Mendacium Ex Machina - Sam/Dean NC-17 [Part 2]

[queerly_it_is]

PART 1 | MASTERPOST


“-of here okay? Sammy? Sam!” He’s shaking. No, Dean’s shaking him. Standing scant inches from his face and holding one hand near Sam’s neck, not touching but almost. There’s that fear in his eyes again, turning the green brighter, sharper.

“W-What?” he manages, the prickle of his own eyes reminding him to blink. The blood on his neck’s going cold. His left hand is aching even though it can’t be.

“We gotta go,” Dean says, slowly and too intense; like the syllables need time to sink through.

Sam nods, and the collection of cuts along his neck itch-sting with the movement. His thoughts are fogged and distant, obscured.

He’s alive.

How can you tell, really?

As he takes a few stumbling steps forward, he turns and looks at the three collapsed bodies they’re leaving behind. One of them’s not dead, he reminds himself like benediction. As he turns back toward Dean, he gets a glimpse of someone else leaning against a wall, hands stuffed into the pockets of a pure white lab coat. Even with the muddied blur of his peripheral vision, Sam can tell he’s smiling.

Dean’s fist stays clenched in the fabric of Sam’s jacket, fingers flexing against Sam’s shoulder as he tugs them both on, gun still held out from his side in the other hand. It makes it hard to walk, and the collar of his undershirt rubs over the knife marks with every other step, but Sam doesn’t say anything.

He all but gets thrown into the passenger’s seat, Dean slamming the door while Sam sits and picks the flaking blood from the back of his hand, not really feeling it, but the implant tells him he’s being touched anyway, like a memory of sensation more than anything present.

The gloves are still in the alley, he realises for the first time with a swift uprush of anxiety. He almost shoves his hands under his thighs, feels the urge to sandwich them between his legs and the threadbare upholstery like a yawning pit in his gut, the thought repeated over and over inside his head, getting louder.

“Sam,” Dean says, low and jolting, and Sam comes back to himself with a dragging inhale as his chest burns and the forming bruises over his torso throb with his heartbeat.

There’s laughter somewhere, echoing.

“Yeah I’m… I’m here,” he says, thumb tracing over the smoothness of his palm, the gentle ridges at the edge of each knuckle. No damage at all from the wrecking ball of a punch he threw.

Aren’t you better like this? Enhanced? Harder to break?

“I’m fine,” he says, and Dean’s jaw works as he breathes slow through his nose, control exercise.

He makes a point of resting his hands on his thighs, keeps Dean’s eye and hold it.

Dean starts the car, and Sam times his breathing; in and out, nice and even.



They get back to the room, and Dean just stands in the middle of the floor as Sam uses a damp rag to wipe the blood from his skin; his hands; his neck.

Jesus, they can’t keep this up. They’re supposed to be finding a way to stop Dick, not getting themselves damn near killed by random, aug stealing nutbags.

“I need to check you over,” he says, party ‘cause Sam just got wailed on by three guys with at least two augmented arms between ‘em, and partly ‘cause it’s easier to say than the other hundred defeatist thoughts butting up behind his teeth; grinding at the spaces between his molars like grit.

“I’m fine,” Sam answers, too quiet over the scrub of the rag, the patter of water into their lousy excuse for a sink.

“Sam,” Dean grumbles, trying his best to do this without starting another stupid back and forth that moves them nowhere.

Sam’s never liked the one-to-one first aid aspect of their lives. Even when it was their dad patching them both up, or Dean taking care of Sam back when he was a kid and then a teenager, he’s always hated that remote kind of focus being aimed at him. The stitches and bandages and salves were all minor annoyances to be played off with jokes between clenched teeth; dislocated joints shoved back into place and - once this whatever-it-is thing started between them, and assuming they had running hot water - shared showers to wipe away muck and blood and sweat.

But since Sam’s stint in that fucking hellhole of a lab, it’s only gotten worse. Dean doesn’t know if it’s the medical side of it - the antiseptic smell or the feel of gauze, the needles - or just being clinically checked over, but he’s tried to let Sam take care of himself since then, even with every ingrained response to Sam being injured railing at him like a siren in his skull.

This time though, he just can’t do it. Not when he had to watch a deranged psycho shove a blade against his brother’s throat, saw the lifeblood start to seep out.

Sam crosses the space out of their closet of a bathroom, boots kicked off and nudged by the doorway that’s missing an actual door. He’s out of his topmost layer, and as he tugs the tee shirt off Dean can already see the purplish marks dotting across his ribs and low on his stomach, spreading around to his back and mottling between his shoulders. Added to the ones already visible on his jaw, the stark white of his one hand, and that feeling of looking at a stranger is sneaking up on Dean like slow curls of smoke along a ceiling; creeping vines.

Except he’s not a stranger. It’s Sam.

It’s always been Sam.

“You should probably sit,” Dean says with a nod to the rickety bed as he pulls the first aid kit from a duffle he’d hauled outta the trunk of the car.

Sam’s leaning back a little with his hands - so weird seeing ‘em without the gloves, Dean’s having a hard time not staring - splayed behind him. He’s staring at the middle distance a little glazed, but his breathing’s even and he doesn’t have that startled deer expression that’s usually the tip-off for the hallucinations.

