouldn’t be hanging out in the sewers, making friends with rats.
Scoffing, Dean presses one hand against the damp, cold wall of the NYC sewer tunnel he’s currently trolling around in, sighing and hating himself just a little bit more than usual. The worn jeans and hoodie he’s wearing feel all wrong on his body—soft and too loose, nothing like the perfectly crafted Supe suit constructed to enhance his every movement and ability. He misses the damn thing, ugly helmet and all. But looking inconspicuous is the name of the game—especially with Vought on the warpath, and especially here.
To the casual, situational observer, New York City probably sounds like a risky place for him to be, considering that the heart of the operation wanting him dead is headquartered right exactly above his head. The way Dean figures it though, no one in their right mind would ever consider that he’s absolutely unhinged enough to circle back, suicidal as that would be for a regular Joe, or even your average Supe.
But Dean’s anything but average. Anything but regular. He’s Soldier Boy, and ain’t nobody gonna tell Soldier Boy what he can and can’t do.
Also, strategy. Hiding in plain sight, or whatever.
Second also, he’s just crazy like that.
Plus, he needs answers, and help, and if his brother—Jesus Christ on a cracker, brother. That’s still going to take some getting used to—can give him any of those things, then the risk is worth the reward.
God, if someone had told him six months ago that this was the life he had to look forward to—homelessness, being hunted by his former coworkers and the most powerful agency in the world, and clandestinely meeting his secret brother in a drainage tunnel to exchange intel, Dean would’ve asked if they were high. And then if he could have some of whatever they were having, but that’s beside the point.
How the fuck did he get here?
That’s a damn good question.
***
Some Weeks Prior
The very second Dean’s handlers give him the okay, he immediately breaks away from Mother Superior and the iron grip she has around his waist. Dropping his fake smile before he’s even fully turned his back on the press, he books it for the Tower’s main set of doors.
“Appearances,” Dagon hisses, swatting his arm, which earns her a glare. Not many people could touch Solider Boy without his consent and live to tell the tale, but Dagon’s an exception, not that he likes to let her know that. Truthfully, Dean’s always found his handler more lowkey terrifying than any of the superpowered coworker counterparts she manages.
“Give me fifteen to grab a drink and a smoke before interviews and I’ll let you keep that hand,” he grumbles. With Mother Superior—Abby, technically, or Firecrotch, as Dean prefers to call her (curtains match the drapes, don’t ask him how he knows)—hot on their heels, the two of them retreat inside and away from the unrelenting mob that is the paparazzi. The vultures are thick outside of Vought HQ today, practically jumping on each other’s shoulders to scream out questions and snap photos of the would-be heroes returning from their mission.
The trio moves together in sync, breezing past the metal detectors and swiftly ducking around the first corner available so that they’re mostly out of sight from prying eyes. Dean exhales and rolls his neck the second he feels like he’s safe.
Dagon ignores his request, par for the course—Dean didn’t expect anything different. “P.R.’s a part of the job,” she reminds him, lock-step as he beelines for the elevators, because he doesn’t need her permission, anyway. “All that effort to save those school kids is useless if the public doesn’t know about it.”
Affronted, Dean opens his mouth to argue but is unceremoniously cut off at the head, because some people just can’t stand to have the world’s attention on anything other than them for one freaking millisecond.
“So appreciate you coming when I call,” Abby singsongs loudly at his back, voice taunting. “I think that's what I like most about you, Soldier Boy. You’re obedient.”
Dean actually pauses to roll his eyes, working his jaw. Abby’s favorite pastime is baiting him, so this isn’t new, but it still pisses him off. “You can go fuck yourself,” he replies without turning around.
“Is that an offer? All of that closeness today, pressed up against each other—you give a girl all kinds of nasty ideas.”
“Necessity. I can’t fly or teleport,” Dean retorts through gritted teeth, like she doesn’t already know. “Rub it in and I’ll be glad to show you what I can do, though.” He stiffens when Abby comes up behind him and molds herself suggestively against his back, but Dean isn’t fooled. In practically the same instant, she’s reaching up to grab him by the throat.
Mistake—this is his purview, and her nails don’t so much as graze his skin before he’s reacting and turning the tables. Effortlessly, Dean bats the hand away before catching her by the waist and flinging her carelessly into one of the walls that bookends the elevator bank, hammer throw-style.
“And he makes it look so easy! How does he do it, folks? Well, certainly helps that Mother Superior is full of hot-fuckin’-air.”
Fortunately, Vought’s architecture is relatively Supe-proof—more so than most places, anyway—so Abby’s body doesn’t leave so much as an imprint behind. She’s already laughing—cackling—as she rises to her feet, brushing imaginary dirt from the front of her flaming red suit. “Careful, Dean,” she coos. “Some girls take that sort of thing as an invitation.”
Dean snorts. “So, are you wanting to fight or fuck? Because I’m getting some really mixed signals here,” he quips, ignoring the way Dagon sighs, folds her arms, and taps her foot impatiently.
“Supes,” she mutters. “You guys are going to break something, and then I’m the one who will have to hear about it.” She hits Dean on the arm again and jerks her head towards the elevators in suggestion. “You want those fifteen minutes, Army Brat, better take ‘em. Time’s ticking.”
That’s all Dean needs to prompt him to cut off Abby’s little song and dance completely and spin around on his heel. Raising a hand towards the sky, he saunters past her and punches the “up” button. “Stick to what you’re good at,” he suggests, calling back over his shoulder. “Pretending to care about saving buses full of children from falling over cliffs. Posing for pictures. Seduction? Meh.”
The elevator opens and Dean enters, waving off Dagon’s pointed, “Fifteen, that’s it,” while he stabs repeatedly and ineffectually at the button for the floor that he wants.
“Uh-huh.”
The doors close and Dean breathes a sigh of relief, slumping tiredly against the wall as the moving box rockets skyward towards the 99th floor. He starts to zone out, daydreaming about tasting the thirty-year whiskey he already has open, and spending exactly ten point five minutes sitting on his couch, staring at the ceiling in peace. Preferably while “Achilles Last Stand” plays in its entirety. Three fingers and every last note before he’s even thinking about heading down to the press floor to discuss the school bus incident, his PR-invented BFF Firecrotch, or the upcoming feature film that boasts his face plastered all over the posters.
