(The characters belong to Kripke etc... we are just playing with them.Rating/Warnings: NC 17; Slash; incest
summary : AU Futuristic. Captain Winchester doesn’t like people messing around in his mind. He’s had some run-ins with telepaths and he hates them all. Too bad he's been paired up to work with Sam Wesson, one of the highest rated Telepaths in the Tel Unit.)
(This is co-written with Charlotte)
He had not stepped foot on Beta Centauri, the space station that was a hub of activity, neutral territory for Earthlings and beings from the known parts of the universe, since graduating six years ago. It was one of the largest space stations and boasted a large economy, merchants, professionals, a banking industry, diplomats, you name it, you could find them there. It was located near busy shipping routes, which also made it a popular place for space weary travelers to refuel and for de-stressing.
Seeing as this was not a voluntary visit, Dean Winchester, a Captain of Earth's Space Corps, was not at all happy to walk the wide halls of the station, even as he headed to its famous bar, Encounters. Dammit, the last thing he wanted... needed... was some telepathic-psychiatrist fool trying to muck around inside his brain. By now, you'd think the Corps would get that his brain was off-limits, that no telepath, no matter how experienced, could get past the blocks he'd put up years ago and now claimed to be unable to break down. Anything anyone wanted to know, they could damned well just ask him.
A couple of cadets moved to the side and saluted. He barely acknowledged them. Right now, all he wanted was a strong drink and a warm willing body. It was that or stay up all night, angry about the poking and prodding to come tomorrow, or thinking about... Right, that was another thing good old fashioned whiskey could help with.
He stepped onto the escalators that went up three stories and right into Encounters. The large circular bar was lit up from behind in neon blue, as were parts of the glassy walls. Smoke occasionally blew out of the floors, lending the place a mysterious air. There were also tables, for those wanting to eat light fare. Mostly, like the name suggested, it was a hook up joint.
Scanning the room, he chose a place at the bar, right where it curved around and he could see both entrances. Sitting down near a view screen, he motioned the bar tender with a jerk of his chin. "Two dopple shots, and a whiskey, straight." He slid his card over to the bar tender.
A few moments later, the three drinks were lined up in front of him, and the bar tender gave him back his card. "Here you go Captain Winchester. Anything else I can help you with? Know how to use the view screen?"
"I got it," Dean dismissed him with a look. Taking one of the shot glasses, he downed it, making a face as the liquid burned all the way down. Then he turned to the right and flicked the view screen on. Choices... so many of them. People looking to hook up. He could choose from people at the bar, or elsewhere on the station. By sex, by hair color, by sign, career. He started sliding his finger over the touch screen, not sure what he was looking for.
Sam had been reading data files all day. More specifically, the personnel files of one Cpt. Dean Winchester. A complex man. It was Sam's suspicion that Winchester would end up trying to dull his anger with an impersonal sexual encounter. A pleased smiled grew on his face when he glanced over at a man sitting at the bar to find him a perfect match for the digital image flashing on his wrist band. He tapped the screen and the image disappeared. Sam was good at his job but it always amused him when he could pin someone's behavior down so specifically.
He moved through the bar quickly, winding his tall, lithe frame through the crowded club. His eyes moved over the crowd, just like always and he opened his mind. Emotions washed over him, faint, Sam didn't allow it to become overwhelming. There was no one in the crowd who presented an immediate threat. He wandered closer and sat a couple of stools away from Winchester. Sam’s powers worked on a simple principle. Like a walkie talkie, if Sam was touching someone then he would be able to perceive their emotions clearly. In fact, it was generally almost impossible for people to hide things from him. The further the physical distance from his subject, the fainter their emotions became. His instinct told him that Winchester would want to initiate a meeting with any potential partner. He used it to his advantage and settled on the stool, slipping his coat off.
Sam had thought this would be a standard job until he'd read Winchester's file. A military officer, traumatized by an assignment, reach him, assist him to process what happened. Simple. But, Captain Dean Winchester was a challenge. Sam was well known in his field as a good choice for someone who was hard to reach. By the age of four Sam had been identified as a level four psychic, suitable for Psychic Interventionist training. The highest ranking. By eight years old he was in the academy and by twelve, Sam could read the emotions of any subject he was exposed to. By sixteen he was working with U.S.E. (Union of Scientific Explorers) on First contact missions with potential alien races.
