Archive of Our Own ^beta

Sam has no idea how Dean just knows when he’s in trouble. He came to the theater alone to watch a movie Dean thought was too peppy for his tastes. Nevertheless, he manages to saunter in and scare away the asshole who admittedly has the upper hand on Sam.

Now, Dean’s tugging him home, asking him how he managed to make another guy want to beat the shit outta him while discreetly checking for injuries and bruises. Sam doesn't appreciate all the coddling, though it's pretty clear that he has no choice in the matter.

"I had it under control," he says, glowering. He tries to shrug off the arm Dean has wrapped around his shoulders, but his brother doesn't let up.

"Every time you say that, you get in a fight. I swear to god, it's like you're looking for trouble," Dean says, ruffling Sam's hair affectionately.

Sam ducks his head, batting away Dean's hand. "I can take care of myself."

"Of course you can," Dean says easily. "I'm just saying, you could try and control your temper."

"It's not my fault some people are assholes," Sam mutters, frowning.

"It's not your job to teach them a lesson," Dean counters.

"And it's yours?" Sam says, narrowing his eyes.

"They make it my job the moment they throw a punch at you," Dean says. Sam only purses his lips, disentangling himself from his brother before dashing up the stairs.

Dean sighs, resisting the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. "Sammy! Wait for me, will you?"

Sam doesn't listen, but Dean catches up anyway. By the third floor, Sam is leaning on the railing, panting, fighting off the asthma attack that's buzzing under his skin and just waiting to happen.

"Sam. Sammy, breathe," Dean says, helping Sam to the floor. This has happened enough times for Dean to know not to show his panic, to let Sam in on how his heart is pounding frantically in his chest.  "In through your nose and out through your mouth."

Dean always knows what to say, knows what to do, knows Sam can get through it, but he still feels a little bit helpless and a whole lot scared.

"I'm fine," Sam wheezes when his chest stops heaving. He keeps his trembling hands at his sides and curls them into fists. He wonders, for a moment, if he could trust his knees not to give out under his measly weight, but he stands up regardless, leaning heavily on the railing.

Dean's face is pinched, the line of his jaw hard. Sam knows he wants to shout, to say don't do that, don't fucking do that ever again . Instead, what he says is, "Come on. Let's get you to bed so you can rest."

Sam wants to say thank you because he knows he can be difficult. Instead, he nods his head and lets Dean grip his arm and guide him up the stairs.

Dinner consists of canned tuna and plenty of tap water to trick their stomachs into feeling full. There's a bit of chocolate from the last time Ellen asked Dean to help out at the Roadhouse. Sam breaks off a tiny square and takes his time with it, nibbling at the sides and savoring the taste.

"I got called up," Dean says. He doesn't look up, doesn't stop drying the dishes, even when he knows Sam's fixed a look on him.

“By the army?” Sam asks, a crease forming between his eyebrows. Anger flares in his gut, but he ignores it, focusing instead on the way Dean's shoulders are tensed. “You’re going?”

"Yes," Dean says. "It's what Dad would've wanted."

Sam huffs out a bitter laugh. "Dad. Of course."

"Sam." Dean turns around, only to shake his head, disapproving. "It's good money. Maybe you can even go to college. I mean, we'd only be able to afford the community college, but—"

"You get to die in the dirt, and I get to go to college." Sam purses his lips. "I don't want to be even more of a burden, Dean."

"It's not like you can stop me. It's done." Dean takes his documents from his coat pocket, leaving them on the table for Sam to see. "I leave in a week."

"Sergeant Dean Winchester," Sam reads aloud, sucking in a breath, realizing just what this means for them. "Shit. You're going away to war ."

"Yeah," Dean says, taking a seat. Judging by the look on his face, he’d rather not have his last memory of his brother be a petty fight.

"What if you die out there? I'm not gonna let you do this alone."

"I’m not going to let you follow me to my death. Come on, man."

Sam tries to be angry, tries to find the guts to say that no, he isn't going to just sit here and let Dean do this. Sam is stubborn as hell but he knows this is a decision he can't change.

"Fine. But don't even think about making me go on a last-night-on-Earth kind of double date with you. If you wanna dance with girls, I'm not going to stop you," Sam says, rolling his eyes. "Just don't bring me with you."

"But Sammy! I already promised Cassie that I'd bring my brother along.” Dean winks, his lips stretching into a wide grin.

Sam sighs. "Okay. Then maybe this is your chance to finally try a threesome."

"You might be right," Dean says, scrunching his nose in thought. Sam knows he's considering how much of a chance he's got with the gals, knows by the bright look on Dean's face that it's 80-20 at least. "Sammy, have I ever told you that you're the best?"

Sam beams.

"Only every single day."

Sam comes along with Dean anyway. It turns out they're going to the Novak Expo. He may not be the most knowledgeable person around when it comes to engineering and technology, but he can appreciate a good show, and Gabriel Novak has never failed to make a grand one. Honestly, most people go to the Expo so they can experience how Gabriel ensnares an audience, makes them see and listen, eases them into understanding and admiring his genius inventions.

Sam and Dean have been going to the Expo for years. Dad used to take them, used to tell them all about the displays in the intense, fascinated way only a mechanic can. Dean got so excited sometimes that he would squeeze Sam's hand a bit too hard. It got them into fights, so Dad always got them cotton candy to cheer them up.

This year, the main demonstration is a flying car. It might not have been in the air for a long time, but it's a promising start. With Novak's genius, it won't be a surprise if they go commercial in no more than five years.

"Isn't Mr. Novak such a handsome man?" Cassie remarks brightly, tucking her arm under Dean's.

"I don't know about him, but his car was a beauty," Dean says, whistling appreciatively even just at the thought of it. Sam rolls his eyes. Ever since he was old enough to receive The Talk from Dad, he has been wondering about the way Dean talks about cars, like they're girls who need to be impressed and wooed.

"Even more beautiful than I am?" Cassie asks, batting her eyelashes. Sam mimes throwing up on the gutter.

"Of course not, sweetheart," Dean says easily, pulling Cassie closer.

"I'm going to head to that exhibit. Over there," Sam says loudly, waving a hand vaguely. Cassie doesn't spare him a glance, which is just as well because he mouths to Dean behind her back, you flirt!

"Yeah, yeah, Sammy. See you," Dean says. I'll be home tomorrow , he mouths back, which means he's going to spend the night at Cassie’s.

Sam walks away, his mouth quirked up into an amused smile. Dean's like that—confident and charming. It certainly helps whenever he flirts with a girl he wants to seduce to his bed, or the cashier at the store a few blocks away so he can get a discount, or the customers at the Roadhouse so he can get a bigger tip, he gives Sam a smile and says, it's a gift . Sam knows that if Dad were still alive, he would nod his head and say, your brother's a special one.

Dad used to say Dean got it from Mom, because she was the most amazing woman who ever lived. They met one night, when they were dancing out with their friends. Dad saw her right away, drinking a margarita and laughing at a joke her friend made. She was wearing a striped red dress and bright red lipstick, standing out easily from the crowd. The whole night, he tried to gather the courage to go and ask her to dance. In the end, Mom was the one who approached him.

"My name is Mary, and I'd like to dance with you," she said to him, and that was that.

Dean has the same effect, though that’s as far as his similarities go with Mom. Where Mom gave and cared and made sure everyone else was getting their share, Dean takes. At least, that's how he is with strangers. The only thing that matters to him is family, and right now, that means Sam. So Dean works hard for money, food and Sam’s education. But now, the only decent job is at the army, and of course, Dean is going to take the opportunity if it means Sam can live off his pension.

"Dean, you idiot," Sam mutters under his breath. He's been walking around the exhibits for a while now, staring at the posters and the propaganda posters and the photos of soldiers, standing proud in front of the American flag. That's where his brother's going. That's what he's going to look like when he comes home—not proud and determined like all new recruits, but rugged, tired and haunted.

Sam purses his lips, watching a man trying out one of those displays where people step atop a platform and see their faces reflected back, wearing a soldier's uniform. Sam doesn't try. He knows he isn't tall enough. What he can do, though, is try to sign up for the army. It's a long shot, with his scrawny arms and his asthma, but he should try. For Dean.

The officer doesn't even read his whole medical file. He sees asthma, peers at Sam's bare torso, and stamps a big red 4F on his certificate.

"Sir, can't you give me a chance?" Sam tries. His eyes are hard but his voice is pleading. He glances at the man beside the officer—a doctor, he thinks, judging by the white coat.  "Sir, please."

"I'm sorry, son. You just don't pass the requirements," the officer says. He nods his head at the next man in line, a cue for Sam to leave. He doesn't like it, feels like it's unfair, but he walks out of the room with his chin up and a plan to cheat his way through the process already half-formed in his mind.

"Mr. Winchester! Mr. Winchester, wait!"

Sam is almost out of the building when he turns around to see the doctor running after him.

"Sir," he greets. He hopes his face is blank, void of the dismay and indignation he feels. "Did I forget something?"

"No. I'm Dr. Shurley, and I have an offer for you."

Sam stands up straighter, narrowing his eyes in consideration. "What kind of offer?"

"We have a special project, at a government agency called the Scientific Strategic Reserve—an experiment, of sorts. You're not the sort we usually recruit, but you wanted a chance, and this is it," Dr. Shurley says.

“You saw my file,” Sam says slowly, finding the right words to say. “I know I should be jumping at the chance, but I don’t know what possessed you to consider me.”

Dr. Shurley shrugs. “I know a good man when I see one. Will you join us, Mr. Winchester?”

Sam doesn't spare another moment to thought and gives the doctor a quick nod. "Yes, sir."

"Good. We leave for camp in a week. Be here at five in the morning," Dr. Shurley says, clapping Sam on the back. "And don't call me sir. Chuck's fine, or Dr. Shurley, if you really wanna be all formal."

"Of course, Dr. Shurley."

Things go as expected with Dean. He shouts and glares a little, but mostly, he nags Sam and cooks them a decent dinner to celebrate.

"If they make you do fucked up shit for their experiment, you write and tell me, you hear?" Dean says, wrapping an arm around Sam's shoulders and squeezing.

"I will," Sam says, rolling his eyes.

"And make sure you eat breakfast every day."

"Yes, Dean."

"And don't let anyone tell you what to do. Unless it's your commanding officer, of course, 'cause then you'd have to do as he says."

"Yes, Mom ."

Dean flicks Sam on the forehead and hands him a beer. "I'm just worried about your stupid ass."

"I know," Sam says, taking the beer as a peace offering. "I'm just being the annoying little brother who jumps at every chance to tease you."

There’s the hiss of a can opening before Dean is drinking, sighing appreciatively at the burn down his throat. "Probably won't be much of this when I'm out on the field."

"There might be some, only they'll taste like piss," Sam says, grinning.

"I'll probably get into smoking again."

"S'okay. I won't be with you anyway."

"No girls starting tomorrow, Sammy. How am I going to live without girls?" Dean groans. “I guess I’ll have to live with my own talented hands.”

A laugh startles out of Sam while Dean sighs dramatically, raising his beer. "For America!"

"For America!"

After Dean leaves, Sam doesn't have much to do. He packs his things, fitting everything in a small bag. He eats all of their leftovers and makes sure to clear things with their landlady. After that, he spends his days filling up his sketchpad. He draws his room, draws Dean from memory, draws Brooklyn from his apartment building's rooftop. He's going to miss this, he thinks, the busy streets and the steady murmur of the city outside his window, so he takes pieces of it and keeps them close to his heart.

He wakes up early on the morning he goes to camp, so he takes time with his shower and his breakfast, and takes his bicycle to the recruitment center. He's right on time, and Dr. Shurley's already waiting by an unmarked black car.

"Dr. Shurley," Sam greets. "Good morning."

"Morning, Sam. You ready?" he replies, his eyebrows raised as appraises Sam's tiny knapsack.

"Yes, I am," Sam says, his shoulders squared and his chest out.

They drive for four hours, only stopping twice for bathroom breaks. When they arrive at the camp, they're received by two men.

"Colonel Robert Singer." Dr. Shurley shakes hands with the man in uniform before turning to the man wearing a trench coat over his suit. "You must be Agent Castiel Novak. It's a pleasure to finally meet you."

Agent Novak nods, taking the doctor's hand in his. "Likewise.”

"Your cousin has told me a lot about you," Dr. Shurley says. Judging by his tone and his awkward smile, he's probably heard quite a lot.

Castiel’s eyes narrow in suspicion but instead of questioning the doctor, he turns to Sam. "You must be Sam Winchester," he says, and so Sam finds himself resisting the urge to squirm under the agent's calculating gaze.  "Dr. Shurley was adamant about letting you join the program."

Sam blushes. "It wasn't my intention to cause any trouble, Agent."

"Hm." Agent Novak narrows his eyes, looking every bit intimidating and terrifying. Sam holds his breath, ignoring the faint buzz of nerves along his spine. "It's no matter."

"Get settled, Mr. Winchester. Training starts at 0500," Colonel Singer says. The frown that mars his features is wary and disappointed. Sam gulps anxiously, struggling to keep his chin up. "You'll need plenty of rest if you're going to survive tomorrow."

"Yes, sir," Sam says, giving the colonel a salute and Agent Novak a nod before following another soldier to the barracks.

The rooms are just what he expected. They're a bit cramped and smell of sweat, but the beds are the same as the one Sam has back in Brooklyn. He sets his bag on the foot of his bed and takes out a change of clothes for tomorrow. When he lies down, he feels exhaustion seep into his bones. His mind is pleasantly blank, free of the gnawing worry he felt when he was standing in front of Agent Novak and Colonel Singer.

He doesn't wait until it comes back. It takes him less than ten minutes of fidgeting to fall asleep.

Sam didn't think it possible, but Colonel Singer and Agent Novak look even more imposing in broad daylight. The Colonel stays by the sidelines, watching intently. Novak's staring down at the troop of soldiers, Sam included, assessing everyone's uniform and stance, calling out names of men whose minds drift off. It's almost scary, how good the agent's eye is for details.

"Fifty push-ups," Agent Novak says, and the look he gives them gives no room for excuses or failure. They get down on the ground without hesitation. They've been at it for about fifteen minutes, and they've seen what happens to people who complain. No one's stupid enough to want a repeat.

Still, fifty is too much for him, Sam thinks. He's never made it past twenty, not with his all but non-existent muscles and his already stuttering heart. Sam is pretty damn sure that Agent Novak has read the medical file of every soldier in this camp, but if has any doubts about whether or not Sam could do it, he doesn’t say anything. Instead, when Sam starts to struggle, his arms threatening to give way beneath him, Agent Novak comes to his side.

"Come on, Winchester. You can do better than that," he says. Sam can imagine the look on his face, eyes narrowed and two wrinkles on his forehead.

"Yes, sir," Sam struggles to say. The voice in his head isn't his. It's Dean's. Twenty five. Twenty six. Twenty seven. You're more than halfway through, Sam. You can do more. Twenty eight. Twenty nine.