Another typical day at the office.
Unfortunately, the elevator slows down less than halfway there, and Dean groans as it comes to a halt. “Come on,” he mutters, and then ultimately decides that he doesn’t care—his fifteen minutes begin when he walks into his apartment, not when Dagon says they do.
When the doors open, Dean immediately averts his eyes, pretending to be absorbed by something fascinating on his phone screen. Necessary, since the 32nd floor offers up what he’s unaffectionately dubbed as one of Vought’s ‘Tech Douches’. Every company’s got ‘em—fresh-out-of-school computer geeks, wide-eyed and bushy-tailed, anxious to “do their part” by keeping the Super-show running from behind the scenes. All pocket-protectors, zero credit, and they’re always fuckin’ star-struck when they run into a Supe.
Usually, if he can keep from making eye contact, Dean can avoid interacting completely because most of ‘em are shy as they are dorky. Some, though, are worse than the fans that swarm Vought’s official conventions, eager to maximize their fifteen seconds of “trapped in an enclosed space with a superstar”. At least at a con, Dean’s getting paid to smile and nod and snap photos with these nerds, plus some of them are hot chicks in skimpy outfits.
Not a hardship.
This…person that’s now invading his chill-out space is about the farthest thing from a hot chick as a human being can get. If pushed, Dean might call him, “Sasquatch,” since he’s practically seven fuckin’ feet of gangly limbs and floppy, boy-band hair. Ugh. Clenched by his side, Dean’s fingers itch to take a pair of clippers to it.
All that aside, this kid has “IT Department” written all over him. From the ugly giveaway that is the standard yellow polo with Vought’s logo emblazoned on the left chest, to the armful of portable electronic devices—probably broken—to the over-eager glint in his eye.
Fuck Dean’s life.
“Soldier Boy,” the kid exclaims, way too excitedly, before the doors have even fully shut (but too late for Dean to launch himself through them). Stuck, all he can do is groan and contemplate he-manning them back open. Maybe tossing the kid through the next floor’s opening as the elevator whizzes by—that idea almost takes root, but then Dean remembers that the interior doors don’t open until the box stops. Whatever. He’s strong enough to not need them to, and computer dorks are a dime a dozen, anyway.
“Can’t believe I finally caught you,” the kid continues, not taking the hint.
“Not right now,” Dean grunts, eyes glued pointedly to his phone. “Rough day.”
“Yeah!” The kid nods his agreement like it isn’t fully obvious he’s being blown off. “I heard. But listen, I have—”
“No, you listen,” Dean interjects, glancing up to watch the numbers climb higher and higher, silently willing them to move faster. “I ain’t your fuckin’ friend. Not even your co-worker.”
“I know who you are—”
“Then you probably also know that I don’t do small talk. I don’t do high-fives or autos or selfies—not unless you’re press, paying, or a hot chick in cosplay with her tits out.”
“Look, I just need—”
“Nah. Not interested. Save it for your little online fan forum.”
Sasquatch makes a frustrated grunt as the floor numbers hit the nineties. So close. “Nice talking to you,” Dean snarks, as they flash ninety-eight and he prepares to run the hell away, but abruptly, the kid pulls a card he doesn’t expect. He fucking yanks the emergency button and brings the elevator to a screeching halt, alarms blaring.
“The fuck?” Dean splutters, backing into the corner despite himself because this kid is clearly unstable. “What, is this some Misery shit? I don’t see an axe, so—”
“Listen, you entitled asshole,” Sasquatch bites back, stepping forward to get all up in Dean’s grill, and it surprises him so much that for a second, he forgets that he’s fucking Solider Boy and could crush him like a gnat. Instead, Dean just swallows and waits, and the nerd seizes the opportunity to forge on. “We’ve got about twenty more seconds before the elevator stop triggers Vought to send security. So listen—you want to know what I have to say.”
Honestly, Dean would be lying if he said he wasn’t curious, so he keeps his mouth shut, raising his eyebrows in tacit permission to continue while the kid draws a breath.
“I’m Sam. Sam Singer—I’m your brother, Dean.”
Dean. No one outside of the Seven and their team should even know that name. “How—”
“Doesn’t matter. Here, take this.” Sasquatch—Sam—shoves a laptop from the top of his pile into Dean’s arms. “I’ve been walking around with this since the day I signed on here, trying to run into you. You’re a tough man to corner.”
“With fucking reason,” Dean protests, but he takes the computer. “What is this? I don’t—I’m not a hacker, I can’t—”
Sam steps away to press the emergency button and set the elevator moving again. “I figured. Starter files are right there—not encrypted or coded, just open them and read, they’ll tell you what to do next.” He turns to face Dean as the elevator stops and the doors slide open again. “This place isn’t what it seems. The truth about our parents, about you—it’s out there. If you want it.”
With that, Sam exits the elevator and disappears from sight.
“Wait,” Dean calls out, after a moment of standing dumbly in the corner of the elevator, still processing. He steps into the hall and blinks disbelievingly in both directions, but the place is deserted—not a soul in sight. “The fuck?”
Still clutching the laptop, Dean makes his way past the Seven’s empty meeting room, his head spinning so hard he physically stumbles, more than once. Now, Soldier Boy does a lot of things, but stumbling around like some plebian loser ain’t one of them. Good goddamn thing Homelander is out of town at the moment—he’d sniff out the weakness from a mile away and Dean would never live it down.
Fumbling to open his door, Dean quickly moves inside his apartment, locking it again behind him. The last thing he needs right now is someone walking in and catching his dumbass acting like a wreck. He feels wrecked, and not in the good, three-rounds-and-a-cigarette type of way.
Speaking of which—
Dean crosses the length of the fifty-foot room like it’s nothing, pulling open the sliding glass door that leads out to an alcove balcony. Days like today, he really does wish he had Homelander’s flight—the ability to step right off the edge of a building, to zip the fuck away from this place at-will. Instead, he closes his eyes for a long moment, feeling the wind whip at his face with a velocity that would probably hurt a regular human. He tries to be satisfied with pretending he’s doing just that.
