Chapter Text
January, 2025
Hong Kong City
The walkie-talkie at your hip crackles in bursts of barked instructions, lost in the noise of the crowd. You don’t need to hear it to know what they’re saying: bring a stretcher, clear a fucking path.
Yikes. Yiiikes.
H-Deck is alive with a thronging crowd of Shatterdome techs, faces turned up toward the returning chopper despite the torrential rain. “Shit,” you mutter, blinking water out of your eyes. You squint against the downpour, then the lights from the Sikorsky as it slowly sinks out of the sky toward its mark on deck.
The noise is unbearable, both the thumping air and the whining engine. Dean’s on that thing. So is Cas. Cas, the reason for your current yikes mantra. Cas, who apparently hit the wall when Leatherback knocked into their powered-down Jaeger. “Please be okay,” you whisper. Water’s pouring off your cap already; Jesus, they said monsoon season was early this year, but this is nuts. “Please, Cas. . .”
The Sikorsky lands with a thud you feel beneath your boots. The slowing rotor blades sluice rainwater in every direction. When the door slides back, one of the crew kicks the stairs open and bounds down them two at a time.
Dean’s right behind her. And Cas is—“Shit,” you breathe, startled into stillness. Cas is blinking dazedly into the rain. His left arm is slung around Dean’s neck, his right arm cradled against his chest. Even from here, you can see the starburst path of blood down his temple, slick in his dampening hair. Dean’s entire face is drawn tight with worry, his arm around Cas’ waist, his other hand clamped around Cas’ wrist, over his shoulder.
The surging commotion around you, the screams of Otachi in the distant city as Gipsy kicks the shit out of it, and still, when Dean’s eyes find yours and lock, everything else melts away.
His mouth makes the shape of your name. Just for a second, his worry slips into a clear and desperate help.
“Let me through.” You shove your way forward. “Make a hole!”
You reach Dean and Cas when the stretcher does. Med techs swarm them, trying to direct Cas toward the stretcher. “No,” Cas protests, leaning heavily on Dean. “I’m fine, I—”
“Don’t give me that shit, tough guy,” Dean says, all forced cheer. “Get your ass on that stretcher.” He looks at you, swaying toward you even with the weight of Cas. “Chief, tell ‘im.”
“Cas, my man.” You resist the urge to smooth Cas’ damp hair off his forehead, out of that red gash. “Listen to your boyfriend, huh. His geriatric ass can’t haul you all the way to med bay like this.”
Dean says, “Ouch,” but his eyes are grateful.
“Take the free ride,” you urge Cas.
His blue eyes search yours. God, he’s dazed; your heart thrums in fear. “You’re right,” he says. He starts to reach for you, but then his whole face collapses in a wince. “Ah.” He holds his arm to his chest. “Yeah.” He’s gritting his teeth. “Yeah, you’re definitely right.”
“His arm,” Dean says, as the med techs lower the stretcher so Cas can sit on it, “that right side, there—might be broken.”
“Sprained,” Cas corrects through a clenched jaw. “Just sprained.”
“Jesus,” you tease, as much for Dean’s benefit as yours, “you are so full of shit.”
Cas leans back on the raised upper half of the stretcher, closing his eyes. “Choosing to take that as a compliment.”
And they’re off, the med techs wheeling him back toward the watery lights of the Shatterdome.
Beside you, Dean sways a little, looking drained. Lost. He says, “Hey, kid.”
He must really be rattled; he hasn’t called you that in—never mind. “Hi.” I thought you guys were dead until Gipsy showed up, you don’t say. “I wanna follow you up to med bay, but…”
“No, I know. Mary’s still out there.”
“Yep.” Their Jaeger is still slumped along mile four of the Miracle Mile, not too far off from Striker. Leatherback’s freaky bio-EMP took her out like a light. It took everything out like a light; the Shatterdome’s backup generators only truly powered up, like, five minutes ago. “That damage to the left flank as bad as it looks from here?”
“Yeah. Worse, maybe. Whole thing’s listing a bit.”
“Shit. Well. We’ll fix it.”
“Yeah, I know you will.” Dean’s lashes are clumped together, and he’s got major helmet hair. The damp swell of his lower lip is wobbling. God, how would it feel, caught gently between your own lips? How would it feel to work him out of that drive suit—to feel Cas’ hands cover your own as you dragged Dean’s zipper from chest to groin. . .
Ah, feck’s sake. Focus. At least one thing hasn’t changed in a decade: you still pick the absolute worst times to think about boning these two.
You can’t bone ‘em. But you can grip Dean’s shoulder, because he looks like he needs it. And apparently he does, because he leans gratefully into the touch. He licks that stupid lower lip. He says, “I wish you. . .” Your heart almost stops, but he shakes his head, looks away. “Be careful out there, okay.”
“I’ll check in on you guys soon as we get back,” you promise. “And hey—text Sam about Cas, if you can get a signal. Don’t let him find out in the news.”
“Yeah. Good thinking.” Dean takes a deep breath, and holds out one gloved fist. “Ready. . .”
Heart warming, you bump your knuckles against his. “. . . break.”
Then you turn to the crew out on the helipad. You’ve got work to do.
*
*
*
August, 2013
Lebanon, Kansas
Knockknockknock. “Hey.” Sam’s voice, urgent. “Wake up.”
You barely drag your head up off the pillow, squinting into the darkness of your room at the bunker. Sam’s shadow darkens the hallway light through the door grate. You rasp, “Timezzit?”
“Library,” says Sam. “Get there. Now.”
You flop back down. “Are you for real right—”
“Now.”
“Jesus, fine.”
As you pull a sweatshirt on, your phone buzzes twice. Text alert. Have you seen the news?
It’s from an unknown number—which, lately, means Cas using a burner phone. Still on the lam with the angel tablet. Frowning, you pocket your phone and get moving.
Dean’s just gone past your door, and waits for you to catch up, squinting and sleepy in the washed-out hallway light. His hair’s sticking up on one side. Gray sweats, black tee. Dead guy robe. Even exhausted as you are, the sight makes your heart do a happy little flip-flop. “Hey,” he croaks. “How were your three hours?”
You just glare.
His grin pulls up all lopsided. “Yeah. Feelin’ that.”
In the library, Sam sits beside a single glowing lamp, his laptop screen facing away from you. It illuminates the furrow in his brows, and then the open fear in his eyes when he looks up. Nearby, his decimated EMF meter sits in pieces, waiting for you to fix it.
Dean, now half a step behind you, croaks, “This better be good."
Sam’s too shook up to glare. “Just get over here.”
At first you don’t believe it.
It’s gotta be fake. Some kind of War of the Worlds meets JJ Abrams promo. But CNN is running real-time footage of the—the—thing, that giant thing—tearing through the Golden Gate Bridge, trailing a greasy blue path through the murky strait behind it. F-16s rip across the San Francisco sky; battleships charge in from around the Pacific. Earthquakes still rock the coastline. People tweet pictures from ground zero.
An hour later, Obama hosts a press conference in the Rose Garden, and that’s when it starts sinking in. It’s real, all right. It’s a monster the size of a skyscraper, and then some.
The three of you are still camped in the library. You and Dean have grabbed your own laptops. The bunker smells like coffee; everybody’s practically got an IV drip. You’re on the phone with your hunter friends and the Winchesters are on the phone with theirs. You conference Cas in at the library table, and though he’s as bam-fucking-boozled as the rest of you, you still wish he was here. You tell him as much, going for casual, but the way he replies in kind with breathtakingly sincere honesty—your face heats, and you avoid looking up at Dean and Sam.
But all those calls, and nobody can figure out what the fuck this thing is. The images of it on the news, from helicopters, from shaky phone cameras—it’s the scariest shit you’ve ever seen, and you’ve seen enough scary shit for a lifetime.
You three practically live in front of your laptops for the next few days as the monster tears up the coast. You’re watching the news, going through the Men of Letters archive. Nothing talks about monsters this big. Cas gets a new phone and texts reams more suggestions of lore to try, but he’s never seen this, never.
The death toll goes up each day. The California coast is a warzone, and still that thing tries to make headway. Sometimes it’s too much, and you gotta step away. Sam copes with exercise. Dean hides in the kitchen, swigging beer as he cooks, handing you jobs chopping or stirring or taste-testing when you ask. You fix Sam’s EMF meter and then upgrade your own. You borrow Dean’s dweeby toolbelt and replace a belt in your car’s engine. You press enough salt rounds to fill a suitcase. You worry about Cas. About Kevin.
Evening of the sixth day, Dean’s setting dinner in front of you and Sam when the news comes through: they took the monster down. Trespasser, they call it.
Things. . . kind of go back to normal? Normal as it gets, anyway.