Agent Novak stays until Sam finishes his fifty, probably because he's the last one to finish.

"Today marks your first day of training. At the end of the month, we're going to choose the very best of you to become the first super-soldier. Before that, though, expect to be given strenuous physical and psychological drills," Agent Novak says, going back to his place in front.

Colonel Singer steps forward. "This is just like any other basic training, except harder. So follow your orders. Do your best in every drill because it might just be what saves you one day. Whine all you want about how tired you are or how we're dragging you through the mud, but don't make the mistake of letting us hear it. We only want the very best for this experiment, so if we don't like what we see, we won't hesitate to take you out of the program."

"That will be all for now. We'll continue training in half an hour," Agent Novak says. "Dismissed."

It gets worse. At the end of every day, they're all so tired that they don't even have the energy to complain. They make the most out of their rationed dinners, and then they drag themselves to their beds, groaning incoherently and trying not to move their aching limbs.

Good morning is what Sam used to say. It annoyed the hell out of Dean, made him even grumpier in the morning. Now, Sam kinda feels the same way. It isn't nice, waking up to the light blaring from the window, not even a shabby curtain to keep the sun from his eyes. It also isn't nice to run laps around camp when his knees are still shaking from yesterday's training. His body gets used to it eventually, and Sam learns to take better care of himself.

Sure, he isn't that good at calisthenics and obstacle courses, but he makes up for it during situational training exercises. He thinks fast, and even though he gets all tongue-tied around girls, he knows how to handle civilians—shaking kids and confused senior citizens, terrified families and distressed mothers looking for their missing children. He's a decent marksman, and he knows all the important grenades inside out.

His only problem now is that he isn't very popular. The other soldiers think that he's holding them back because he's always the last one to finish drills, always trailing behind them. They don't say anything, probably because they feel sorry for him or they're afraid they'll be caught looking. When Sam catches them looking, most of the time he sees pity.  That's the worst, worse than anger or irritation, Sam thinks.

Colonel Singer doesn't like him very much either. Sam can tell, even though the Colonel seems like he's trying his best to be fair. He isn't so sure about Agent Novak, though. Castiel is harsh on him, but with good reason.If he’s ever going to be considered for the honor of being the first super-soldier, he has to work harder, and Castiel knows that. Dr. Shurley keeps insisting that Agent Novak likes him but Sam won't believe it until he sees undeniable proof.

The only person who believes in him and thinks he's going to be chosen as the very first test subject for the super-soldier serumis Dr. Shurley, and he never fails to remind Sam of his faith every single day. While the others relax and smoke in little circles all over the mess, Sam goes to Dr. Shurley's office.

They talk, mostly about things that don't have to do with the army or the serum. They talk about Dr. Shurley's childhood, about how he breezed through college and started working on his own projects since his father first told him, there's a war coming, son, and they're gonna need brains like yours. They talk about Dean—everything he's ever done for Sam, and everything Sam owes him.

Dr. Shurley says that when Sam finally gets the serum, he's going to win the war. He won't have to worry about Dean anymore, and he's going to make his brother proud. Sam thinks it won't hurt to hope the doctor’s right.

There's a pole in the middle of camp with a white flag on top of it. Every morning before training starts and every afternoon when it ends, Agent Novak makes them stop and line up. He lets them fight over who gets the chance to take down the flag and enjoy the next day without laps. Sam never joins in, mostly because he can't. The others are tackling each other to the ground, doing everything to get to the pole. It's slippery, though, so no one gets past a few feet before slipping.

Sam stands to the side, always watching. He pretends not to notice how Agent Novak is eyeing him. He must look like he doesn't care, and this probably isn't giving him any good points, but he knows he won't even get close to the pole. His strength isn't his body. It's his mind—strategizing.

So one day, when Agent Novak finally steps in and tells them to stop, Sam walks up to the pole and takes the screws off. The pole falls to the ground with a thud that sounds muted in the ringing silence.He's feeling a bit nervous when he picks up the flag, but when he sees the look on Agent Novak's face—satisfied and proud—Sam knows he's done the right thing. 

"Come on, Winchester. You're getting a ride back to the mess," Agent Novak says, climbing onto the driver's seat of his jeep.

Sam doesn't hesitate to follow.

"Yes, sir."

Sam receives only one letter from Dean. It's short and casual, but he never expected anything else.

S ammy,

Hey, bitch, how're you doing? Stupid question, because if your training is the same as mine, you're probably dead tired right now. Are you eating right? Because I swear to god, if you're being a martyr and letting your friends eat off your plate, I will punch you when I see you again. Then I’m going to punch them for taking advantage of you.

I'm doing fine, by the way. I've made friends here. There's Benny who doesn't like to talk about anything but guns and his feelings. Kevin has a gal back home and never shuts up about her. Balthazar's a rich prick who joined the army for fun. Ash is a swell guy, but he swoons over Gabriel Novak more than I’d like to witness. Gadreel doesn't really talk to us, but he has the best sarcastic expressions.

You'll get along, I think. You're all punks.

Anyway, we're getting shipped out in a week, so don't worry too much if you don't get another letter for a while. The boys will take care of me. They're not you and they can be bastards sometimes, but they're as good as brothers to me. So take all your mother hen-ing away and focus on yourself, okay ?

I'll write you again when I get back, Sammy. Don't do anything I wouldn't.

Dean

Some nights, when sleep evades Sam even if he's tossed and turned until he's tired himself out, he thinks of Dean. He wonders how his brother is, if he's eating right or if he's missing girls already. He imagines Dean joking around with his new friends in the 107th, because he's always been better at talking, at charming people. He imagines Dean breezing through training, because even though he's always made himself out to be some stupid punk who does nothing but pick fights, he's always been clever.

Dean is brains and brawn thrown in with an unshakable sense of loyalty. Sam misses him by his side, so much that it feels like's there's a gaping hole beside Sam, wrapped around his waist and over his legs. Some nights, he lies on his side and leaves the left side of his cot untouched, as if he's waiting for his brother to climb in after a night out at the bar, drunk and grabbier than usual.

Sam appreciates what he has here, especially now that things are getting better for him, but offer him a chance to be with his brother again and he'd take it any day.

One day, Agent Novak starts their day by throwing a bomb in front of them. They've been taught that when there isn't any cover, they need to stay calm and lay flat on the ground. That's what the others do, of course. What Sam thinks is, I could help. I could make it so the blast won't hurt them as much. So what he does is wrap himself around the bomb and bat the others away. He closes his eyes and hopes it won't hurt for too long, hopes Dean'll forgive him for this and that he won't see his brother as soon as he joins the world of the dead.

Except it never comes, and all Sam gets is Agent Novak shaking his shoulder gently and offering him a hand up.

"Some people would call you an idiot, Winchester, but I won't," Castiel says, an eyebrow arched. The other soldiers are all on their feet again, some with grim frowns on their faces and some with their mouths wide open, gaping. "You did well, soldier."

"Uh." Sam tries to work his tongue, tries to get past his dazed thoughts of I'm still alive? All that comes out of his mouth is garble.

"Alright, why don't you take a break?" Agent Novak says, a smile flitting through his face before he turns to the others. "Ten laps!"

"Was that a test?" Sam says, once he's finally caught his breath and felt his heart beat steadily. He stumbles to a bench and tries not to peer at Agent Novak, because for one, it's rude, and second, the agent might mistake it for glaring.

"If it were, I'd say you passed it with flying colors," Agent Novak says, his lips quirking up into a small smile. It’s only there for a quick moment, fast enough that Sam wonders if he really did see it.

"That's great. I guess." Sam shrugs. "Mostly, I'm still not sure this isn't just something I'm imagining from the afterlife."

"You're not dead. You do need to work on your survival instincts, though," Agent Novak says, sitting next to Sam.

Sam blinks.

"I'll try. Thanks."

After dinner, Sam gets called to Colonel Singer's office. There are only a handful of people present—Agent Novak, Doctor Shurley, and some of the drill sergeants. Sam's all fluttering nerves and bustling anticipation inside, but he stands still and keeps his chin up while waiting for the Colonel to address him.

"Winchester," Colonel Singer says, sighing through his nose. "Do you know why you're here?"

"No, sir."

"Well, Winchester, looks like you're going to be the first ever super-soldier," Colonel Singer says, eyebrows raised. "Congratulations, son."

"Thank you, sir," Sam says. He isn't surprised, mostly because Agent Novak gave him a bit of a nudge before he sent them off to breakfast that morning, but he still feels the doubt stirring in the pit of his stomach.

"Agent Novak is going to accompany you to the lab tomorrow morning." Colonel Singer nods, and a tiny bit of pride and joy bubbles inside Sam when he sees a hint of an approving smile on the Colonel's face. "Dismissed."

Sam salutes, and when he leaves the room, he's happy enough not to mind when he hears Colonel Singer say, “ I still think he's too skinny.”

Dr. Shurley comes to see him afterward. Almost everyone else is out catching up on platoon duties. (Sam isn't, because he's never been one to procrastinate.) The only ones left in the barracks with him are snoring on their own cots.

"How does it feel?" Dr. Shurley asks, sitting on the bed beside Sam's.

"That depends," Sam says, tilting his head to the side. "Is your serum a sure thing or is there a possibility I won't come out alive tomorrow?" 

Dr. Shurley laughs. "Don't get all sassy with me, Winchester. And I know that by noon tomorrow, you'll be ripping doors off their hinges. Accidentally, of course."

Sam sighs. "I just don't know why you'd pick me. I mean, I know you told me you believe in me, but what'll America do with a super-soldier who throws themselves at bombs and looks like a breeze could take him down?"

"Your appearance isn't a weakness, Sam. Think of what you could do with all those bad guys underestimating you. You could play the victim, get into their bases, and then you'd knock all of them out with your bare hands." Dr. Shurley pats his knee, grinning. "And that whole martyr thing you have, that just adds to your charm."

“If there's one thing I am, Dr. Shurley, it definitely isn't charming," Sam says.

“Hey, don't say that.” Dr. Shurley takes out a flask from inside his coat and takes a long sip from it. "I'd offer you some but then you're not allowed alcohol the night before the procedure."

"That's okay. I don't think drinking would do any good. I don't want to show up tomorrow, glaring at everything because of my splitting headache. It might get me in trouble."

"Ah, yes. Riding with Castiel, aren't you?" Dr. Shurley smirks. "Don't mind the scary agent. He doesn't bite."

"I trust you, Doctor. I really do. Agent Novak just scares me more," Sam says, his smile sheepish.

"No, I get it. He's a tough cookie, that one. Sweet on you, though," Dr. Shurley says, but before Sam could ask what he means, he claps his hands against his knees and stands. "It's almost lights out. You should get some sleep, and I should be on my way to the lab."

"Right. Thanks for dropping by, Dr. Shurley," Sam says brightly, waving goodbye. "Try not to get too drunk tonight."

"Control your sass, soldier! And call me Chuck, will you? You've earned it."

Sam laughs. “This means you're buying me a bottle of decent wine after tomorrow, right?"

"Don't push your luck, Winchester."

The ride to the lab is silent. And awkward, on Sam's part. He wants to make conversation, mostly because he can imagine Dean clucking his tongue and saying, Jesus, Sammy. This agent of yours isn't a girl. You’re not on a first date. Get a hold of yourself and act like the polite young man Dad raised you to be. Which is entirely unfair because all Dad ever said about their attitudes was don't let someone insult you without making them pay for it.

"May I ask a question, sir?" he says, glancing at Agent Novak.

"Of course."

"How are you related to Gabriel Novak?" he asks, because he's been wondering about it since his first day in camp. They don't look alike, so Sam couldn't assume.

"He's my cousin," Agent Novak says, sighing. He almost sounds disappointed.

"Oh. Well, he seems like a brilliant man," Sam says.

"He is. He has a brilliant mind and a sense of humor, but he can be a pompous asshole sometimes." Agent Novak shrugs, as if he isn't talking about America's most influential man besides the president. "Don't expect any less from a Novak."

"Does that apply to you as well?" Sam says before he realizes what he just said to Agent fucking Novak . "I mean the brilliance. You’re not an asshole. Not that you aren’t brilliant. Of course you are, sir. Sorry.”

Sam gulps nervously, shutting his mouth before he could make things worse. To his surprise, and immense relief, Agent Novak only glances at him, chuckling under his breath.

"Don't worry, Winchester. And I used to be an asshole," he says. "I've mellowed out. Gabriel’s enough for our generation."

Sam tilts his head, his eyebrows furrowing. "I can't imagine what it would take to tame a Novak."

"My job involves a lot more than just military matters. I know a lot of things I'd rather not. Gabriel's lucky because all he has to worry about is Novak Industries," Agent Novak says, pressing his lips together.

Sam doesn't really know what to say to that, so he looks out the window and tells a story of his own.

"This is my neighborhood, you know. I was beat up in that alley over there," Sam points at a familiar wall and a familiar dumpster until they disappear from view and he spots another familiar corner of Brooklyn, "and inside that theater, and behind that bar. Come to think of it, I get beat up a lot."

"Always looking for trouble, Winchester?"

"No, not really. It's just that," Sam shrugs, "some people can be assholes, you know? And no one ever speaks up and tells them that they aren't doing anyone any favors."

"So you make it your job," Agent Novak says. It doesn't sound like a question, but a revelation.

"Well, yes. Someone has to," Sam says, shrugging.

"And who takes care of you?" Agent Novak asks softly. There's an odd look on his face that Sam avoids looking at for too long, scared he'll find something like pity.

"My brother, Dean. He's a sergeant, actually, serving in the 107th. He's the only reason I'm alive today, and he's why I did all I could to join the army," Sam says. There's an ache in his chest when he thinks about Dean, mostly because it's been a while since he's heard from his brother. He knows Dean's stubborn enough to survive, but there are no sure things in a war.

"I suppose we owe him," Agent Novak says. "Maybe if we all come out of this war alive, I'll buy him a drink."

"He'd like that. I mean, he'd think you're a prick because of your last name, but he'd respect you enough to accept the drinks as a bribe. Maybe he'd even force us to go dancing," Sam says, ducking his head. "Or try to, anyway."

Agent Novak leans back, head titled curiously. "Why? You don’t dance?"

"Uh, well," Sam huffs out a laugh, embarrassed. "No, I don’t."

Agent Novak beams, pleased. "Fellow dead hoofer, huh. Gabriel has tried time and time again to teach me but nothing ever sticks."

"Same with Dean," Sam says. "They'd probably get along, those two."

"Twice the trouble," Agent Novak says, scrunching his nose in distaste.

"Twice the testosterone and twice the girls," Sam agrees.

"Don't let Gabriel hear you say that. One mention of girls and he might mess up your procedure," Agent Novak says.

"He's helping today?" Sam asks, surprised. No one ever mentioned anything.