It’s not even up to code for a balcony to exist on a building at this height, but who’s going to stop Vought? Who’s even going to know? He’s certainly not telling.
With a sigh, Dean turns around and heads directly for the liquor cart parked right outside his bedroom door, because what’s a smoke without a drink? With one hand, he pours slightly more than the original two fingers he intended, and with the other, he moves the nearby Victrola’s needle onto a record that’s already in place. “Presence,” just like he intended, because Dean likes things a certain way, likes his home life—what little of it there is—to be reliable and consistent.
If that’s the same shit the original Soldier Boy liked forty years ago, then so be it. Nothing wrong with knowing what you want in life.
As he takes a long, soothing sip of his drink, Dean plants a hand on one hip and looks around. His place is nice. Not Homelander-nice, with that three-story monstrosity of a pad and its douchey, Upper East Side vibes. Fuck that, Dean wouldn’t sleep there if you paid him. Nah—his apartment is a meager two stories, and most of the second is open to the kitchen and living area. Industrial-style, not overly fancy, stylish enough to impress the people he’s hoping to fuck, but still practical.
His bed’s right off of the living room, too, down on the first floor because floating staircases ain’t exactly safe to use when wasted, and that’s Dean’s standard nightly state. That means that the upstairs is all extras—stuff he specifically asked to be installed.
There’s a spa-like bathroom where Dean frequently—secretly—does a mask and a soak, and a screening room, which he affectionately calls, “The Dean Cave.” That room’s aesthetic—if you can even call it that—is even less fully-realized adult than the rest. Much more, “Teenage Boy With Crush,” considering all of the posters, but in his defense, cowboys are fuckin’ cool. Also, superhero or no, nobody but nobody is turning down an offer from Dr. Sexy.
Lifting the whiskey tumbler to his lips, Dean pauses, clocking the slightest change in the energy of the room. Whatever it is prickles the hair at the back of his neck, even as he tries to ignore it. Eyeing the laptop where it sits on a couch cushion, Dean doesn’t move to pick it up—or even really let his mind go there—because something else is definitely amiss. It takes his addled brain an extra second or two to catch up, and when he finally does, he practically deflates.
Rubbing the thumb and forefinger of his right hand against the budding ache between his temples, Dean sighs. “Hey, Cas,” he says, purportedly to thin air, but the emptiness around him shifts and distorts, turning from nothing into something right before his eyes. A six-foot-tall, dark-haired man in a skintight, navy blue Supe suit appears fully formed in the doorway to his bedroom. Without making eye contact, the man wanders off towards the kitchen, great ass practically begging for someone to watch it go.
Soldier Boy, reporting for duty.
“Hello, Dean,” Castiel replies, his low, rough voice sending shivers down Dean’s spine. His wings are tucked tight against his back like little cosplay ones, and Dean wonders if he can get away with suggesting he stretch them out.
Cas—Castiel, more popularly known as “The Angel,” is Vought’s second-most dangerous and first most loyal and devoted soldier. Despite that—or maybe because of it—he brings new meaning to the word “aloof”. It’s not an act, though, as far as Dean can tell. No, the guy who happens to be his best friend in the whole entire world is actually just like that.
“Cas, we’ve talked about this,” Dean says, around another mouthful of liquor. “Personal space. You can’t just—be here.” It sounds as stupid as it feels coming out of his mouth—Cas is always here. At this point, Dean can’t even be sure he has his own apartment to go to. If he does, he never fuckin’ uses it. The guy ignores him, anyway, opening and closing Dean’s cupboards like their contents are the newest and most fascinating things since The Deep rediscovered Atlantis.
“Cas, hello?”
“Hello, Dean,” Castiel repeats, turning to face him with a confused expression on his face. Their eyes lock, and Dean is motherfucked six ways to Sunday, because there’s absolutely no reprieve when looking at this guy. No harbor in the storm, no safe place to rest his gaze. If it’s not the devastatingly handsome face and the terminal sex hair, it’s the custom Supe suit that leaves nothing to the imagination (despite looking like an actual suit), and Cas has a lot of fodder for fantasy under there. The fake tie doesn’t take anything away from that. Muscles for days and thighs that could obliterate a watermelon…or some lucky motherfucker’s head.
Dean, for one, wouldn’t mind going out like that—no siree, Bob, he can think of about a million and one far worse ways to leave this godforsaken planet. Between Cas’ legs? He wouldn’t even complain.
With those thoughts running on ticker-tape through his mind, Dean does the only thing he can do, which is clear his throat and look away—the whiskey in his glass suddenly becomes extra interesting.
Good fuckin’ thing Soldier Boy doesn’t do stupid-ass shit like falling in love, because if he was gonna do something objectively stupid like that, Cas and all his assets would definitely be first on the list. He’s just—Cas is fucking cool as shit. The Angel’s a legend—only has one fuckin’ flaw that anyone can list, and it’s his wonky left eye—Cas can see out of it, but it’s all milky and doesn’t always do what it’s told.
Honestly, Dean doesn’t even think that counts, ‘cause in his opinion, battle wounds are goddamn sexy.
Well, assuming it is a battle wound, which he does, because no one actually knows the truth—or rather, no one’s owning up to it if they do. Not even Cas. To Dean’s dismay, it’s something that his friend avoids talking about at all costs, so, unfortunately, he can’t even hazard a guess, never mind try and wheedle it out of him. Whatever, though—the mystery just adds to the dude’s badass appeal, if you’re asking Dean.
Who doesn’t love a bad boy with a questionable past?
Right. He doesn’t.
Love—and all of its inherent risks and complications—is just not something Dean subscribes to, but that doesn’t stop him from looking, or his dick from wanting to break off a piece. God knows, he ain’t always subtle. Good fuckin’ thing Cas wouldn’t understand sexual interest if it pulled down its pants and sat on his stupidly gorgeous face.
“Dean?” Cas is saying, sounding almost patronizing as he peers down his nose from across the room. “I did greet you.”