Dean considers the pathetic little chairs they scavenged for the room before just sighing and kneeling by the bed, the frame so close to the floor it’s not even at mid-thigh on him.

He’s silent as he hands over a couple pills for the pain, checks the rapidly darkening marks on Sam’s skin as gentle as he can manage.

“Nothing broken,” he murmurs as he checks his brother’s ribs, fingers running over the arch of bones and trying not to reflexively pull back at Sam’s pained hiss. “Or cracked, far as I can tell. S’gonna be a bitch laying down for a while though.”

“I’m fine, Dean. Really,” Sam says, and he looks twice his normal gigantor size with Dean looking up the length of him like this.

“Yeah,” Dean huffs.

They’re always fine.

He makes to stand, but Sam reaches out and stops him dead with a hand resting on Dean’s shoulder. He looks about as surprised by the abrupt move as Dean feels.

There’s a second - two, three; like portraits of awkwardness - where they’re just staring at each other, Dean crouched awkwardly to the side of Sam’s legs, the warmth of his hand seeping through Dean’s shirt, tiny movement of his fingers like he’s caught between pulling back and gripping tighter.

“I’ll be okay,” Sam says, and it’s too loaded with understanding; too damn heartfelt, and Dean has no idea how they got here.

“You just keep… over and over again, and I’m always… ” he swallows past the sandpapery lump forming in his throat.

I’m always too slow, he finishes in his head. And one of these days it’ll be a forever deal.

Sam’s hand squeezes his shoulder; hard enough to shake him free of the looping thought he’s wandered into, and it’s breaking the surface when he was so sure he was gonna drown; air flooding him like light and it hurts even though he needs it; wants it more than he can remember wanting anything.

“Dean,” Sam breathes, and just like that Dean’s moving in a fluid rise that pops his knees until he’s standing bent at the waist, and his hands are on the warm skin of Sam’s wide shoulders and the desperation is fire in his belly, crashing them together.

Sam makes a high, animal sound when their lips meet, then his hand’s roaming over Dean’s back, restless and spanned wide between his shoulders as Dean fits his fingers over the blotched bruises on his brother’s jaw; like his fingerprints can reshape them. He licks into Sam’s mouth, tugs his jaw wider and pushes in closer, the bed already creaking in ignored protest.

Dean’s tongue flicks over the bumps of those smooth teeth, the ridges of his palate and the slickness of Sam’s tongue; takes in the taste of him and shares their combined breath between them.

He pulls back enough to nudge their foreheads together, the rub of skin and hot fan of air from Sam’s kiss-swollen mouth tingling over his own, almost dizzying. When Sam leans back in and claims Dean’s mouth again, it’s softer; wet cling of lips and a stroke of tongue that has Dean realising how hard he is just from this; how much it feels like getting daylight after years of going without.

Sam pulls at Dean’s overshirt until he drags it off and tosses it aside, wedges himself between the spread of Sam’s legs and pulls his brother in, holds him in place as he licks into his mouth again, all that hot slickness and perfect noises loosed from the back of Sam’s throat.

It takes Dean a few minutes of nipping at Sam’s lips and sucking on his tongue, stroking over whatever unbruised skin he can reach, to realise why the balance of their impromptu make out session doesn’t feel quite right.

Sam’s left hand is shoved awkwardly behind the muscular wall of his body, kept out of the way.

“Hmm, Sam,” he manages between one kiss and the next, “it’s okay; you can… here.” He reaches out slowly, makes his movements obvious even to Sam’s muzzy gaze, not breaking eye contact all the while.

By the time his fingers brush the slightly warm back of Sam’s augmented hand, his brother’s gone totally, completely still; even his breath stopped still mid-inhale. Dean looks up at him; the blown-black pupils and the flush riding high over his cheekbones, hair straggling from his temple onto his forehead and the lines of his abdomen tense, waiting.

“You’re fine,” Dean says, his fingers sliding ever so slightly further across the back of Sam’s hand. He’s barely touched it since those first few days, and never this deliberately; this intentionally without having another reason.

As his palm fits over the smooth back, fingers curling slightly around and under, he leans up and kisses Sam again; almost pointedly even though it’s stupidly soft; the way they’ve never really been no matter how far back you look. Sam responds sluggishly, distracted, and Dean has no idea how much of this he can actually feel, but he squeezes the ‘meat’ of his brother’s hand, and Sam gasps against Dean’s lips like it’s the most surprising thing he’s ever felt.

“C’mon,” he almost whispers as he draws Sam’s arm out and in front of him, and he’d feel ridiculous; kneeling on the floor like this holding hands, if it weren’t for the stunned look that Sam’s levelling at him without even trying to cover it up. He’s completely exposed, Dean realises; stripped barer than the naked skin on display can even begin to account for.

Sam takes a shaky breath, his free hand twitching and left awkward on his thigh. “Dean, I don’t… just, be careful okay? I don’t wanna-”

“You won’t,” Dean says, low but firm, because yeah he watched Sam cave in a guy’s head like popping a paper sack not even an hour ago, but he’s not worried Sam’ll hurt him. They’re better at hurting each other than anyone else has ever managed, but Dean’s still here and Sam’s still here, and if they don’t do this then they’re never gonna be them again.

Dean’s willing to admit that Dex might’ve had a point.

