Dean never grew to like being known solely as "Winchester's boy." At least, that was what he would always seem to complain about; Sam couldn't have cared less.

Back in the day, when Sam and Dean were younger, both of their parents were the equivalent of rock stars in their eyes; upholding the Winchester and Campbell family name; fighting for their country with the Marines and the U.S. Air Force.

There was a time when John and Mary were both gone simultaneously and a family friend of theirs, Bobby Singer, had taken care of the boys ("Stop bein' an idjit, both'a ya!" "Idjit! Idjit! Idjit!"). He became their favorite non-blood-related uncle after that.

There was a time when the elder brother revered in being called one of John and Mary Winchester's kids. It was an acknowledgement of their parents' efforts in protecting and serving the country. To Dean, it was one way people told him his parents really were heroes. (It could be said that, at one time or another, the firstborn wanted to follow in his mom and dad's footsteps, to be part of something bigger than himself.)

There was a time when Dean was around four years old where he wanted to be a protector. Their first house in California was broken into at night: John was undeniably furious ("Those damned thieves!") and Mary was a little more so ("If they'd touched my babies, I swear…") and little Sammy couldn't stop crying. The cops had offered to make rounds in their neighborhood with police cruisers every few hours, and when he saw how much that relaxed his parents, Dean immediately said that he wanted to be a police officer. Mary just smiled, but John went out the next day to get him one of those plastic officer badges. Dean would always wear it around his preschool; acting like he was one tough son of a bitch, bringing justice to sand-throwers and animal cracker thieves.

There was a time when Dean was a little older, old enough for him to help with his brother; John had driven him and Sam to school in his 1967 blacktop Chevrolet Impala. They'd passed a house fire, and Dean saw the big, red fire truck and all the firemen putting out the danger. Sam had craned his neck to watch the firefighters just as Dean had.

"Look, Sammy!"

"That fire's big."

"Don't worry. The firefighters got it. Right, Dad?"

John looked at them from his rear-view mirror and smiled. He knew then that Dean wanted to be a fireman.

When the boy wanted to be one for Halloween that year, John found it difficult to say no. Consequently, Sam had injured his leg playing T-ball and was wheelchair-bound, but John and Mary turned a boring, old box into one badass fire truck. Dean wheeled his baby brother around their neighborhood and scored the biggest haul they had ever gotten.

There was a time when Dean was a sophomore in high school, and the National Guard came to talk to the students in his Spanish class: That was when Dean told his parents that he wanted to enlist, like they did once upon a time.

At the time, all he was thinking about was being similar to his mom and dad, to be strong like them, and not to mention how much help it would be toward his college funds. Mary told him to think about it thoroughly before deciding, but John was all smiles and encouragement and he told him, "Make your old man proud, son."

That was the same thing he didn't say when Dean joined cheer and wrestling; John was gone a lot in that time, but the kid loved his dad nonetheless.

There was a time when John Winchester loved his kids, too. But that was all before his wife, the mother of his children, had been killed in an attack in 2013.

This day was worse than 9/11. Dean couldn't help but to remember it: August 11. He had a little over a month until he was to go to university, and his mom and dad had taken the weekend for some "bonding-time" between them and the boys; they had planned to head up to northern California because John was always complaining about how it was "our last few weeks with Dean, Mary. Let's treat the boys; they deserve it!"

The Winchesters made it to San Francisco at around noon, had lunch, and then headed to the ferry that would have taken them straight to Alcatraz.

Long story short: They never made it to Alcatraz.

Longer story even shorter: Sam and Dean were both terrified shitless.

First, there was a 7.1 'quake. Then, that monster science experiment had taken land and destroyed the Golden Gate Bridge.

Buildings had been trampled. Vehicles had fallen from the bridge. People were everywhere, screaming, crying, scared for their lives. Police had started showing up; then the National Guard; then the Army; then the Air Force. Anyone and everyone still in active duty and still currently on the planet were called to attack it.

The city had become a war zone before Trespasser moved inland. Tanks were on the streets; jets were flying overhead; missiles were coming in from every direction. Tactical nukes were brought in when the Hellfire missiles proved useless. In the near-week it took to put down the beast, people had labeled it a "kaiju" and the military forces later code-named it "Trespasser", for obvious reasons.

