Fic: What Happened To Bulletproof; Gen/Pre-slash: Dean, Sam

[race_the_ace]

What Happened To Bulletproof

for the spn_j2_xmas
Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural, Sentinel or any of its characters or plots. Some dialogue taken directly from the Sentinel pilot.
Fandom: Supernatural/Sentinel fusion
Pairing: Gen: Sam, Dean, sorta pre-slash, maybe? There’s also a little bit of Crowley, Balthazar, and Castiel
Word count: 3,014
Rating: PG
Summary: Dean’s a Sentinel, Sam is his guide
Warnings: Non-related SPN/Sentinel fusion thing
Prompt: Sentinel-fusion with sentinel-guide bonding. Oh yeah.
Beta: welfycat
Recipient: vissy

Author’s Notes:
- I know this isn’t quite what my recipient asked for, but I hope you like it anyway. Sorry about the lack of sex.
- Thank you to my lovely beta for being lovely and awesome. *flomp*


*****
“Third one this month,” Dean sighs. He looks down at the mess in front of him, a homeless kid no older than 14 with her throat torn out. She’d bled to death in a back alley and then all but froze overnight. She never stood a chance, just like the other two.

“Looks like the same MO as the others, Winchester,” Crowley says.

Dean ignores him. The department has been trying to push a partner on him for a while, but Dean works alone, and he’s made that pretty clear from the start.

He catches scent of something, something he smelled at the other two crime scenes, but can’t place. A sharp headache breaks out behind his forehead and he curses.

“Another one, mate?” Crowley asks. “You should see a doctor.”

Dean isn’t sure how he got stuck with the only ex-British citizen in all of Kansas. And one who joined the police force on top of that. “I’m fine,” Dean says. He surveys the scene one last time and then lets the CSI in. “We need to figure this guy out, before someone else dies.” He heads back to his car and throws a look over his shoulder to Crowley. “I’ll see you back at the station.”

They have a serial killer in Lawrence and pretty soon the FBI are going to start poking their heads around. Three deaths in one month in a town that’s seen maybe three in the past year is too sharp a spike to be ignored. Dean doesn’t need the FBI messing around in his town, but even he can admit that they’re not getting anywhere on the case and he’s not the kind of guy to sacrifice people for ego.

A siren passes him on the street and it’s so loud that Dean takes his hands off the wheel to cover his ears. It passes after a minute and Dean sighs because whatever this is, it’s starting to interfere with his job. And all Dean has is his job.

He has an appointment for tomorrow to review some test results from his doctor, so maybe he’ll finally get some answers. Dean parks his car and begins to review all of his mental filings of the case while he prepares to put in another long day.

-0-

The door opens and Dean frowns at the doctor that enters. “Detective Winchester?”

“Yeah,” Dean answers.

The doctor steps into the room. “I’m Dr. McKay.”

Dean stares at him. “Your name tag says McCoy.”

“Um...yeah. But the correct Gaelic pronunciation of my family name is McKay,” McCoy informs him. He looks jittery, but Dean figures the guy probably mainlines coffee.

“You have the results?” Dean asks. He just needs answers so he can fix whatever this is and then get back out there and do his job.

“Of?” McCoy frowns.

“The tests?”

McCoy shuts the door behind him and in the tiny room his tall figure looms over Dean. “Forget the tests. You don’t need medicine. You need information.”

Dean frowns. “What are you, an intern? Go get the doctor for me, will you, please?”

McCoy’s eyes widen. “Now just wait a second. Hear me out here. Loud noises that shouldn’t be loud. Smelling things that no one else can smell. Weird visuals. Tastebuds off the map, right?”

“That’s all in my chart,” Dean states, annoyed.

“Yeah,” McCoy agrees. “But I bet I can add one more thing--a hyperactive tactile response.”

“A what?”

“Extra sensitive touchy-feely lately,” McCoy elucidates.

“That's none of your business,” Dean snaps. “And who the hell are you, anyway?” Because this definitely isn’t Dr. McCoy even if he’s dressed like it. A stolen coat more likely.