Sighing, Dean shakes his head and downs the last of his whiskey before pouring another. “I know you did, Cas. Look, don’t mind me. I’m just having a weird day.” His head’s already buzzing, and he should probably stay clearer for the press junket, but fuck it. He can just sit there and look pretty, let Abby do most of the talking—she prefers it that way anyway, fucking bitch.
In an instant, Cas is back at his side, and Dean can’t tell whether he flew or just walked really fast. He didn’t catch any flash of wings, but Cas has more tricks up his sleeve than a show pony, and he sits in his skin so easily, so naturally, it’s always hard for Dean to predict what’s coming. Of all the Supes he’s ever known, Castiel is the one who feels born for it. Like he couldn’t be anything other than super if he tried.
“Is everything alright?” Cas asks, eyes probing and face pinched with concern, his fingertips gentle where they touch Dean’s suited bicep. Dean can’t help but be drawn into Cas’ gaze for a long second, the cloudiness of his left eye not remotely reducing how attractive Dean finds those baby blues.
Cas, of course, doesn’t realize. “Aren’t you supposed to be giving interviews right now? With Firecrotch,” he adds, nose wrinkling. Cas dislikes Mother Superior almost as much as Dean does, which is saying something.
“Break,” Dean mutters, carefully shaking off his friend’s touch and that too-intense stare to take another sip. He’s exhausted—he kind of wants to bail, go curl up in bed and take whatever punishment Cain or Homelander might dole out for skipping on his responsibilities. He could lie and say he’s sick to score a day pass, if they’d believe it—Soldier Boy’s never been sick before, so he’d probably end up in the lab. Might be worth it, because all of this shit—none of it comes naturally to Dean, and it’s draining.
Cas, on the other hand, just gets being Super. Falls in line and follows orders, hits every mark on the first take. It’s so damn easy for him.
On the contrary, most days Dean feels like someone upstairs made a mistake—no way his dumb ass is worthy of the gifts he was given. Not to mention, the way Vought runs things, he spends far more time making money than he ever does saving people and hunting things. He could bail, but Cas is here, and Vought’s the only constant he even has in his life. After he was abandoned as an infant, the company took him in, raised him up, taught him how to control his powers.
The least Dean can do is to carry out their mission in the way they ask him to do it. It’s not like Vought is somehow taking advantage of him. He’s a superstar, a millionaire. He’s compensated far beyond what’s fair, and he’s living a life that most people—even other Supes—can only dream of scoring their own tiny taste of having.
Still.
“Cas,” he says slowly, swirling the amber dregs at the bottom of his glass around in a circle. “You’re older than me. Been around for—for a while.”
Castiel raises an eyebrow. “Yes,” he agrees. “That’s true.”
“Do you, uh—I mean, were you around when I was dropped off here? Or when they—however I came to be with Vought, is what I’m talking...um. Do you—uh, I guess what I’m askin’ is, do you maybe know anything…anything about me? Something that I might—might not know?”
Frowning, Castiel’s stare intensifies, and Dean knows that he’s busted. “What happened?” Cas demands, and Dean shakes his head again, not sure he’s ready to give that up. Cas is his closest friend in the world, but this is still Vought, and what if this Sam dude isn’t who he says he is?
What if this is some kind of setup to frame him, or just to make him look dumb? Homelander’s not smart enough for a drawn-out prank like that—he’d just burn a hole through Dean’s chest—but some of the Supes definitely are. Abby is, and she’d pull something like this just for Thursday night entertainment. So is Queen Maeve, and so is The Darkness.
Well, there’s a pattern, Dean thinks, somewhat ruefully. Who run the world?
Point being, he can never be too careful with this bunch. Dean decides to toe the line.
“Cas, for once, could you just answer the question, ‘stead of trying to read my mind?”
“I can’t read minds,” Castiel replies, matter-of-factly. “It’s one of the few things I cannot reliably do. I can, however, sense—”
“Cas! Time-sensitive, I gotta—”
“I understand.” The room goes quiet, and Dean chances a glance over as he waits for Castiel to form a reply. The Angel’s gaze is directed up towards the ceiling now, and his expression is pensive, like he’s wracking his brain for a piece of information that should be there but isn’t. This happens to him, sometimes, and Dean’s hopes immediately sink. For a guy with an eidetic memory, Cas sure forgets stuff a lot.
“Not there?”
“Not there,” Castiel confirms, looking slightly confused. “Of course, I remember a time before you were here, and then after—it’s not as if I was involved in raising you, however. We didn’t formally meet until you were an adult and had officially joined the Seven.”
Dean pulls a hand down over his mouth. “Yeah, but you knew who I was, knew their plans for me—c’mon, Cas, there had to have been talk. Shit floating around, watercooler bullshit. Something—maybe about where I came from, who my parents were? Why Vought took guardianship?”
Once again, Castiel’s brow furrows as he thinks, but he comes up with nothing, shaking his head and lifting his shoulders, clearly bewildered. “If there was, I was not made privy to it. I agree that it—it seems strange, now that you’ve pointed it out. Although, these things do happen. There are entire organizations devoted to caring for children abandoned after manifesting their powers.”
Sighing, Dean drops his high ball down onto the cart with a wobbly clink. “Yeah, fine. Look, I got a thing. You gonna be here when I—” Cutting himself off, Dean raises a hand as he heads for the door. “‘Course, you will. Do me a favor and grab us some dinner, we can eat in the Dean Cave, watch Tombstone again, drink until we pass out.”
“I don’t eat,” Castiel says, cocking his head to one side. “Or sleep. You know that.”
“Yeah? Well, in this house we do both, so if you’re here, you’re acting like a human, capiche?” With one hand resting on the door handle, Dean glares pointedly at Castiel, who actually breaks into a small smile at Dean’s gruff insistence that he make an effort to fit in.
“I capiche,” he echoes. “I will get burgers.”
