Chapter Text
"Dean!"
The cry rips through him like a gunshot, twists it and cuts upward like a knife in his gut; through the furious flares of lightning, he can see the bright glint of terror in Sam’s eyes, his bloody fingertips outstretched for him, muted words perched on his lips—Dean can feel the sharp spasms of pain, terror, desperation as if they’re his own, but it’s a hundred, a thousand times worse, because they’re Sam’s.
"Dean," Sam cries, “I need to tell you—" and then he’s yanked away in a crunch of reptilian skin and teeth and thunder, lost into the spluttering maelstrom of the rain.
Dean screams but no sound is torn from him; he can feel the cold, the empty, the dead sea where Sam was, where he always had been, an aching and crippling space, like someone ripped out one of his lungs, or his limbs, the left ventricle of his heart. The absence is agony, is fierce and arctic nothing—
"Sam!" Dean’s screaming over and over again, and the rain’s running red now, dark as blood—
Dean jolts up in bed with a wild gasp to the sound of his alarm clock going nuts, a sheath of cold sweat pasting his shirt to his skin.
He stumbles to the bathroom, wiping the salt of sweat and tears out of his eyes, and punches the dial on the shower to cold, his heart still jackhammering in his ears. After peeling his damp clothes from his body, he clambers into the shower and stands with his hands clutching his elbows, tremors racking his frame.
It’s amazing how after five years of dull work and repressing and drinking and hook-ups, Dean still remembers Stull in vivid clarity, down to the last gritty detail. The emptiness where Sam once was still buzzes like static, crackling like an electric socket left open and unattended to. Like a void waiting to be filled.
But it won’t be filled, not again. Dean has to live with that emptiness because of his own dumb fucking mistakes, has to endure the agony of the consequences.
Dean braces his forearms on the cold tile wall and places his forehead on the platform of his arms, gasping as the cold water swishes and gurgles down the drain.
He’d lost Sam after a double-Kaiju attack at Stull Port, right off the coast of northern Alaska. They’d been put under orders to leave a boat to capsize in order to focus on the main threat, but of course, when had he and Sam ever let innocent lives go to waste? They’d been hunters all their lives; saving people wasn’t even a matter of choice.
Dean had made the call. The call had gotten Sam killed. Dean, after the attack, had ended up still stuck in a Jaeger on a barren coast in Canada after miles and miles of half-conscious wandering through the ocean. The entire time, he’d been lost in a sea of static, of ghost impressions of Sam, and was too disoriented, too fucked up to even contemplate killing himself. That’s what he should’ve done; gone out in a blaze of glory with his brother, jumped into the literal jaws of death. Surely death would be more kind than whatever hell he’s living now.
Angels are watching over you, his mother had once told him, they’re watching out for you and your brother. Dean feels his mouth curl into a twisted, acerbic sneer. The angels had left years ago, once the Kaiju started attacking; bailed earth like it was a bad party and headed back upstairs. From what Dean’s understanding is, the Kaiju, being interdimensional creatures of doom, could inflict severe damage on angels due to said interdimensionality. So the angels, being Earth’s benevolent guardians as they were, ditched town.
There’d been no guardian angel watching over Sam.
Dean punches off the shower and steps out, still shivering, and tries to redirect his mind away from Sam, away from douchebag winged monkeys and Kaiju. It’s still somewhat amazing to him; their whole lives, Dean and his brother had lived in what felt like a private universe of monsters, separated from the rest of human existence, until 2013. Now, in 2025, the whole world is a supernatural nightmare. It would almost be funny if it weren’t so fucked up.
There aren’t any secrets anymore, Dean thinks as he towels off his hair. Monsters, angels, demons, humans, they’re all mixed and churned up and spat out into the same damn horror story.
"Apocalypse is nigh," Dean mutters to himself, and stoops to brush his teeth.
—-
Dean hates construction work, but he’s good at it and it keeps him busy. He idly watches the communal TV screen out of his peripheral vision as he hammers and screws and lifts through the long hours. He’s currently working with a couple thousand other workers on some wall project the government had set up to replace the Jaeger system; it seems stupid to Dean, but he gets paid so he keeps his mouth shut and his head down.
Every once in a while, people will shoot looks his way; curious, hostile, reverent on occasion. Everyone knows he’s Dean Winchester, ex-Jaeger pilot who’d lost his brother in the Stull Port fight. He’s practically a celebrity, with none of the perks or pay.
Around two o’clock, other workers begin shouting down the way that there’s been a Kaiju attack in Sydney, and quick, it’s on TV. Dean—thankfully on the ground today, given he fucking hates heights—follows after his coworkers without a word, eyes trained on the familiar and ghastly shape on screen rising from the sea like something out of Star Trek. It’s as massive as they all are, with indestructible dark blue scales, two bulbous eyes and a snout ten times the length of Dean’s body. Its tail alone could decimate a small town.
There are loud groans of horror as well as complaints when the Kaiju smashes through Sydney’s meticulously crafted wall as easy as anything. There goes that plan, Dean thinks with a resigned smirk, and watches with reluctant engrossment as planes deposit a familiar-looking Jaeger into the sea, where it takes the Kaiju from behind and succeeds in decimating the rest of the Sydney Opera House. Dean can’t help but think that he and Sam would operate the Jaeger differently, better; faster and tighter and more coordinated.
There’s a sharp tap on his shoulder, and Dean turns to see a familiar but slightly aged Victor Henriksen, his dark eyes trained forebodingly on the screen, his mouth set in a flat line of stress and disapproval.
"Henriksen," Dean says in surprise. “What are you doing here?"