"Yes. Dr. Shurley made the serum and figured out the basics of the procedure, but my cousin provided all the equipment and refined the process," Agent Novak says. "Gabriel usually deals with weapons, but if Project Rebirth is a success, he's going to consider it his greatest accomplishment."

Whatever reply Sam has brewing in his mind is forgotten when the car slows to a stop.

"Follow me," Agent Novak says, getting out of the car and leading Sam into a little shop called Brooklyn Antiques.

"Lovely weather this morning, isn't it?" the shopkeeper says from behind the counter. It's an elderly woman, dressed in a simple dress with her short, gray hair clipped back. Her smile is friendly, unassuming.

"Yes, but I always carry an umbrella," Agent Novak says, and it all sounds so normal and not-SSR-and-secret-agents-talk that Sam has to think, what in the hell is going on here?

Agent Novak tugs on Sam's left sleeve, pulling him towards the backroom. He looks back at the shopkeeper, eyes wide in panic, but she doesn't seem to care, still smiling winningly at them. They stop, not in front of a door or an elevator, but a bookcase spanning the whole wall.

What the hell , Sam wants to say, but then the shelf parts in the middle and opens to grey walls and uniformed soldiers standing guard at the end of a hallway.

"Safe to say, I was not expecting that," he says, listening to the soft clicks of their shoes against the concrete floors.

"Welcome to the SSR and the ridiculous lengths we go to for secrecy and security," Agent Novak says, sympathetic.

Sam sighs, resignation slowly seeping into his tense shoulders and knit brows until he's as relaxed as possible in the middle of a secret base full of secret agents doing secret stuff. He should probably get used to this.

The lab, it turns out, is a circular room one floor down. There's a viewing room on Sam's left where a crowd of politicians and scientists are gathered, some looking excited, but most staring pointedly at him, judging.

It's Gabriel Novak who greets them, beaming widely. "Castiel, how nice of you to show up."

"We're not late," Agent Novak says, rolling his eyes.

"I know." Gabriel turns to look at Sam and, okay, he looks even better up close. Charm all but oozes out of him. Sam has to remember to breathe because he's about to become the world's first super-soldier and he isn't going to swoon over America's most eligible bachelor. That's only something Dean would do, even though he’d never admit it. See, mechanics and cars go hand in hand with the name Gabriel Novak. "You ready to become every scientist's wet dream, Winchester?"

"Uh," is all Sam says, because he isn't sure there's an appropriate response for that.

"You don't have to answer that," Agent Novak says, patting Sam on the back. Then he adds in a stage whisper, "in fact, you don't have to talk to him. At all."

"Hey! I'm a fantastic conversationalist,” Gabriel says, a mock-hurt expression on his face.

Sam thinks he can't get more muddled than he already is, but then Gabriel Novak reaches out and wraps an arm around his waist like they're long-time friends and his brain just shuts down for a moment. "Don't you listen to my cousin, Sammy."

"Please don't call me Sammy," he says weakly.

"You're scaring him. Stop scaring my super-soldier,” a voice behind him says.

"Dr. Shurley," Sam says, and no, he does not flail in relief. "Thank God."

Dr. Shurley narrows his eyes. "Didn't I tell you to call me Chuck?"

"Chuck, yes. Of course," Sam says, because at this point, he'd do anything to avoid Gabriel's straying hand that's a bit closer to his ass than he'd like.

"Gabriel, stop harassing him. Castiel, get your ass up in the viewing room. Sam, come with me," Chuck says, and that's how Sam finds himself strapped to a table, listening to the doctor rambling on about injections and vita-ray exposure and this will change the war .

A nurse comes to inject him with antibiotics, and if that tiny thing stings like hell, he wonders how much the microinjections will hurt.

"That wasn't so bad," he jokes.

"Oh, Sam." Chuck sighs. "I hope you still think that when you're done with the vita-rays."

Sam gulps nervously as Chuck pats his chest as a last ditch effort at comfort. His mind is blissfully blank, free of worry and panic and oh god, what have I gotten myself into? Until the microinjections, that is, because then, his thoughts become a blur of hurtshurtshurtsnoicandothis .

Sam can barely hear what's going on around him, can barely hear himself screaming, but Chuck's calling his name and Castiel's shouting at Gabriel, telling him to shut it down. It's all faint, barely nudging at the edges of Sam's mind, but he struggles to unclench his jaw and work his tongue, because Chuck believes in him, and he'd like to think that Castiel and Colonel Singer do too.

"Don't turn it off. I can do this," he says, and he chants it in his head like a mantra, again and again and again until the pinprick pains scattered all over his body fade and the blinding light ceases. Chuck and Gabriel help him out of the restraints and onto his feet, their hands on his shoulders and torso, steadying and supporting. 

"How do you feel?"

It's Castiel Sam sees when he looks up, even though he has to think about it for a moment because he could've sworn that the agent had a good three inches on him. Then he notices how all he sees at eye level is the stark brownish grey walls of the room.

"Taller," he replies breathily. When he smiles at Castiel, it feels uncertain, reflecting how his emotions are a jumble of confusion, relief, and amusement.

"That's for one," Gabriel says, whistling appreciatively. Sam does not blush .

"Well," he says, grinning at Chuck. "That wasn't so bad, was it?"

Sam hears a dash of hysteria when Chuck laughs, but he figures they're all a bit stumped right now.

"Yeah, kid. You did good."

Not even ten minutes pass when a tall, dark-haired man pulls a gun out and shoots Chuck.

Sam knows what it's like to lose someone. His Mom died when he was six months old. It helps that he doesn't know her, but there will always be an ache in his chest—what could have been. He lost Dad seven years ago, and the only closure he had was a letter from the army and John Winchester's broken body buried six feet under. He lost friends to the Depression and to this war, and now he's going to lose another.

It's a shot to the heart, quick enough so that he can't be saved, but leaves time for Chuck to point at Sam's chest, choking out a weak but determined, This, Sam. Always . It's only when the last bit of life leaves Chuck's eyes that anger takes over Sam in waves. It paints his thoughts red, until all he can understand is the need to catch whoever did this and make them pay. Or talk, at the very least.

Sam doesn't waste any more time. He runs outside and chases after the assassin. It isn't easy, especially since he's running after a car at full speed, but apparently, the serum made him extra fast. He crashes into a shop after a particularly sharp curve, and he may have caused a series of accidents all over Brooklyn, but he catches up sooner than later.

He barely dodges the bullets, shielding himself with a lid of a trash can, and the assassin almost gets away by jumping into the creek, but Sam dives in and throws him out onto the concrete.

"Who are you?" he demands. His hands are fisted in the assassin's shirt, unrelenting.

"The first of many." A German accent, Sam notes in the back of his mind. "Cut off one head and two more will grow."

"Why did you kill Dr. Shurley?" Sam pins the man to the ground, pushing hard and digging his knuckles into skin.

"Hail HYDRA," the assassin says, (which is cryptic as shit, and Sam does not have the time nor patience for shit) baring his teeth in a feral grin before Sam hears a distinct crunch and the familiar white foam of poisoning drips from his mouth.

"Fuck."

When Sam lets go of the assassin's shirt, his hands are shaking. A crowd has gathered around him, peering at the dead man sprawled on the ground. They're cautious of Sam, so much taller than before and intimidating with his broad shoulders and his recently acquired muscles. Sam should be preening at the attention, or embarrassed, but he couldn't care less about what they think.

Right now, he just needs to get back to base.

"HYDRA's good. They're always one step ahead when it comes to technology, and they always have a plan," Colonel Singer says.

There are a handful of agents and soldiers gathered in the briefing room, and Sam's lucky enough that Castiel dragged him inside before the Colonel could protest.

"If they want the super-soldier serum, they're going to figure the formula out eventually. I want my best men on the field and I want them carrying the best weapons," Colonel Singer continues. "That means you need to pack up, Novak. You too, Castiel. You're coming with me to London."

Sam waits for the Colonel to address him, but even after the others have started filing out of the room, Colonel Singer doesn't even glance at him.

"Sir, I want in," he says. "I want to help take down HYDRA."

"Yeah? Well, I wanted an army to pit against them, and all I got was you. I won't have any use for one super-soldier, son," the Colonel says unflinchingly. The lines of his face are hard, and Sam knows immediately that he won't change his mind. "You're dismissed."

Sam presses his lips together, and hangs his head low.

"Yes, sir." 

Someone stops him on his way out. Sam recognizes him as one of the investors who observed the procedure that morning.

"You're Sam Winchester, yes?" he says, his right hand stuck out for Sam to shake. "My name is Zachariah." 

"It's nice to meet you," Sam says.

"I'm sorry the Colonel didn't call you out for his team," Zachariah says, so straight to the point that Sam barely hides his flinch. "I don't know what got into that old man. I certainly see your potential."

"It doesn't matter, sir. The SSR isn't the only place to go." Sam shrugs. "I'm pretty sure I'll pass physicals for enlistment now."

Zachariah considers him. "You know, there's a better way to help your country. That stunt you did, chasing after that man? It's gonna be all over the papers tomorrow. Everyone's gonna want to know who you are."

"What do you mean, sir?" Sam asks, his eyebrows furrowing.

"I mean, do you want to go and offer yourself up like you're sloppy seconds, or do you want to do something that actually matters?"

Sam has half the mind to be insulted, but he squares his shoulders and replies.

"Something that matters, sir."

"Congratulations, Winchester," Zachariah says, nodding approvingly and giving him a solid pat on the shoulder. “You've just been promoted.”

Sam thought it would have something to do with spy work or intelligence. Maybe Zachariah wanted to get him into politics, throw him onto the path to presidency like he always joked about with Dean. Maybe Zachariah wanted Sam to put on an all-black ensemble and a mask, become the vigilante that takes HYDRA down and makes sure no heads grow back.

Sam thought many things, but the reality is shocking.

Zachariah drags him to a tailor and has him fitted for a costume. It turns out to be skintight and flashy, something to attract attention and entertain. The props are absolute shit, too, which doesn't make things any better. After that, Zachariah enrolls him in dancing lessons. Sam insists he can't dance, but Zachariah pushes him until he relents.

One week of fumbling and tripping over his own two feet, bruises blossoming on his legs and his forearms only to disappear the next day thanks to his advanced healing ability, and he makes his point. So Zachariah gives him a script to memorize and tells him to just stand there and look pretty. Sam would be insulted, but he's too relieved that he doesn't have to dance anymore.

So he waits behind the curtain and strides out wearing a smile. He talks about bonds and appeals to American families. He listens to the girls talk about the Star Spangled Man with a Plan, listens to the kids scream and shout when fake-Hitler sneaks up on him and cheer when Sam punches him. He lets the USO girls push him outside so he can smile and take photos, carrying children in his arms and shooting his practiced buy bonds and be the fellow American I'm proud to have smile at the camera.

Captain America , Zachariah calls him. It makes him feel uncomfortable, pathetic instead of proud.

"Hey, soldier."

"Not a good time, Meg," Sam says, giving her an apologetic smile.

Meg laughs and plops down next to him anyway. "It's never a good time with you, Cap."

Sam rolls his eyes. "Aren't you supposed to be drinking with the girls?"

"Hm. Becky's got your fanclub started. Ruby's being a bitch again. I think Abaddon's started an uprising against female objectification. Again." Meg sighs.

"Just the usual then," Sam says, bumping his shoulder against hers.

"I don't even know what those poor girls are thinking, swooning over your poor excuse of an ass," Meg says, propping her chin on the heel of her palm.

"Hey! My ass is great, thank you very much," Sam says, turning his body to face Meg. "Now what is this about Ruby?"

"I hate you. It's like you just know when I'm miserable. I hate it," Meg says, glaring at him. But, of course, Sam wouldn’t miss the hint of sadness in Meg’s voice when she said Ruby’s name. He’s awkward, yes, but he’s sensitive too.

"If you really hated me, you wouldn't be here," Sam says softly. "Is it because of the whole apartment thing?"

“Yes," Meg says, drawing the word out until she runs out of breath. Sam lets her. "I mean, I get it. She isn’t used to relationships, but we've come this far. And it’s not like people aren’t blatantly ignoring the law. What's sharing an apartment after this fucking war is over?"

Sam shrugs. "It's a big step to take."

"We sleep in the same bed, Cap. We share underwear . I don't see what the problem is."

Meg huffs out a humorless laugh, pressing the back of her hands against her eyes. Sam doesn't wrap an arm around her shoulders like his instinct tells him to, mostly because he knows Meg won't appreciate it. She'd sooner deck him than have him hugging her for comfort.

"You know it isn't as simple as that," Sam says, because it really isn't.

"If I wanted simple, I should have flirted with Charlie instead," Meg drawls, resting her head on Sam's shoulder.

"Hey. She'll come around. She always does," Sam says, his smile small but encouraging.

Meg heaves a sigh, accepting Sam's attempt to brighten her mood. "Hope so. Never mention to anyone that we had this conversation. You may be hard as a brick, Cap, but I know a lot of ways to hurt people."

"What conversation?" Sam says innocently, putting on his best wide-eyed puppy dog face. "Now, come on. What do you say to more alcohol?"

It's safe to say that the best thing about the touring and the dancing is the company.

Sam was awkward at first, not knowing a thing about girls, but with Meg and Ruby determined to corrupt him and Jody taking him under her wing, it wasn't very difficult to make friends. Becky has this thing for him where she treats him like he hung the moon, and Sam only considers it mildly creepy. (Considering his face is plastered all over America, he won't be surprised if some people are even creepier.) Charlie is like the younger sister he never had, all sass and bravado. She reminds him of Dean sometimes, and he takes comfort in that.

He has a love-hate relationship with Abaddon, mostly because he's pretty sure she can kill him with a spoon and he'd very much like to stay alive, thanks. It's pretty much the same with Bela, except she's dangerous in a different way, seductive instead of overly aggressive. She lures people in only to crush their spirits and walk out in the middle of it. Sam tries his best to steer clear of those two.

Pam is nice. She has an affinity for Sam's ass and makes sure he knows it. She also teaches him a few things, including what jokes are appropriate to tell in front of ladies—all jokes, apparently, when it comes to the crew. Lisa's probably the mellowest gal in the group, all sweet smiles and warm hugs. She's the sort of girl Sam could imagine in a home, taking care of her family. He promises to himself that if he gets the chance, he's going to introduce her to Dean. She'd make a great sister-in-law.

Jody's the best, though. She's a mother hen, fussing over every little detail. She's the only one who can really convince Sam, make him remember that he isn't a failure. He's making a difference. The soldiers might laugh at him and could very well hate him for making a show of the war. However, Sam has seen little kids, boys and girls alike, walk out of the theater telling their parents that they want to be like Captain America, they want to help . That's worth everything, worth the ache in Sam's chest every time he goes up on that stage. It helps put him at ease that hundreds of families have bought war bonds because of his efforts, no matter how reluctant the army is to admit it.

Meanwhile, Meg and Ruby are probably the worst. Not even in the crew—they are the worst in the whole world. Ever. Okay, maybe he’s exaggerating, but Sam thinks he has a right to be terrified, especially since they make it their job to tease him and push him to the very limits of his good manners and politeness.