Firing off a sloppy salute, Dean opens the door and steps out into the hall, somehow feeling lighter. By the time he reaches the elevator, he’s already (mostly) forgotten about the weirdo kid who accosted him, or maybe that’s the whiskey talking. Either way, his mood is a helluva lot better—good enough to fake it through the next round of interviews and a couple of hours on the set of the new, “Soldier Boy: The Legend Lives On” movie until he can make it back to Cas and his buns—er, burgers.
Which, speaking of Vought antics, “The Legend” movie only fucking exists because someone leaked it to the public that Dean’s predecessor both kicked the bucket in combat and was lowkey replaced by a new Supe with nearly identical powers. When Dean was quite literally thrust into Soldier Boy’s famous suit and persona alike, the one rule Vought drilled into his head was that no one must find out he wasn’t the original, so color Dean hella confused when everyone suddenly knew.
He can count on one fuckin’ hand—two, if you count the rest of the Seven—the people who even knew that information to leak it, so what in the everloving fuck?
Like a lot of things with Vought, Dean finds it best not to dwell or look too closely at the details of any particular thing, especially where it concerns him. Show up, say the line, smile and pose, rinse and repeat, or he might have to actually consider what it is he’s fucking doing with his life.
Wouldn’t want that.
He sneaks a cigarette on the way down in the elevator, since his conversation with Cas conveniently made him forget that he wanted one. Pretty fuckin’ desperately, too, so not super likely he’d just..lose interest. That—forgetting to smoke—is something that’s been happening often enough for Dean to start feeling a little suspicious, truth be told. Maybe Cas is sick of healing his lungs, or maybe he just doesn’t like the smell, but Dean’s always thinking about smoking, except when The Angel’s around.
If there’s one thing Vought’s taught him, it’s that some things in life are just not a fuckin’ coincidence.
Whatever. By the time he’s sliding into his seat beside Abby in the press room—to Dagon’s chastising glare and pointed watch tap—they’re running over half an hour behind. Even Chuck, Dagon’s squirrely, useless little assistant, looks irritated at the delay and Dean’s nonchalance about it.
Fuck ‘em. At that point, he’s so blissfully pumped full of central nervous system depressants and stimulants alike that he cares far less about any of this bullshit than he did just half an hour prior.
And that’s the way Dean likes it.
***
When he enters that evening, Dean’s apartment is lit up like someone is home. Cas is considerate that way, even when he’s not there. It’s welcome—Dean’s mood has been on a fucking rollercoaster today—up, down, and through a full-ass loop-de-loop—settling somewhere near absolutely foul when he heard in passing that both The Angel and The Darkness were sent out on assignment together. Some national security incident overseas, a threat that couldn’t be put on hold for one freaking night so that Dean could have a couple of hours to ignore reality and chill the fuck out with his best friend.
He rips the helmet off of his head before both feet are even all the way over the threshold, tossing it carelessly in the direction of a sideboard without checking to see where it lands. No time—whiskey is calling his fuckin’ name.
The laptop is right where he left it, taunting Dean from its place on the sofa. Askew on a cushion and looking questionable, like a low-budget electronic trap, Dean narrows his eyes in its direction as he passes. Trampy little laptop, he thinks, all seductive and maybe evil, with its innocent-looking little Dell logo.
“I’m on to you,” he warns the computer, simultaneously pillaging the liquor cart for a nice, tall glass of whatever’s oldest and most potent. There’s really no other way to go tonight, if he’s even considering tackling any of that.
Barely pausing for breath, Dean drains two generous fingers and refills four before exhaling a groan and scooping the stupid thing up on his way to the Dean Cave. As an afterthought, he backtracks to grab the whiskey bottle itself, because stairs are stupid.
Walking along the catwalk that runs around the second floor, Dean registers noises tumbling out of the open doorway to his little den of iniquity. Raunchy, loud noises, like somebody is halfway to Happy Town in there. He grins, shaking his head. Fuckin’ Cas. Turning the corner, he sees that the screen covering the entire far wall of the room is playing fifteen-foot-tall ass. Specifically, some twink’s advertised-as-virgin hole being relentlessly pounded by a cock the size of Dean’s body.
“That’s not ‘Tombstone,’” he mutters, unable to wipe the smile from his face as he settles down onto the oversized couch—more like a bed, really—that takes up the majority of the space. There really isn’t too much else in the room—a pool table behind him, coffee table in front, plus posters all over the walls, and a small fridge full of soda and beer. It’s true that Dean often thinks about asking Vought to install a bar up here, just for ease of fuckin’ access, but he keeps forgetting.
Now that he’s thinking about it, Cas likely has something to do with that, too. He’s probably sick of repairing Dean’s liver along with his lungs, but hell, the last Soldier Boy never aged or got sick—maybe he won’t, either. He makes a mental note to tell Cas to lay off with the healing hands bullcrap, at least for now. Not that he thinks the guy will listen.
Cas doesn’t take orders from anyone but Homelander, Cain, and Carver Edlund himself—the elusive fuck—but even those three don’t come with a guarantee. The Angel might be built to serve, but Cas is a wildcard, and that’s part of why Dean likes him so damn much.
Rubbing his hands together, Dean shifts his attention from the porn down to the spread that’s dominating the coffee table top. Cas really went and scored all of his favorites—burgers from his favorite joint downtown and fries courtesy of another dive that has shit entrees but banging sides. There’s even dessert from the diner across the street, a place Dean loves but hates going into because he always ends up swarmed by fans.
He picks up that container to examine it, barking out a laugh over the mental imagery of Cas materializing at the glass display counter and making the clerk piss his pants, only to lean forward and say, “I need pie.”
It’s also cherry, Dean’s favorite.
Fuckin’ Cas.
Instead of acknowledging the lump in his throat, Dean shoves an entire third of a burger down his gullet and blames the tightness in his chest on swallowing it all at once. He eats damn near everything Cas left him—including the portion he presumes was for the Angel himself—washing it down with a beer that he grabs from the fridge.
The whiskey he saves—figuring that he’s soon going to need it.
Belly full, Dean uses the remote to turn down the volume on the porn. He almost switches it over to something less distracting, but without Cas here, no other options seem particularly appealing. Ultimately, he decides that it doesn’t much matter what’s playing in the background, and he leaves it. Gingerly, Dean opens the questionable computer for the first time to the sounds of a giant pair of tits getting railed from both ends.