Practically in slow motion, Dean plants Sam’s hand on the curve where his neck meets his shoulder, fingers crosshatched and thumbs in opposition, presses down with a meaningful look and watches the long roll of Sam’s throat as he swallows hard, nods just enough to be noticeable.

Letting go in tiny increments, Dean gets Sam to maintain the exchange of kisses; draws Sam’s tongue into his mouth and makes as much encouraging noise as he can feasibly manage that way. At the same time he skims his hands up the inside of Sam’s thighs, all dry heat through the denim of his jeans, thumb skimming a hole near the knee.

“Dean,” Sam moans out. “You gotta… c’mon man.” He’s damn near panting, kisses turning sloppy, and the rush of blood to his dick is making Dean more than a little light-headed.

He presses down over the obscenely outlined bulge at Sam’s crotch, takes the roughshod groan into his mouth and swallows it down, greedy.

“Gonna suck you,” Dean hears himself say, like someone’s taken a belt sander to his vocal cords for how shredded and raw he sounds. Seems to work for Sam though, from the shudder that works down his body, the spasming clench of the smooth, cool fingers resting against Dean’s neck.

“Jesus fuck, Dean,” Sam whines as Dean scrapes his teeth over the length of tendon at his brother’s neck, sucks wetly at the edge of a pre-existing bruise before he folds lower and kisses a path down the bumps of muscle at Sam’s abs, fits a hand over his hip and traces the tips of his fingers beneath the waistband.

A sharp tug and pull downward has the loose button of Sam’s jeans undoing and the zipper unthreading, Sam lifting from the hips to try and help while Dean tries to simultaneously lean into the pressure of Sam’s hands on him.

He yanks Sam’s jeans and underwear down his thighs, shoulders pushing wider into the V between, wets his lips just to hear the sound Sam gives up for it.

Fuck but he’s almost forgotten how much he gets off on this; taking his brother apart with hands and mouth and cock; whatever else he can think of, the sense of rightness that he’s only really found when they’re connected like this.

Sam’s still most of the way hard - probably flagged when Dean went off-script with the whole hand thing - but still hotter than a summer in Hades when he twitches under Dean’s scrutiny and bites off a noise like he’s trying his damndest not to beg.

Dean plants sucking kisses to the hard delineation of muscle between Sam’s thigh and his groin, breathes in the pure smell of Sam that’s never been bested by anything else in Dean’s experience.

He groans shameless and slutty around that first push of Sam’s cock head through the ring of his lips, sliding over his tongue and slipping against the roof of his mouth; sucks and feels the swell of his brother’s dick as he takes him deeper; the musky, pure sex scent heady in his nostrils as he drags air down into his lungs.

Sam’s body ripples under his hands as Dean takes his cock deeper into his throat, practically fucks his mouth on it ‘til Sam’s stone-hard and leaking bittersweet against the back of his tongue; rubs that slick muscle along the underside, draws back up to press the tip hard into the slit, feels the blurt of more precome as Sam whimpers all desperate through his teeth.

Dean’s got a hand grinding down onto his own dick, painfully constricted in his jeans and leaking a wet spot through the fabric that’s cooling and sparking sensation along his nerves as he bobs and sinks down again and again, twists on the downstroke and sucks harder at the soft skin stretched tight over heat, tracing veins.

Sam’s cradling Dean’s head in those paws of his like he’s made of fragile china, fingers fitted around the back of his head but offering up no pressure; threading through the bristles of Dean’s hair and stroking over the hollows of his cheeks, the curve of his lips where all that hard flesh is snugged up inside of him, pressing at the back of his throat like breathing is just something other people do; irrelevant so long as he can keep Sam like this.

When Sam really starts to shake - like full on rattling, as if all the bolts and screws holding him together are working loose - Dean draws back enough that just the slick, flared head is held behind the seal of his lips. He looks up at his brother’s face, gleaming with sweat and the pink of his mouth slack and inviting, and swirls his tongue around that leaking slit as he stares up, almost defiant from under his lashes.

Sam comes just as his fingers stroke down the side of Dean’s neck, almost caressing like he’s trying to feel the scalding pulses of release as he shoots across Dean’s tongue; feeling for the bob of Dean‘s throat as he drinks him down, even as Sam throws his head back and chokes out a ruined mash up of a grunt and a wail, all snapped into breathy pieces and cast into the air. Dean works him through it; gentler, easier suction as he swallows and rolls Sam’s balls in his hand, middle finger pressing at the stretch of tight skin behind to draw it out as long as he can.

Pulling back with a rasping, heaving gulp of air, Dean claws and shoves his jeans outta the way and tugs at his dick rough and fast. Half a dozen tight strokes with his finger rubbing under the head and the taste of Sammy in his mouth is all it takes, before he tenses all over and shoots milky white onto the already none-too-clean carpet in scattershot lines that pulse from somewhere under his diaphragm, bending him double even on his knees; ‘til his forehead’s resting against the hard muscle of Sam’s thigh, gasping and trembling with his brother’s long fingers - both hands this time, and he’ll get to smiling about that when he can coordinate any of his body’s normal responses again - carding through his hair, down the back of his neck and over the knobbly, top bumps of his spine.

They stay in that weird, slumped repose for a hazy, washed-out stretch of syrupy time, everything broken down to the smell of Sam’s skin and the musk of sex permeating the room, Dean’s breath loud where he’s basically collapsed into Sam’s body. The incline of Sam’s chest forms a distorted L, with his legs still spread out in front of him, jeans twisted ‘round his ankles and Dean kneeling in the void between.