San Francisco. Oakland. Hayward. San Mateo. San Jose. An average of 2.5 million lives in those cities alone, and not all of them had made it out. However, if the National Guard hadn't acted quickly, even more would have been killed.

Mary Winchester, a U.S. Air Force pilot, was in an F-17 fighter jet when she was hit. Some assumed the kaiju had taken her out, but a lot of others believed that one of the three nuclear missiles sent to annihilate the monster had finished the job.

Sammy was only fourteen. Dean was eighteen, ready for his first quarter at UCLA.

After Mary died, John vowed to destroy whatever the hell those monsters were and enlisted into the Pan-Pacific Defense Corps when it was fully formed. He'd become some sort of liaison for the Corps when he helped the two squints Frank Devereaux and Ellen Harvelle to get their funding for the Jaeger Program. (According to summary reports filed, John Winchester had an aptitude for bringing lifeless, mechanical arms to life.)

At the funeral of the lost soldiers and pilots after K-Day, Dean had witnessed his father break. The man that seemed at times hard as steel – the one who pushed both brothers to do their utmost maximum, as if there were nothing to fear – that man was gone. John Winchester wasn't himself; in his place was a vengeful husband, widowed by a woman who sacrificed her life to protect her children and her country.

Nothing was ever the same.

Whenever he could, Dean would come home from college. The oldest son watched as his father slowly distanced himself from the only family he had left. Although Dean knew losing his mom had taken a toll on his dad, John was supposed to be the strong one. John Winchester was a damn Marine vet and he sure as hell wasn't acting like one.

Every once in a while John would disappear for days, or even weeks, at a time for PPDC business, leaving Sam for some babysitter like Bobby to look after him. All the father would tell his sons was to be careful, to take good care of each other. Apparently, some tech development in Germany was more important than going home for even a few days to check up on his kids.

It wasn't long until 2014 had come and gone with the winter snow.

Word quickly spread from the United Nations that the Jaeger Program was in tow, that there would soon be someone to fight those dreaded kaiju. When people heard that John Winchester was a part of it, Sam and Dean gained a sort of fame. For a while, it was flattering (Dean got thousands of new followers on Twitter, Instagram, and Vine; a generous amount of subscribers had flocked to Sam's Youtube channel), but when people started asking if they'd ever be able to meet their dad, both brothers began to wonder: When will their dad come home?

Weeks had passed after Dean's nineteenth birthday before John came home to California, but all he seemed to want to talk about was the Jaeger Program and his assignment to the Japanese Jaeger, Coyote Tango. He was, like Dean had already suspected, more into his new job than the lives of his own flesh and blood. But neither son said anything about it; they were happy their father had even come home to spend time with them, albeit a short one; relieved that his deployments and fighting kaiju hadn't left him KIA.

Everything was fine until Sam's sixteenth came around. Dean was in his college dorm room, studying for a big sophomore-class test, when his kid brother called him out of nowhere. "Dad hasn't been home in a few days," Sam had told him, sounding worried off his ass. "He promised that he'd be coming home, Dean."

Dean tried getting in contact with his father the next day after his test (on which he promptly received a 'B-'), and only when he reached Mike Guenther, John's old Marine buddy and current co-pilot, did he finally get to talk to him. "Things have been busy," was John's excuse. Typical. Dean couldn't help but to roll his green eyes. The son offered, "You could've called."

"I'll make it up to you and Sammy when I get back," the father replied.

Dean huffed. "When will that be? Next century?"

"Soon. I promise."

"You shouldn't make promises you can't keep, Dad." There was evidence of poisonous venom dripping from Dean's words, and he hung up. For nearly two hours, the firstborn had lied back on his mattress among his notebooks and notes, trying not to hate his father. How many times would one man break his promises? How many more times would Dean buy into that bullshit, and expect things to be fixed up all neat with a false sense of everything?

That was the last straw. After a few more weeks, Dean Winchester dropped out of college to take care of his little brother. Sam had argued with Dean, for him not to leave his studies, but he had to make sure his kid brother was okay.