“Me?” McCoy asks. “I'm no one. But this man, he is.” He holds out a business card that Dean takes carefully. “He’s the only one who can truly help you. You're too far ahead of the curve for any of this techno trash. You're a cop. See the man.”

He leaves quickly and Dean stares down at the card in his hand. The door opens again and another doctor enters. He smiles at Dean, “Good afternoon, Detective. I have to tell you I’ve scheduled some additional tests. But based on the results we have so far there doesn’t seem to be any medical foundation for your complaints.”

Dean stares at him. “You lost your name tag.”

“Oh, so I did,” he says easily. “I’m Dr. McCoy.”

-0-

The card in his hand is a last resort, but Dean’s at the end of his rope. He needs answers, ones that it seems someone might be able to provide, even if they appeared to be a less than reputable source.

The address on the card leads him to the University of Kansas and from there he finds himself walking through the halls of a dilapidated building, passing kids younger than Dean can remember being. When he was their age, he’d been fighting for his country.

He ends up in front of an office door at the end of the hallway. He can hear music playing, something more tribal than Dean is used to. He knocks and the knock pushes the door open.

It’s clear that the man facing away from him, dancing, is the same man from the hospital. When he turns around, shoulders bouncing, he grins at Dean. “You made it!”

Dean looks around at the tiny office, crammed full of books, loose papers, and things that look as though they belong in a history museum. “Who are you?”

“Sam Wesson,” he introduces, holding out his hand. “Awesome music, huh?” Dean doesn’t shake his hand and he doesn’t agree about the music, so he just stares until Wesson turns the volume down. “So, you want answers.”

“I… I don’t know what the hell I’m doing here,” Dean exhales.

“Test results came back normal?” Wesson asks, not sounding at all surprised.

“What do you know?”

Wesson smiles. “I know a lot of things, detective.”

“What do you know about what’s wrong with me?” Dean frowns. “And how did you find out in the first place?”

“I tutor a nurse at the med center and she saw your chart and sent it my way. When I read that thing, dude, it’s like--bang! Holy Grail time.”

“You’re losing me, Sammy.”

“It’s Sam,” Sam corrects easily. “And I’m working on my doctorate in Anthropology and you just may be the living embodiment of my field of study. If I’m correct, Detective Winchester, you’re a behavioral throwback to a pre-civilized breed of man.”

Dean frowns. “Did you just call me a caveman?”

“Uh, maybe. It’s not important,” Sam decides. “Anyway, dude, you’re it. You’re what I’ve been waiting for my whole life.”

“Whoa,” Dean says, backing up. “Look, Sammy, I like to live and let live, but I don’t really swing that way, if you get my drift.”

Sam blinks. “What? Wait, no! That’s not what I meant. It’s just, dude, look at you. You’re hearing things no one else can hear, smelling things, seeing things, feeling things, tasting them… There are documented cases of people with one or two heightened senses, but you…you have all five.”

“Okay,” Dean says slowly. “But what does that mean?”

Sam lets out a breath. “You’re a Sentinel.”

“A what?”

“And, dude, you have to let me be your Guide.”

“My what?”

So Sam sits him down and explains it all. How Richard Burton--the explorer, not the actor--noted that tribal cultures in villages everywhere had a Sentinel. They patrolled the border watching for enemies, weather changes, movement of game, etc. Sentinel senses are honed from time spent alone in the wild--the six months Dean spent lost in Afghanistan would suffice.

“So why now?” Dean asks.

Sam shrugs. “No idea, but you need someone to help you with this.”

“And what do you get in return?”

“My doctorate,” Sam answers. “I want to write about you for my thesis. I’d leave your name out of it, though.”

Dean laughs shakily. “You know this sounds a little crazy, right?”

“You look like a guy who does well with crazy.”

“I do well with beer,” Dean says. “Let’s get some dinner while I think about this.”

“Works for me,” Sam agrees. “Oh, did I mention the zone-outs?”

“The what?”

“Zone-outs. Sentinels who get too focused on one sense sometimes zone-out, you know? They need someone to bring them out of it.”

“And you’ll do that? As a Guide?”

“As your Guide,” Sam corrects. “But, yeah. It’s something we’ll have to work on, though. We’ll have to work on all of this. Your senses are so out of whack I’m impressed you’re still walking and talking.”