There’s a lassitude to the feel of Sam under his hands, a deep fatigue that’s been building but always packed under grim trudging through the mire of their lives; the ‘mission’ or whatever label you try and affix to it.

For the first time in ages, Dean actually feels settled; right the way down to his bones.

Like maybe they can do this.



They get about two seconds worth of determined banging on the door before it swings open and Jody steps in, rifle extended and cocked in one hand and the other balled like she’d use her fist before the gun anyway.

She takes in the room; Dean on the opposite side of the small table with his Colt hastily drawn and aimed at the doorway, only lowered a little once he realised who it was, and Sam where he’s frozen in the entry of their tiny bathroom, knife pulled from the sheath at his ankle but gun out of reach, hair trailing water down the back of his neck in goose bump lines of chill.

It’s the most pointless standoff Sam’s ever seen, but they don’t exactly entertain often, much less get visits from the resistance higher-ups. They’re still blacklisted after all, deemed too much of a security risk to cooperate with, ‘compromised’ or whatever the reasoning was.

It might even be funny, if the room smelt a little less of sweat and sex from the day before.

Do you think she knows? The things you and your brother do in the dark?

Jody takes them both in, eyes inscrutable with the light pouring in behind her, throwing long shadows against the carpet. She lowers the rifle at least - slowly - and then steps further in and gives them a wry smile. “Oh good, you’re not dead,” she says, voice the definition of cheery.

Dean snorts, lets his gun hand fall to his side, knife clattering to the table in front of him. “What, that the resistance version of a ‘hello’ now? Man, you guys really lose all your manners running the underground, huh?”

She couldn’t look less concerned with Dean’s snark if she tried. “Careful Dean; just ‘cause you’re on the outs with almost all the people on the planet doesn’t mean you get to whine about it. We all do what we have to.”

“Oh sure,” Dean says, easy except for how it’s not at all, the tension in his jaw and the vibe he’s giving off like a coiled snake waiting to strike. “Make yourself at home; our casa es su casa, s’not like you’ve been screening our calls or cutting us off when we needed something. But hey; bygones.” He’s standing on her side of the table now, Sam trailing around to join him as he slips the knife out of sight.

Jody at least looks slightly apologetic, “I know you don’t owe us anything, and for what it’s worth I did my best to convince the others that-”

“You closed ranks,” Dean says, “shut us down when we came to you for help, and left us out in the cold while you carried on in your cosy bunkers and tried to plan your way outta the end of the world. Now let me guess; you need our help?”

“I didn’t make the decision, Dean,” she says, “I’m running one shelter, with one small group of people; I’m not the head honcho of the entire resistance. I had to go along with it or they’d have cut us off too. There’re kids in my group, Dean; families. It was a shitty situation, and I made a judgement call, that’s it.”

“We tried to contact you about Bobby,” Sam tells her. “We left messages in a dead drop but I wasn’t sure if-”

“Yeah I heard,” she nods, her mouth pinching. She’d been close to Bobby for a long time, maybe closer than Bobby ever outright admitted. “He was a damn good man,” she mutters with a sad shake of her head.

“Yeah,” Dean says, just as low, turning rough. “Yeah he was.”

Sam thinks about the projector in Dean’s jacket where it’s thrown over one of the chairs, doesn’t know if they should try and tell Jody or just leave her with the impression that Bobby got a cleaner death than he did. More final.

But Dean squares his shoulders and pushes a breath out from between his teeth, “This ain’t a social call then, I take it?”

She shakes her head again, “I wish, but the bad news just keeps coming. Frank’s dead.”

Sam’s heart clenches and his gut twists, cold flooding him. Dean looks just as shocked, his jaw going slightly slack and surprise running over his face.

“You’re sure?” Dean asks even though it has to be true; no way Jody would come all the way out here otherwise.

She nods, and sighs loud in the empty quiet, “It happened sometime in the last thirty-six hours. Charlie was the one who found out.”

“Charlie?” Sam asks without really meaning to. "Since when are her and Frank best buds?”

Jody gives him a ghost of a smile, “They’d been working on that mystery signal you boys and Bobby found out about. He wasn’t answering her calls, so she paid a discreet visit and found R.I. goons ransacking his place. She stuck around for half a day waiting for ‘em to leave, and then pulled a triple backup drive outta the wall that they missed. Everything else was either taken or trashed… and there was a lot of blood; too much. I’m sorry, but he‘s gone.”

Dean looks like he wants to throw a punch, and Sam feels like his feet are growing roots into the ground, anchoring him still while his head spins.

You’re afraid to be alone, but that’s your natural state isn’t it? Alone in a crowd, alone with your brother. Alone with the thoughts that cut at you in the night. What if being alone is the only way you can survive?

“-am? Sammy? Hey.” Dean nudges him with one shoulder, and the walls of their room come rushing back so fast he almost falls flat on his ass.

Jody’s giving him an unnamable look, and he’s basically just confirmed all the stuff the resistance was worried about hasn’t he?

“Yeah,” he manages, too much of a whisper to be reassuring. “Sorry, I just. Too many ghosts.”