Six months later, the second monster—Kaiju, they’re calling ‘em now, since they’re essentially Godzillas on steroids—crawls out of the sea and tears Manila to bits. Four months after that, a third Kaiju decimates Cabo. And after that, you forget what “normal” meant in the first place.
* * *
September, 2014
Muncie, Indiana
Days after the fourth Kaiju attack (Scissure, they call this motherfucker, and he left Sydney a smoldering ruin), the demons go underground, the angels go above-cloud, and inside a red-lit warehouse outside Muncie, Indiana, Dean stabs Metatron through the heart.
This is one of the most coordinated stings you guys’ve ever pulled. Dean down here running offense, Cas and his angel friend Hannah rigging shit so that Metatron could spill his dirty laundry over angel radio, you and Sam in the bullpen just in case Dean needed the backup.
And he did, just—even beating the snot out of Dean, Metatron had the juice to throw you and Sam into the nearest wall and keep you there.
Dean still gets him, though. When Metatron goes down, his hold over you and Sam releases; the two of you hit your feet, hard. As Hannah and Cas emerge from the shadows with their weird angel radio rig, the elegant splay of Metatron’s shadowed wings smoke along the concrete floor.
Dean looks like hell. Literally, he’s streaked with his own blood, his left eye’s swollen shut. He’s gripping the First Blade so hard that his entire arm shakes. Through his broken mouth, he slurs, “Teamwork makes the dream work, huh.” Then his knees buckle.
Sam gets to him first, but Cas is close behind, and they lower him by his arms to a concrete block so he can sit. Dean looks right at you as they fuss over him, his one good eye somehow relieved and weary and fond all at once. He says, “Kiddo. Need you to do me a solid.”
He hasn’t really looked at you like that, with so much gentleness, since. . . well. Since before the Mark. You gulp. “What’s up?”
Dean holds the blade out, hilt-first. “Need you to take this before I change my mind.”
Your hand shakes as it wraps around the hilt, which is tacky with fresh and drying blood. You try to grin. “Dude. Gross.”
“Tellin’ me,” he says. He’s leaning heavily on Sam, and Cas is watching you, too, something all tender in his gaze. You try not to look too pleased about it
When the other angels show up, exonerating Cas and Hannah, they take the First Blade, which the lot of you willingly part with. Then—and it takes a baker’s dozen of them—they heal Dean and lift the Mark from his arm. It leaves him dazed and dizzy, swaying in his seat on that concrete block.
As the angels confer, Hannah returns to the four of you. She’s looking at Cas when she says, “It’s time.”
That sounds pretty damn final. You ask, “What’s time.”
Cas glances at you, Dean, and Sam, his face shadowed with guilt.
“Cas,” says Dean, staring out of both eyes now, “what’s she talking about.”
“Did he not tell you?” Hannah’s voice is light—sincerely curious. “The angels. We all agreed: once the matter with Metatron was decided, we’re calling everyone in to heaven, and shutting the door behind us.”
Unlike you or Dean, Sam has enough breath for incredulity. “What? Why?”
“The Breach in the Pacific Ocean,” Hannah says patiently. “The monsters coming out of it—we’ve never seen anything like them. We don’t have the strength to fight them here on Earth, in these vessels. So we’ll gather our resources, and find answers, as one. Souls of the dead will still reach us, but our brothers and sisters won’t come and go until we know how to stop them.”
Muscles flare in Cas’ jaw. “I’m not going. We’ve discussed this.”
Hannah’s eyes widen. “You can’t be serious. I didn’t think you’d really—”
“Our mission has always been about protecting humanity.” Cas is holding himself still, but somehow he looks like a hurricane. “I won’t turn my back on the people I love.”
Meep.
“This is protecting humanity.” Hannah takes Cas’ hand. A jealous and petty heat sparks through you, and you’d be embarrassed if Dean wasn’t glaring, too. “With the demons pulled back into Hell, they’re no longer a threat to humans. And with all our brothers and sisters working together to solve this, it won’t take long at all.”
“Won’t take long for who?” Cas pulls his hand back. “For us, maybe. But for them—humans—it could take decades. Centuries. There may not be a world left by the time you solve this.”
Holy shit. The world’s breaking, but you just assumed Team Free Will would face it with you. The thought of doing this without Cas. . . And god, the most recent wounds of this war are so freaking fresh. Thousands dead in Sydney, thousands more trapped beneath crushed buildings, and rescuers rapidly running out of time to save them. Australia’s in a state of emergency. Poisonous swirls of Kaiju blue blanket the coral reefs for miles. Everything’s been a nonstop shitstorm of bad and worse news. Ever since the first attack, you’ve needed your strange little family more than ever. Cas is part of it, whether or not you’d still take the first available opportunity to jump his bones and—whatever. Not the time.
Hannah’s crestfallen. “Castiel. . .”
“We could take him by force,” says one of the angels behind Hannah.
Cas glares at them; it’s a wonder his blade doesn’t fall out of his sleeve. “You can try.”
“Don’t,” says Hannah, holding out an arm as one of the angels starts forward. The angel glowers, but stays put. “Castiel,” she says, voice wobbly, “we just restored your grace. Your own grace. If you do this—if you stay behind—you’ll be cut off.”
Cas doesn’t move. “I know how it works.”
“But do they?” Hannah takes a step forward, fixing her bright eyes on you, then Dean, then Sam. “His grace will drain away from him,” she says. “Day by day. Less and less, until it’s gone. Until he’s human.”
Your heart lurches. Cas can’t want that. He can’t, can he? He hated being human.
“Cas,” says Dean. There’s something so broken in that single syllable, so desperate, that for a moment you aren’t sure if you were meant to hear it. “You don’t have to—”
“It’s not your decision, Dean.” Cas smiles gently “Though I appreciate the concern.” He turns to Hannah. “I’ve made my choice,” he says. “There’s no use arguing with me. I’m staying here even if I have to fight you to do it.”
Hannah’s lower lip trembles. “Very well,” she says at last. “Then I wish you luck.”
Cas takes a step closer to her, relaxing out of his defensive stance. “Hannah.” He reaches up, touches the back of her head, and tilts their foreheads together.
You can’t hear what they say, but you can see the angels bristling. Actually, your own hackles are up, envy churning in your stomach. Come the hell on, you think, looking away. He doesn’t owe you a damn thing. He’s not yours, and you aren’t his.
When he turns to the three of you, his eyes brim with resolve. Relief, almost.
The angels vanish behind him. He doesn’t look back.
* * *
May, 2015
Lebanon, Kansas
A few weeks after Vancouver gets hit, Sam drops a bag at the bottom of the bunker stairs and turns to face you, Dean, and Cas. His hands are deep in his pockets, his shoulders hunched. “Pan Pacific Defense Corps is putting together a rescue team in Seattle,” he announces, avoiding eye contact with Dean. “Like the National Guard, but. Follows the attacks. Helps clean up. Pulls people out of rubble. Ah. That sorta thing.”
Carefully, with an eye on Dean, Cas says, “So you’re joining them.”
“Leaving in the morning.” Sam looks up from beneath his lashes. “Yeah.”
Dean blinks.
Then the arguing starts.
You and Cas take cover in the kitchen. Fridge needs a cleanout, anyway.
After everybody got back from Muncie, Cas still could’ve waved a hand and everything would’ve automatically flitted back into place like some Mary Poppins witchery. Now, though—it’s getting worse by the day. Yesterday he showed up for breakfast bundled into one of the Men of Letters robes. “Is it always so drafty in here?” he’d grumped, and you and Dean traded slightly horrified looks, dismayed that he’d now lost enough grace to feel the bunker’s underlying chill.
He’s been sleeping more often, too, and hating it, but god, his bedhead is spectacular. Dean’s trying to teach him how to cook, because he’s been hungry, and so irritated about it that he can barely hang onto the lessons Dean so patiently provides.
So the kitchen’s become a sort of refuge, anyway. As you throw shit out and start scouring the crud off some of the heavier stock pots, you simmer with guilt. You haven’t mentioned it to anyone yet, but a few weeks ago, on a case, you picked up a postcard outside a recruitment station. The PPDC isn’t just putting together a rescue team. They’re looking for engineers, and maybe even pilots, to start building and driving these completely badass, completely humongous robot fighters. Mechs. One of ‘em, Brawler Yukon, took down the Kaiju that attacked Vancouver.
Besides. Team Free Will doesn’t sit on the sidelines when it comes to shit like this. You’re surprised none of you made a move to get away earlier. Selfishly, you’re glad Dean and Cas are still here. For now, that is.