“Lots and lots of beer,” Dean mutters as he follows Sam out of his office.

-0-

It’s kind of like having a conjoined twin, Dean thinks. Wherever he goes, Sam is right there. It takes some finagling with the police chief, but Bobby has always liked him, so soon enough Sam has his own visitor badge and he’s following Dean around on cases when he doesn’t have school.

He’s a slave driver at night, though, putting Dean through weird sensory tests, but it seems to be helping at least. And the headaches have stopped, which Dean is eternally grateful for.

When he gets a call about a third body, Dean texts Sam to meet him at the scene.

The first thing Sam does when he gets there is puke.

Somehow Dean managed to forget how young Sam actually is. Sam’s a genius by any account, even Dean has figured that much out, so he seems older than Dean sometimes with the way he spouts off knowledge. But he’s four years younger than Dean and infinitely younger if counting by life experience. Dean glances to where Crowley’s waiting and then goes over to Sam, who’s hunched over away from the scene so he doesn’t contaminate it.

Dean crouches down and rubs Sam’s back, offering him a water bottle. “First dead body?”

“Yeah,” Sam rasps. “Sorry.”

“It happens.” Dean tries not to look impatient. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Sam answers, standing up shakily. He rinses his mouth out with the water Dean gave him and then straightens up. “Okay, I’m good.”

“Sure?”

“Yeah.”

Dean waits until Crowley starts poking at things before he turns to Sam. “Okay, do your thing.”

“My thing?”

“Your…you know,” Dean makes a gesture with his hands, but even he isn’t sure what it is.

Sam stares. “Huh, yeah, okay. We’re going to work on your communication skills next.”

Dean glares at him. “Just…whatever, man.”

Sam laughs at him. “Okay, we’ll start with smell since you said you smelled the same thing at each place, right?”

“Yeah.”

“So, close your eyes and take a deep breathe, then let it out.”

Dean does. “Okay?”

“Now do it again, slower this time, and think about everything you smell when you do it.”

“There’s an old burger wrapper, urine, banana--”

“Just focus on the one scent that smells familiar,” Sam cuts in.

Dean can do this. He totally can. So he focuses, breathing in and out until he’s caught it. “I have it.”

“Describe it to me.”

“It smells…” Dean frowns. “It smells like death.”

“Death has a smell?”

Dean shrugs. “Dead bodies, the morgue. That’s what it reminds me of.”

“Anything else?”

“Cinnamon,” Dean decides finally. “There’s like a little bit of that.”

“So cinnamon and death,” Sam muses.

Dean opens his eyes to look at the other man. “Does that mean something to you?”

“Not at all,” Sam says with a shake of his head.

Dean groans. “Then what good does that do us?”

“Who knows? But it’s one more piece to the puzzle.”

“Is it possible you’re the most useless Guide ever?”

Sam grins and his dimples come through making him look even younger. “I’m awesome.”

Dean gives him a shove back towards the police barrier. “Go be awesome back at school.”

“But what if you need me?” Sam frowns.

“I’m heading back to my office,” Dean tells him. “I’ll be fine there.”

“Call me if you think of something.”

“Yeah,” Dean agrees absently.

-0-

The FBI show up the next day and Dean feels guilty that he’s glad to have it out of his hands. The case was growing cold fast and all they had to show for it was four dead bodies and the smell of cinnamon. Even Dean knows that’s not good.

The two agents that arrive are weird. Really weird. Weird all the way from their pop culture reference fail to their names.

“Balthazar,” one of them introduces himself. He sounds British or something, and has a v-neck tee on under his suit jacket. He smiles too much and Dean really doesn’t want anything to do with him. “And this is my partner Castiel.”

“Uh, nice to meet you,” Dean says.

“Detective Singer was kind enough to let us know that you and Detective Crowley are the lead agents on this case, yes?”

“Yeah, that’d be us.”

“Well, let’s pool information and go from there,” Balthazar says politely.

Dean’s in the middle of explaining how little the dump sites have in common when Sam bursts in the door. His cheeks are red from the cold and his hair is wind-blown. He has papers sticking out the sides of his messenger bag and his sweatshirt makes him look like a little kid.