Dean’s expression pinches before he nudges him again, a little firmer but less urgent, “Yeah we’re getting thinner on the ground day by day, here.” He turns back to Jody. "Did they make any progress on Bobby’s numbers? Anything we can use?”

Jody shakes her head again, “They didn’t have enough time, but we’ve got another problem now; Frank had a lot of intel on the resistance, more than most. We’ve had to scrap half our drop sites and safe houses; burn the phones, even risk moving people to the District. It’s why I didn’t just call you, we can’t trust the lines of communication right now; Frank had your aliases and your contact numbers in his system, not to mention this location. You need to move; go somewhere unlisted.”

“Great,” Dean grits out. "so we’re worse off than when we started. That’s awesome.”

“Like I said, the bad news just keeps coming,” she says with a commiserating shrug. “Half the active people we have out there are scrambled and out of touch; Kevin’s in the wind somewhere in Seattle, Charlie’s gonna have to rebuild her own system from the ground up, and who knows how many others that we’ve got no way of tracking.”

“Well we don’t exactly have a long list of alternatives,” Dean gripes with a gesture to the room around them.

“Rufus’ place,” Sam mutters, thinking it over. "He had a hideout that Bobby mentioned; it’s been abandoned for years but that’s good, right? Frank probably didn’t know about it, so neither will Dick.”

“Whatever works,” Jody says. “Just be quick about it, the moment Roman’s techs crack that drive they’re gonna come down on this place like a bag of hammers.”

She reaches into her jacket, pulls out a thin, black box just bigger than the span of her palm and hands it to Dean. “That’s everything Frank had about that signal thing Roman’s working on; I had Charlie make you a copy. Don’t leave it lying around,” she adds with a warning finger pointing at Dean.

“What about you?” Sam asks.

She smiles, lets the barrel of her gun fall against her shoulder, “I’ve got people to take care of. You boys just… try not to die, huh?”

Dean grins, and gives Sam a side glance, “We’ll do our best.”

It’ll have to be enough.



They’re going through a god awful underground dead drop in the middle of a wooded nowhere when she finds them.

Bad as the District gets, it’s still a step up from the foetid shells of warehouses and barren buildings that get repurposed by the resistance for caching supplies and intel for whoever’s in the area.

This one’s more of an old fallout shelter than anything. Literally underground, and as much as Dean wants to enjoy the irony, the stink is kind of hard to ignore. It’s all featureless stone and stale air, a ladder missing three rungs bolted into one wall, leading up to the overgrown foundation of all that’s left of somebody’s house.

He’s shifting crates around, looking for an energy cell that’ll fit the bizarre do-it-yourself system at Rufus’ place. For all his badass skills at working to bring down the aug corps, Rufus’ technical skill looks like a spare parts bin exploded all over his cabin.

The naked bulb with it’s stringy chain is throwing creepy shadows along the floor, sending blue-green spots across Dean’s vision each time he turns toward it, drops another useless box of crap to the side.

Sam’s up to his ears in stacks of old datapads, picking up one with a quick skim of his eyes before moving on to the next. Looking for contact info that’s been updated since they were last here.

Since a load of the active resistance members got ganked, he reminds himself. Took the bastards less than two days to track down anyone Jody and her pals couldn’t warn in time, more names on a growing list. He forces the thought to the forefront, keeps it going. Brushwood on the pyre.

Sam’s been sending him meant-to-be-furtive glances pretty much since they got the news.

Dean’s been ignoring them.

He finally finds the cell at the bottom of a box of flares. Snags those too. He tests the primer, a brief whine of charge building that fizzes along his molars, three little lights all wink on in a row of green.

“Got it,” he crows, looking over at Sam as he shoves the thing into a backpack.

Sam hums vaguely, frowning, datapad in each hand. He’s not wearing gloves, and that’s something. More of a something that Dean should be looking at when they’re losing the fight at an even faster rate than usual.

“Nothing,” Sam murmurs, not looking up, his eyes intense and roving, busy. He looks like Sam.

That’s when the hatch swings open on a rusty groan of hinges, and they both swing around; weapons pointed at the void in the roof before Dean even consciously thinks to move.

The datapads click faintly as they hit the floor, then everything goes eerie silent.

Dean’s heart hammers in his ears. He holds his breath on alternate beats, pushing control past the adrenaline, wills his hands to be steady.

Five breaths. Ten. Nothing happens.

Without breaking line of sight with the hatch, Dean steps forward as Sam steps back. Their arms brush, just barely. The glow of the bulb sears his retinas. He doesn’t blink.

Still nothing. Faint call of a lonely bird, somewhere in the ruin above them.

Their odds aren’t great, pretty damn lousy in fact. They’re penned in, surrounded by concrete, their one exit compromised. It’d only take a single frag charge tossed down here with them; instant powder keg. Death in a bottle.

They stand their ground.

“Come on out boys,” suddenly floats down through the opening in a slow, easy drawl. American. Female. Tells him nothing.

“We’re good, thanks,” he replies, stance widening a little, finger hovering just over the trigger.

“If I was planning to kill you, you’d be hamburger already. I’m not a huge fan of being kept waiting, so if we could hurry this along. Saves me busting out the stun grenades.” All said easy, casual. Verging on bored.

Dean’s honestly a little insulted.

“Dean?” Sam pipes up, low and tense. Quick dart of his eyes that Dean feels more than sees.