When John finally did make it home, father and son would only exchange simple conversation during the day, but it was when Sam would go to bed at night that Dean and John truly talked. Or would "argue" be a better word to describe what happened?

Fought. "Fought" would suffice.

Dean remembered telling his father one night, "I know losing Mom was hard on you, Dad – It was hard on all of us!" It was probably their tenth heated argument; he couldn't keep count. He couldn't remember how many circles they had rounded with their repetitive words. "You can't keep running to those damned Jaegers to avoid the pain. The Drift can't do shit to take it away."

John had a look in his eyes that caused his oldest to bite back his tongue. "Don't use that tone with me, Dean. The least I deserve from you is respect. I've done everything I could for you boys." The volume of his words didn't rise in anger, which only made Dean aware of how angry he truly was.

"You could have done more!" the son hissed under his breath, glaring at his father. His hands balled to fists and he could feel a deep, seething anger building up in the pit of his stomach. Dean detested the feeling. "You're so caught up in avenging Mom's death that you're – ignoring your own kids. Sam doesn't deserve this! Buck up for once in your life, and take responsibility for—"

The sound resonated in the room, nearly echoing in the dead silence.

Dean's father wasn't really a drinker. Hell, he rarely drank anything harder than beer. Sure, he went drinking with his buddies on occasion, but Dean wouldn't go far as to say he was an abusive, beer-bellied drunk. When he was younger, Dean remembered staying up at night, listening to his mom and dad arguing sometimes. John never hit her, but in the mornings he might be in the garage working on the car or would have gone to a motel to blow off steam, and his mom was always sullen, and Dean would always hug her and say, "It's okay, Mom. Dad still loves you. I love you, too. I'll never leave you." Mary would offer his little angel some pie and everything would be okay.

Maybe that was why Dean was caught completely off guard when John took a swing at him. He had stood there in their living room, frozen; the nerves in his skin tingling and stinging as they registered the pain from where the face of his father's palm had been. It must have been one of those rare nights when John downed something harder than beer.

Dean said nothing more to the man who stood in front of him with the face of a father he used to look up to. He steeled himself and walked to the staircase. Even though he was shaken, angry, shocked, furious – even though he was all of that and more, Dean took light steps, just so that he wouldn't wake up his baby brother.

When Dean passed Sam's room, he saw the still open lights from under the closed door. Cursing under his breath, the eldest knocked softly against the wood. He turned the knob and stuck his head in, meeting the eyes of the brother, who was propped up against his headboard, donning a deep frown. His cheeks glistened slightly as they hit his lamplight, and he sniffed, using the back of his hand to wipe away the wetness. "You know Dad didn't mean it, right?" Sam's voice cracked, and Dean could tell he was trying hard to hold the waterworks.

"Yeah," Dean sighed, voice monotone. Changing the subject, he ordered, "Get some rest, asshat. You got school in the morning."

"'Night, jerk."

Nodding, Dean gave his brother a small smile. Sam was gonna be okay. He turned to close the door, but just before he did so, Dean heard Sam say, "I love you, bro." Without turning, he replied with, "Love you, too, Sammy."

It was a little after Sam's seventeenth birthday that Dean had an idea: It was time to join the ranks of the Rangers. What was a better form of shoving the bird in their dad's face than being great Rangers, even better than he was? Their father had done over two handfuls of drops by mid-2016, and after the Onibaba attack he was forced into retirement after two years of active duty. His commanding officer, Secretary-General Dustin Kreiger, promoted him to PPDC Command as the Program's Marshal after a couple of weeks.

The world was winning – really winning. As much as he hated to say it, the human race's chance of survival had increased when their father joined.

Marshal Winchester has crushed many a man's dreams before and after his promotion, but he hadn't managed to break the spirit of a premature twenty-one-year-old with more than a few bucks to his name. Dean Winchester was going to be a Jaeger Ranger come rain, hail, or shine.

Consequently, he waited until after his kid brother's birthday to pitch the idea. Sam would be harder to convince. The younger Winchester craved adventure, but only as far as literary context. Hell, the kid practically coddled his books ("It's the smell, Dean; I want to preserve the smell." "You say that to all your dates, Sammy? No wonder there's never a second."). Never would he show any remote interest in venturing out into the real world that was literally bursting at the seams with Indiana Jones-level awesomeness.