Sam had been quite proud of his accomplishments when he'd been asked to join the Tel Unit. He was the youngest member by far but his unorthodox methods of learning about his clients or subjects had been ruffling some feathers. Sam liked to meet people in a more natural environment, learn what they were like when they were unguarded. Often, an initial meeting would provide Sam far more access to a client's emotions than a scheduled appointment. The problem, by the Tel unit's standard, was that Sam walked a fine line between ethical and not. Obviously, in a world where psychics were appreciated for their skills - there was an obvious need to protect people from non-consensual intrusions. Sam justified it - because he'd always been more inclined to just receive what emotions were radiating from people rather than pulling. Pulling, Sam reserved for tough cases.
Sam ordered a whiskey, straight up and handed his card to the bartender.
Flipping through the pictures, Dean looked across the room where a blonde depicted in the picture was standing talking to her friends, and every once in a while, answering propositions on the view screen next to her. He decided she laughed too loud and too much. And she was too soft. Maybe that was the problem; every picture he was looking at... no one had an edge to them.
Lifting the shot glass, he knocked it back, and lifted his fingers to indicate he wanted two more. How many would it take to drown out the voices? How many to get him to a place where he was maybe less picky? Taking a couple sips of his whiskey, he went back to the view screen, clearing his prior choices, and touching the 'male' category. There had to be someone who'd appeal to him, one person on this big fucking station. Dean started to flick his finger across the screen, barely looking up when his drinks arrived, and his card was snatched up again.
Sam's drink arrived quickly and he turned it on the black granite bar. His finger tapped gently on the rim of the crystal, the latest trend, antique glass. Obviously Winchester had some money to burn, the kind of club with a granite bar and crystal glasses was probably on the highest end in terms of entertainment value. Sighing, Sam propped his foot up on the stool beside him, he opened his mind further, seeking out Winchester. It was strange, he frowned, the man was well-guarded. There had been no notation in Winchester's file regarding any training that would give him the ability to block his emotions from detection.
He turned on his stool a little, eyes traveling around the club as he surreptitiously glanced at Winchester. He was a handsome man, striking, bold features, green eyes. Sam smiled softly, Tel Unit or not, he'd always had a weakness for green eyes. A frown slipped on to his face again, he could read nothing from Winchester. Sam hoped this wasn't going to be a long intervention. He knew the man had been involved in a traumatic event, but in keeping with Sam's usual process, he'd requested not to be informed of the incident itself.
Dean had drained the next two shot glasses as well, and when the bar tender came by, he said, "times like this, I wish I smoked. Couple more." Putting his hand in front of his mouth, he coughed and looked away from the view screen. Feeling the weight of someone's gaze, he turned his head slightly and pinpointed the source. Tall. Well dressed. Strong jaw, sensual mouth... He leaned a little, not bothering to hide his scrutiny, yeah... built. His eyes meeting the man's, he nodded to the empty seat next to him, inviting him over.
Sam nodded and shifted his foot back down sliding his drink closer and moving to the stool next to the other man. He left his jacket on the other stool, wouldn't hurt with Winchester to imply that he was so casual he might not even be interested. This man was definitely not looking for anything permanent or emotionally draining. He turned and smiled, letting his hair fall down across his eyes.
Dean pushed one of the new shot glasses in front of the guy, and introduced himself. "Dean Winchester," and looked expectantly at him.
Tilting his head slightly in acknowledgment, Sam smiled softly, "Samuel ... Sam." Wrapping long fingers around the shot glass he held it up to Dean and tipped it back. "Thank-you." Still nothing. Sam tilted his head to the side, tongue running over his lip to catch the remains of the drink. "That was good," he smiled. He concentrated, focusing in on Dean. The only thing Sam could sense was a subtle disinterest in most things, not in Sam. His smile grew, showing his dimples, he'd been told he had a great smile.