You’re up to your elbows in suds with Cas, working side by side in quiet solidarity (and ignoring how good his arms look under his rolled sleeves), when Dean makes it into the kitchen. He looks adrift, like somebody pulled his life out from under him. Yeesh.
Cas dries his beautiful hands on a dishtowel as he eyes Dean. “A drive might help.”
Dean doesn’t really look up. “Worth a shot.” He turns to leave, then pauses. Casually, but with a quiet hopefulness that surprises you, he says, “You guys comin’, or what.”
About ten miles north of Lebanon, almost at the state line, Dean pulls off onto a service road that bisects a verdant bean field. There’s no traffic, and by now, the sun is setting out the windshield. He throws the Impala in park and sits back, one elbow on the open window ledge so he can press his fingers to his closed eyes.
You’re leaning on the front seat, ignoring how Cas’ shoulder presses all snug along your arm. Ugh, whatever—don’t overthink it. Dude doesn’t care, or he would’ve moved.
At last, Dean speaks. “Y’know, with everything going down, I just. . .” He drops his hand, staring out the windshield. “Kinda figured we’d all be sticking together, here. Working the problem.”
We’re not going anywhere, you want to assure him, but then you remember that battered postcard. Feck’s sake, it’s in your jacket pocket.
“Sam is working the problem, in his own way,” Cas points out. “If he can’t find what’s causing it all, then he can at least help treat the symptoms.”
“Can’t blame him,” you add, trying not to sound too guilty. “Hard not to want to do something.”
Dean twists around, bracing his forearm against yours (gulp) so he can look at you. “Why d’you sound like you’re about to give me the same speech he did?”
Shit. “Uh.”
Cas sighs. “So hypocritical.”
Dean glares at him. “Who is.”
“You,” says Cas. He reaches forward and thumps the glove box.
It drops open to reveal a stack of papers, a handful of cassettes. . . and on top of it all, a postcard you recognize.
Dean deflates. “Dammit, Cas. You’re a nosy sonofabitch, you know that.”
Cas shrugs. “I was looking for Zeppelin B-sides.”
You’re staring at Dean. “Are you joining up?”
“No.” He thumps the glove box shut again. His hand brushes Cas’ knee on the way back, and he flinches.
Weird.
“At least, ah.” He shifts. “Not yet.”
Welp, that’s about as good an opening as you’re gonna get. You reach into your pocket, then drop the postcard onto the seat between him and Cas.
Dean stares at it. Then he starts a slow-growing smile. “Wow,” he says. “Okay.”
“If you want to go, why is so wrong for Sam to do the same?” Cas is quiet.
“He’s doing the civilian side,” says Dean. “I just assumed he’d rather—y’know, join the side that gets to do something. Fight the good fight.”
“Honestly,” you say, “after the last few years. . . I think it’d do him some good to just get to straight-up help people.”
“He’s tired of fighting,” says Cas. “He’s got blood on his hands.”
“Dude.” Dean’s frowning. “Gadreel was over a year ago—”
“You know that guilt never goes away,” you point out.
“And that isn’t all,” says Cas. “I think this could be good for him. To come into his own, now that you’ve all got a clean slate.” He means the way he got Hannah to clear everyone’s federal records before the angels fucked off to heaven. Brought Dean and Sam “back” from the dead, got Cas an identity and a social security card (it showed up in the Lebanon P.O. Box a week later), cleared everyone’s police records. Turned you into normal citizens with decent credit scores, who had never been in the public eye. “It’s a second chance he didn’t think he’d get. He can go off on his own, and see what he’s truly capable of.”
Dean mulls that over. Your arm’s still against Cas’ shoulder, and Dean’s, both warm through their layers. At last Dean says, “My brother might be cool with playing cowboys and Kaijus on his own, but. I’m not.” He picks up the postcard. “I’m not gonna do this unless you’re both in. Same division.”
You study Cas’ profile, backlit with the pink and gold of the setting sun. “Cas? Whatcha think?”
He’s got a brow up, but he’s smiling. “Someone needs to look after you two.”
“Oh, is that how it is,” Dean teases.
“Works for me,” you say, trying not to fizzle with relief. “Are we for real? We really gonna do this?” You reach between them, holding out your hand palm-down.
Cas covers it with his own, and you both look at Dean expectantly.
Dean gets the two of you with a deadpan stare. “Seriously?”
You nudge him, grinning. “Put your damn hand in the stack, Dean.”
He rolls his eyes, but he does it. His fingertips graze your knuckles, laid through Cas’ touch. “By our powers combined, or whatever,” he says.
Sam leaves in the morning. A week later, you, Dean, and Cas follow.
* * *
June, 2018
Seattle, Washington
It takes a few years, but you get there.
With Dean and Cas as good as they are in the simulators, and with you behind half the improvements in the Mark-4 line of Jaegers, well. It was only a matter of time before they gave you a Jaeger of your own.
Marshal Whitcomb, a severe woman whose respect you’ve craved since you got here, sizes you up as you take in the news. And the heavy silver pin that you’re turning over in your fingers. The arched wings gleam up at you. “It’s an honor, ma’am.”
“Cut the crap. And at ease.” Her brown eyes are warm, for the first time ever. “You’re the best we have, and all the higher-ups know it. Damn time you had your own ride. Wouldn’t want anybody else.”
You unlock your shoulders. “Thank you, Marshal.” And, on the heels of sudden dread, you add, “And my pilots?”
Whitcomb drops two manilla folders on the desk in front of her. Pinned to the front of each: black and white cadet photos of two scrawny white boys who are not Dean and Cas. “Ken and Steve Taylor. Out of Cedar Rapids, Iowa.”
You’ve heard of them. They’re. . . fine, you guess, considering they’re only in the program at all thanks to their daddy’s connections. “Uh."
“I know you had your heart set on the pilots you came up with. But they—”
“Yeah. I did. Ranger Winchester and Ranger Novak have been training for the Mark-4s for nearly two years now. They’ve got the best simulator scores in their entire division—”
“I know their simulator scores. But there’s no denying the fact that they’re also the oldest rangers in their division.”
You stare. “So what?”
Whitcomb’s narrowed eyes suggest you’re on thin ice. “So, in the field, their reaction times could be slower. Between them, they’ve got four additional decades of memories on the Taylor boys—” Plus forty years in Hell and a few millennia of military experience, you think but don’t say. “—and we still don’t know how that would affect their drift.”
Rangers don’t drift in the simulators, and thank fuck for that. There’s been talk of that shit for future cadets in the program, but the thought makes you shudder. Randomly connecting brains with countless people, who can see everything—everything—and just for a simulator? Not even using that connection to operate a real Jaeger? Nah. You’re good.
“What about the Hansen brothers.” You’re trying to keep the pleading out of your voice. “In, uh—in Sydney, where you’re shipping me. They’re both almost forty, they—”
“They’ve been driving Lucky Seven for years now. They’re established soldiers.” Whitcomb sighs, deflating a little. “I’m sorry. I really am. If it was my decision, Winchester and Novak would be going with you. But it’s out of my hands. The Taylor brothers are your pilots.”
So it’s not her call. Then whose. . . ?
Oh. Yeah, of course. Deep breath. Whitcomb said you’re the best they have, so you’ve got leverage. Use it. “Then I’m not their Chief.”
Whitcomb lifts one impressive brow, but that might actually be a glimmer of respect in her eyes. “Excuse me?”
You toss those shiny wings of rank on her desk, hoping to hell this doesn’t backfire. “Give these to someone else. I’m not going to be Hail Mary’s chief unless Dean Winchester and Cas Novak are my pilots. I won’t give up two top-notch rangers for a couple of kids who think they’re big shots. Especially not kids whose Senator dad bribes the PPDC to move ‘em up the ranks before they’re ready.”
Whitcomb braces her hands on the desk. She’s silent for long moments. At last she mutters, “My bosses won’t like this. They need you.”
“And I need Dean and Cas.”
Ack. You regret that immediately, because wow, lately it’s been true on like, half a dozen levels. But you keep your face impassive. You hope, anyway.
“I’ll send that up the chain,” she says. A barely-there smile hovers at the corner of her mouth. “With any luck, you’ll be back for those wings by the end of the day.”
She’s right.
The next morning, you, Dean, and Cas get called up to the conference room, where Whitcomb spreads out blueprints, photographs, and whitepapers. “All right,” she says. “Here’s your ride. Have a look.”
“Hail Mary” is just about the most ridiculous name for a Jaeger you’ve ever heard, but it’s not like you got to name it. “Come on,” you say. “Seriously? What is this, the last minute of the fourth quarter?”
“Well,” says Whitcomb, glancing behind her at the TV, where the news is covering the cleanup efforts in San José. “If you think about it. . .”