Only what Sam didn't know was how predictable he really was. After seventeen years of living with his ass, Dean's learned he was extremely competitive. If he offered him the idea in the form of, say, a Jeopardy question, then Sam just might tag along.

"This is an international program affiliated with the PPDC, based in Hong Kong as a defense against the Kaiju."

Sam, who was slumped over the kitchen chair, gaped at his brother like he'd lost his mind. Seriously, the dude was reading The Great Gatsby and he had the nerve to judge? He muttered, "What?"

Dean imitated the sound of a play buzzer, and then went on to say, "The correct answer was: what is the Jaeger Program?"

"And?" Sam questioned, almost prodding, leaning his forearms onto the table. "You know what it is; I know what it is—"

"That's not the point, Sammy—"

"'Sammy' is a chubby twelve-year-old," the owner of the name huffed. "It's just Sam, okay?"

"No, it's still Sammy, 'cause I see you've got a little chub left over, right there..." Dean laughed a throaty laugh, nearly snorting when he nudged his little kid-brother's chin, who in turn slapped his hand away. "Let's go, then."

Finally getting rid of the look of judgment, Sam blinked at his older brother. "Go where, exactly?"

Dean scoffed. "'Where', he says. You've got to be kidding me, Sam." From behind the book cover of Gatsby, he pulled out a propo pamphlet from the Pan-Pacific Defense Corps. "You and I both know that it's almost Recruitment Day."

Sam shrugged, looking blankly at Dean. It proved evident that the boy with floppy hair wasn't at all impressed; the event had begun to roll around annually, and it marked the beginning of the weeks wherein the Winchester boys didn't see their father. "What about it?" he muttered, raising a brow curiously.

"Dammit, Sam!" Dean slumped back into his seat. "It's almost Recruitment Day! This is only the second year. We're gonna enlist. Does every kid your age get slower when they grow up?"

It took approximately three seconds for Sam to fully understand at what Dean was hinting. "And we're going to apply for the Defense Corps, why? If we do get recruited—"

"You mean, when we do."

"—what are we going to do about school? Graduation? College?"

"Been there, done that. You ain't missing much, kid. We're joining the Rangers."

Alaska seemed like a long ways away with almost two and half thousand miles of ocean to cross, from the likes of Los Angeles, California. The Jaeger Academy was widely known to be within the area of Kodiak Island; also known to Dean as "stark white and freeze-your-ass-off cold." Dean hated cold things to his very core. Of all places to set up their cadet academy, why did it have to be Alaska? Whatever happened to sunny California? Or Mexico? Not that China wasn't a swell place to base the main 'Dome, at least there would be something to do outside of full-time Jaegering. (He was thinking more along the lines of beach blondes, maybe with Christmas hams under their skirts, but he wasn't picky.)

Come to think of it, loads of places wouldn't do him much good. Whether he was sailing the high seas or vast plateaus, turbulence was not Dean's best friend. Of course, he would never put that down on the recruitment papers. A promising candidate for a Jaeger pilot afraid to fly; now that was one surefire way to get the early boot, Marshal's son or not.

One plane ride and pesky baggage claims later, the Winchester boys had made land on pure, Alaskan territory. When the brothers arrived, the Academy was already packed. There were people everywhere; would-be hopefuls from all around the state, the country, the globe. Humans of all shapes, sizes, backgrounds, and what-have-you were wide-eyed. The center's linoleum flooring was being stomped on by thousands of lonely, cracked soles.

As Sam and Dean walked to the back-end of the recruitment center, the latter man's eyes traveled from person to person, all hopes and intents of joining the PPDC growing even stronger. He turned to his brother, commenting, "I can't believe you actually came with me, man."

The younger of the two huffed out a cynical laugh, shaking his head as he followed behind his brother. "I'm sure you would've dragged me kicking and screaming."

"Spoilsport Sam, always the one to assume the worst in people," Dean said in mock-offense.

"Even though it's totally true."

The older brother made a pfft noise with his mouth. "Who do you think you're talking to? I'm Dean friggin' Winchester, of course it's true."