The first time Sam meets Meg and Ruby, they offer him a threesome. Then, when they find out that he may be interested in men more than women, they proceed to grill him on all the people he ever thought were remotely attractive. The list is long, and almost everyone in it is a passing flame of Dean's. One is a nurse called Amanda, who Sam frequently saw back when he was still a skinny boy whose asthma brought him to the hospital three days out of seven. One is Dean, because he would never forgive Sam if he weren’t included. Another is Gabriel Novak, because who doesn't like the CEO of Novak Industries?

The last name on the list is Agent Novak. Sam almost doesn't write it down, embarrassed, but he figures, what’s the harm? But, of course, he regrets it immediately because Meg and Ruby make it a point to mention Castiel whenever possible.

No, really. Whenever possible.  

 "No, really. You should try, Cap,” Meg says.

"I can't dance! I thought we already established that," Sam says, throwing his arms up in exasperation. Well, they have, especially after that time when he wrecked everything within five feet of him because apparently, being light and quick on your feet doesn't mean you can be-bop to jazz. Zachariah told him that if he ever danced again, he would be paying for the damages.

"But you're never gonna get that agent of yours if you don't know how to dance!" Ruby says, slapping his arm none too lightly.

"He's not my agent," Sam says, glaring at her. "And I'm waiting for—"

"The right partner, yes. We all know," Meg says, rolling her eyes. "But do you really want to step on your fella's— not your fella, okay! Anyway, do you want to step on your right partner's toes or do you wanna show them a good time?"

"Exactly! All the girls are willing, and we aren't going to let Zachariah throw a fit if he finds out. We even got Crowley to make us a back-up plan," Ruby says. "Either Zachariah lets us boss you around, or he finds some dirt on him mailed to his superior."

Sam narrows his eyes, torn between suspicion and awe. "How on earth did I get stuck with people as scary as you girls?”

"The question is how did we get stuck with a prude like you?" Meg says, patting the top of his head.

Sam rolls his eyes.  "The answer is still no."

Meg snorts. "You'll give in eventually."

Ruby nods. "He always does."

And after another week of their nagging, he does.

"So, Cap. What are you going to do when you see Castiel again?" Charlie asks.

Sam sighs. He should be used to this kind of question by now. "I'm not going to see him again."

"Yeah, but we're going to London in a few weeks. You never know what could happen," Charlie says cheerily.

"Why are you all so bent on this relationship between me and Agent Novak?" Sam grumbles, because seriously, half his conversations are about Castiel and he barely even knows the man.

"Because you're sweet on him, and he sounds like someone who could take you. You know—won't be intimidated just because you turned into some real life Hercules," Charlie says. "Now, come on. Quit stalling and entertain a girl, will you?"

"I don't know. Ask him how he's been?"

Lisa sits next to him, carrying mugs of beer in her arms, one for her, one for Charlie, and two for Sam.

"That's just sad, Cap," Charlie says, shaking her head. "No wonder you haven't picked anyone up yet."

"Oh, quit it, Charlie," Lisa says, patting his cheek affectionately. "Tell me you don't think anyone will say yes even if he just stands there and stares."

"Well, yeah, but we're talking about The Great Agent Novak, Lis. Men like those are tough to break," Charlie says. "What our Cap has to do is take Agent Novak in his arms and kiss the lights outta him."

Sam chokes on his beer. "Christ. You wanna see me getting kneed in the groin, Bradbury?"

"What Sam needs to do is ask the good agent out on a date. You know, the right way. Catch a movie, buy him dinner. Cap's getting better at dancing, not such a dead hoofer anymore." Lisa shrugs. "Maybe they can go dancing like the agent promised."

"You're such a romantic," Charlie says, sighing dramatically.

"Shut up," Lisa says, her lips quirking up into a smile.

"Yeah, Bradbury. Shut up," Sam says, laughing.

"Don't think you've gotten away with your denial, Cap," Charlie says, narrowing her eyes at him.

"The thought never would have crossed my mind."  

There's only one other guy in the crew besides Sam. They don't get along particularly well, but Sam appreciates Crowley's dry humor and gameness whenever Captain America has to punch him on stage.

The only time they spend together is when they're drinking. Crowley isn't a lightweight, and Sam can't get drunk, but they pretend to be smashed just for the heck of it. They stumble around the place and utter confessions, and they've been at it so many times that Sam's pretty sure out of everyone, he knows Crowley best. Same goes for the other way around.

Sam knows about the kid Crowley has back home. He knows about how Crowley used to be a shit dad and a shit person, going around high on drugs and beating up whoever he got his hands on, usually his son Gavin. Sam doesn't judge him, mostly because Crowley has changed. He's working hard for his son, sending money home every month and making sure his boy has enough for a comfortable life. Sam knows enough not to look at a person and see their past. He sees their actions, what they are today.

Crowley knows what lengths he and Dean went to when the nights were cold and they ran out of cash. Crowley knows every nasty thought Sam's had, knows the darkest corners of his mind. He knows about the suicidal thoughts Sam had so frequently back when his Dad just died, knows about the envy Sam felt sometimes when he saw Dean, able-bodied and handsome.

What the girls would say is most important, though, is Crowley knows what Sam would really like to do to Agent Novak.

Their first show in London doesn't go so well. Then again, Captain America doesn't sell well with soldiers. That's how Sam finds himself sitting next to Crowley on the steps to the crew's single trailer-slash-dressing-room, nursing a can of shit beer.

"I hate this bullshit," Crowley says, taking a swig from his flask. "Still, I'll take it over screaming kids and overreacting crowds any day."

"You'd rather not be here," Sam says, because it's true. A lot of the crew feel the same way. Crowley wanted to be on Broadway, wanted to be the big star. Now, he's putting on a fake mustache and his time onstage doesn't even reach a whole minute.

"Heads up, Winchester. Your fella's here." Crowley gets up and pats him on the back before going inside the trailer, effectively confusing Sam.

"Sam Winchester."

"Castiel." Sam sucks in a surprised breath, a crease forming between his eyebrows when he sees the familiar coat-clad figure of Castiel, ducking under the makeshift roof. He feels a blush creeping into his cheek because he can't help the memories flashing in his mind's eye, his conversations with Crowley and his dancing lessons with the girls. "I mean. Agent Novak, what are you doing here?"

Castiel raises an eyebrow, his eyes shining with amusement. "You may call me Castiel. And I'm not here. Not officially anyway."

"The Colonel still doesn't want anything to do with me?" Sam says, a dash of bitterness seeping into his voice.

Castiel purses his lips. "I saw you out there, you know."

"That's," Sam sighs, hanging his head to hide his flushed cheeks, "...That's humiliating."

"You weren't meant for this," Castiel says. He still hasn't moved from where he's standing at the edge of canopy.

"I know," Sam says. "That's what I tell myself every day."

"I'm sorry. I didn't come here to embarrass you," Castiel says, hesitant. "You're not the first person who had the serum. There's a man who calls himself Lucifer. He was a close friend of Chuck's back when the good doctor was still in the middle of developing the serum.  It was only in its first stage of testing when Lucifer went behind Chuck's back and injected himself with the serum. It worked, to an extent. It gave him superhuman healing, speed, and strength, but it also had some... unfortunate side effects."

"Not like my side effects, then," Sam jokes.

"No. Nothing like yours," Castiel says, and Sam hopes he isn't just imagining the affection in his eyes. "I suppose Chuck was right when he said that the serum doesn't just improve physical capabilities. It enhances the core of a person, and Lucifer isn't exactly a shining example of goodness and honor."

He isn't like you , is what Castiel doesn’t say, but Sam hears it anyway.

"Chuck believed in you. He knew you had a heart. He knew you were in it because you really wanted to help," Castiel says. "It wasn't hard to see his point."

Sam only realizes he's slack-jawed and staring when Castiel clears his throat, eyebrows arched.

"Sorry," Sam says. "Um, thanks."

"There's something else." Castiel steps closer, shifting his weight from one foot to another. It's the most nervous Sam has seen him. "Lucifer sent one of his men, Azazel, to a HYDRA base 200 miles from here. We sent a team out to attack the base, but the soldiers out there—they're the only ones who came back. They're the only ones left of the 107th."

"What?" Sam stands up abruptly, barely registering the clink of the beer can when it hits the ground. "Is Dean here?"

A beat passes before Castiel replies, reluctant. "No," he says, and it resounds painfully in Sam's head, almost mocking.

"He's dead then," Sam hears himself saying.

"We don't know for sure. They were taken hostage. He could be alive," Castiel says.

"You're going to rescue them, then? I want in," Sam says, steeling his gaze. He isn't just going to let his brother rot in a cell. Anything he can do to help, he will.

Castiel sighs. "There is no rescue mission."

"What do you mean there's no rescue mission?" Sam says, his voice rising.

"The colonel has made it clear. We're only going to lose more men if we attempt to take over the HYDRA base." Sam makes to leave but Castiel steps in his way. "Sam, where are you going?"

"To the colonel," Sam says, glaring and pushing past Castiel.

"Sam, he isn't going to listen to you."

"I have to try."

"Sam! Sam, wait," Castiel says, running after him. Sam doesn't look back. "Look, Colonel Singer won't help you, but I will."

It's enough to make Sam turn, jaw clenched and mouth set in a frown. "How?"

Castiel shrugs.

"I know a guy."  

The guy, it turns out, is Gabriel Novak.

"Sammy! Long time no see, pal," Gabriel says, clapping Sam cheerily on the back.

"Mr. Novak," Sam says, nodding his head in greeting. He doesn’t bother telling Gabriel to stop calling him Sammy. It’ll only fall on deaf ears.

"Serious fella, aren't you?" Gabriel remarks, climbing up onto his jet.

"Leave him be, Gabriel," Castiel says, fixing a stern look on his cousin.

"Leave him be, Gabriel. Stop acting like a child, Gabriel. Don't say anything stupid, Gabriel," Gabriel says, his voice high-pitched to mock Castiel. "Really, Castiel?"

"Someone has to keep you in line," Castiel says, giving Sam a light push towards the stairs.

"No one can keep this fella in line, my dear Castiel. The Captain here might submit to your whims but I'm a different man," Gabriel says over his shoulder. He's already in the cockpit, strapping himself in the pilot's seat. "Also, you're not my type. You could never make an honest man outta me."

"How kind of you to say. I'm touched, Gabriel."

"Are you two always like this?" Sam says, settling into one of the jet's hard, uncomfortable seats. It wasn't built for luxury, he realizes. It's small and it's inconspicuous, which is exactly what he needs if he's going to sneak into a HYDRA base all by himself. "Wait, no. Stupid question. Of course you are."

"Right-o, Cap!" Gabriel says. "Also, I hope you're not one of those types who get sick when they fly. I hate it when people get vomit on my babies."

"Ignore him," Castiel says, sitting next to Sam. "He's crazy."

"One of the only people crazy enough to go with this plan." Sam shrugs. "I don't mind. Besides, I've dealt with worse."

"Ah. Dean?" Castiel says, raising an eyebrow.

"Yep," Sam replies, popping the 'p'.

"I've never been so thankful that Gabriel's my cousin. At least he isn't my brother."

"He'd get along with Dean," Sam says, nodding to himself until he meets Castiel's eyes, when the look in his eyes becomes half-amused and half-horrified.

"They must never meet," Castiel says gravely.

"Agreed."  

Sam jumps off the plane with only a transmitter and his prop shield. He's sort of regretting not changing into something more comfortable than tights, but he'll manage. People tend to underestimate strangers dressed in tights anyway. Maybe he'll play it up as an advantage.

He keeps to the shadows, squinting at the tops of the trees and at the distant silhouettes for anything suspicious, any guards out. He doesn't have much trouble on the way, easily knocking out all the hostiles he sees. The base itself is huge, so even though there are lots of men about, there are also plenty of nooks to hide in. He reckons he's doing pretty well for someone who's dressed in flashy shades of blue and red.

It isn't hard to find the cells. Underground and moderately guarded, easy. It also helped that there were peepholes from the floor above, as if to mock the hundreds of soldiers held captive.

Sam has to wait for a while for some of the guards to leave, and then he takes care of the ones who stayed, making sure they won't wake up for a while. He makes quick work of the cell doors, thanking his luck that there's a button to open all of them at once. The soldiers know enough not to make much noise as they file out of the room, and Sam doesn't even have to tell them to acquire weapons of their own. Whatever HYDRA made them do, or however they were treated, it's obvious they want revenge now.

He lets them, mostly because he himself feels like shooting a couple of HYDRA goons or throwing grenades around the place. He still hasn't seen Dean, and damn it, he's only getting more anxious with every minute.

"Are there others?" he asks, turning to the soldier closest to him, a short Asian man with a grim look on his youthful face.

"Sometimes, at night, they take one or two of us. We don't know what happens to them, but they never come back," he says.

Sam swallows the bile in his throat. He doesn't know what that means for Dean. He isn't sure if he should still hope, but if he has faith in one thing, it's Dean's persistent penchant for survival.

"Thanks."

Sam doesn't waste time. He wakes one of the guards and makes him talk. It's easy enough that Sam starts to wonder if this is just beginner's luck since it's his first time out on the field, or if HYDRA's just overconfident that no one was going to try and attack them anymore. Either way, Sam's just thankful he went through with this plan and he's glad Castiel offered to help. He doesn't even want to imagine how many more soldiers would've been taken if he just walked the whole 200 miles between the two camps.

He’s on the third floor, and he’s so far down the hallway that he’s already thinking of proceeding to the next. Fortunately, he picks up on a faint thumping sound coming from a room on his left. He rushes in, sees Dean strapped to a table, and hears his tortured mumbling, struggling to remember himself. Sam can't help the horrified breath he sucks in.

"Oh, God," Sam chokes out, running to Dean's side and pulling the rope off. "Dean. Dean, it's me."

"Sammy?" Dean says, his voice gritty.

"Yeah, Dean. It's Sammy. Jesus, I thought you were dead."

Sam helps Dean up, wrapping an arm around his waist and supporting almost all his weight. Dean's knees are shaking, and his grip on Sam's arm is weak. Sam doesn't want to think about what HYDRA did to him.

"I thought you were smaller," Dean says, a confounded expression on his face as he stares at Sam. "I leave you alone for a few weeks and this is what you get up to."

Sam rolls his eyes. Of course, Dean has enough of his usual cheek even when he's probably high on sedatives. "Shut up for a minute or ten, you jerk."

"Hm. Bitch," Dean says, and Sam would punch that goofy smile off his brother's face if only he wasn't so relieved.

"C'mon. We've got to get out of here," Sam says.

"The others," Dean says, starting. His eyes are wide, more alert than they were moments ago. "There's more than a hundred of them stuck down in the cells."

"I know. I got them out," Sam says. They're already at the center of the base, but when they're about to go down the stairs, a grenade explodes, covering the entirety of the ground floor in flames. "Okay. Change of plan."