Cas is more on board. “I like it,” he says, looking over the photos. “A prayer and a gamble. Can’t have one without the other.”
“Ugh,” Dean mutters. “Wasn’t counting of having to think of my freakin’ mom every time somebody says its name.”
“Yeah,” you agree. “But I guess it could be worse. At least we’re not Chrome Brutus.”
“Besides,” says Cas. “Half the Jaeger names in the last few years have religious undertones. Overtones, even.”
“Still,” grumbles Dean. “Can’t they just name it Optimus Prime and be done with it?”
“Jesus.” You nudge Dean’s shoulder. “You frickin’ nerd.”
He just nudges you back. “Takes one to know one.”
Whitcomb walks you through each blueprint, and shows you a virtual model on her tablet. The actual, physical Jaeger is currently parked at the Shatterdome in Sydney, Australia, where you’ll all be shipped next week. But looking at the model—you can’t wait to see Hail Mary in person. The metal on the outside shines deep, dark blue, almost black, slashed through with stylishly-placed bare steel. The gold windscreen looks like a pair of gas-station sunglasses. Fuel cells at the shoulder curve at the top before plunging down and flaring at the bottom like wings. The test footage you’ve seen, she walks like she’s swaggering. You love her.
“It’s only an eighteen-hour plane ride away,” says Whitcomb.
“Yeah,” says Dean. He folds his arms. “Goodie.”
Cas smirks. “Do you need me to walk you through the Bernoulli principle again?”
Whitcomb stares. “Don’t like flying, Winchester?”
“I am fine,” says Dean, “with flying.”
“As a general concept,” you clarify. “Not when you’re actually on a plane.”
Cas touches Dean’s shoulder. “I’ll distract you. Surely there’s in-flight movies you’ve been meaning to make me watch.”
Dean looks at him all fondly, with a kind of understanding you’ve been noticing a lot lately. It makes your skin prickle with pleasant heat even though it’s not directed at you. “Yeah,” Dean says. “Good point. We gotta get you caught up.”
When Dean turns back to the diagrams, Cas winks at you.
That makes your skin prickle pleasantly, too.
* * *
June, 2018
Sydney, Australia
Dean and Cas drift for the first time in a test run the day you all arrive in Sydney. Well, evening, technically. The J-Tech crew there—who you get along with swimmingly—wanna make sure visibility’s good in the dark. And that all the lights work. Dean and Cas calibrate Hail Mary in its dock inside the Shatterdome, then take her around the block. The block being Port Jackson.
It goes off flawlessly. You hang out in LOCCENT, watching the monitors, watching Whitcomb (reassigned with you) direct it all, listening in on the headset chatter from Dean and Cas.
You’re there when the Conn-Pod opens back up, along with a small army of tech crew folks to see how everything went.
Dean and Cas look dazed as hell. First drifts are rough, everyone knows that, but they. . . wow. Dean’s got patchy color in his cheeks as though he’s just slammed a fourth shot, and he can’t seem to meet your eyes. Cas isn’t pink, but he’s. . . distracted? He also can’t seem to look at you, but he keeps stealing glances at Dean, who’s stealing ‘em right back. Even more than usual.
Like. You’re not blind. They’ve always had an intensity together. But this—Jesus, what the shit did they see in that drift?
After their debrief, they disappear for hours.
Legit hours.
Doesn’t take a mathematician to put that particular two and two together.
You’re heading out of your quarters for a brisk, late-night, can’t-sit-here-and-think-about-that-a-second-longer walk around the ‘dome when you run into Hercules Hansen. The very dude you referenced to Marshal Whitcomb as having his shit together despite his advanced (ehl oh ehl) age. He showed you, Dean, and Cas around this afternoon. Helped you get your bearings.
“Late one for you,” he says, chipper. “Shouldn’t you be jet lagged?”
“Probably.” You study him, his friendly smile. He was so easy to talk to earlier. It’s out of your mouth before you can think to stop it: “Know anywhere around here we can get a drink?”
His eyes shine. “Depends. Feel like being recognized?”
“I—what? Why would I be recognized?”
“You’re the chief of a new Jaeger,” he says. “And you just moved in. People ‘round here’ve heard of you.”
“Jesus,” you mutter, but you’re smiling because he is, too. “Um. Solid ‘nope’ on being recognized.”
Herc—as he insists you call him—takes you to a dive bar in walking distance, close to the docks. It’s dim, and a little smoky even though no one’s smoking. Bowls of peanuts sit along the polished bar, and Australian Footy matches give play-by-plays in closed caption. Creedence pours through the speakers.
It feels like home, actually. Like a shitty bar next to a shitty motel. It’s perfect.
Herc starts the both of you off with shots of bourbon. “Look like you could use the kick.”
You’re relishing the burn in the back of your throat. “Long day,” you say finally.
“I bet.” He signals the bartender, and not long after, pints arrive. He holds up his glass, but casually. One elbow still on the bar. “To Hail Mary,” he says. “Long may she kick arse.”
“Cheers, Herc.” Tickled, you sip when he does.
“So tell me.” Herc leans on his arms. “Day that you had, jet lagged as you are—still wide awake, are we.”
You take another drink from your (crisp, delicious) beer. Why the hell are you so miserable? It’s not like you’re surprised. “Guess, ah. Guess I’m not used to my pilots bailing on me. I mean—” Yo, rein it in. “—me’n Cas and Dean. We came up through the ranks together. We go way back. Was just kinda hoping they’d wanna. . .” Be the ones to get drinks with you. Tell you what the hell drifting is like. Maybe give you an actual, in-person report on what it was like to drive that Jaeger. Or check the local news, see what kind of monsters you can find around here. The three of you have been taking cases in your downtime, the last few years—or at least, investigating things where you can all stay reasonably behind the scenes. You just took down a duo of vamps in Seattle a few months back.
Herc fills in the silence. “Instead they shacked up.”
You snort. “Yep. In more ways than one, I think.”
Herc sips, too. “It’s not uncommon after first drifts, if the pilots aren’t siblings. Or partners already.”
You study him. His co-pilot’s his brother Scott. “Super weird, right? The drift?”
“Don’t get me started.” He grins. “But yeah. How long’ve Dean and Cas known each other?”
“'Bout ten years.”
“Long time to keep things bottled up, if that was the case. Probably have a lot to, ah. . .”
“Yeah, yeah, all right.” You manage to smile back. “Don’t make me get the brain bleach.”
“What’d you think that bourbon was for?”
You laugh, and for now, you put Dean and Cas out of your mind. If you’re going to make it here in Sydney, it’s time to look forward. Not backward. Not at the should-I-or-shouldn’t-I, is-this-really-a-crush-or-are-they-just-hot feelings you’ve been nursing on each of them, separately, for so long that it’s just become part of the fabric of your everyday life. Nope. They’ve finally found some kind of romantic happiness. You’re not gonna get between them, literally or figuratively.
No matter how much you want to.
*
*
*
January, 2025
Hong Kong City
Buh. There isn’t any time to mourn Sasha and Alexis. Or the Weis. There isn’t even time to pull the wreckage of their Jaegers out of the bay. Their crews get diverted; every resource in the Shatterdome goes into repairs on Striker, Gipsy, and Mary.
God, this sucks. You only just met the Weis, but you met Sasha years ago, when she and her husband and their Jaeger spent a few months in Sydney. She drank Dean under the table, de-stroyed Tendo at poker, and gifted you one expensive stick of ruby-red lipstick before she and Alexis went back to Siberia. “You need it more than I do,” she said, but in a fond, big-sisterly sort of way.
You’d been looking forward to catching up. She and Alexis were barely here in Hong Kong for 24 hours, and now. . .
Damn it.
At least all those years of being a hunter, and now years of fighting the Kaiju war, you’ve become a damn pro when it comes to compartmentalizing. Nothing like a little nonstop trauma to help fine-tune that shitty talent. You can’t do anything to bring them back, so. So you grit your teeth, straighten your hat, and get to work.
Hail Mary is a dang mess. Leatherback left a vicious dent in the left chest plate that took out two missile bays. The right arm’s gonna need twisted back into alignment. Support discs in the left flank got busted, so the whole thing lists, like Dean said. There’s no way to tell what’s been rattled loose in the Conn-Pod—the cockpit, where Dean and Cas pilot this thing—except to get up there and see it yourself.
Tendo Choi trails you with a tablet, taking notes on the repairs. He’s letting you lead, which is cool of him, because shit—he knows more about Jaeger Tech than anyone. In the elevator up to the Conn-Pod, you lean against a side rail, watching him scribble. His clothes are in various states of damp and damper from his stint outside. Even his bowtie droops. “Dude,” you say, “you oughta get into something dry.”