It’s familiar, which is oddly comforting, and Dean’s self-aware enough to know that makes him fucked in the head.
He’s fine with it.
Truthfully, Dean couldn’t say what he was expecting to see on-screen after the laptop finished booting, but working for Vought has made him paranoid. He’d be lying if he claimed there wasn’t some small part of him worried this might all be a fucked up mind game, some form of a trap. Maybe all that’s on this thing is a pre-recorded video of Cain telling him that he failed Vought’s secret loyalty test. He’ll watch it, and then when he turns around, Homelander will be standing in the doorway ready to laser him in half—and not in the sexy way.
Just in case, Dean takes a suspicious glance over his shoulder right as he clicks the mouse, dissipating the oddly discordant tropical screen saver. There’s nothing behind him, obviously—not even a shadow—and Dean exhales, feeling stupid. He rolls his shoulders and refocuses, kind of relieved to discover that the nerd wasn’t kidding when he said accessing the content would be simple. The desktop is sparse—just a lonely Chrome symbol and two document files, nothing else.
Dean hesitates with the cursor hovering over the first Word icon, clicking instead on the browser, opening it, and typing in, “Sam Singer, Vought”.
What comes up via Google search is pretty innocuous—a LinkedIn page that verifies Sam as both a new college graduate and a Vought grunt, and as far as Dean can tell, the kid is who he says he is. A little more digging brings up a supremely lame YouTube channel focused on coding, of all things, and some painfully generic social media, but one Facebook post in particular catches Dean’s eye.
It’s definitely him, Sam from the elevator, but no yellow polo this time—far from it. In the picture, Sam’s wearing his graduation gown, poised with an arm around each a middle-aged woman and an older, graying man with a beard and a ballcap. Dean squints, leaning in to try and figure out why the old dude looks vaguely familiar, and to read the caption.
Sam Singer: Thank you to the two people I’m lucky to call my parents, for always treating me like their own, and for raising me to be the man I am today.
Singer.
All of a sudden, it clicks, and Dean releases a frustrated little growl, feeling misled (or maybe just mad at himself for not putting two plus two together sooner).
“So much for innocuous,” he grumbles. “This asshole is the son of Sec fucking Def?! Explains the fresh outta school Vought gig, that’s for damn sure.” Narrowing his eyes, Dean bangs out a little Google cross-checking, just to make absolutely sure he isn’t counting his chickens, but he ain’t wrong. Samuel Singer is the adopted son of Robert Singer—who just happens to be the current Secretary of Defense for the sitting President of the United States—and his lovely wife, Ellen.
All of a sudden, Dean’s Supe suit feels a little tight on his body. His chest armor sits heavier than usual, making it tough to suck in a deep breath. If this kid is fucking with him—or if Vought is playing games—then he’s in real deep. Mariana Trench, deep. With everything Dean has to lose, a smart version of him would simply close the computer, walk it back downstairs, and toss it directly off the balcony, pedestrians below be damned.
Let no one ever say that Dean is a smart man, but something about that kid—something about Sam—reads to him as sincere. Plus, why would Vought pick a guy like that to mess with him, anyway? Why would they give Sam a cover story that’s so damn personal, so high-profile, or bother to create one that checks out, even at the surface level? It’s a waste of time and resources, even for Vought.
It’s also not like anyone knows how Dean secretly pines away about his own lack of personal history and genetic ties. No one here has any clue about the way he pretty constantly wishes for even a breadcrumb trail to follow, or just a clue as to where he really came from and who his family might be. Dean’s never shared those desires with a soul, though, so who would be using them against him?
Well—technically, he did ask once or twice, but that doesn’t count. He was a kid, a snot-nosed brat that didn’t know any better, or understand the meaning of the word, “taboo”. Either way, there were never any actual replies, and the coldness he received for asking taught Dean quickly to shut his mouth and keep it that way. To swallow and forget about those wonderings, because some questions are meant to go unanswered.
He hasn’t brought up the topic to anyone in years. Not even Cas—and he tells Cas damn near everything. Mostly because Cas always seems to know what he’s thinking, even before he says it. Dean’s pretty sure he’s lying about not being able to read minds.
In that same vein, Sam seems to know, too. To do what he did, he must have suspected—or maybe that was just hope talking. Dean supposes if the guy is his brother, then that would make sense. Sam used those precious few seconds in the elevator to give his name—seems obvious now that he was banking on Dean being curious. Curious enough to at least vet his identity, knowing that it would clear.
Dean scratches his head, torn. He’s far from sold, but before he can talk himself out of it, he’s opening the first Word document, the one staring back at him from the left side of the screen, taunting.
The contents are not what he expects. It’s a document in name only, actually more of a dumping ground for photos and what appear to be screenshots of articles. “What the fuck,” Dean mutters. The whole mess is haphazardly arranged into an unwieldy timeline of sorts, a sequence that looks like it’s going to be a headache to follow.
At the top of the page, there’s a small paragraph of typed text. It reads, “D—Sorry for the awkward format. I’ve been compiling this for a while, and low-tech was the safest way to keep it all in one place. Word Docs don’t auto-upload to Vought’s servers the way flash drives do. After you check it out, if you decide you want to talk, send IT a service request for this computer. Serial number is on the back. Don’t contact me any other way. Hope to hear from you. S.”
Dean snorts. “What is this, Spy Kids? We’ll see about that.”
The smile melts quickly from his face though, as he scrolls and examines the information being presented more closely. Names begin to jump out at him—meaning nothing and everything at once. John Winchester, Mary Winchester, husband and wife. In pictures, they look like the perfect family, total cliché Americana with the classic car and white picket fence—the whole shebang.
According to one article Dean reads, John and Mary were married shortly after John was discharged from his military service, following a deployment overseas. Typical little church wedding and two little boys who came along shortly after. There was the youngest, Samuel, and the oldest by several years… Dean.