While the Winchesters waited in line to check-in and get their identification cards, they both noticed the piercing, judging eyes of the surrounding recruits. Dean consciously puffed out his chest, squaring his shoulders. Sam kept his chin up, his jaw going taut as he stood firm on his feet. Neither brother shrunk into themselves, or avoided eye contact with the staring strangers. It wasn't in their nature; they were raised like good soldiers, and weakness was not an option.

It wasn't a question if many were aware of their father being the cause of them growing up quicker than they were supposed to. John Winchester had only recently been appointed the Marshal to the Jaeger Program branch of the Pan-Pacific Defense Corps; prior to that, he was a Ranger himself, alongside Mike Guenther, defending their side of the pond with as much of a thunderous passion as they did out of the Conn-Pod. If that wasn't impressive enough on a résumé, the senior Winchester had started his days as a high school drop-out before enlisting into the Marines, and later marrying USAF pilot, Mary Campbell.

It was safe to say that John was a soldier inside and out, both in and out of battle. His sons would vouch for it.

At one of the eight opened windows, Sam and Dean gave their names promptly. The worker, a curly-haired guy in his twenty-somethings, was only mildly surprised to be in the presence of the Marshal's kids. Poor kid must have been there since before dawn.

"Winchester, Dean and Samuel," he said, reaching out with their ID cards. "Follow everyone to the auditorium for the opening address." Sharp, blue eyes rested above darkened bags above his cheekbones. Dean followed the line of his arm, discreetly examining the sleeve of tattoos. Oskar, the worker's name tag read, pointed towards the opened double-doors off to their side.

Sam and Dean stuck together as they entered the impressively large auditorium, waiting for the Opening Ceremony to officially begin. "Look at all these people," Sam sighed in awe of the large throng of countless recruits. "Some of these guys look a lot more serious than us."

His little brother's frame seemed small in comparison to the rest of the hopefuls in the place, Dean noticed, but he rested a firm, reassuring arm over his shoulder anyway. "Most of them are a lot more serious than us." Chuckling, he finished with, "Hey, no pressure," which in turn earned him a shove from Sam. "We'll have a laugh, we'll get ditched in the first cut, and then we'll go home."

"Not under Dad's watch. If both of his kids wash out, I'll give you three guesses as to what he'd do to us."

Dean quieted down then, only managing to keep his cocky smirk plastered onto his lips. After all, Sam was right.

Everyone was called to the front of the stage around seven o'clock. The large podium was in front of the PPDC insignia, with the Jaeger Academy emblem on its front. Flags hung from the high ceiling. Soon, attention was focused as the Marshal walked out to stage. His hair was cut short as for uniform regulation, his once scruffy facial hair gone, and his dark blue suit seemed to be evenly pressed. Like how a collected and professional leader was supposed to look. To the outside eye, John Winchester was the prime epitome of a clean-cut man, a role model, a perfect father-figure.

If only the world knew...

Under his breath, Sam muttered, "Speak of the Devil and he shall appear."

Over the speaker, Marshal Winchester introduced himself before going into the speech. "This isn't summer camp, folks. If it seems like we're trying to break you, it's because we are. The kaiju won't hold back, neither will we."

Dean bit back a sneer, keeping his thoughts internal. At least he's being honest.

Marshal Winchester continued on without hesitation: "We will grind you to dust, and only when we fail to do so will we find the stuff of legend – like the Campbells and the Harvelles – and all those whose names will live forever for having what it takes to be the knights of our time, standing watch at the edge of our world – ready for the dragons ahead."

As their father continued to speak, a few paparazzi caught sight of them. Soon enough, there were camera flashes and numerous amounts of people muttering quietly to themselves again.

Attention – that was something both brothers loathed, as well.

Compatibility: It was something of which only a select few had the capability. It was being fluent in a language of both the mind and body; working through the instincts of both oneself and their partner. Marshal Winchester, even before his new title was appointed, had influenced the creation of pilot assignments, later conceiving the Kwoon Combat Room. He figured that being able to anticipate an opponent's actions would provide faster leeway in finding Drift Compatible partners.