He glances over without lowering his tablet. “Pot to the kettle, Chief.”
You look down. The navy blue, standard-reg jumpsuit hangs all heavy on your body. “They weren’t shitting us about an early monsoon season.”
“Nosiree, they were not.” Tendo dots an i, then lowers the tablet, looking you over. “Tell you what. After we secure the Conn-Pod, I can take over from there. You beat to quarters, get into something dry, and drop in on your pilots.”
Your pilots.
You’re Mary’s Chief; of course Dean and Cas are your pilots. Still makes you warm and fuzzy every time someone says it. “C’mon, man. I can’t, I got a million things—”
“Yes, you can. Lemme cover for you.” Tendo taps the side of his nose with his stylus. “We’re gonna get Mary back up and running, but your boys took a beating out there. Fixing that Jaeger won’t mean a thing if her pilots are too spooked to drive.”
You consider this. “Good point. But—”
He smirks. “Don’t make me order you.”
You grin. “You pulling rank on me, Choi?”
“Not yet.” The elevator doors roll open. “C’mon.”
The Conn-Pod interior is the size of a studio apartment, two harnesses dangling in the middle. When they’re here, it’s Dean on the left, Cas on the right. When Mary’s in motion, the floor grating falls away to make room for them to move. In combat, the overhead lights will be off, dark except for the Heads-Up Display, and the windshield beyond that.
It almost feels like home, this cockpit. Since you nabbed the role of Chief, you’ve gone from Sydney to Vancouver and back to Sydney, and now Hong Kong, but in here, nothing's changed. You know how to toggle every control panel; you can translate reams of info from every screen. You fix things when they break, and damn, with the beatings this Jaeger takes, things break constantly.
You and Tendo power up the HUD, making sure everything electrical is still running, that the diagnostics check out, and that there aren’t any shorts. And whew, yep—for now, anyway, everything’s working just fine, so Tendo all but herds you out of the Conn-Pod. “Scram, Chief.”
Back in the elevator, you put your hands on your hips, thinking. Your jumpsuit’s not that damp. Not anymore. Besides, you still haven’t heard the verdict on Cas. “Nope,” you decide aloud. “Med bay.” You jam a new button, with the floor marker outlined in red. “Check on your pilots.”
Med bay is weirdly calm. After the thronging calamity of H-Deck, you expected more people. But nope—to your knowledge, Cas is the only one on Shatterdome grounds who got his ass kicked in the last hour.
At least, the only one who got his ass kicked and lived to tell about it.
A wave of nausea rolls through you. Jesus Christ. There’s three Jaegers left in the whole god damn world, and no end to the Kaiju in sight. And if Cas can’t drive—if Cas—no, he’s fine. He said he’s fine. He’s going to be—
Dean’s sitting in one of the chairs outside a set of double doors, face in his hands, elbows on his knees. His drive suit’s still on, but pushed down around his waist. His gray tee beneath it is patchy with drying sweat, his dog tags swaying, catching in the awful overhead light.
He glances up at the sound of your footsteps, and instantly his shoulders loosen. “Hey,” he says, and it cracks. He gets to his feet to meet you. “You’re back.”
“I’m back.” And trying not to notice how broad his shoulders are, how they arrow down to that trim waist. You’ve pulled up close enough that your eyes catch on the the silver-gray strands of stubble in his jaw, in his hair. It’s just as devastating now as when you first noticed. Years ago, at this point. “What’s the story with Cas?”
Dean braces a hand on his hip and runs the other over his face. “Minor concussion. But his right arm’s broken in two places.”
Shit. Oh, shit.
Dean doesn’t have to say it for you to hear it: Cas can’t drive.
You breathe, “Seriously?”
The overhead speaker system whines, then crackles. “RANGER WINCHESTER, PLEASE REPORT TO LOCCENT.”
Dean hangs his head. “Damn it.”
Your heart’s racing. Cas can’t drive their Jaeger. How the hell. . .? You gulp. “I can stay here with him.”
“Nah,” says Dean. “Gonna be awhile yet. They’re taking more X-rays before they get him in a cast. But. You know what. . . “ He looks at you sideways. “If you got a minute, I wouldn’t mind the backup up there.”
Your heart warms. “Sure.”
LOCCENT—Localized Command Center, the Shatterdome’s equivalent of a wheelhouse—is bustling as usual, but across the room, Herc Hansen catches your eye and waves you over. His other arm rests in a sling, held close against his civvies.
You and Dean beeline for him, and the closer Herc gets, the better you can see the sharp cut on his forehead and the butterfly bandage holding it shut. Your heart skips; it looks like it hurts. Herc’s the second highest-ranking officer in the ‘dome, plus one of Striker’s pilots (and they hold the current record for most Kaiju kills), but getting beat up in the Conn-Pod always leaves rangers shaken.
“Herc, hey.” You slip in close, reaching for him. “I didn't know—”
Aaand then it hits you: you don’t get to do this casual intimacy with him anymore.
Your face flames hot; you drop your arm. Shit.
The two of you only broke up a few months ago. Yesterday was the first time you saw him since it happened, and before that, you’d been dating his freckled ass for almost three years.
The breakup—it was mutual. Hell, it was friendly.
Still a breakup.
Herc covers for you. “I’ll be all right.” He thumps your shoulder, reassuring. Overcompensatingly platonic. “Just did something stupid. Really stupid.”
“Sounds like you and Cas were on the same page, there,” Dean teases. He and Herc have always been broskis.
Herc winces. “Didn’t get it bad as he did, from what I hear.”
You don’t see a cast on Herc, but. . . “Can you still jockey?”
His mouth sets in a grim line. “Not what we’re here to talk about.”
You blink at him, forcing back more fear. “Herc.”
He just nods toward the corner of LOCCENT. “C’mon. Marshal wants a word.”
Marshal Stacker Pentecost is going over videos of the fight with one of the techs, but straightens up at Herc’s greeting. You and Dean straighten up, too, automatic. Shoulders back. Hash tag respect. “Chief,” says Pentecost. “Ranger. What’s the latest on your co-pilot?”
“Right arm’s broken in two places.” Dean’s quiet. “Minor concussion. They’ve grounded him.”
“Damn it,” Pentecost mutters. He and Herc trade important, people-in-charge glances. “Unfortunately, we don’t have time to wait for him to heal. Ranger, we’ll need to pull candidates from your compatibility roster, then get the both of you in a simulator as soon as possible.”
Your heart lurches. Then it picks back up, double-speed.
Dean can’t—the things he’s seen, his entire life as a hunter—he can’t drift with some random jock from J-Tech. Scary as the Kaiju are, they probably got nothing on forty years in Hell. And knowing that Hell actually exists in the first place. As do demons. And ghouls. And vampires and—a thousand other things. If some total stranger gets a load of that. . .
Dean’s on the same page. He croaks, “Sir?”
“After the systems shutdown failure this morning during Gipsy’s test run. . .” The Marshal’s flat gaze dares either of you to comment on that. “I won’t risk a live trial with Mary. You’ll start in the simulator.”
“But that’s not.” Dean gulps. “Sir. Cas, he—”
“My experts tell me it may be less than a day until the next attack.” The Marshal links his hands behind his back. “We cannot afford to lose more time. Report to the simulator at oh-300.”
No. No, fuck.
Dean’s chest rises and falls. “I can’t have somebody I don't know in my head. Not for this bomb run.”
“I agree.” You find your voice. “We have no idea whether those candidates— ”
Pentecost says, “Listen. Both of you. I understand your concern. But these aren't just trigger-happy nobodies J-Tech dug up as a training exercise. These candidates align with Ranger Winchester’s profile parameters between eighty and ninety percent. They’ll get the job done.”
You send a desperate glance at Herc. He, of all people, should get why this is a bad idea. Fortunately, he hears your SOS loud and clear. He says, “Marshal, there is an alternative.”
Pentecost looks at Herc, unamused. Waiting.
Herc says, “Dean’s brother. Sam. His division arrived in Hong Kong last week—”
“No.” Dean ducks his head. “‘Preciate the thought, but. Sam can’t even watch those fights after the fact. He won’t do it. Marshal, I can’t—this point in the game, here, when we got so much riding on the line—I can’t just trust someone who doesn’t know me. Who’s never faced these kinds of. . .” He trails off. His throat bobs uncertainly, then he looks at you. His brows slant upward into a desperate angle.
Oh.
Oh, shit. Holy god damn—
Quietly, Dean says, “Chief?”
Marshal Pentecost says, “No.”
Dean ignores him, eyes locked on yours.