They go up, because there must be another exit in this place. Plus, jumping off the roof might be better than suffocating and being on fire.

"Heads up, Sam. Two men, no weapons," Dean says on their third flight. He hesitates for a moment before adding, "The doctor is one of them. The one who took me away."

Sam pushes down the fury that crawls up his throat, jaw clenching at the effort, and nods. It's probably Azazel, and there's no one else in the world Sam would like to hurt more than him.

"Azazel," Sam shouts, but it isn't him who answers.

"Ah, Captain America. What an unexpected pleasure this is," says the man standing in front of Azazel, all but dwarfing the doctor with the power he exudes. There's only one person he could be.

"Lucifer. I wasn't aware you were here," Sam says, shifting his weight from one foot to another. Lucifer is tall and menacing, but Sam doesn't see what Castiel meant by unfortunate side effects.

"Like I said, Captain. Unexpected pleasure," Lucifer says, baring his teeth in a sardonic smile. "You certainly don't disappoint."

"I can't say the same about you," Sam says, narrowing his eyes. "You're not exactly what I expected."

"What, more handsome? More charming?" Lucifer says, opening his arms wide and giving them a full turn.

"No. I heard you were injected with the same serum used on me, only we didn't have the same results." Sam shrugs. "The way I pictured you, you had tentacles for a beard and green skin like a Martian."

"Hm. Chuck never did like telling people what became of me." Lucifer clucks his tongue. "You know what? I'll show you. It's brilliant. You'll love it, Captain. I might not have your stature but I'm just as flashy as you are in costume."

Sam's partly right about the green skin, he finds out. Only partly, because when Lucifer peels off his face ( peels off his face, dear God.) to reveal his smooth, red skull. Unfortunate, indeed.

"Please tell me you aren't... like that," Dean says. When Sam turns to fix him with an incredulous look, he only shrugs. "What? I won't be able to set you up with any girls if you look like that."

Figures he'd think about girls at a time like this. Only Dean.

"Oh, stop it. I might not be up to your standards, but I can get a girl if I want to." Lucifer scoffs. "And Captain America without unknowing teenagers and unhappy wives swooning over him? Unbelievable, but not as unbelievable as a super-soldier who's capable of shutting down a HYDRA base without even having to bring along an army, stuck as a performing monkey just because some Colonel won't see sense."

Sam purses his lips. "What are you getting at?"

"You can do more, Sam Winchester. You can do better, bigger. If you'll just join me," Lucifer says, sounding almost hopeful. "You won't have to do anything you don't want to, I promise."

"Sorry, but I'd rather surrender myself for disciplinary action than work for you," Sam says, and okay, maybe he doesn't sound apologetic at all. "Besides, I don't trust you."

Lucifer raises a hand to his chest, gasping dramatically. "I'm offended, Sam. I'd never lie to you. I keep my promises, you know. I’d take care of you like you deserve."

"Uh, excuse me, but if you remember, my brother already said no, so you can shut up already and leave," Dean says, glaring. Lucifer barely shoots him a glance.

"Right. Well, this building seems like it's going to collapse any moment now. Better hurry, Captain. You wouldn't want to lose your dear brother when you just got him back." Lucifer bows, smirking all the while. "Come, Azazel. See you two boogers later!"

"What?" Dean says, sounding incredulous.  He has that face on, where Sam knows Dean wants to be angry but feels completely stumped instead. "You're... a booger."

Except Lucifer isn't there to hear Dean's comeback. Sam sighs.

"Come on, then. Let's find a way out of here."

"That was weird, though, right? It's not just me and my drug-addled mind? That was not normal?" Dean says, sounding all but hysterical.

"Yes, that was weird. No, you're not delusional. No, I don't have a red skull thing," Sam says, pushing Dean along. "There's another door there."

"Uh, right," Dean says, staring at the thin beam separating them from the door. He pushes his chest out, ignoring the way his knees are shaking and trying not to look at the long fall from their floor to the bottom. "I'll go first, then?"

Sam claps his back, nodding grimly. "You better be careful, jerk."

"You be careful, bitch," Dean says, rolling his eyes. He climbs over the railing and crawls the whole way, not trusting his legs enough to walk. Good thing, because when the beam creaks and shakes, it would have been enough to throw him off.

After Dean gets across safely, Sam takes a tentative step on the beam, testing its strength. There's a rumbling crack and it falls off, spinning in the distance.

Sam curses under his breath. “Dean, you have to go. I'll find another way out.”

"Shut up. I know you and I know that face. You think there's no other way out," Dean says, and it's true. They're at the top. Sam can't see any entrance to the roof, and he can't go back down because the fire's already caught up with them.

"Dean, just go. I'll be fine," he insists.

"Damn it, Sammy. I'm not leaving without you."

"Dea—"

"I'm not fucking leaving you to die on your own," Dean says, his jaw set and determination in his eyes. Sam swallows the lump rising in his throat, because he knows Dean will make good on his word. Sam would rather his brother not die, which is why he went on this admittedly reckless mission anyway, so he's going to do anything just to get on that other side.

Right. So. Jumping across doesn't seem so bad. Falling if he doesn't reach the other side isn't so bad either, seeing as he'd die of suffocation anyway. Of course, it isn't the most reliable plan of action, since he isn't sure if his super-soldier legs are as good for long jumps as they are for running, but you know. Might as well.

"Jesus, were you trying to give me a heart attack?" Dean says when Sam's back on his feet. "I am going to fucking punch you. Just, maybe when I don't feel like the world is spinning."

"Alright, Dean," Sam says, taking on the tone Dean used on him back when they were kids and Sam was in his spaceman phase, talking about how he's going to travel to space one day and be the first human ever to have a Martian as a friend.

"Shut your mouth."  

Sam heads back to camp with about a hundred soldiers and a HYDRA tank in tow. It's going to be a long walk, but he reckons they'll make it in time for breakfast. He meets some of Dean's friends, though he mostly sticks with his brother.

"So, this is what that Shurley fella signed you up for," Dean says. He already looks a better, a little color returning to his cheeks, and he’s stopped shaking enough for Sam to feel confident about giving him a gun.

"Yeah. Super-strength and super-speed and all that. The only thing I can't do is fly," Sam says, shrugging. "I don't think he expected my body to change this much, but you know. It was a nice surprise."

"I didn't even know you were Captain America, man. I thought he was just some asshole actor who didn't want to enlist or something," Dean says, his lips turning up into a smile.

"I get that a lot." Sam sighs. "I'm pretty sure everyone in the army hates me."

"Yeah? Well, not this bunch," Dean says, pointing his thumb behind them. Sam looks over his shoulder and sees the men who survived, tired and grimy, but also determined, alive. "If I know them, they'll be lining up to support you. You'll be their captain."

Sam snorts, mostly to hide his embarrassment. "There's still the matter of disciplinary action."

Dean rolls his eyes. "If Colonel Singer is going to do anything other than welcome you and let you in on his plans against HYDRA, we'll be the first ones to speak up and kick his ass for being stupid."

"What?" Sam whips his head to the side, scrunching his nose as he considers Dean. "Oh, God. You really would, wouldn't you?"

"Of course I would. Who knows what would've happened to us if you didn't come and save us?" Dean says, patting Sam on the back and giving him a one-armed hug. "Besides, isn't that what I do? Beat up the people who cross you?”

Sam rolls his eyes, squirming in Dean's hold. "Stop it. You're embarrassing me in front the whole regiment."

Dean smiles that cheeky smile of his that makes Sam want to hurl his brother over a cliff sometimes. "So, the girls must come crawling now that you've got all these muscles. What about those USO girls, eh?"

"No," Sam says, except his body betrays him and his cheeks turn into a bright shade of red.

"Oh, so there are gals?"

"No," Sam says, and he actually feels quite proud at how confident that sounded. Then again, it's the truth. There isn't any gal .

Dean nods, but just when it looks like Sam's escaped this one unscathed, he leans in and whispers, "Got a boyfriend, then?"

Damn it.  

"Just so we're clear. You had no idea you could've been turned into a creepy skeleton thing when you got into that machine of Novak's?"

"No one told me."

"You're not even mad about that?" Dean says, eyeing Sam through his peripheral.

"Well, they did tell me that I could die," Sam says, shrugging. "That's a bit worse than turning into Halloween's best in costume."

"And you went in anyway? What the fuck, Sam?" Dean says incredulously, punching Sam's arm hard.

Sam touches his arm tentatively, shooting a glare at Dean and glowering because that did hurt. "I trusted Chuck. And it worked, didn't it?"

"Oh, so now he's Chuck , is he?" Dean says, narrowing his eyes and taking on his I'm going to kill a bitch tone.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Sam says, his eyebrows furrowing in indignation until his eyes widen, realizing exactly what Dean's thinking. "Really, Dean? The guy's passed away and you're suspecting him of, what, defiling me?"

"I'd raise him from the dead if I have to."

"Jesus. He didn't do anything." Sam realizes his voice has risen a bit, so he tones it down to a whisper when he adds, "He was a friend."

Dean's expression shifts from suspicious to generally not amused to mischievous.

"Hm. Guess your boyfriend's another person, then. Is it that Hitler fella?"

Damn it.  

Dean turns out to be right. When Sam marches into camp, Colonel Singer is there to greet him.

"Don't talk to me about disciplinary action, boy," the colonel grumbles. "You did good. I expect you in SSR's London base at 0800 tomorrow."

That's all he says before walking away, leaving Castiel to deal with them.

"You didn't use your transmitter," he says, his mouth turned down in a disapproving frown.

"I may have dropped it while I was running around the HYDRA base," Sam says, smiling apologetically.

Castiel sighs. "Remind me to tell Gabriel that you need a real utility belt. And please tell me you're going to use a parachute next time. We almost thought you just wanted to commit suicide with style."

"I will. No promises on the second one though," Sam says, rubbing the back of his neck. "Uh, did the colonel give you trouble?"

"It was nothing I couldn't handle," Castiel says, raising his hand and brushing away the dirt caked on his collar.

"That's good," Sam says, wincing when it comes out a bit too earnest.

Castiel's lips quirk up into a small smile. "Come, Captain. Your companions must be itching for a decent meal."

"Right," Sam mumbles, awkwardly stumbling after Castiel. He ignores Dean's barely stifled laughter from behind him.

"So," Dean says, catching up with him. "That's him, huh? Not bad, Sammy. I'm proud of you."

Just. Damn it.  

Sam walks into the base, fiddling with his lapel and trying not to squirm too much. It doesn't help that the last thing Dean said to him before he left was, Go get 'im, tiger! Sam didn't have to ask who he was talking about because last night, when Dean wasn't moaning in delight that he was going to sleep in an actual bed again and that he was going to spend the whole week in a bar somewhere, getting alcohol back into his system, he was pestering Sam about Castiel. Sam, of course, evaded the questions until his brother fluttered off to sleep.

"Captain Winchester," Castiel greets. "You're early."

"Well, I didn't want to be late," Sam says. Who knows what Colonel Singer would've done then?

"The colonel isn't here yet," Castiel says apologetically.

"Ah. I don't mind. I can wait in a corner or something," Sam says, eyes flitting around the place, looking for the door to the colonel's office or a spare seat he can use.

"I'll keep you company," Castiel says.

"Thanks," Sam says, shuffling his feet awkwardly, racking his brain for something to say. "Um. So, I saw a map of HYDRA bases around the world."

Castiel raises an eyebrow. "Do you remember enough to recreate it?"

Sam scrunches his nose in thought, pulling up the memory in his mind's eye. "Yeah, I think so."

"Good," Castiel says. He turns to one of the officers sitting behind desks and handling paperwork. (Sam thinks maybe being the poster boy for America wasn't so bad. He hates paperwork. Everyone hates paperwork.) "Get the captain a world map and a marker, would you?"

"Yes, sir."

"You had time to memorize a map while a building was collapsing around you. I have to say, I'm impressed," Castiel says.

"I didn't have much time to look at it. I don't remember everything exactly ," Sam says, flustered. It's a testament to his modesty that he manages to put everything down with only a thirty-to-fifty mile radius of uncertainty. It leaves Castiel staring at him in silence, a half-fascinated, half-perplexed look on his face.

"I guess the serum gave me eidetic memory or something," Sam says, fiddling with the marker that he still hasn't let go of. “I mean, I've always had good memory. When I was touring with the girls, I used to draw my neighborhood from memory. One of them's from Brooklyn too, and she said it was the closest thing to home she's seen since she left to become an actress.” Sam starts, realizes he’s rambling. “Um, sorry.”

"No, it's alright," Castiel says, taking a step forward. Before he could come any closer, though, Colonel Singer walks in, managing to look stern even though the dark circles and the droopiness of his eyes should make him look like a grumpy man who just got out of bed.

"Captain Winchester. Agent Novak," he says, nodding in acknowledgment.

"Sir," Sam says, giving the colonel a salute.

"You know, you're supposed to be in DC, right now. Receiving a medal of valor or whatever," Colonel Singer says, arching an eyebrow.

"It's a long way from here, sir, and medals can wait until after the war," Sam says. Medal of valor, he scoffs to himself. It's probably some stint Zachariah cooked up. Sam only did what was right.

"Hm." The colonel considers him for another beat or two before walking off to his office. "Come in, then. We've got a lot to discuss."

Sam shoots a look at Castiel, who only shoos him into action. So Sam follows him in, with only the comfort of the thought that Colonel Singer may just be getting fond of him.  Or getting used to him, that's good too.

"Sir, the captain made a map of HYDRA bases before you arrived," Castiel says, taking one of the seats in front of the colonel's desk.

"Yeah, I saw," Colonel Singer says. He rolls his eyes when he sees how Sam is still standing by the door, unsure of what to do. "Sit down, boy."

"Yes, sir," Sam says, scrambling to sit across Castiel. Note to self: follow the good agent's lead next time. Possiblyall the time.

"Do you think we could take those HYDRA bases?" the colonel asks.

"I think so, sir. With enough men and the right plan," Sam says.

"Good. I'm going to put together a team. I want you to lead them," Colonel Singer says, and judging by the look in his face, he won't take no for an answer.

"With all due respect, sir, I know who I'd like in my team," Sam says, thinking of Dean's friends. He hasn't spent much time with them, but with what he's seen, they're crazy enough to go along with this. Besides, they love Dean.  They aren't gonna let him wander off into HYDRA territory without watching his back.

"Give me their names and I'll consider it."

"You'll have a file on your desk tomorrow morning."

"Alright," the colonel says, nodding his approval. "Agent Novak and I will be your direct superiors. You will report back to us, and any plan will have to go through us first."

"That won't be a problem, sir."

"Gabriel Novak will be providing all your weapons. He's also going to design your suit, so if you have any ideas, you're going to have to talk to him."

"Uh." Sam shoots an inquiring look at Castiel, who only shrugs in response. "My suit, sir?"