As he evaluated Sam, Dean knew he was all the things that Dean wasn't. Open. Cheerful. Probably talked a lot in the morning. Maybe if he talked him into his bed, he'd make sure he wasn't around when Dean was having his first coffee. He lifted his chin in a nod, deciding right there and then, yeah... he would take this guy to bed tonight. "I was gonna complain they're watered down, if I hadn't seen him pour it myself," Dean shrugged. "So... what are you doing here?"
"Looking around," Sam let the comment's vagueness stand, his eyes meeting Dean's easily. Sam thought it was unfortunate that he was to meet with Dean professionally in the morning. "I'm here for an appointment tomorrow, not much to do tonight. He picked up his glass and took a drink, trailing the fingers of his other hand through the ring of moisture. He didn't need any of his Tel Unit training to know that Dean was a man of few words and expected even fewer from the people in his life. "You?" The question hung between them for a moment. Sam sensed the slightest touch of desire from Dean. At least he could read something without pulling.
"Dude... place is called Encounters," he raised his brow as if Sam should know, then he lifted his whiskey glass and took a sip, his eyes never leaving Sam's. Something about him... yeah, it was more than the fact they'd be sleeping together by the end of the night. Something in his eyes. Dean ran a hand over his face, deciding that whatever it was, if he'd seen the guy somewhere some time, it didn't really matter.
"So you're here... just one night?" That made it convenient. "Alone?" Dean found his gaze straying to Sam's finger circling the glass, so he took the opportunity to check for a ring.
"Alone," Sam agreed, wishing he wasn't in the club on work-related business. "You're in the Corps." It wasn't a question, the man was wearing a uniform after all. "You people aren't normally up here - special occasion?" He flashed a crooked grin at Dean, noticing the sprinkling of freckles on his cheeks. Sam got a flash of reluctant pride, sad, he thought, to be proud of something you did and yet, somehow, feel undeserving. He frowned down at his drink - unaccustomed to being affected by the emotions he sensed. There was something ... unusual about Dean.
Screams filled Dean's mind, echoing, booming over loud speakers, then there was the absolute silence of space. Blinking away the images, he took a few controlled breaths, then a long drink, swallowing hard. Yeah, he really needed to get laid; it would drown out his thoughts. "Guess you could say that. Classified, sorry," he shrugged as if he didn't have a care in the world. "You do get quite a lot of cadets; they come here from the academy, to blow off steam."
The bar tender returned, but Dean shook his head. The moment the man left, he turned to Sam. "So, how about it? You wanna go and blow off some steam with me?" His gaze dropped to Sam's lips and he leaned closer. "I have a feeling neither of us would regret it."
"I think you're right," Sam turned and met Dean's gaze leaning forward slightly, fingers trailing across Dean's muscular thigh. He allowed himself the one touch, and blinked a few times at the flood of need he felt from Dean. He swallowed and licked his lips, "I know that I wouldn't regret it." He watched as Dean's eyes darkened, knowing his own eyes probably reflected the same desire. "But..." he sat back, taking a deep breath, "I'm unable to ... blow off some steam with you .. tonight." He hadn't intended to pause, hadn't intended to make it sound as though there might be another time, if he were honest though? He would leave with the man right now without a second thought.
Frowning, Dean looked at Sam's hand. Just one touch and ... yeah, his entire body was thrumming. After that, this wasn't the answer he'd expected. Not from the way had been looking at him, and not from his body language. He licked his lips and leaned in closer, close enough where he could smell Sam's light after shave, and feel the warmth radiating from his body. "There is no 'other time.' It's now or never."
Sam felt his body stiffen as Dean drew closer and he took a calming breath. "Then I suppose we will both have something to regret, won't we?" He gazed into Dean's eyes, so very green. For the briefest moment, Sam felt something other than desire, something almost familiar. Shaking it off, he pushed up from the stool. "It was nice to meet you, Dean." His smile was warm, Dean wasn't used to being the one being left - he was much more comfortable doing the leaving. Sam picked up his jacket and walked toward the stairs. The next time he met Dean ought to be quite interesting.
Narrowing his gaze, Dean watched as Sam walked out on him. That sonovabitch had just wasted 20 minutes of his time. As he got up, and the bar tender offered a portable view screen, Dean just waved him off. He hadn't seen anything that interested him, and the way his luck was running lately, he was only half surprised at how the night turned out. Still, he could have sworn...