Your insides churn in a thrilled rush. Dean’s asking you to be his copilot. Dean’s asking you to be his—holy living hell, you could do it, too. You know that Jaeger like you know your own heart. You’ve fought side-by-side with Dean more times than you can count. For more than one apocalypse.
This is it. This is the answer. You hold Dean’s uncertain gaze and set your jaw, lifting your chin just a little. He oughta know that look; you’ve shared it enough times, on enough hunts. When you can’t say it out loud, it gets the point across: Let’s do this.
Dean’s brow settles and his shoulders square up. He says, “When’s the last time you were in a sim.”
He knows you gotta climb into a simulator solo, every single week, to see how Hail Mary’s running. He’s just asking so the Marshal can hear. “Monday.” Your voice scrapes; you clear your throat. “Weekly systems check.”
A vein’s about to pop on the side of the Marshal’s head, but Dean plows on: “And your score?”
“Since they recalibrated the software for the Category IIIs and IVs?” You link your hands behind your back like Pentecost, desperate for something to hold onto. Your record of fake Kaiju kills isn’t perfect, but it never had to be. “Hundred and ten drops. Sixty-eight kills.”
“Out of the question,” Pentecost snaps.
“She knows all our attack formations.” Dean’s rocking a dead calm that looks damn good. “All our call signs and code words. She’s been with us since day one. She knows every inch of that Jaeger.”
“The Chief cannot direct operations on her Jaeger from inside her Jaeger,” hisses Pentecost.
“Miss Mori did it just fine an hour ago,” says Dean, all innocence. “You playing favorites with your adopted daughter, Marshal?”
Daaamn. Even Herc lifts an eyebrow at that.
Pentecost’s eyes flash. “Ranger,” he says coldly, “I will remind you that, critical as you are to this mission, you are still bound to this program and to my judgment. Insulting it is not likely to turn the tide of my favor. And I will also remind you that you haven’t even asked your Chief of J-Tech if she’ll ride with you on what’s looking increasingly likely to be a one-way trip.”
That wipes the smugness off Dean’s face.
Yours, too.
Fuck, even Pentecost knows people aren’t coming back from this mission. Not that that’s a surprise, now that you’ve lost the Kaidanovskys and the Weis. But to hear it so bluntly—
Dean says your name in a haunted rasp of sound, turned up at the end.
“Yeah.” Your own voice isn’t much better. “'Course I’ll do it.”
Man, Pentecost really might pop a vein. “Oh-300 at the simulators,” he says. “Do not be late."
“Yes, sir,” you and Dean say at once.
The Marshal strides past you both, leaving a grim-eyed Herc behind.
The last few weeks, as this whole bomb run plan came together, you’d perfected a hell of a lot of self-delusion about the implied mortality of the trip. Dean and Cas were going to come back from it, because they always come back from their missions. Always.
But now that it’s Dean and you. . .
Also? Holy shit, you’re gonna have to drift with Dean. The second you connect, Dean’s gonna get every moment of your on-again, off-again, decade-long crush. Every time you thought of them while in someone else’s arms, while in Herc’s arms, every time you whispered their names in the dark of your own room, trying again and again to give up on them. There’s too much to hide. It’s woven so completely into your life the you have no idea how to separate it.
Fuck. Shitting, fucking fuckballs.
Dean says, sort of hollow, “I, ah. I oughta go tell Cas.”
Somehow you make your voice work. “I gotta let Tendo know. And. And the crew.”
“Yeah.” Dean’s already turning. Avoiding your gaze. “See you down there, okay.”
Suddenly you’re alone with Herc.
Awk-ward.
Herc’s fingers drum at the end of his sling. “Are you all right?”
“Never better.” You haul in a deep breath. “Hey—thanks, by the way. For suggesting Sam. Quick thinking.”
Herc lowers his voice. “We’ve got enough monsters to face as it is.”
You rub your temples. “Man. Never thought I’d miss hunting god damn rugarus. Cake walk, compared to this.”
The corner of his mouth pulls up. “Been hankering for a decent salt and burn, myself.”
Sometimes it’s easy to remember why you two worked as well as you did.
“Maybe, when this is over. . .” His eyes shine. “Gotta be a rugaru out there with your name on it.”
“Fingers crossed,” you agree. You try to smile back. “Thanks, Herc.”
“Go on,” he says. “I won’t keep you.”
Tendo doesn’t even flinch at the news. “Good,” he says. “Nobody knows that Jaeger like you. Nobody knows your pilots like you, either. They made the right call.”
You stare at him, waiting for the punchline. “Is that it?”
He grins. “What, you want ticker tape and a medal?” He claps you on the shoulder as he goes by. “I’ll spread the word. See you at the simulators.”
Okay, then.
You head for Mary’s crew quarters. You need—you don’t know what you need. A second alone in your quarters, maybe, to force down the pending panic. Clothes that aren’t damp.
Why can’t you tell which is worse: revealing your secret to Dean, or riding off to the end of the world?
“Get a grip,” you mutter, rounding a corner. “He’ll probably think it’s funny.” You jangle your keys out of your pocket. “He’ll be all, ‘thanks for that laugh, kiddo, I really needed’—gah!”
You nearly run right into him.
“Whoa—Chief! Hey.” Dean’s broad hands wrap around your arms, steadying you both at the bottom step of his and Cas’ rooms. For a second, his eyes meet yours, and in them, there’s that same desperation from earlier. Then he drops his hands, fast, and looks away. “I was hoping you’d—uh.” He takes a breath. “Listen.”
“Sure.”
“You know you don’t have to do this, right.” He’s standing close enough to catch a glorious whiff of the hair stuff he uses. Hair stuff and rain.
You were just trying to get a grip, here. “Yeah. I know.”
“The Marshal’s right. We don’t know if this trip is even—”
“Are you trying to get me to back out?”
His eyes come back to yours. “Hell yes, I’m trying to get you to back out. I got no idea if we’re coming back from this mission. I—”
“So, what, it’s okay if you and Cas die at the bottom of the ocean, but—”
“I’d rather you both make it.” He swoops in even closer, startling you into a step back. “If it means both of you get to make it out of this, then fine—I’ll take whoever Pentecost gives me.”
Always with the frakking martyrdom, this guy. You can’t believe you’ve fallen so hard for somebody so goddamn stubborn. “Dean. C’mon, man. You said it yourself: nobody in this ‘dome knows that Jaeger like I do. And besides—we were fighting ghouls in Sydney just weeks ago. If anybody can make it back from this mission, it’s the two of us."
Muscles twitch in his jaw; he looks away. But he comes back with more ammo. “And what about—what about the drift, huh.”
They’re gonna find out. They’re gonna know everything. “What about the drift.”
He can barely look at you. Ack. Does he already know the way you feel?
You rush ahead. “Hey, man. I got baggage too. Not quite on your level, I’ll give you that. But. . .” Oh, boy, this is gonna end bad. You grit your teeth. “It doesn’t matter what my damage is. Or yours. Or Cas’. But some random flyboy from that compatibility list? They’re gonna have a meltdown in realtime if they see the shit you guys’ve been through.”
Dean purses his lips. “Yeah, you. You might right about that one.”
“I’m gonna do this,” you insist. “I choose to do this with you.” Gulp. “We’ll deal with the rest when we get to it.”
He manages a smile. “Yeah. We always do, don’t we.”
“Damn right we do.”
He’s studying you now like he might say something. Like he might—
You blurt, “How’s Cas?”
Dean visibly takes a sec to recalibrate, but he jerks a thumb over his shoulder, at their quarters. “Better. Just got back, actually.”
Has Cas been listening in? “Oh, good. What’s, ah. What’s he think about all this?”
He glances back toward the door. “Oughta ask him.” He claps your shoulder. Like Herc did earlier. “See you down there, all right."
When Cas pulls the hatch open, your first thought is that he looks so tired. They always do, after they get hurt. Shadows dip beneath his eyes, and the scraggly (hot) length of his stubble suggests that he’s been awake way too long. Everyone has. It’s—what the hell time is it, if Pentecost wants you at the simulators at three in the morning?
Cas smiles the instant he sees you, though, and it warms his whole face. His drive suit’s around his hips like Dean’s was, but his right arm hangs at his waist in a sling. At his temple, a butterfly bandage holds a gash together. “Hello.” He nods toward the inside of their quarters, stepping aside. “Come on in.”
You slip past him. It’s cozy in here, despite the grim, weathered walls. A lamp glows on the concrete block of a nightstand, beside the two metal-framed twin beds that Dean literally welded together to make something approaching a king-size. Dean’s got a stack of old photos on the desk and a string of newer ones draped along the wall. Books—both Dean’s and Cas’—sit in piles all over the room. They’re lucky; their quarters are some of the only ones in the entire ‘dome that have a window. It runs the length of the far wall, face-height, but it’s barely a foot tall. Still—outside you can see a bit of the bay, and some of the lights from the distant shipyard. Smoke rises from out in the city. Slow-moving lights of helicopters sweep the area as they survey the damage.