It’s all right there. News articles chronicling the entirety of his history in black and white, laying it out like some kind of tabloid special interest feature. Why, Dean can’t quite understand, at least, not until he gets to the part about him. Suddenly, the way the story led with Sam makes sense, because the reason Dean’s family is all over the newspapers—the reason they’re not a family anymore—is him.
The words wash over him, and Dean drains his whiskey even faster, feeling numb and not because of the alcohol.
… Oldest son Dean manifested superpowers early, around the tender age of three…
…difficult to control…
…Mother, unable to cope…suicide…
…Father, driven mad by loss…followed shortly after…
…terrible tragedy, inconceivable loss…
…Vought Cares has offered to assume guardianship…
…youngest is with relatives…
By the end of the document, Dean’s head is spinning and he kind of feels like the room has tilted forty-five degrees to the right. Miraculously, his ability to read is still intact, and he realizes from the timestamps on all of the various articles that this was a media blitz—a ton of articles in a very short amount of time. While it would be easy to go down a shame-spiral of depression and self-hate, that detail sticks the fuck out, digging into his brain like a thorn and grounding him.
He takes a deep breath and forces himself to think logically—alright, so this is the story, but according to this Sam dude, it’s not the real one. From the bits and pieces Dean knows about the guy, Sam doesn't have much to gain from lying. Rich family, well-connected, highly-educated—he’s got the whole world in his hands. Hell, he’s probably already on the management track here at Vought, thanks to all that other stuff.
Try as he might, Dean can’t come up with a single reason why someone like Sam would make something like this up—and that’s before he factors in all of the very real articles that seem to support the kid’s version of events. Also, knowing what he knows about his employers and the way they operate, Dean can’t help but feel like it makes way more sense for that media blitz to have been Vought-orchestrated than not.
The whole thing stinks, and Dean sure as hell recognizes Carver Edlund’s stench—despite never having actually seen the guy at all—when his nose is around it.
The only question is, why? What was the reason? And what other pieces of the puzzle is he missing?
Moving on, Dean minimizes the first document and opens the second, hoping there’s something in there to explain a little more clearly what the hell is going on here.
Nope, no such fuckin’ luck. It’s nothing—almost blank, save for a few instructional lines from Sam and what looks like a file path extension?? Dean frowns and wrinkles his nose at both the suggestion that he memorize the nonsense string of words and the subsequent explanation as to why. Something about how the file path is useless unless typed directly into a computer that already has access to the destination? Dean’s eyesight blurs and he has to read that bit four times before his brain finally comprehends that the short line of code has to be plugged into the laptop of someone further up in the Vought food chain than his sorry ass.
VP or higher, Sam suggests, which, Jesus Christ on a cracker, like it’s so easy. Maybe while he’s at it, they can steal a rocketship and fly to the fuckin’ moon.
“Fuck that,” he scoffs, talking out loud to no one at all, which is always a great sign. “Awesome way to get fired, and then, you know, fired, if it wasn’t completely impossible in the first place.”
Except…that’s not exactly true, and he knows it.
Dean kind of does have access to shit like that—more than he should, anyway. Boning the boss on occasion means that getting caught sneaking around in his office wouldn’t necessarily have the automatic grisly ramifications it otherwise might, and his record is squeaky clean. Technically, Dean’s relatively sure that the most difficult part of pulling this off would be memorizing the backslash-ridden file address. Really, the fact that Sam decided it was a reasonable ask at all makes Dean deeply question their supposed shared parentage.
As a reluctant but resigned groan escapes from his mouth, Dean glances down at his watch and weighs his options. It’s late, so Cain—otherwise known as Senior Vice President of Hero Management—shouldn’t be in his office, which just happens to be right down the fuckin’ hall. Barely a two-minute walk, Dean could slip in and out in seconds. Between the time, the current active missions, and everything else going on, it’s fairly likely he wouldn’t encounter a single soul along the way.
He hedges. Sits there in the remnants of his fast-food dinner and with a forgotten glass of whiskey in hand. Laptop growing hot on his thighs, Dean vaguely wishes it was that hot piece of ass from advertising that Vought just hired, instead of a stupid machine and a memory test. He scowls, hating himself for ever even opening this ridiculous can of worms, and wondering if he even cares about the truth of the mess at all.
Why should he? The past is dead and buried. There’s no bringing Mary and John Winchester back, no matter what sent them six feet under. His life is what it is, and it could sure as hell be a lot worse than the high-paying, fame-granting, luxurious one he’s living.
Why rock the boat?
After a few minutes of sulking and weak attempts at memorization, Dean does what he always does during a crisis and pulls out his phone to call Cas. He holds the device up so that the angle is better for The Angel to see his face (and not the double chin that’s probably still smeared with burger grease). To his dismay, the FaceTime call rings and rings, going unanswered for so long Dean nearly gives up and chucks his phone across the room.
Right as he lifts his hand to do exactly that, the call connects and most of Cas’ confused face appears, squinting into the screen. Just the sight of him lifts Dean’s mood, and he shifts gears immediately, shelving his existential angst where Cas hopefully can’t sense it. Through the phone, anyway.
“Hey, sunshine,” Dean says cheerfully, ignoring the gunshots and what sounds like a partial building collapse happening in the background.
“Hello, Dean.”
Wherever Cas is, it’s as dark there as New York City is outside Vought Tower, but before Dean can ask, there’s another explosion that briefly draws The Angel’s attention away and has him asking, “Is there—something pressing happening at home?” That’s definitely Cas-speak for, “I’m a little busy here, Dean,” but it’s as close as the guy will ever come to saying it out loud. Cas never blows him off, superhero shit be damned.
“Um…”
A round of rapid gunfire breaks through the night, but Castiel doesn’t so much as flinch. He’s focused again on him and him only, and selfishly, Dean revels in the power of that.
“Sort of,” he replies. “Look—remember, earlier today, I asked you about my parents? Where I might’ve come from—if you’d ever heard anything?” Brow furrowed, Castiel nods, and Dean continues. “I guess I…I kind of stumbled on something. Accidentally.”
More explosions, and Castiel frowns in their direction. “Something about your parents?”