“Hey, Dean,” he greets. “Sorry I’m late.” He turns to the two men in the room. “I’m Sam Wesson,” he says with more energy than Dean feels. “I work with Dean.”

Castiel is the first to offer his hand. “Nice to meet you,” he says in a deep voice. It’s the first time he’s spoken since Dean’s met him. “My name is Castiel.”

Sam shakes his hand with a grin. “Nice to meet you, too. Castiel? As in the angel of Thursday?”

Of course Sam would know completely useless information like that. “That is correct,” Castiel answers.

“And I’m Balthazar,” the other one says. “So, what is it you do with Dean?”

“He’s letting me observe,” Sam answers. “So I guess I’m more of an observer. It’s for my thesis,” he explains. “I’m a grad student at KU.”

“And now that we all know each other,” Dean interrupts. “Can we get back to the case?”

“Sorry,” Sam says again.

At the end of the presentation, it’s quiet, and Sam breaks it first.

“So, uh, huh.”

“Huh?” Dean repeats.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re chasing a vampire.”

“Seriously, dude?” Dean asks. “A vampire? Too much Twilight for you.”

Sam makes a face. “I mean, bodies left at night…necks torn up…blood drained…”

“Right, then,” Balthazar says, standing up. “We’ve got it from here.”

And that’s that. They leave and Dean sees them once more before they go back to wherever they came from. Case closed.

-0-

Except the Sentinel thing doesn’t go away. According to Sam it’s for life. And that’s weird, because that might mean he’s stuck with Sam for life, too. Dean doesn’t relish the idea of zoning-out in the middle of nowhere and he’s already zoned-out three times since he’s met Sam.

It’s almost Christmas when Dean realizes that Sam has moved in with him and he didn’t even notice.

He walks downstairs and finds Sam cooking breakfast in his boxers and a sweatshirt. It’s entirely too cold for Sam to be walking around without pants on and Dean is cold just looking at him.

“Dude, pajamas,” he says, coming up behind Sam.

Sam shrugs. “Don’t have any.”

“You don’t have any pajamas?”

Sam jerks a thumb towards the tiny room that he’s been sleeping in. It’s Dean’s office, or at least it was until Sam moved in. “That’s all the stuff I have.”

Dean peers through the door. There’s a blanket on the couch in there and a suitcase that it appears Sam is living out of. “That’s it?”

“Yep. Never really needed much.”

“Well you need some pants if you’re staying here.”

Sam turns and gives him a wink. “I’ve been told my calves are quite fetching.”

Dean whacks him on the back of the head. “Where’s the coffee, bitch?”

“In the pot, jerk,” Sam shoots back. “You want cheese on your eggs?”

“Yeah.”

And it’s a comfortable routine they have settled into. Sam makes breakfast…and lunch…and dinner, and then after dinner he works with Dean to hone his senses.

The end result is that Dean learns how to use them and not let them use him. He can dial one up and dial the others back. It’s actually really awesome, and other than that mysterious no-way-is-it-a-vampire case, they’ve helped him out a lot.

Another unexpected result is the way his senses cling to Sam.

Sam is around all the time and Dean knows his body better than he knows his own. He knows what Sam’s heartbeat sounds like, he knows exactly how he smells. His eyes have mapped out every inch of available skin that Dean’s seen on him. He knows what Sam’s fingerprints feel like. The only thing missing is taste, which Dean is mostly okay with, even if the Sentinel in him wants to know everything about Sam.

The rest of him kind of wants to know everything about Sam, too.

It’s a crush, Dean figures. And that’s okay--normal even, considering how much time he spends with Sam. But Sam is so young and all he ever talks about is related to school or work. Dean barely knows him, despite how much he does.

Sam sets a plate of eggs down in front of Dean, and some toast to the side of that. He goes back to make some for himself, hips swaying to some music that only Sam can hear. Dean looks at him and thinks maybe.

For now, he lets the sound of Sam’s heartbeat wash over him and the scent of his body wash flow around him.

The Sentinel thing is still weird, but Dean gets it now, and even better he gets Sam, so yeah.

Just… maybe.

-0-