The hatch closes; Cas hangs onto the crank with his good hand, looking at you with sad, solemn eyes.
You stuff your hands in your pockets. “How you feeling?”
“I’m fine. Dean told me.”
Right to business, then. “And?”
“If I could talk you out of it, I would.” His hand drifts off the crank; he comes closer. “I fear for you. But I can’t think of anyone more likely to get you both home safely. You’re the perfect candidate.”
“Cas.” You nearly sag with relief.
“I mean it,” he says. “You two—you’ve always made a good team.”
“Dude, all three of us have.”
“But in current context. . .” He draws his lower lip into his mouth, then releases it. It looks soft.
Your mind flashes with familiar fantasies: his mouth opening deep between your legs, the plush curve of his lips where you’d feel them in electrifying detail. How you’ve thought about it happening in the bed that’s currently like, five feet away from you.
You grit your teeth. “Thanks. I’m just. . .”
“Nervous.”
“Yeah. About the mission, and, ah. . .”
“Drifting.”
Damn him, he’s always had a sixth sense even without his grace. “Bingo.”
“It’s disconcerting at first,” he says. “No way around it except through it. But Dean will help you. He—he’s good at that. Taking care of people.” He smiles, but it just seems sort of lost.
“Cas.” You step closer, and touch his good arm. “You okay?”
Cas looks at you like. . . what the hell is that look. It’s almost pleading. His voice wavers. “There’s things—you might see, that I. . .”
Great. “Dean said the same thing,” you mutter. “As though I don’t have shit I’d rather keep on lock.”
“It’s just. . .” Yeah, that’s definitely pleading in his voice.
“Is it that bad?” They’re starting to make you nervous. Or relieved? Maybe if they’ve got some seriously gnarly shit, your angsty crush will pale in comparison. “You could just tell me, y’know.”
“True. I could.” Cas’ brows lift and lower in wry consideration. The but I won’t is implied.
You glance at the door. “I, ah. I oughta. . .”
“Right. Yes.” He rubs the back of his neck. “Um. Come back and see me, when it’s done?”
He wouldn’t ask you to come back if it was that bad. Would he? “Yeah, of course.”
He watches you go like it’s the last time he’ll ever see you.
* * *
They get you a drive suit. They clank on the armor plating, too, even though it’s just a test run. All the years you’ve seen Dean and Cas wear their gear, and you had no idea how lightweight it is.
Every crew has a different look. Mary’s has a heather-gray drivesuit with black plating overtop. Striker’s pilots, Herc and Chuck, have this dusty-olive setup that looks like they’re wearing old artillery tanks. Gipsy’s drive suits are chic as hell—all black, PPDC-branded since they’re newer. You get the same thing, that all-black gear, since Mary’s never needed to stock extras in a different size.
Dean looks devastating when you meet him at the sim. Not like that’s news; he’s always swoon-worthy that getup. The dude looks like he’s gonna go jousting on a lightcycle.
“This is some whack shit right here,” you say, shifting, getting used to the feel of the suit against your skin.
“Looks good,” Dean says, and looks away—not soon enough to hide his smile. “For some whack shit.”
You grin. “Wow, thanks.”
“All pilots, to your marks.” It’s Tendo on the mic on the other side of the smartglass. “Repeat, all pilots, to your marks.”
Here’s how this shit works: the simulator is built like a recording studio, with a tech crew and controls on one side of a window, and you and Dean on the other. In a minute, the lights will go off, Mary’s sim-HUD will come up, and they’ll project the battle simulation on the window. The physical control panels around you are identical copies of the ones in Mary’s Conn-Pod; they can get switched out with any crew’s for more sim testing.
There’s practice harnesses, too, so that as you step into place, you actually have the weight of the mechanical arm and leg attachments that let you maneuver Mary around.
Your heart pounds as the lights start to lower. This is—fuck. Do this right, and you might save the world. But you still might lose Dean and Cas when Dean finds out about your super-gross crush. Like, Jesus. Who does that to their friends? Who—what kind of person can’t move on after so long?
A techie is helping fit Dean into the arm controls. Dean’s helmet is on, but his eyes have locked on yours, shining and a little wide in the internal headlights. Like he’s nervous—maybe as much as you. But why? “Chief, you with me?”
Lord, always. “Yeah.” You gulp. There’s a techie at your side, too, and she helps you fit a helmet over your head—standard for two-or-three person sims, since it’s the thing that’s gonna let you drift. “Any tips, here?”
“Besides ‘don’t chase the R.A.B.I.T.?’” Random-Access Brain Impulse Triggers, he means. Memories. He’s warning you not to follow them down so far you lose the here and now. “Um.” He licks his lips. “First few seconds are the toughest, before you reel it in. But just let it all go by. You’re gonna wanna look at them—but just let ‘em go past. That make sense?”
Nope. “Kinda?”
“On my mark,” says Tendo. The techies are stepping away. “Counting down to neural handshake in ten. . . nine. . .”
The glass partition darkens so you can’t see Tendo and the control room. Then the whole thing illuminates with a fake windshield that looks out over the sim-version of Victoria Harbor. It’s pretty, but it does nothing for your stupid, traitorously trembly body.
“Chief,” Dean says. Five…four… “You’re allowed to breathe, y’know.”
You didn’t even realize you weren’t. “Totally overrated, if you ask m—”
A rush of flaming, swirling blue floods your vision, then yanks you backwards into your own mind. A tangle of color and sound follow, rushing up and splashing memories and half-forgotten moments back across your wide-open eyes, and you’re totally gone, you’re lost in it, you’re—
—freaking the fuck out in front of Pentecost and Herc because no, Dean can’t drift with some random jock from J-Tech; the Kaiju might be scary but they’ve got nothing on forty years in Hell, and knowing that Hell actually—
—still shines bright beneath decades of blood and smoke and fear and shame and guilt, so gone he doesn’t see you until you catch his wrist on the razor’s next downstroke and that weary soul flickers with—
—sick, helpless rage. “Dean, dad—let me go,” says the note. It crumples in your shaking fist as you gulp back panic. Run. Run, now, or you’ll never hear the end of it. Get your ass to the nearest dive, hustle up a fistful of bills, hotwire a car, and find a case halfway across the country. Hell, in Stanford. Anywhere this shitstorm can blow over without you here. But nope—outside, over the hum of the neon sign, you hear the car door cre-eak-snap shut. Son of a bitch. Can’t fool your old man anymore, or you’d try lying. Even if it worked, this ain’t the kind of shit you can hide for more than a few days. Sooner or later, dad’s gonna figure out Sam bailed, permanently, on your watch. Might as well face it like a man. This time, though, you’re angry enough—betrayed enough—that you might put your damn dukes up when he—
—collides with you, throwing her arms around you. She’s—she’s pleased to see you, then. She doesn’t think your self-imposed sentence in Purgatory was cut too short. “Holy shit, Cas,” she says, and clings tighter. Bewildered (and delighted, too), you wrap your arms around her shoulders. Dean couldn’t manage more than a kind of numb shock when you returned, until you found the truth, the depth, of his trauma. But she’s just. . . happy. When she pulls back to look up at you, her eyes are shining and damp, her smile wide and bashful. Surprised, you sweep a thumb across her cheek, catching a tear—and she pulls away, embarrassed. “Ugh, Jesus. Sorry. I’m cool, it’s just—really good to see you.” She’s clearly not “cool,” though. She’s still sniffling. Humans. Always hiding their emotions. Why? “Can’t believe you’re back, man.” As if to make sure you’re real, she touches your shoulder, the knot of your tie. It reminds you of Dean, years ago, that time he—what did he say? “When humans want something really, really bad. . . we—
—lie about how it’s totally cool, wow, you are so happy for them, it’s about damn time, wow. You don’t feel it, but you should. Crying out loud, they’re your friends. You gotta get over this. Plenty of people hook up after they drift. Dean and Cas have been circling each other since the beginning, anyway; there was never any room for you, and it’s your own damn fault you didn’t see that. Just look how happy they are, without you—
No. You squeeze your eyes shut, fists clenching in panic. Think of anything else—anything else besides them, anybody else, maybe—
—Herc’s biting a bruise into your shoulder, hips snapping against the back of your thighs, rough and sloppy because that fight was terrifying and you both need this; he and Chuck walked away fine, but Dean and Cas nearly—god, and Dean’s voice on the mic, the rough, broken cadence of it—he called you “kid” for the first time in—what did he say again? “C’mon, kid, c’mon, just tell me when—tell me when, all right, c’mon,” and the way Cas followed up with that desperate, barely-there slip of your name—you stifle your shout and shudder around Herc, hiding the silent shape of Dean and Cas’ names in the pillow, guilt and guilt and more guilt—
The cool blue haze spits you out and you slam backward in your harness before righting yourself on wobbly legs. Your heart’s pounding but your vision is clear and you’re blinking at the control panels and oh-fucking-yeah, you’re mid-sim, and on the other side of that smartglass there’s a team of people just waiting for you to fuck this up, and—
Dean’s staring at you. The monitor ticks in your peripheral—exactly three seconds have passed—but he’s just staring, dumbstruck. He’s beside you but you can see yourself, see through his eyes, your own wide ones staring back, and you can feel his—god, it hits you, his emotions that your mind shapes into his voice: —so fucking hot in that suit but she’ll never forgive me once she finds out how we feel she’ll hate me she’ll hate Cas she’ll never speak to us again god damn it—
You’re gaping. Did he just call me hot?