"Your Captain America suit," Colonel Singer says, sighing. "The president's convinced that you have to wear it on missions. For morale or some bullshit. Of course, we're gonna have to tweak it a bit, make you look a bit less conspicuous."

Sam resists the urge to groan about uncomfortable tights. "Understood, sir."

"Good. That's all for now," the colonel says. "Talk to those soldiers of yours."

"I will, sir."

"You’re dismissed. Agent Novak, escort the captain out."

"Yes, sir."

"That went pretty well, right?" Sam asks once he and Castiel have stepped out.

"Yes. I think you're growing on him," Castiel says, tilting his head curiously. "Is your brother in that team you're thinking up?"

"He's a damn good sniper. His hands never shake, not even when the rest of him is." Sam shrugs. "And he's been looking out for me since I was born. He isn't going to stop now."

Castiel nods and comfortable silence settles for a while, until he turns his head to look at Sam and asks, "Are you doing anything tonight?"

"Well, Dean and I are probably gonna go to a club to meet the boys," Sam says slowly, unsure of where their conversation is heading.

"Are you going dancing too?" Castiel asks, his eyebrows raised.

"It depends," Sam says, smiling shyly. "Will you come if I am?"

The corner of Castiel's lips quirk up. "Maybe. Will you pick me up after work if I agree?"

"Yes," Sam says, the one syllable clambering quickly from his tongue.

"Then I'll be there," Castiel says. They're outside now, standing in front of an unassuming flower shop. "I’ll see you tonight, Captain."

"Sam. Call me Sam," he blurts, because he won't have Dean hearing the title and teasing him about power play. (But really, he just likes the way his name rolls off Castiel's tongue.)

Castiel grins.

"I’ll see you tonight, Sam."  

Dean makes Sam wear a nice dress shirt and freshly laundered slacks. It's indulgent and Sam's worried it's bit too much, but Dean swears it's a must to look your best on the first date. Sam makes a quip about how Castiel has seen him crawling in the mud back when he was all skin and bones. Dean only rolls his eyes and says, A date is different, Sammy. You want to make him want you, not reminisce about your days in training .

Sam gives in reluctantly, grumbling about how he never had to go through the painful process of choosing clothes and debating silently with himself on what he's going to say to Castiel. Also, he may or may not be imagining the best and worst case scenarios of how the night will go. Dean smacks him upside his head and says, Well, you've never gone on a date before, genius! Which is true. Sam didn't care much for the double dates Dean tried to persuade him into.

In the end, Dean chalks it up as a job well done. After almost an hour of digging into their bags and embarrassing pep talks, Dean drags Sam to the club to meet the guys.

"Got a date, Cap?" Balthazar says, actually making the effort to set down his drink to smirk at Sam.

"Course he has," Benny says, "else he'd be in the same smelly clothes he woke up in."

"So who's the lucky gal?" Kevin asks, grinning.

"No gal," Dean says, answering for Sam as he takes a seat next to Ash. "Remember that agent fella who was with the colonel when we were at the camp? You know, all serious and proper-looking?"

"There's nothing wrong with being proper," Gadreel says, his mouth twisting in a slight frown.

"Didn't say there was," Dean says, rolling his eyes. Gadreel always gets so defensive about properness. "I just meant Sam might have a bit of trouble getting him to loosen up."

"Haven't had much trouble yet," Sam says, shrugging. He takes the seat next to his brother.

"From the stories your brother told us, you couldn't even talk to the nurses in the hospital," Ash says, eyebrows raised to his hairline.

"Castiel's different," Sam mumbles. "He's nice."

"Those nurses were pretty nice too," Dean says, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively.

Sam groans. "Stop it. I didn't come here to talk about my date."

"It was nice while it lasted," Benny says. "What is it, then?"

"I'm putting together a team to take HYDRA down. I want you guys in it," Sam says simply.

"Wait a second, Cap," Ash says, leaning forward with his elbows at the edge of the table. "We just got out of that hellhole, and now you’re saying that you want us to go back."

"Well, uh." Sam scrunches his nose. Ash didn't have to say it like that .  "Yeah. Pretty much."

"Eh, we're crazy enough for it," Benny says, shrugging.

"Sounds fun," Kevin agrees.

Balthazar sighs and waves a hand vaguely in surrender. "If you're as much of an idiot as your brother is, you're going to need all the help you can get."

"I'm in," Gadreel says in that grave way of his. It kinda reminds Sam of Castiel, though Gadreel's a touch more serious.

They all turn to look at Ash, who looks surprised and faintly insulted. "I thought it was clear. You had me at HYDRA, Cap."

"That's great. Colonel Singer is probably going to call you in the day after tomorrow," Sam says brightly.

Benny raises his drink in a toast.

"Here's to our reckless, idiot selves getting into more trouble."

"Hear hear!"

At six o' clock, Sam leaves to pick Castiel up. He ignores the catcalls and the shouts of good luck , and walks right out of there. He takes a cab instead of walking, following Dean's advice because, he quotes, A man should never smell like body odor on a date. Or ever. Unless you just had sex . He arrives a bit early, and chats amicably with the fiery lady who mans the cash register of the flower shop (who Sam reckons can take him down with only her handkerchief) until Castiel shows up.

"Have you been waiting long?" Castiel says.

"Nah," Sam says, waving a hand dismissively. He catches Mrs. Moseley shaking her head and mouthing Don't you believe him, darling in his peripheral. "It really wasn't that long!"

"And you dressed up," Castiel says, stepping closer and smoothing a wrinkle on Sam's shirt. "You didn't have to."

"I wanted to," Sam says. "And Dean may also have forced me into this."

"Oh, get out of here. You're disgustingly adorable, you two. Run along before I whip out a camera to take a picture," Mrs. Moseley says, her hands on her hips and a mock-stern expression on her face.

"Yes, ma'am," Castiel says, his tone mock-stern. He holds his hand out for Sam to take, and as they leave, Sam gives Mrs. Moseley a quick nod of goodbye over his shoulder.

"So, where's this club you're taking me?" Castiel asks.

"Well, I was thinking, do you want to go somewhere else? I mean, my brother and his friends are there. If you're up to their teasing or if you want to meet them, we could still go there," Sam says, wringing his hands nervously.

Castiel's expression shifts from confusion to amusement before he huffs out a laugh and tucks an arm under Sam's. "I can handle a few soldiers, Sam."

"Alright, then," Sam says. "But don't say I didn't warn you."  

*

Castiel does hold his own with the boys. Dean attempts to grill him on his love life before Sam. Balthazar makes a few unsuccessful passes at him. Kevin decides he wants to embarrass Sam and asks Castiel what made him accept the captain's invitation. Dean saves him unexpectedly by whining about how he doesn't wanna hear about his brother's better qualities. Ash asks him what it feels like being the cousin of Gabriel Novak and Do you get to see his prototypes in advance? (The answer to which is yes, because Gabriel yaks away about his work even though Castiel never wants to hear it.) Benny asks Castiel how many ways he knows how to kill a man. Gadreel just sits there and considers Castiel quietly.

Dean has a half-exasperated, half-approving look on his face by the end of it. Benny and Gadreel give Sam discreet nods of their support. Kevin and Ash look at Castiel like he hung the moon, mostly because of his ties to Novak Industries. (Sam doesn't want to imagine how they'll act when they meet Gabriel himself.) Balthazar hasn't stopped flirting with Castiel, but that's okay because Sam thinks it's his default setting besides unstoppable sass .

"I think that went pretty well," Castiel says once they've gone off to their own table, sharing a plate of fish 'n chips in between drinks.

"You blew them away," Sam says, a hint of disbelief in his voice. "Do you do charm the wits out of everyone?"

It surprises a laugh out of Castiel, who shakes his head in denial. "Everyone says I'm awkward. I don't know how to talk to people who aren't in the army, I suppose."

"Well, it's a good thing I'm officially a captain now, huh?" Sam says, grinning.

They dance not long after that. A slow song starts and Sam needs all of thirty seconds to gather his courage and ask Castiel. He makes a note to himself to thank the girls when he sees them again, or maybe send bouquets of flowers for their trouble.

"I thought you said you didn't dance," Castiel says, betrayal in his narrowed eyes.

"You can't live with a whole crew of dancers without getting dragged into a few lessons," Sam says, shrugging.

"How does it feel getting your toes stepped on?" Castiel asks sheepishly.

"You've only done it four times. That's a lot better compared to my staggering fifteen," Sam says softly. "Meg was ready to kill me by the end of the song."

"I feel better now," Castiel says, leaning closer so that his nose bumps against the line of Sam's jaw.

"That's good."

Later, they find out that Castiel can definitely dance to jazz, seems to lose all his propriety, in fact. It takes them by surprise, and it entices almost the whole bar into filling the dance floor. Sam prefers slow songs though, because that's when he can keep Castiel close, when they whisper in each other's ears about anything and everything.

Castiel tells Sam about how his family moved from Illinois to London when he was eleven years old. His mother wanted to get him away from the ever present limelight on Novaks. His father just wanted him to study in a posh boarding school. He stayed in touch with Gabriel, and that's how he got involved in the army. At first, he was a liaison of sorts for them and Novak Industries. He met Colonel Singer at one of the weapon demonstrations. The colonel pulled him aside and told him he looked like he was made of stronger stuff than most and that he was better off working for a secret agency. Castiel didn't hesitate to accept the offer, mostly because being a liaison meant dealing with people. Castiel never did like that.

Sam tells Castiel about his father, about how he worked day and night to get his kids into school and feed them three times a day. Dad tried his best to keep Dean and him happy, tried his best to make up for the emptiness left behind when Mom died. Dean always knew what Dad was doing, but Sam was the more difficult son. He didn't understand until it was too late, and that has been his biggest what if ever since.

They listen and they hear and they feel each other, pulling each other close when it becomes particularly hard to say something or when a pause mid-sentence stretches into silence. They stay that way, dancing until their feet ache.

"Thank you for tonight," Castiel says. They're sitting by the bar, nursing glasses of water while they stare absently at the dance floor. The boys have long since left, claiming a long day tomorrow. Dean made it a point to whisper last minute advice on what to do when he walks Castiel back home. Sam was tempted to brush his words off but opted to tuck them in a secluded corner of his mind.

"I had fun," Sam says, bumping his shoulder against Castiel's.

"We won't have time for this once you start going on missions," Castiel says, sounding wistful. His lips are pursed when Sam glances at him.

"Good thing we made the most of tonight," Sam says, a small smile hesitantly settling on his face in the hopes of cheering Castiel up. "And I promise, when the war is over, I'll take you out on more dates. We could watch a movie, or go watch a play. You like ballet, don't you?"

"I do," Castiel says softly. “I admire the dancers, how they’re able to express emotions without words.”

"Well, maybe we'll catch one. Then, we'll have dinner after, with candles and violins like in those romance novels. I'll do it right, so that you'll only have good things to say about me to your family," Sam says, grinning widely.

"They love you already so there's no need to worry," Castiel says. Sam raises an eyebrow, so he adds quickly, "Gabriel won't stop talking about you. He says you're polite and honorable and the perfect person to be an American icon. Of course, he also says you're going to empty our fridge after one meal, but that doesn't matter."

Sam puffs up, smug. "Your cousin's sweet on me."

"He just likes you because he helped create you," Castiel grumbles. "You're basically his brainchild with Chuck."

"I know." Sam laughs. He claps his hands against his knees, standing up from the bar stool. "It's getting late. I'll take you home."

"Gabriel will be awake," Castiel says, his eyes narrowing.

"Well, good. Someone has to put you to bed," Sam says, pulling Castiel along.

"Gabriel might not. Too busy trying to outdo HYDRA tech," Castiel says. Half of it is muffled when he presses his face against Sam's shoulder, trying to blink away the dizziness he feels. They’re outside now, with music blaring from behind them and the beeping of car horns and screeching of tires in front of them, which makes it even harder to make out the syllables, but from the mention of Gabriel, Sam can guess.

"Then I'll do it myself," Sam says, raising his free arm to call for a cab.

It turns out that he doesn't have to. Gabriel welcomes the distraction, if only to grill Sam on whether or not he treated Castiel well. Except Sam thinks there's no other answer than yes because if you break my cousin's heart, you should know that a sneak kick to the groin hurts, super-soldier or not .

"He's too earnest for that," Castiel remarks.

"I'll see you tomorrow, Cap," Gabriel says cheerfully, as if he didn't just threaten Sam. "Castiel's gonna be good as new. Maybe he'll feel well enough to lose his trench coat."

"Never," Castiel scoffs.

"Good night, then," Sam says, shuffling his feet awkwardly. He's pretty sure he's supposed to kiss Castiel goodbye or something, but Gabriel's here and he doesn't know what to do.

"You can go now," Gabriel says, and Sam doesn't miss the warning in his voice.

"Thanks for taking me home," Castiel says, giving Sam a small smile.

"It wasn't a problem," Sam says, smiling right back. They stay like that for a while, smiling giddily at each other while Gabriel stands to the side, ignored.

"Okay, that's enough," Gabriel says, pulling Castiel inside and shooing Sam away. "Getting late. Early day tomorrow and all that. Run along, Cap."

Sam thinks it was a brilliant first date.  

Gabriel and Castiel arrive together the next morning. Gabriel's as spiffy as usual while Castiel alternates between looking like he has the worst hangover of his life and getting a goofy, dreamy smile on his face.

"Don't mind his grumpy face," Gabriel says, greeting Sam with a pat on the back. "He gets headaches even if he drinks just one sip of alcohol. Total disappointment to us Novaks, my cousin is."

"Sam," Castiel says, pushing Gabriel out of the way.

"Hey, Castiel," Sam says, his eyes crinkling when he smiles.

"Oh, God. Are you two always going to be like this?" Gabriel groans.

Sam and Castiel ignore him, their arms touching as they walk away to the weapons area.

"Right. Huh. Who knew little Castiel would get a Greek god to be his boyfriend?" Gabriel mutters to himself, crossing his arms as he saunters after them. He catches up with them after a moment, and finds them inspecting the prototypes of the captain's shield he has on display.

"See anything you like?" he asks.

"This one's promising," Sam says, pointing to a prototype that's shaped like his own propshield. "Not too heavy and seems durable enough. Pointy end for killing people, my brother would say."

"I agree," Castiel says. He takes one of Gabriel's less feasible projects out from the lower shelves. "Though I want to know why this one's stuck with the rejects."

"Oh, hello," Sam murmurs softly, taking it gingerly. He hefts it, glee quickly taking over his expression. "Even lighter than the other one, wow. I can throw this at people!"

"Made of vibranium, that one. It's one of the rarest metals on Earth, which means that shield there is the only one of its type you're ever going to get," Gabriel says. "It can absorb vibrations, to a significant upper limit."

"I like it." Sam turns to Castiel, wielding the shield on his right arm and striking a pose not unlike the ones he did onstage. "What do you think?"