"I’m here with a proposition," Henriksen says; his lips quirk as the crowd breaks out into raucous cheers and whoops. Dean turns in time to see the Jaeger on-screen deliver an electric-charged punch into the opposing Kaiju’s maw, driving its fist deep into its throat. The Kaiju roars and chokes before stiffening and crashing downward, sending white-tipped waves fanning out around it and pushing the remains of the Opera House bobbing to shore.
"Looks like a success," Dean says, turning warily to face Henriksen again. “Why the hell are you here?"
"Like I said," Henriksen says, his eyes dark and unreadable, “I have a bit of a proposal for you."
"I think I know what it is," Dean says, moving away from the throngs of sweaty, excited construction workers. “And my answer is no."
"C’mon, Dean," Henriksen says with a short, unamused smile. “I haven’t even delivered my pitch yet."
"No, Henriksen," Dean says flatly. “I’m not getting back into a Jaeger, alright? My answer hasn’t changed from five years ago and it’s not gonna."
"Dean," Henriksen says quietly, sternly as people swivel to look their way at catching some of the words. “Here, come away for a second."
Henriksen lays a cold hand on Dean’s elbow and maneuvers him away from the crowd; Dean lets himself be guided, feeling a tight ball of anger and panic building like bile in his chest.
"We’re running out of options," Henriksen tells him when they’re out of earshot from the other workers. “You are, well and truly, my last hope."
"Well, you can count me out," Dean says, and hates himself for letting his voice waver. “You can’t ask me to do this, Victor. Not this, anything but this."
"Dean," Henriksen says in a deep, calming voice. “I wouldn’t be asking you if I had another option."
"You know I was still connected to Sammy when the Kaiju got him?" Dean feels his hands shaking so he balls them into tight fists, so tight that he can feel the sharp cut of his nails in his palms. “I can still remember…everything. If you suit me up and throw me back into the fray, I don’t have any guarantee…if I’ll even, what I’ll—" Dean lowers his eyes, suddenly unable to meet Henriksen’s appraisal. “I’m unstable."
"You think I don’t know that?" Henriksen says impatiently, then softens his voice and lays a hand on Dean’s shoulder that he assumes is supposed to act as a consolation. “Dean. I can never express how truly sorry I am for what happened to Sam. But Jaeger pilots are dropping faster than flies, faster than we can even begin to train more. We’re down to our last ten. See them?" Henriksen nods toward the screen; Dean catches sight of a very attractive, almost cat-like woman with wavy blond hair and a stern-looking African-American man with a slightly feral look in his eyes. The woman is beaming, almost smugly as reporters swarm her with questions; the man maintains a stony, almost haunted silence, dark eyes surveying the interviewers. “You know them?"
“‘Course," Dean says. Everyone knows all the Jaeger pilots. They’re practically heroes. “Bela Talbot and Gordon Walker."
"They’re our only solid team left," Henriksen says. “Remember the Harvelles?"
Dean nods; he and Jo had been good friends in their run in the Jaeger program a few years back.
"Kaiju got them in a mission outside Los Angeles."
Dean swallows and bows his head, feeling both stricken and unsurprised by the loss.
"Now, you and Sam were some of our best pilots. Almost like you were born for the job. Now what are you doing with your life? Hacking down vamps, guttin’ a few hell-bitches here and there, and watching Days of Our Lives reruns when you get home?"
Dean keeps his eyes lowered; he can’t stand to see Henriksen’s surprise or judgment firsthand.
"Dean," Henriksen says in surprise, “really? Not even hunting?"
"I’ve been trying to take it easy," Dean says quietly, “you gotta understand, Vic—"
"Dean," Henriksen interrupts, waving him off, “I don’t need your sob-story for the last half a decade. I am asking you, begging you, to get back in the saddle here. As a favor to an old friend, as an entreaty on behalf of human existence, or something. The most important thing you can think of; I’m asking on its behalf here."
Dean jams his hands in his pockets and tries to stomach the thought of climbing into a Jaeger and drifting with someone who isn’t Sam. “I can’t do this, Henriksen. I’m sorry."
"Winchester," Henriksen says so sharply that Dean stands at attention. “You think this is the fate that God has laid out for you?"
"I don’t believe in God," Dean says, with more bite in his voice than he intended.
"You think you’re supposed to be slavin’ away, pounding nails like the next Joe the Plumber? The Dean I knew wouldn’t settle for that bullshit."
"The Dean you knew," Dean snaps, taking an aggressive step forward, “hadn’t fucked up and gotten his little brother killed."
"So you lost Sam!" Henriksen shouts, and they’re definitely drawing stares now. “And I get it, Dean, believe me, I get it! I lost my sister to a Kaiju seven years back and it still hurts every damn day. But you know what?" Henriksen leans closer, so they’re almost nose to nose. “I bury it because people, this world needs me. Sam knew the risks he was taking copiloting with you and he could’ve stopped you from going after that boat, but he didn’t. He was aware of the consequences. And he wouldn’t want you to sit around here with your thumb up your ass!"
Dean blinks, not sure whether to yell, throw a punch, or do something stupid like cry.
"So what do you say?" Henriksen says, holding out a hand and fixing Dean in an iron grip of a glare. “You gonna sit around until you’re seventy and alone with the world gone to shit around you? Or are you gonna step up and be what destiny’s dealt you?"
Dean swallows dryly, stares at Henriksen for a long moment. Thinks of spending the next fifty years working on walls that’ll get hacked down, drinking beers that won’t repair any problems, watching shitty television shows by himself in his apartment.
Dean thinks of the drift. Of the immeasurable power of operating a practically indestructible vessel of power, of righteousness, of saving people that would’ve died otherwise.
Dean nods briefly, a broken sort of movement, and takes Henriksen’s hand.