Dean’s parted lips close, his shoulders rising and falling—he’s panting. His emotions roil back up, questions and confusion that once again form his voice: Yeah. Wait—that memory—you, with Herc. You were thinking about. . . me? And Cas—both of us—?
Fuck. Fuck, shit, hell. I'm sorry. Dean, fuck, I'm so sorry, I didn't—
No, no, no, don't—it's—H is eyes shut. The blue haze wells up again.
You blink at the HUD, forcing yourself to ignore whatever memory Dean’s dredging up. Isn’t this exactly what you aren’t supposed to do? Chasing the RABIT?
Hey, comes a response. But not a response, a feeling. It’s wild as hell. Been doing this for seven years. I won't let you get lost.
In your peripheral, his hand twitches. But in the hazy-blue mist, where no one can see but the two of you, he reaches for you through all that churning light. Uncertainty sparks across the connection, along with a breathless rush of hope.
Fuck. Ah, fuck, you take his hand, and he pulls you directly into a memo—
—Really? Really? Don’t be so damn needy, you just saw her earlier, she doesn’t want to see you, she’s had a long day, too, and besides, she and Herc are probably—but they might not be. Just go find her. One left turn and a right, and you’re there—oh. Okay, she—that’s her in Herc’s arms, and they are making out like it’s the end of the world. And it’s. God help you, it’s so—hot—and they’re fumbling for the door handle. You must look totally sucker-punched, standing there staring like a dumbass, so you rally and let loose one loud wolf whistle before you keep walking like you never meant to stop in the first place, but they don’t even look up, and Jesus, you wish you weren’t so jealous, wish you weren't thinking of pressing her to the other side of that door yourself, tearing at her jumpsuit while she tears at your own—
Oh, god. You remember that. Most of it, anyway. Dean was the one who whistled like that? And he—he was jealous? Thinking about doing those things to—with you?
Always. He thinks it, shaped like a wince. Guilty.
You don’t believe it. He—What about Cas?
Lemme show you. Dean pulls you directly into another memory, and when the colors focus—
”—tell me,” Cas growls against your ear, his wet hand jacking you slow and tight, “speak, Dean.” “Nnnnguh—wanna—want her so bad.” That’s so damn inadequate, but Cas knows what you mean. You want everything. Touches you don’t have to overthink. Strong coffee with a side of too many lore books, like back home. But this—hey, you’ll take this, too. “Want us both inside her, Cas, wanna—ugh, fuck. W-wanna make her feel. . .” “Like this?” Cas’ hand twists at the crown; liquid fire lashes through your belly. “Y-yeah, I—” “We’d take such good care of her, wouldn’t we.” “God yes—” “She’d come so beautifully. Imagine it, how she’d feel around you, how she’d let go—” “God, fuck—”
“Neural handshake at 100%.” Tendo’s leaning on the mic, just visible behind the lit glass. “You guys with us?”
Your heart’s thundering. Heat pounds between your legs, demands that you notice the aching emptiness that Dean and Cas apparently want to fill. Dean’s watching you, just as wide-eyed. Hoping it reaches him, you think, Both of you—all this time?
His eyes go a little desperate, a little longing. All of it.
Holy shit.
“Yeah.” Your voice cracks. “We’re with you, Tendo.” God, your pants feel tight. You just got fitted for this drive suit, what in the hell—
The thought floats across the connection, mortified: It’s, ah. That’s not you.
It’s Dean—again, not words, but an emotion that shapes itself into the words.
You’re just staring in muted shock. He—he popped a stiffie in the middle of the sim. And you. . . can sorta feel it?
“Wild, right?” says Tendo.
“Understatement,” you rasp.
“Well, look alive,” says Tendo. “Here comes your bogey.”
You look at Dean, now, and as he stares back, a rolodex of memories sift by in brief, blue-tinged flashes: countless fights side by side, back to back, with Cas, with Sam, taking down monsters and demons and everything in between. Cool, hyper-focused calm settles over you now the same way it does when you steady your grip on your blade or your gun.
Dean’s approval washes over you, and so too do threads of arousal—and then the speakers in your helmet roar, dragging your attention away.
Holy shit, you thought fights at Dean’s side were a trip before. Now, connected to him, seeing the way his mind works, the things he spots, even as he gets the same from you, literally just revels in how you think—your adrenaline’s churning, limbs practically weightless with the joy of a good fight. It surges through you, a complicated dance of mirrored motions and a multitude of commands tapped into the various screens around you. Your hands are steady, your mind is clear. You and Dean take the fake Kaiju down in eight minutes.
The lights come back on. On the other side of the glass partition, Tendo’s on his feet, one hand on his headphones. He’s grinning at you and Dean, shaking his head. “You’ve gotta be shitting me.”
“It’s a new record,” says Marshal Pentecost, stepping forward into view; Dean’s surprise mingles with your own. Apparently the Marshal was here for the whole thing? “The fastest takedown yet of any new copilots in a simulator.”
Dean’s smugness glows against your heart like an ember. “Toldja we could do it.”
“Starting to get tired of hearing that,” Pentecost mutters. “But you’ve convinced me, both of you. Go stand by and get some rest. Mr. Choi assures me the repair of your Jaeger is well underway.”
“They’ll need a debrief,” says Tendo, “first drifts—”
“Not necessary,” says Dean. You feel his thudding heartbeat, his building urgency to get the hell out of here. Wait, nope, that’s you. God damn it. You try to rein it in, because you still don’t—this is still—but you’re already picturing your hands tearing at the zip in Dean’s drive suit, or hauling Cas in with a fistful of shirt. “She’s,” Dean says, except it cracks in the middle, “she’s got all mine. Every debrief I ever got.”
Pentecost gives the two of you a hard look.
You force your expression to go bored. “If I gotta sit through that damn PowerPoint instead of getting a nap, heads are gonna roll.”
“Fine,” says Pentecost. “Dismissed.”
Your arms are wobbling. Your entire body, wobbling. You yank your helmet off, and the connection severs, instantly putting you back in your own mind, with your own feelings. One of which is just, instant panic, because holy shit—what if you misread everything? What if you were making up half that shit, what if—is that even possible? What if that fantasy he showed you was one of yours, repurposed and relived? God, there’s just no way Dean and Cas reciprocate your feelings that deeply, no matter what you saw.
Dean takes his helmet off, too, and he’s still panting. From the fight, you gotta assume. Not because of—of anything else.
The techs help get you out of the armor plating while you practically vibrate with nerves. The same gal who helped hook you up the first time now studies you with concern in her eyes, but wisely doesn’t say anything. “Thanks,” you manage on the way off the platform, and her nod seems to convey that she knows it’s for the de-armoring and silence both.
In the hallway, crew members pass, ignoring you. Out here, the world is still ending. Three broken Jaegers are still crawling with techs and specialists, racing the War Clock to get it all done before the next attack. Nobody gives a shit about what you just saw in that drift.
Nobody except Dean, anyway. And Cas. When you get to Cas.
Dean steps up to your side. Heat fills your cheeks as you avoid eye contact. He says, “So—”
“Cas,” you blurt, and shove your shaking hands in your pockets. God, be cool about this. “He said I should, um. Come by after we finished up in there. And say hi.”
"Yeah, we—" Dean clears his throat. “Let’s do that.”
“Yeah?"
“Yeah.”
Neither of you move.
His jaw bobs for a second before he says, “Freight elevator might be faster.”
You shiver. "Faster, huh."
"And emptier."
Arousal chases through your veins. “That. Is. A great idea.”
“Good. Okay.” He nods, jaw clenching. “Here we go.”
“Here we go,” you agree.
Here you go.