In the Kwoon, there were handfuls of Jaeger pilot hopefuls. As part of their training, hand-to-hand combat and hanbos were required to be used. To them, their days would continue chronically: conditioning, memorization, maintenance; a more continuous buzz that tested the recruits through physical and mental demands. Hell Week was made more into a month, for the sake of accommodating to find the perfect candidates.

First cuts were soon to be determined. The class of 2017 were on the ropes about it because they all knew, that although many people aim to join the ranks of Rangers, a lot more don't make it. (Those cadets that are cut are turned into transfers; they go to different curriculum as Officers or other staff in the PPDC.) Many cadets like Dean Winchester were hell-bent on making sure that they were one of the Greats, one of the Rangers, one of the heroes the world relied on. However, Dean never considered himself a true fighter. So, when he was taken to the Kwoon, where his opponent was a man with limbs as thick around as his neck, there was no denying there was a slight leakage in his pants.

"You wanna tango, Chief?" The tone of his voice barely registered above a threat, but Dean wasn't risking anything. Even with the length of the hanbo being twirled in his hands, the guy looked like he could knock him out with one swing.

Dean's opponent, Benny Something-Or-Other, was strong, but had little to no knowledge in contact sparring; the Winchester was used to the attack-without-a-plan types. Within seconds, the eldest had maneuvered his hanbo behind Benny's leg and sent him onto a knee. The light-haired Winchester swiped down and immediately locked his muscles before making contact with the other man; their Fightmaster called 1 - 0.

Yeah, he never said he couldn't fight.

They reset. Benny was nearly knocked down once more. He bit back, swinging his leg out from underneath him, effectively nabbing Dean square in the face. Dean groaned as he thrashed to the ground, adhering to the taste of metal.

1 - 1.

Sam Winchester hadn't had much experience with fighting aside from the occasional bare-knuckled brawl at school. On the other hand, they wouldn't last more than a few minutes, anyway.

The boy was remembering the old after-school matches with Dirk "The Jerk" MacGregor when Nick's elbow crashed into his jugular. Sam impeded the action by kneeing him in the crook of his spine, sending the sandy-haired giant flying onto his back. Sam proceeded to climb on top of him and take his punches.

The youngest Winchester was finding it hard to believe this guy had earned himself the nickname "Lucifer" during his short time at the Jaeger Academy. Apparently, on his good days, Nick Gage fought as if he were possessed by the Devil. People told Sam that you'd be able to see it in the guy's eyes. By the time he was finished with him, Lucifer's outsides would be ready for the Fourth of July.

Benny scrambled to an upright position, fresh blood coming from the corner of his mouth, where Dean caught a clean hit. Tugging at the corner of Dean's was a rare, yet complacent smile. The other man lunged out like he was going for another swing, but only proceeded to fall as his target jumped back. However, instead of falling face-first as his body willed him to do, his hands threw themselves out to catch his weight. The match ended with 3 - 1, in favor of the Marshal's kid.

Benny huffed and extended his battered hand out to Dean. Given his colorful record, Dean wasn't one for making latchkey friends, but hey, he just beat the living daylights outta the kid. The least he could do was lend him a hand before his candy-ass was the one wiping the floors of the Kwoon. "Good game, man," Dean called, sporting a grin.

Under his tough expression and gruff facial hair came a broad smile, all genuine-like. "You too, brother."

"See you in hell, pansy ass," Nick spat, palming the shiner on his left eye with heavy disdain. He couldn't fight (must have been one of his bad days, Sam thought smugly to himself), but like hell if the guy couldn't kill you with those ice-cold daggers.

Sam had an oddly fortuitous feeling as the guy trudged away from a simple handshake with a slight limp; that he'd be seeing that unforgettable mug around again. Hopefully not in the same place. The Hunger Games would be more suitable.

He retracted his hand, letting the dead weight fall back to his side. So much for making friends in this godforsaken place. As much as it pained him to say, at least he had his brother.

Dean fell to the floor with a thud. Getting beat up in hand-to-hand came fast and it came hard, no thanks to a fighter by the name of Ezekiel Novak. With a dull throbbing in his head, the firstborn son couldn't recall the last time he was the one hacking up blood. Whoever this guy was, he must have come from a family of soldiers preparing him for this very moment.