“Sam?” Dean answers, returns the look, eyes flicking straight back to the open hatch down the barrel of the 9mm.

“Any thoughts?” Sam asks, gun hand unwavering, squinting in the light.

“A few,” Dean answers. “Most of ‘em pretty negative.”

Sam snorts without moving.

He considers the little patch of desolate sky, only the fainted kiss of orange light pollution. He catalogues the room, the total lack of cover. The trace of warmth from Sam’s side.

“Screw it,” he grunts, somewhat to himself, moves in two clean paces almost right underneath the hatch. He thinks he can hear a motor running, the low pitch of it in the background.

Sam stands at his back, edgy vibes all down Dean’s spine like nails on a chalkboard.

Dean makes it up the ladder, skipping half the rungs and keeping his head on a swivel. There’s a pair of dim headlights off to the side of the house, faint off-white glow through the patchy brickwork.

He pulls himself out with a hand flat to the gritty earth, gun held level and waiting.

Moving up from a crouch, he waves the okay to Sam, turns in a slow circle as his brother heaves himself over the lip of the hatchway.

Both standing, almost back-to-back, they wait.

“Well now, isn’t it much better when we all just trust one another?” They swing around. Scrape of dry, dead soil beneath their feet.

A woman resolves out of an inky stretch of shadow near the house, steps not quite silent across the ground. Untrained. Disadvantage, he thinks. Clicks the hammer back.

Her hands are stuffed into the pockets of her jeans, thumbs resting along her belt, dark hair falling over the shoulders of her leather jacket. There’s a hint of a smirk on her face.

Even in the dusky light, her eyes are black as pitch.

“DEMON,” Dean says, loud enough to carry, notes Sam adjust his aim.

She smirks wider. Predatory.

“Please Dean; it’s rude to refer to people by their augs. Didn’t your daddy ever teach you that?” Sam’s hand lands on his wrist in the same moment Dean’s arm extends a little, finger brushing the trigger. The anger sits, boiling in his skull.

Dean wants to shake off the touch.

“How’d you find us?” Sam asks, no less pissed, loosing his hold on Dean and reaiming.

“That’s not really the issue,” she says. “You should be asking why I schlepped out here to the boonies in the first place. Despite the media hype, you two really aren’t that interesting.” Disdainful sneer, and still she looks less out of place in the crumbled wreckage than Dean’s ever managed.

“Okay then, why? If we’re so boring why track us down?” Sam asks, slight shift of his grip, leather creaking.

She blinks once. Her eyes lose the creepy multispectral filters making ‘em look like gaping voids into her head. Doesn’t humanise her in the least.

“You’re a smart boy, Sam,” she says, somehow more threatening than all the talk about grenades had been. “Figure it out.” She steps closer again, and Dean picks out three spots along her forehead. Where shots’ll likely slow her down the most.

She passes through a thready beam of light from the idling car, and Sam makes a disbelieving noise that shoves Dean’s hackles up further.

“Dr Masters?” Sam asks, soaked in confusion. Dean’s getting that way himself.

Then it clicks. The memory slotting, scraping into place like a knife between the ribs.

“Meg Masters? The scientist?” Dean’s voice dropping a little as the old, practically ingrained anger rises like bile.

She smiles, toothful. “Well done Dean. Now let’s lower the guns and talk, hmm?” Sam twitches.

“Oh I’m thinking putting you down’s gonna be the highlight of my day,” Dean drawls around his own sneer, sighting down the body of the Colt.

“Dean, if she’s who she says she is, and she’s got DEMON tech in her, then…” Sam’s voice dies away, and yeah Dean’s gets the idea. Dermal armour, medical nanites, hidden weapons. Eyes that see thermal, UV; the whole range. All’a that fun stuff that used to make DEMONs the ideal military aug until Leviathans came along.

“Your little peashooter won’t kill me, Dean. Sorry.” She’s too close now, almost in reach.

“Might help me come to terms with you still breathing though,” he says, smiles tight-lipped at her.

“And who do you think’s been harbouring me this whole time?” she asks. “Who helped me fake my death, gave me a chance to turn this whole thing around? A lot of us defected to the underground after you took down Azazel. And then again after Crowley lost everything when Dick took over. I’m actually here to help you.” She says it with almost as much distaste as Dean’s feeling. Almost.

“You defected?” Sam jumps in. “You? You started all this. The biochip system was your idea. Your plan.”

“Azazel’s plan,” she counters. “And at the time I was on board with it. You think the old anti-rejection drug scheme was any better? Of all people, you two should understand how bad that ended up.”

Now Dean really wants to shoot her. He can count how long it’s been since either of them so much as mentioned their mother in a scale of years.

“You wanted power,” Dean says, dismissive. “Fame and glory and millions of dollars. Praise for all your hard work. What makes you any better than Dick?”

“That’s why I’m here.” Her hands come out of her pockets, arms out from her sides like surrender. “You need to trust that for now, our goals coincide. Call it synergy.”

Dean’s gun is a tempting weight.

“You want us to trust you?” Sam asks, like it leaves a foul taste behind. “None of this would even be happening if it wasn’t for you. There’d be no District. No aug psychosis. Maybe even no Leviathans. Why should we trust anything you say?” There’s a tremble running down the length of his arm, terminating in the barrel of the .45. The white of his hand is a ghost against the darker skin of the one holding the gun.