"It can absorb vibrations, you said?" Castiel says, shooting a questioning look at Gabriel. When he receives a nod in response, he picks up one of the guns and starts shooting at Sam. He starts shooting at Sam . Sam thanks the heavens above and all the powers that be for his quick reaction time because he manages to cover his face and deflect the bullets.

"Works well enough," Castiel says, nodding approvingly.

"My God," Sam breathes, his eyes wide and his pulse racing. He should be annoyed, because who just goes around shooting people? He should be angry . Instead, he feels oddly proud and turned on. "We should spar together."

Castiel raises an eyebrow. "I'm flattered you think I'm a good enough match for you."

"I mean, you could just shoot at me. I wouldn't mind," Sam says, not even minding how enthusiastic he sounds. "Or, you know. Not."

"No, we should try," Castiel says, tilting his head curiously. "I could teach you a trick or two, boy."

Sam grins, lets Castiel lead him to the training room. Gabriel is left gaping, staring at their retreating backs.

"So, uh. I'll just wait here until you're ready to see the designs for your suit, yeah? Right. Better not hold my breath."  

The next day, the boys come in and are dubbed as the Howling Commandos.

"Gee, thanks," is the first thing Ash says, followed by, "Can we talk about the good stuff now? Guns, explosives, the works."

It earns every single Commando a spot in Gabriel Novak's short list of friends. They file into the weapons area, gathering into a circle around the table of guns on the far left of the room. Gabriel's in his element, talking about his weapons like the brainchildren that they are, and the boys look like they're having the best day of their lives. Sam and Castiel don't bother joining in, opting to stand by the door and listen in.

"This is like Candyland," Kevin says, eyeing all the gadgets hungrily.

"Except with a lot more kaboom ," Benny agrees.

"I'd feel better in a tank," Balthazar says, staring wistfully at the designs of said tank tacked on the cork board.

"Or in my uniform," Gadreel says, glaring at his ratty slacks and yellowed shirt.

"Worry not, boys." Gabriel's practically radiating smugness right now. God, the Commandos are probably worse than a bunch of teenagers falling at his feet. [Another bit from Gabriel's POV] "There's more where that came from."

The only weird thing is that all this while, Dean has kept quiet. He's just standing there with his arms crossed, his face unreadable. Sam's halfway to him, to ask if anything's wrong, when he finally opens his mouth. "You have an ego the size of France, don't you?"

"Excuse me?" Gabriel says, stumbling over himself as if he doesn't know how to handle criticism.

"Then again, with those charms and that brain," Dean pauses, his lips turning up into a smirk. "I guess I was already expecting it."

Gabriel recovers, sees it as an opening—it probably is, considering this is Dean talking—and a flirtatious grin settles itself on his lips. "I'll take that as a compliment."

"You should," Dean says, nodding absently. "So, about those other designs…"

"Oh, they're at home," Gabriel says, not missing a beat, which surprises Sam because he knows for sure that they're just piled up on a desk somewhere. "Not planning on bringing them here until I'm done with them."

"Need any help?" Dean asks, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. That's when it hits Sam. That's when he realizes that they’re flirting.

"Maybe," Gabriel says, tilting his head in invitation. "I'll let you know before I get off work."

"What just happened?" Kevin says, and even though he has a mask of calm on, he’s probably as emotionally scarred as Sam feels.

"We're never talking about this. Never," Balthazar says. Everyone expresses their agreement by going their own ways. All the Commados except Dean scatter around the room, finding something else to poke at. Dean and Gabriel go off to a corner to do unspeakable things. Sam and Castiel exchange the same horrified look that will from then on be reserved for all of Dean and Gabriel’s interactions.

"That was even worse than I imagined," Sam says, pulling Castiel away from the room.

"Best to avoid them when we can. Steer clear of the boys for a while," Castiel says, a wry smile on his face. "We could take another look at that HYDRA map, get started with your strategy."

"Your desk, just us two?" Sam asks.

"No lackeys and no Colonel Singer," Castiel promises.

"Then what are we waiting for?"  

Dean and Gabriel get on like a house on fire, as evidenced by how many clothes Dean stuffs in the bag he packs the next morning. There's also the matter of the bruises on his neck, which Sam is determined not to look at. When they get to work, Gabriel greets his brother with a deep kiss. He doesn't even bother to acknowledge Sam, which is just as well if that's how he says hello. It doesn't stop with that one time, though, and Sam supposes the urge to vomit whenever he sees his brother with Gabriel's tongue stuck down his throat will never cease. He gets used to the feeling eventually, so he isn't reduced to a whimpering mess of Oh God, save me .

At the weekly meeting, there's a sudden flurry of design proposals that Gabriel brings up. They're all for the Howling Commandos because Captain America already has the advantage of the super-soldier serum. All he really needs is his shield and himself, and he's the perfect American hero on top of being the perfect soldier. He's the person everyone's going to look up to, but the Howling Commandos are who the kids will want to be. What better way to make them more awesome than by giving them the best of the best to help the captain?

His subordinates drink it up without question but Colonel Singer knows enough about Gabriel's wiles and favoritism. He finds out about Dean and Gabriel sooner than later when he sees the two lovebirds cozying up in the weapons area. He takes it in stride and walks away without batting an eyelash. It's their choice to feel each other up on a table where guns and grenades are still scattered, no more than a foot’s radius from the space they cleared out, the colonel tells Sam. Besides, it isn't as if they're the only ones besmirching office surfaces.

The colonel carefully looks anywhere but the broom closets, but Sam gets his point.  

After a week of the Commandos sauntering around the base, alternating between the training room and the weapons area, they now have plans set up for the first two missions. It's exhausting and they possibly drink a whole liquor store or four after hours to make up for the soreness of their bodies, but no one can deny the niggling desire to get back on the field. Firing a gun at a range is not the same as shooting at the enemy, no matter what some people might tell recruits in the hopes of calming their nerves.

For their last night, they get off work early and head to the club to fill their bellies with the most decent alcohol they're going get their hands on for weeks. Sam and Castiel take it as a chance to go on another date.

Sam doesn't have Dean's help this time, but he manages to get dressed in a pressed pinstripe shirt, a dark coat, and white slacks, feeling quite proud of himself. He picks Castiel up from his flat at five o' clock, and they head to the theatre for a movie. They watch a musical comedy that has almost nothing to do with the war, and it does them good. They forget, for a while, that Sam's about to go on a series of missions he might not come out of alive. Not that they ever talk about it, anyway. The closest they come to it is when, that night, Sam drags Castiel to a restaurant for dinner.

"What will you do while we're out?" Sam asks, even though what he wants to say is, Will you be okay? It's stupid and pointless, because he knows Castiel has a strong character, not one to wither just because his boyfriend is gone.

"Monitoring you, working with Gabriel to make your next batch of weapons. Maybe the colonel will ask me to do some socializing with politicians if he's desperate." Castiel shrugs. "The real work will continue once you get back."

"I'll miss the base," Sam says, staring resolutely at his chicken. "Better company than the heathens I picked out for my team."

"You’re ridiculous," Castiel says, amused.

"Do you—"

Sam cuts himself off, biting his lip.

"What?" Castiel asks, a crease forming between his eyebrows.

"It's nothing," Sam says, forcing himself to grin as he racks his brain for a change of subject. "How are those personalized guns coming?"

The night ends with a kiss good night and a long hug. Sam never asks the question he means to. Next time, he tells himself. He'll ask next time.  

Sam doesn't think much about the mission. They planned well, and it won't do him any good to get all jumpy and nervous. So he lets the boys drink and talk quietly among themselves, and he sits to one side and draws. No one comes to disturb him, possibly because Dean has told them about how he gets when he’s handed a sketchbook and a pencil. Back home, he used to sit on their roof just so he could avoid talking to anyone. It didn't matter if it was noon and the sun was at its worst, or if it was far into the evening and freezing cold.

Back then, his sketchbook was full of his family, Brooklyn, and what he imagined the world to be. Now, he draws the soldiers he trained with back in America, running their laps and gathered around the long tables of the mess. He draws Colonel Singer and his ever present frown, the American flag as his background. He draws Meg and Ruby sitting close to each other, captured in the middle of their laughter. He draws Jody and Lisa arguing about who's going to cook dinner that night, even though in real life, they always ended up sharing the task.

Most of all, he draws Castiel. There's one where he's in usual trench coat, standing straight and his expression focused, as if he's listening attentively in a meeting. There's another where he's in the dark blue shirt and black pants he wore for their last date. Sam's favorite is the one where Castiel's in his striped green and blue pajamas, his eyes closed and his hair still mussed from sleeping. It’s the only one where he’s smiling.

It’s what Sam misses most, that smile. He won’t see it now and for the next two or so weeks. So while they're en route and while a mission is still unfinished, all he has is his memory.  

Dean has always liked boasting about his conquests. This time, though, he keeps it to himself. Sam isn't sure what that means, and he doesn't ask. Dean is unpredictable when it comes to people he cares about. If Gabriel has become just that, Dean's reaction to his brother's question could range from launching into an unstoppable monologue on his sex life that Sam is going to regret to outright denial. It might even go as far as him pulling away from Gabriel, because those are Dean's issues. He flirts and he fucks but he never lets anyone close to him. So Sam stays quiet, and he resolves to wait until Dean falls and falls and figures it out for himself.

In the meantime, he spends their rest stops getting close to the other Commandos.

Benny is a pleasant surprise. His gruff demeanor and huge build distract from his obvious marshmallow insides. He's loyal but more than that, he's dedicated to doing the right thing. Sam's glad to have him, though most of his time on the field will probably be spent watching Dean's back. They're close, and if they were still children, Sam would be jealous of his brother's new best friend. Now he's just happy that he's got more people to keep Dean from throwing himself in the line of fire for Sam.

Balthazar's a  bastard, and Sam realizes it from the moment they first met. He's a funny fella, though, and he never misses the chance to make the team go into hysterics, struggling to muffle their laughter. Sam was reluctant to talk to him one-on-one, at first. Balthazar is dry wit and unrestrained sarcasm, and Sam was worried he wouldn't be able to get a word in and manage to not sound stupid at the same time. He tries though, because what would become of a Captain America who doesn't try? It turns out that he just needs to get rid of his nerve and trust his instincts, his Brooklyn-bred mouth, and his own tendency to fight with his words. They discover that they get along pretty well, and that's that.

Kevin's the youngest. He claims to be twenty but sometimes Sam wonders if he lied about his age just to get in the military. Those times are when Kevin talks about home. He tells Sam about his long dead father, his always worrying mom, and the girl he left back home whose only dream is to become a nurse and help people. Kevin says he used to imagine himself as a doctor when he was a kid, but he realized soon enough that it takes a lot of money to get a degree. Signing up for the military seemed like a much better and easier way to help. Sam likes him even more after hearing that story, and he hopes that if anyone will survive this war, it'll be this kid with his optimism and his drive.

Ash drinks a lot, and Sam's more than happy to just sit and watch as his tongue loosens. He talks about tech and schematics and Sam barely understands any of it. It's nice to see someone light up so much at the mere mention of computers, and that's mostly why Sam chooses to sit next to Ash sometimes. When Sam needs something else other than the silence of their waiting and their thoughts, he goes to Ash and listens.

Gadreel is the opposite of Ash. He's short responses and companionable silences. When Sam feels like he just wants to sit and think, Gadreel's there to offer his company. He's good at reading people, so he knows when Sam's thoughts are dark. He isn't as good at doing something about it, though, so they come to the agreement that Gadreel's just going to give him a good shove when it happens. Same goes for the other way around. Sam spends most of his time with Gadreel. He isn't sure what that says about him, but he doesn't want to think about it.  

The first few missions go well. It's a result of their careful planning and the Howling Commandos' admirable teamwork, and Sam's proud of them. When HYDRA decides to step up and fight back, though, Sam comes back with a broken leg and a healing bullet wound. He barely avoids a shot to the back, too, saved only by Benny tackling him to the ground. It's the first time he actually avoids death by a hair's breadth.

Sam and Castiel barely talk about what could happen. When they talk about the end of the war and the beginning of peace, they say when, will , or can . They don't say if, would , or could . They don't acknowledge the huge possibility that Sam will die before it ends, not until he comes back looking like hell.

"If I asked for your photo, would you give me a copy?" is the first thing Sam says when Castiel visits him at Medical.

"My photo?" Castiel's eyebrows furrow and his jaw is slack, surprised and confused at the same time. He knows what this means. "Are you sure?"

Sam smiles. "Of course I am, Castiel."

Castiel heaves a sigh of relief. "I'll give it to you on two conditions."

"Alright," Sam says. He'd do anything.

"One: you have to give me a copy of yours. Not one of those propaganda photos, either. I want one where you're just Sam," Castiel says.

"Not a problem," Sam says, his right hand settling against the small of Castiel's back and the other between his shoulder blades. "What's the second one?"

"After you report back to Colonel Singer and after Gabriel nags you about how much damage your suit was brought back with, take me out on a date again," Castiel says, pressing a chaste kiss on his lips. It's short, and they've done this so many, many times already, but it knocks the breath out of Sam nonetheless.

"I can't wait."  

Three months in, Dean approaches Sam with a half-full flask of whiskey and a defeated expression on his face.

"I need to talk to you," Dean says, "about Gabriel."

Sam raises an eyebrow and closes his book, but he doesn't say anything. Instead, he shuffles to the side to make space for his brother and waits.

"He's an arrogant prick, isn't he? Obsessed with his work and a severe alcoholic." Dean sighs.

"Not much different from you," Sam teases.

"Shut up." Dean's lips twitch into a slight smile before going back to the frown that pulls at his whole face. "I'm not picky with the girls I bring home for a night, but I thought I'd have better taste for—this."

Sam nods, understanding. "He's a good guy."

"You've said plenty times that I'm a good guy," Dean says, anger seeping into his tone, "but that doesn't mean I'm not bullshit at relationships."

Sam fixes him with a disapproving glare. "If you don't trust yourself, you're never going to trust him."

"I want to," Dean says, his voice soft again. "He does that. Making people feel at ease around him if he wants them to. I’m not sure if it should make me suspicious or admiring."

Sam glances at his brother, considering his next words. “You're scared you won't be the only person that gets past through the wall he builds around himself.”

"I'm not scared," Dean insists, but his voice is shaking and his eyes are wide, frantic.

"I could punch him for you if he messes up," Sam offers.

"I can take care of myself,” Dean says, rolling his eyes.

"I know," Sam says, expecting his brother's answer. "Still, it wouldn't hurt to give him a couple more bruises."

"You look happy, though," Dean says, bumping his shoulder against Sam's. "Guess I don't need to ask if he's treating you right."

"No," Sam agrees. "He's great. We're great."

"Wish I could say the same for me," Dean says, his laugh bitter.

Sam glances at his brother—Dean, who took care of him and did everything for his family, who deserves to be happy.

"You will. Not now, maybe, but someday."  

Balthazar is a fantastic cook, they find out. If he could do wonders with the disgusting goop they're given for rationing, he could be a chef for some fancy five-star restaurant once all this is done.