Much like the guy on the floor.

Ezekiel spoke like someone playing the role of the victimized hero when he said, "I don't want to hurt you."

Unfortunately, Dean's seen that play one too many times. He snorted, only resulting with him in more pain. "A real bang up job at that," he snarled, making the attempt to hide a sharp wince.

"I'm sorry." The blue-eyed stranger's fist came down with a thunderous bang, striking Sam's cheek. He wasn't angry, and he certainly wasn't evil. Sam's seen evil. The way he, the attacker, begged for mercy – it was almost as if he was compelled into fighting. Like one of those wind-up dolls you'd find in a tinker shop that's stuck in Kill Mode.

The second-born shook his head, sending his dampened bangs flying behind him. "Why?" he whispered through crusted lips.

Instead of answering, the fighter's fist came down again, this time harder and less apologetic.

Dean hit the floor head-first as the rest of his body slammed into the turf like a crash-test dummy. Outside of the Academy, jiu-jitsu would've been outlawed. Inside, it sufficed to say that just about every move from Japan and its neighboring countries was permitted, so long as it kicked the ass of anything that came through the Breach.

The girl threw a lopsided grin at her rivaling opponent. "What was that last comment, about throwing like a girl?" Before she could properly gloat, Charlie Bradbury was lying in the same position next to Dean.

He pulled back his leg with a hiss and spat out a steady stream of blood. He made sure to smile as he muttered, "Never said anything about taking a hit."

Kevin Tran was the name; failing with flying colors was the game. Sam felt bad for the kid, honestly. The five-foot-something Asian-American couldn't have weighed more than a hundred pounds soaking wet; he had to know that he didn't belong among the Rangers.

Unfortunately, being that Dean was heir to the Winchester throne the two brothers were locked and loaded into their fate tighter than NASA. Kevin had a chance at life. Instead, he was throwing terribly misdirected punches in some cadet academy.

Sam had him pinned to the ground. When the Fightmaster called 3 - 0, he let off and prudently, lent his hand out to his opponent. This time, his gamely generosity was returned. Sam turned away from the bruises on his knuckles. "Good game, man," he said, shaking the other guy's hand, and this time he meant it. "Sam."

"Oh, I know who you are," the dark-haired guy replied. There wasn't a kind of jealousy or hatred in the statement, but more like an awed, envious tone. He was probably only a couple years older than Sam; closer to Dean's age for sure. Kevin continued on to say, "Rangers and techs alike have been waiting for you and your brother to join since your dad made Marshal."

Though Kevin didn't outright say it to his face, Sam heard it in his words: You're tailored for this.

The date was July 12, 2016. It had been a little under a month since Recruitment Day. Their first trimester of training was not even close to over, and Dean wasn't sure how he felt about that. Where only a couple weeks had passed felt like months already in the minds of the cadets. Sam and Dean pushed through; so far, they both were still alive, which was a victory in and of itself.

The older son found it hard to make friends at first. Dean would argue that it was definitely not due to the fact he wasn't a likable person (at which, even facing that option, he laughed) or that the cadets were a little too off-put with the knowledge of the Winchesters being the Marshal's only sons (there had been a person or two trying to get close to him, but Dean had sussed out their ulterior motive: Befriend the Marshal's kid in hopes of not washing out).

More than a few cadets walked on eggshells around the two, however; Sam mentioned to his brother that they had probably heard of the rumors about their father's parenting (or rather, lack thereof – which, quite frankly, were all true, but the world didn't need to know any of the details). The Marshal was a man that was capable of being a good leader and an even better father; the problem lay in that he sometimes forgot about the latter part.

Whether or not he liked his father as much as he did when his mother was still with them didn't matter when Dean could still say he loved John, albeit differently from before. Both he and his brother dealt with the loss of their mother long ago, and it was evidenced by Dean that, consequently, it was not the same case for their dear father.

Some people have said that the best place to think was the shower; Dean, on the other hand, always thought extremely well in presence of food. Although the Academy's mess hall was just like any other mess hall made for any and all military facilities worldwide, Dean swore to whatever higher, otherworldly power that this one served the best grub. It was his passion for food that gave the firstborn a little wiggle room to befriend a couple of the other cadets. There was that girl, Charlie, who had kicked his ass back in the Kwoon, and there was also Benny, whose ass he beat within an inch of his life.