“Yeah, I guess…I’m not sure, but Cas—d’ya ever think…ever wonder just how far Vought goes to keep us—hell, maybe even create Supes like us who are on their side? Who will be on their side, no matter what?” He scratches his head and looks away, trying to unload that statement with some less-than-threatening body language, but the shift in Cas’ facial expression says he’s already gone too far.
Danger, Will Robinson! Abort mission!
“Dean—”
“No, yeah, forget it. It’s—”
“You know I’ve had doubts.” Cas cuts him off, and it’s surprising—enough for Dean to snap his gaze back to the screen in time to see those big, blue eyes staring scrutinizingly back. He treads lightly.
“We…we’ve talked about that, once or twice. I just—”
“Even the concept is confusing for me to think about,” Castiel snaps, and he looks frustrated, touching two fingers to his temple. “It’s—things are not always clear and in order, the way that I expect, the way they should be. My memory is flawless, and yet, certain moments—” The frown lines etched into his forehead deepen. “It’s as if they’ve gone missing, plucked out whole. As if some one—” He pauses and shakes his head. “But that’s impossible, of course.”
“Of course,” Dean echoes, but he’s not so sure about that. Vought doesn’t exactly know the meaning of the word.
“Questions sometimes come with answers we don’t want to hear,” Cas offers.
Dean nods, careful when he asks, “So, if you were me, you’re saying that you wouldn’t go digging.”
“No,” Castiel corrects. “I can’t answer that for you. No one can.” There’s an explosion, louder this time and significantly closer, so much so that it rocks whatever surface Cas is standing on, setting him off-balance and making him curse, which is amusing. “I need to deal with this. Dean, I’ll be home shortly. We can speak more about—whatever this is. Don’t do anything rash before then.”
“Yeah,” Dean agrees, “Definitely. I am rash-free.”
Castiel squints at him in concern, like he can read his mind, and sometimes, Dean fuckin’ wonders. “Alright,” he says, and hangs up.
The phone screen’s barely gone dark before Dean’s on his feet, pounding the last of his drink down the hatch before taking the stairs two at a time to the ground floor. He goes barrelling out of his apartment and into the hallway before he can think better of it. Before Cas’ warning and the tiny ounce of sense he might remotely have buried somewhere in the depths of his mind can claim a toehold.
There’s no one in the hallway—and even if there was, he’s not doing anything wrong, yet. The Tower is his fuckin’ home—but Dean’s semi-drunk brain starts stockpiling excuses anyway. Liquor run. Heading out to the bar. Weekly scheduled hate-fuck with Firecrotch. Something else alcohol-related. Escort service waiting in the lobby, whatever.
Million and one viable reasons for him to be out and about—absolutely nothing weird going on here.
Once outside of the target door, Dean doesn’t hesitate. If Cain busts him, that’s one thing, but it’d be way worse to be caught lurking around the V.P.’s suite by someone else. No one needs to catch on to the fact that he’s letting Cain hit it on occasion, alright? The accusations of favoritism that would inevitably make their way around would turn his life into something unbearable.
He knocks swiftly (just in case) and then unlocks the door to let himself inside, praying that Cain didn’t pick this as the one night a year when he actually takes his work home with him. As the latch quietly clicks shut behind him, Dean glances over towards Cain’s desk—jackpot, laptop. There it fuckin’ is, sitting closed on the desk, innocuous as can be. Like it’s not maybe about to blow up Dean’s entire belief system and the foundation he’s built his entire self-image upon.
Plus, Cas is going to be pissed.
But you don’t know that. Maybe it’s nothing, Dean reasons as he rounds the expansive desk and takes a seat in Cain’s opulent leather chair, the one that leans way back. As his body rocks, his mind automatically conjures a bunch of images from the last time he saw the desk from this angle—admittedly, a lot more fun than this faux-espionage shit—and the memory makes his dick perk up, like anyone invited it to this already confusing party.
Shit’s complicated enough without Dean losing valuable oxygenated blood flow meant for his brain to his wayward penis, so he shoves the heel of his hand roughly into his crotch and thinks about roadkill. Meanwhile, his other hand opens the laptop and starts getting down to business.
“Cracking” Cain’s password is a no-brainer. Dean’s watched him type it more times than he can count (and from many different angles). B-E-E-S-K-N-E-E-S-1, he punches in, and boom—access granted.
The rest isn’t so easy, and that’s probably an explanation for why Cain wasn’t remotely careful in safeguarding his login. Without Sam’s direction, what would Dean even do with the access? Download porn? He’s no IT guy, that’s for sure. He struggles to even pull up the command screen, never mind remember Sam’s instructions or the file path itself. Thankfully, it’s just the last section that he really needs, since Cain’s File Explorer serves to prompt his memory on where to click to get the rest.
Fishing around the Vought Exec Drive, it’s slow going, and Dean curses himself for not just bringing the laptop with him. Worst case scenario, Cain was in here when he showed up, and so what? Dean’s smooth as silk, he would’ve gotten away with it. Worst came to worst, he has plenty of kinky tentacle porn bookmarked, stuff he could’ve pulled up and claimed he wanted to use for “inspiration.” Cain’s brain would have turned the fuck off immediately, no questions asked.
‘Course, then he probably would’ve ended up tied to the meeting table with three dildos in his ass, a cock in his mouth, and fuck knows what else where, but that’s a price he’s willing to pay.
Dean shakes his head and blinks a few times, having completely zoned out fantasizing about his little break-in-gone-wrong, and all the ways that could be so fuckin’ right. Refocusing—before his mind decides that it’s a good time to bring Cas into that mental equation—he pulls up the system prompt window the way Sam explained, copies the path from File Explorer, and types in the end of the memorized address.
Well, hopefully, he does. Honestly, Dean’s high on adrenaline and has half a bottle of whiskey sloshing around in his belly, so at this point, anything’s possible.
Enter.
The screen works through a litany of gibberish commands before a parent file with a familiar name appears, and he clicks through to see the contents.
“Oh shit,” he exclaims when the results pop up, suddenly breathless and feeling too-tight in his Supe suit again. “Holy fucking shit!”
***