“There are things about to happen,” Masters starts. “Dick’s plan; the one the underground wanted me to help stop. The one Frank asked me to help you with.” That draws Dean’s attention a little.

“The signal?” he asks.

She nods, just enough to be noticeable. “That’s the final step. There’s lots of other nasty surprises coming first; more nails in the coffin. Frank sent us the data, and when I realised what it was, I knew they’d be gunning for anyone who’d seen it.”

“Nice of you to help out,” Dean says, nearly too flat to hold the sarcasm. “You got any idea how many good people died in those raids?”

“And don’t you want to know why?” she asks. “Not just the trade secrets you got your paws on, but because they couldn’t get to you. No one knows where you are. I only found you because I’ve been going by every uncompromised, unlisted dead drop in the state since poor old Frank got wasted. They lost their bead on you, so instead they went after everyone you know.”

“Taking out our support system. Trying to stop us,” Sam concludes, grim as death.

She nods again. Dean bites down on the curse, the urge to throw a punch. Tries to think past the sickening guilt.

“What do you want?” Dean finally asks, gun dipping slightly, every instinct protesting.

“I want to help you bring down Dick,” she answers immediately, fervently. “I have an idea how, but there’s a price on my head and I need a safe house. Backup. Time to work. Now we can either cooperate, or watch the rest of this crummy little planet get squashed under Dick’s heel.” She’s looking between them, and Dean wants her to be lying. Wants to empty the clip and get the fuck away from this entire conversation.

But Sam was right. This is bigger than them. It always has been.

“What’s your idea?” Sam asks, reluctant, before Dean can.

“Not here.” She takes in their less-than-secure locale. “I’m guessing you have a hideout somewhere? A place even the rest of the underground didn’t know about?”

Sam lets out a grating sigh, gun lowering, slow.

Dean pulls a crumpled notepad from his jacket, scribbles down the address, hands it to her. Keeps telling himself it’s not a mistake until the words sound like truth.

She looks at it, turns it over a few times like a card dealer. Then gives them both a rueful smile and saunters off in the direction of her car, unhurried as can be.

“What’d we just do?” Sam asks, as the taillights fade to pinpoints of ruby red.

“Not exactly sure,” Dean sighs, rolls his lips between his teeth. “But one’a these days, I’m gonna ask you to buy back my soul.”

Dean’s expecting to see her waiting for them when they pull up, but it’s all quiet. No light, save for the ambient city illumination in the middle distance. The moon’s a ghostly face, casting borrowed silver.

He’s having regrets already.

He tells Sam as much, watches him pinch his lips, rap of fingers over his knee. Four beats. He doesn’t say anything.

The energy cell fits perfectly though. If they’re about to get taken out Butch and Sundance style, they’ll at least have good lighting.

Dying in the dark just doesn’t sound like as much fun.

“So what now?” Sam asks, standing near the table, scratching idly at his cheek, faint rasp of stubble.

It’s a good question.

“I dunno, dude,” Dean says, helpless shrug. “Maybe wait ‘til morning and then head out again? See if we can dig up something on this endgame of Dick’s?”

Sam nods, running a hand through his hair. Dean listens to the snags, one dry snap at a time.

Sudden banging on the door, and Dean’s heartbeat kicks up fast enough to hurt, rustle of Sam’s .45 appearing from his clothes in a metal flash.

Dean lets Sam cover the doorway as he goes for the handle, but really there’s not much point.

Nobody who’s showed up to kill, maim or drag them off to be interrogated is gonna be real inclined to knock.

Sure enough, Masters stands on the other side; head cocked and smirk firmly in place, like the worst game show prize in history.

“Hey fellas,” she drawls, takes in Sam lowering his gun. “Miss me?”

Dean just sighs heavy, waves her in. He just knows he’s gonna need bourbon for this.

Behind her follows a guy in a white coat, almost looking like he’s come straight from a lab if it weren’t for the hospital scrubs underneath it. Patient playing doctor, doctor acting like a patient; Dean can’t tell.

Truth be told, he’s kind of stalled on the dude’s face.

It’s a face he’s seen before, like probably everyone else in the country. Several countries. A hemisphere and some change. Though he’s never seen it off a vidscreen; away from news tickers and roundtable talks, corper broadcasts.

Dr Cas Tiel himself.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” he says to Masters - Meg. Whatthefuckever - all but spits it.

She has the nerve to roll her eyes. Tiel just looks uncomfortable, a little dazed maybe.

Sam’s a pale statue, far away. Somewhere Dean can’t grasp.

Meg steps in front of him, halo of lamplight around her. “Before you get a full head of steam going, I should point out that we need Cas here for this to work.” She jerks her head at the guy currently examining their busted up excuse for a computer, blue light pattering across his face as the screen runs through it’s halting start-up.

Sam still hasn’t moved.

“We need him?” Dean asks, beyond incredulous. One finger waving vaguely in the doc’s direction. Dean gets the distinct impression he’s got not idea they’re even talking about him. “And for what to work? Your plan involves a nutso genius who also turns out to be the guy responsible for the Leviathans? ‘Cause I gotta tell ya; I’m not loving it so far. How ‘bout you Sam?”

Sam jerks, like a thousand volts just went through him. His eyes are a little vacant as they snap briefly to Dean before taking in the room, like he’d lost all sense of where he was.