Camaraderie was a many splintered thing.

When the three of them sat down at a fairly vacant table, Dean's little brother came soon after, carrying a large amount of food on his tray. "Dude," the eldest groaned aloud, green eyes blossoming at the marvelous spread before him, "how'd you manage to score that?"

"Dimples and puppy-dog eyes," Sam answered lamely, forking a piece of beef into his mouth. "Works every time."

Dean had stolen the tapioca pudding from Sam's tray without much resistance, and it was then, much to everyone else's amusement, that he remembered that they weren't alone. "Oh, yeah, hey. Sammy," he called, tapping his brother on the arm. Motioning to the ripped southerner to his other side, Dean introduced, "Benny Laffitte."

The owner of the name nodded at Sam's small wave. Not very verbal, that one. That made him smarter than most of the new recruits.

Calling attention to the redhead seated with them, Dean continued, "And this little badass is Charlie Bradbury."

"Bradbury..." he muttered, testing the name out for himself. The seventeen-year-old's eyes suddenly lit up. "Oh! You're the one who forged your recruitment papers!" Sam's reaction was a long-ways away from what Dean had expected. He grumbled a mild 'ow' when Dean kicked him under the table.

Charlie turned nearly as red as her hair. Through a stiff smile, she announced, "Guilty as charged."

"What'chu got that's worth forgin' for?" Benny inquired with a toothy grin. "Not a natural ginger?"

One of the other cadets had a confrontation with Sam in the mess hall; some older guy named Michael who was supposedly Nick's older brother. Said something about not liking the way he was being looked at, Dean had heard. Whatever the case, the firstborn pushed his little brother behind him and decked the shorter brunet upside. It was a childish, bare-knuckled brawl that attracted the attention of the guards and brought Dean to see his father for the first time since they'd joined.

Suffice to say, Dean hated the Marshal's office with a searing passion.

"What in the hell were you doing out there?" ordered John Winchester with a dark tone of voice. "The Corps has a code, Dean, a code you have agreed to."

Dean's upper lip stiffened as he held back a snarky remark. Instead, he answered, "That Gage guy started it. If anything, you should be reprimanding him, not me."

"I need you to understand, Dean…" John's voice appeared strained; forcefully lowered to channel his own emotions. "I can't have you involved with anything that could lead to your defection from the ranks."

Huffing in anger, Dean's jaw flexed when his teeth clenched together. "Well, sorry, then. Sammy would've been thrown to Timbuktu if I hadn't—"

"I'm letting you off with a warning, Winchester. Promise me you won't let it happen again." The command was silent, but its purpose was served. John had put his Marshal mask back on, which only irritated Dean further. "There better be no 'next time'; no if's, and's or but's, cadet, for there will be grave consequences."

"But I'm your son!" Dean had exclaimed in defense. "I was only protecting my brother. What more do you want from me, Dad—?"

Marshal Winchester threw his hand down onto his desk, eyes staring down his oldest. There was a challenge in the air that Dean would have been glad to take. "As long as you're within the walls of this Academy, you will refer to me as 'Sir' or 'Marshal'. Am I being clear, cadet?"

Neither son nor father spoke for the duration of three whole heart beats. Brown bore into green as both Winchesters stared each other down. For not speaking for a few weeks, they were doing a fan-friggin'-tastic job at a reunion. On the upside, no punches had been thrown and everything was still intact.

Dean was the first to speak, if only to be able to leave the dreaded office sooner. "Crystal, sir," he clearly huffed through gritted teeth. Squaring his shoulders back, Dean planted his feet firmly on the ground. Just to piss off his father, he plastered on a fake smile and asked, "Permission to be dismissed, sir?" That was a clear fuck you as any.

With a reluctant sigh, the Marshal pinched the bridge of his nose. "Granted."

He was more than happy to oblige, giving a half-assed salute. As Dean pivoted on his heels, he overheard his father speak to the stale air: "Mary, what am I gonna do with these kids?"