"You're great with tanks and blowing things to kingdom come, B. You really are," Dean says, "but if you decide to cook for a living, we'd be your most loyal customers."

"As if I'm going to let you cretins step foot inside my establishment," Balthazar scoffs.

"We'll expect the best wine on your menu," Benny says, ignoring him.

"Or your whole stock of beer. That'll work too," Ash says.

"I just want to get drunk," Sam says.

"I just want a steak," Kevin says, moaning at the thought of it.

"Steak," everyone echoes dreamily.

"Fine," Balthazar says, sighing dramatically. "If you all insist, we shall have a dinner party."

Needless to say, their cheers scare a few birds away.  

The Commandos all have different roles in their missions.

Sam, obviously, is the one in the front lines. He fights and he charges and he deals with the masses. With him are Ash, who takes pleasure in making things explode, Benny, who's scary good with hand-to-hand combat, and Balthazar, who drives their tank. They're usually the ones who make the most noise, drawing the enemy out and taking them down without pause. They're at home on the ground, in the middle of battle. Gadreel helps them sometimes, though mostly, he’s on standby to treat their wounds and ply them with medicinal alcohol.

Kevin and Dean do all the dirty work. They sneak around the edges of a base for recon and surveillance, talk a few goons into spilling HYDRA secrets, and during battles, they stay on high ground, hands steady and eyes behind a sniper rifle. They never complain, even though their work is harder than the others'. There isn't much glory or honor in what they do, just efficiency and doing what's necessary.

It makes Sam worry, of course. He'd rather not have Dean doing what he does. It isn't that he looks down on that kind of work, but he knows about the nightmares his brother gets because of it. Sam's even more worried about Kevin, and that his positive thinking will slowly morph into the sullen resignation most soldiers have. The battlefield is a wasteland, and he feels like Kevin's vibrant youth will dim in it.

Nevertheless, they work together seamlessly. They have each other's backs and Sam trusts them with his life. Every time they complete a mission, every time Sam sees his team with tired smiles on their faces for another job well done, he feels all the more grateful that he decided to follow his instincts and choose these men over whoever the colonel could've picked out. The Howling Commandos are his brothers now, and he'd do everything to avoid losing them.  

It's supposed to be just another mission. It doesn't turn out that way.

They’re in the Alps, aboard a moving train that HYDRA’s using for transport. One moment, Sam is shooting at a masked HYDRA goon, and the next, he's on the floor and Dean is nowhere to be seen. It doesn't take a genius to figure it out, especially when his shield is lying too close to the gaping hole on the train's wall and the goon has his back turned, sauntering smugly. Sam makes quick work of him, throwing his shield and not bothering to check if it found its target. Instead, Sam scrambles for the wall and sees Dean, barely holding on, looking terrified as hell.

"Hold on," Sam says, his eyes flitting around the compartment, looking for rope or a rod or anything at all that could reach Dean. "I'm going to find something, just hold on."

"Sammy," Dean says weakly, and when Sam stops to look at him and sees the mix of fear and acceptance in his brother's eyes, his heart breaks. "Sam, I can't."

"Dean, no!” Sam shoots forward, extending his arm as far as he can reach, but it's too late. Dean's body is shrinking in the distance, swallowed by the endless white of snow until he's gone entirely, lost in the mountains. "Dean!"

At that moment, Sam thinks, there are worse ways to die than a bullet to the head and there are worse ways to be apart from someone besides a few hundred miles of land that can be crossed by a plane in one night.  

They all come back in one piece, except for Dean who doesn't come back at all. Sam goes straight to the bar and doesn't report back the next morning. The Commandos visit him, try to coax him into coming out of hiding but no one can pry him from the bottle of whiskey he's all but clinging to. It's Gadreel who stays, because Sam's silence is familiar enough not to scare him away.

"When I was ten, I left a candle burning on the table. Our ratty curtains caught on fire while I was out playing with my friends," he starts, swiping a glass from the other side of the bar and helping himself to Sam's whiskey. "My father died in that fire."

Sam clenches his jaw, unsure of what Gadreel means to say. Sam's sorely tempted to throw the bottle at him to make him go away, but he rather likes the quiet-mannered soldier.

"When I sit still, when I'm left with only my silence, all I think about is him. All I think about is what I could have done and what I should not have done." Gadreel grimaces. "I'm sure that it will be the same for you."

Sam swallows the bile in his throat. What is he supposed to say? Thank you for your brutal honesty?

"I won't lie. It isn't going to be easy, and you're going to hate yourself for a very long time because of it." Gadreel pauses, takes a good long sip of alcohol. "It will help you make better decisions, though. You start to think about how your actions affect the people you love."

Sam pours him another glass. "Here's to hoping I don't kill myself before that point."

Gadreel shoots him a look, half-scrutinizing and half-skeptical. "You won't. Not if you can help it."

"What makes you say so?"

Gadreel shrugs. "You care."

Sam's laugh is humorless. "You're right about that."

"There's something that doesn't happen every day," Gadreel deadpans.

Sam sighs. "Thanks."

Gadreel drains his cup, standing up when he's done.

"Don't mention it."  

Castiel comes to see him ten hours into his drinking spree.

"This isn't helping," he says, standing to the side instead of sitting next to Sam.

"I can't get drunk," Sam says in agreement.

"Everyone's worried about you," Castiel tries again.

"I know," Sam says. He still hasn't turned.

"I'm worried."

Sam hangs his head. "I know."

"Come with me," Castiel says, and Sam doesn't miss the hint of pleading in his voice.

"Okay."  

It isn't solved just like that, but Sam feels better after. He recovers enough of his sense to go to work the next day, Castiel at his side when he's faced with a grumpy yet understanding Colonel Singer. He's reprimanded for his behavior, of course, but no one dares to tell him that he doesn't have the right to mope and wallow in his grief.

Sam throws himself into his work. He goes over their next mission strategy over and over until he can't find any fault in it. He pesters Gabriel about upgrades on his suit and extra equipment. It helps the both of them, having something to do. They add rope to his pack, anything that could help the Commandos. When Sam isn't working, he trains nonstop, destroying countless punching bags until the staff is forced to buy a whole truckload of them just for him.

The only reason Sam gets any sleep is Castiel. He comes in at midnight and he stands to the side, waiting. He doesn't make the mistake of approaching, of coaxing with touch. He waits, because Sam doesn't like making him wait. So Sam's punches lose more and more power until he's left hugging the bag. That's when Castiel steps forward. That's when Castiel takes his hand and leads him home.

Four days pass like this, and then Sam is off on another mission.  

"Don't do anything stupid," Castiel says. It's four in the morning and their coffee is still too hot to drink.

"I won't," Sam promises, not missing a beat.  

It's the last mission, the last base. It's also the most important.

The Commandos took Azazel into custody after their last mission, and Colonel Singer makes him talk. They learn that Lucifer is planning to launch nukes all over the world, and if they want to prevent an even bigger war than the one already going on, they're going to have to work quickly.

Sam tries not to wonder how much sooner they could've had that information if Dean were there to help.

There isn't much of a strategy for this one, or finesse. Captain America will lead and the cavalry will follow, guns and grenades ready at their sides. It catches HYDRA by surprise, that's for sure, and it gives them enough of an advantage that they manage to fight three-fourths of their way into the heart of the base.

Also, Sam gets captured by Lucifer's men, which is just as well. They take him to a room on an upper floor, one overlooking the entire base.

"Look at what you've been up to since we last met," Lucifer tuts, his mouth set in a disapproving frown.

"Good thing I didn't take you up on your offer, then," Sam says, "I would've been part of the losing side."

Lucifer sighs. "HYDRA does not lose, Captain. We lie low. Cut off one head and two more shall take its place. What part of that don't you get?"

"The way I see it, you're all done for," Sam says.

"You're too late," Lucifer says, except when he turns towards the monitors, the blinking red lights on the map marking all the capital cities in the world are gone. His smugness quickly morphs into rage. "What did you do?"

"I didn't do anything," Sam says, and it's true. It was all the work of the Commandos and Colonel Singer's men.

Lucifer shoots him an icy glare. "I liked you Sam. I really did."

"I would say sorry, but…" Sam shrugs.

Lucifer doesn't glance at his men when he gives them an order, "Kill him."

Sam curses, gritting his teeth.

There are four guards and Sam's only halfway done getting his hands untied so he thinks he has a right to curse, thank you very much. Besides, Lucifer is using the distraction as an opportunity to run. Sam isn't sure where to. What he does know is that he needs to stop Lucifer, and for that, he needs to take care of the guards first. So he does.

Now, he's running through the corridors, shooting at anyone who's wearing the tight black ensembles HYDRA goons favor. He arrives at a junction where several people are engaged in hand-to-hand combat, probably out of ammo already.

"Sam!"

It's Castiel. Sam resists the urge to run up to him and punch the man who's trying to kill him with a pocket knife. He can handle himself and Sam is well aware of it.

"Lucifer?" he asks instead.

Castiel lands a kick to his assailant's stomach, which is a mercy because Sam swears he saw an easier opening to his groin. When he's on the ground, groaning in pain, Castiel replies, "That way," pointing to a corridor on Sam's right.

"How long?"

Castiel furrows his eyebrows in thought. "No more than five minutes."

Sam nods his thanks and takes off.

"Don't do anything stupid," Castiel shouts after him. Sam shoots him a smile over his shoulder.

"I won't!"  

When Sam finds his way to the hangar, Lucifer's jet is already taking off. There isn’t another jet to board so he can chase after Lucifer, of course not. It’s the only reason he even thinks it’s okay to run at full speed and jump just as he reaches the end of the strip, his arms extended so he can grab the plane's wheel.

He struggles with his hold for a while. It helps motivate him that he's hanging at the height of a five-story building, which might not kill him, but will get in the way of the mission nonetheless. So Sam pulls himself to the jet's door and forces it open.

Lucifer is alone inside, perched on the pilot's seat. Sam doesn't pay him much attention, though, because there's a glowing blue cube attached to wires in the middle of the ship, and he doesn't exactly feel comfortable about moving a muscle right now.

"Captain, how nice of you to join me," Lucifer says, turning to smile at Sam. He presses a few buttons on the console, probably to set it on autopilot, and stands up to face Sam like the gentleman he pretends to be.

"Expecting me? I thought you'd have more faith in your men," Sam says.

"Have you seen the incompetents we hire?" Lucifer scoffs.

No confidence at all in his men, okay. "What's that?" Sam asks in lieu of a response, indicating the glowing blue cube.

"The Cosmic Cube," Lucifer remarks dryly, sounding uninterested. "Nothing you'd care to know about if you aren't joining me."

Sam raises an eyebrow. "I reckon the SSR would like to know all about it. Without joining HYDRA, of course."

Lucifer considers him for a moment before grinning and beckoning him closer. It wouldn't surprise him if the only reason Lucifer's humoring him instead of killing him is because of boredom.

"This is the future, dear Captain. This little cube here is unlimited power—the key to the most advanced weaponry Earth has ever seen," Lucifer says, his eyes manic as he stares into the Cosmic Cube. "This is only one of the many advantages HYDRA has over you."

"Not if we steal it from you," Sam says, raising his eyebrows as if to challenge. Retrieval Operation, Colonel Singer would call it. Sam and the Commandos would call it what it is—stealing. He has stolen before, when he was a kid. Dean wasn't the only one who resorted to dirty tricks when they had no more money for food or thicker clothes. Sam has quick hands, and when he was still a tiny, skinny thing, his fingers were slim enough to be unnoticeable in pockets and purses.

"You wouldn't even know what to do with it," Lucifer scoffs.

"Gabriel Novak's a smart fella. He can figure it out."

Lucifer flushes bright red in frustration, but instead of attacking Sam, he holds his hands out and takes the cube from its place.

"This isn't just any cube, Captain. It's a cube of the gods and not everyone's powerful enough to wield it."

Yeah, well, we came from the same serum, pal. I can handle it if you can , Sam wants to say. It's on the tip of his tongue, but there's a flash of blue light and the Cosmic Cube becomes an oval-shaped doorway to the stars, already shrinking and sucking the space around it.

Sam only realizes that Lucifer's gone when the cube goes back to normal and proceeds to melt through the floor.

"What the hell," Sam says, because what the hell? He isn't sure whether that was a bizarre stroke of luck or solid proof that karma is a force to be reckoned with. Either way, Sam thinks he should really get moving.

He claims the pilot's seat, intent on changing his course back to SSR's London base, but there's a deadlock on the destination and it's in the middle of New York City. It doesn't take Sam long to realize what this means, what he has to do.

"Lucifer is down," he says when he establishes a connection with the base.

"Sam." It's Castiel who answers, relief evident in his voice. Sam isn't surprised by the ache that sparks in his chest. "Good. What is your location?"

"I don't know. Somewhere over the Arctic." Sam swallows the bile in his throat. "The plane's heading for New York, Castiel. I can't change the course."

There's a pause, so long that Sam squirms in his seat, desperate for something and anything to hear. When Castiel finally answers, his voice is soft, pleading. "Don't do anything stupid."

"I have to take her down," Sam says, apologetic.

"Sam, you promised," Castiel says. "Dying is stupid ."

"I'm sorry," Sam says, "about being bad company this last week. And this whole plane thing."

Castiel sighs.

"There's another thing," Sam continues. "Lucifer had something. He called it the Cosmic Cube, said it was a source of unlimited power. I was going to bring it back but it kinda, uh, fell in the water."

"We'll ask Azazel about it. The SSR will put out a search for it." Castiel pauses and Sam can imagine a frown pulling at his mouth. "Sam, I've seen you jump off jets without a parachute more times than I'd like."

"This is different," Sam says. "I'm sorry."

"You're an idiot. Stop saying sorry."

Sam snorts, before he realizes that he's about to die and he should really say something good. Famous last words and all that.

"I wish I could have come home," he says. He takes hold of the wheel and starts his descent into the ice.

"I would've asked you to draw me," Castiel says, his voice hitching oddly at the end. He knows.

"I already have. Take my sketchbook—after, yeah?"

"I will."

"Tell Colonel Singer I'm sorry he has to deal with my paperwork for dying."

When Castiel huffs out a laugh, Sam doesn't miss the dash of hysterics in his voice. "You idiot. When we find you, he's going to shoot you himself."

"Castiel, don't follow me any time soon, okay? There's still a war to win." Sam takes a deep breath, hand hovering over the disconnect button, ready. "Take my sketchbook. It's all I have that matters."

"Wait," Castiel says, realizing what Sam's about to do. "Sam, don't do this. I—"

Sam cuts it off before he hears the end of that sentence. He wonders, for a moment, if Castiel meant to say I love you or I'll miss you or something distinctly Singer-y like I'm going to throttle you if you cut comms . Then there's only one minute until impact and he supposes he might as well pretend it's the first.

His last thought, besides the apology that is constantly thrumming in the back of his mind, is I love you too.