“I uh…” he starts, blinks hard a couple times. “I don’t know Dean, I mean maybe he can-”

“Oh come on.” Dean’s whole hand motioning now. “How many of his marbles you think are still in the bag?”

“Actually the whole thing was his idea,” Meg jumps in. “I’m just filling in the blanks as he speeds on ahead.” Cas stops for a minute, looks at her and smiles. Dean has no idea what to do with that.

“We need more.” Sam suddenly finds his voice again. “If you want us to… harbour you, or whatever, we need to know what you can do that’s gonna make a difference. And what you’ve got on Dick.” Dean looks at him, can’t find the flaw anywhere, turns to Meg.

“Well?” He waits.

“How much do you understand about the way biochips work?” The low voice startles him as ‘Cas’ turns away from the table. His eyes flash - literally; a brief surge of aqua, glowing stark in the dim room. Rings of sun yellow rotate slow like water wheels around his pupils, his irises.

Dean’s seen this before too.

Dude’s got Leviathan tech in him.

Meg must see his hand twitch toward his gun, quick undeniable shake of her head. He stalls, isn’t sure why, yet.

“They’re uh…” he starts, makes himself hold the guy’s unblinking stare despite the sensation of insects crawling up his spine. “They control people’s augs. Connect ‘em to their brains, run the whole show from inside their nervous systems right?” He doesn’t know whether he should try to stop the cringe, shifts on the spot.

“And do you know what happens if they fail?” Cas asks.

The room seems to get colder, hair on Dean’s forearms standing up. Static before the lightning hits.

“Augment psychosis.” Sam’s voice soft and knowing, loud in the silence. Cas’ eerily bright eyes dip for a second, forehead creasing. Dean’s teeth grind a headache up into his temples, red haze.

“That’s only an initial symptom,” Cas grates, halting like it’s painful. “If a chip fails completely then-”

“Death.” Meg takes over, Cas almost wringing his hands to pieces now. “The biochip fails; so do your augs. Then comes the dead part. That’s a little hard to fix.”

“Where are we going with this?” Dean asks. “‘Cause I love the technospeak just as much as the next guy, but how does it fit in with whatever you two are working on?”

“Dick’s latest corporate acquisition? Just so happens to be the largest manufacturer of biochips in the world,” Meg says, smiles completely humourless.

Sam frowns. “Dick buys up smaller companies all the time, how’s-”

Meg jumps in again before he can finish, all traces of that smile gone, “Very soon, there’s gonna be an announcement; warning about a potentially fatal ‘glitch’ in the current biochip firmware. The government will ‘strongly recommend’ people get their chips replaced at the nearest clinic. With ones oh-so kindly donated by Roman Innovations for a low, low price.”

“Why?” Sam asks. “If he’s gonna rig a bait-and-switch that huge, what’s the goal?”

Meg smiles again. “That signal you found? It’s a killswitch. Selectively shuts down the chips, and the people they’re connected to. It’ll look like the usual tragedy; psychotic delusions, severe pain, random malfunctions; with a very final conclusion.”

“He’s taking over,” Cas says, face pinched, like he wants to throw up. “He’s planned this from the beginning; using our creations to subjugate people, selective slaughter.”

“We’d really like to stop him.” Meg’s tone abruptly cheery. “You guys game?”

Dean’s head is spinning a little. This whole thing sits wrong on every level, these two ‘innovators’ are responsible for more suffering than he can name. For Sam’s suffering. He shouldn’t do this, he knows, feels it right down deep.

Sam’s standing almost next to him now, fixed point like nothing else is. “Well, yeah okay but how? You’d have to take out Dick and the source of the signal, probably at the same time.”

“That’s a small tip in our favour,” Meg explains. “The research on the killswitch is being done at the main lab for the new generation of biochips. Dick’s overseeing the whole thing personally. He’s the linchpin; eliminate him and the work in that lab, and we just have a slightly smaller army of augmented lackeys to deal with.”

Dean raises an eyebrow. “Oh is that all? Well when you put it like that…”

Meg doesn‘t look put off, just stares him down. “Dick’s the major threat. We destroy their research on the signal, kill him, and live to fight another day.”

“Killing Dick is gonna be tough,” Sam points out. “He’s got how many Leviathan augments at this point? We’ve dropped cars, even whole buildings on these guys before. Once they get past a certain level of replacement they’re almost impossible to take out permanently.”

“That’s part of the plan,” Cas says. “We‘ve been trying to find a way to destroy the Leviathan technology for years, we think we can engineer a batch of nanites that will do it. We don‘t have time to make enough for a large weapon, but for one man…”

“And you really think you can do it? Whip up some kinda super-virus that’ll gank Dick?” If Dean sounds sceptical as hell, it’s only ‘cause he is.

Cas takes a step toward him, and Sam tenses almost more than Dean does. But he just plants a hand on Dean’s upper arm, easy and like they’ve known each other for years. Dean’s stuck between shrugging him off and clocking him in the jaw.

“With your help, I think we can do it.”

Dean thinks that if he looks hard enough, he can make out the places where the dude’s not all there, jagged and misaligned. Dean’s getting good at that.

He takes a slow breath, feels it fill him. Heaviness dragged upward about his shoulders. “What do you need?”



PART 3