Standing up, he drank the rest of his drink... no reason to waste good liquor, though he really, really didn't need to be visualizing those eyes... he wasn't gonna waste another minute on that guy, not another minute.
* * *
Clean shaven, uniform pressed and crisp, shoes shined and looking as sharp as he possibly could, Dean had arrived for his forced appointment ten minutes early. He'd been shown to an office in a suite of offices that were clearly rented out like motel rooms, or at least it was clear to him. This room he was now sitting in, for example, was your typical telepath's or psychic vampire's... well that's what he called the bastards... office. Nice couch, a desk, some books on the shelves and pieces of art. But no diplomas on the wall, no permanent electronic equipment, no used pens and stickies on that desk. It was a sterile room.
It was as sterile as the information they would try to pull out of him, he decided. He did not need this or want it ... some idiot civilian rolling around in his head. At least he was confident that they couldn't get in. No one had, not since he's been 13. He'd slammed his mind shut one day, and all the poking and prodding the psychs his dad sent him to did no good, and they'd given up.
Why didn't they get that he did not need any Goddamned analyzing? Bad things happened in space. He'd fucked up, a bad thing happened, it was over. He didn't need help Goddamit.
He looked at his watch, and already he was pissed off. This Dr.... he hadn't even been given his or her name; they were already four minutes late.
Running a hand through his mess of sandy brown hair, Sam took a deep breath and opened the door, striding into the room. "Hello, Dean." He smiled and held out his hand, "Samuel Wesson, Tel unit ID374Delta - would you like to input and verify or are you prepared to take my word that I am who I say I am?" He extended his hand a little more, waiting. The hostility was an interesting contrast to the nothing of the night before.
Dean's gaze clashed openly with Sam's. Very quickly, he put everything together. Last night hadn't been a chance encounter, and this bastard he'd almost taken to bed had never been interested to start with. He didn't bother with shaking hands or verifying anything. "Disqualify yourself from this misguided intervention, right now, or I will put in a complaint for tampering with a patient," he said through gritted teeth.
Sam's smile softened. "I do understand the way you feel about this, genuinely," Sam sighed, "but nothing I did last night was in contravention of Tel Unit protocols. It's entirely up to each psi practitioner whether or not we have any anonymous interaction with a client previous to our first arranged engagement." Sam tilted his head and waited for the news to filter through Dean's defenses. "Believe me, Dean; I've studied the protocols better than anyone. I have a slight penchant for being, unconventional." He settled in the chair across from Dean's, "many of my colleagues may have even attempted a pull in a public place, I don't do that. I think it's an invasion." Sam got comfortable, shrugging off his jacket, "would you like to sit, Dean?"
"No, I would not like to sit." A muscle throbbed in Dean's jaw as he did just that. He'd argued up and down with his superiors and there had been no way out of this. Direct orders. Damn the man, for more reasons than one. He hated getting caught with his pants down, and that's what had happened. He hadn't suspected Sam for even a fraction of a second, which... yeah, that in and of itself was odd.
Dean gripped the arms of the chair. "This is another complete waste of my time."
"I'm sorry you feel that way." Sam could feel nothing but hostility and anger. It wasn't surprising. His strategy in seeking Dean out before their appointment was working so far. Just as he'd thought, Dean's defenses were marginally affected by his anger. He was going to be a tough nut to crack though. Sam smiled, and made a mental note to find out where that expression came from.
"So - there are two ways we can go about this. I read in your file that you've met with Tel unit in the past. It doesn't seem to have been very productive, probably why they sent me," he muttered the last part almost under his breath. Sometimes, Sam wished he could get chosen to deal with the kids who had been abandoned by their parents rather than full grown men who'd had a life-time of practice at learning how to keep him distant. "I can do a passive read with your assistance. If you're willing to just let me share your mind. Or, I can do a pull." Sam looked up and met the blazing eyes of his client. "Are you familiar with what a pull consists of, Dean?"
"You're the psychic, you tell me what I'm going to choose." He raised his chin, irritated that this man didn't seem intimidated at all.
Sam shrugged and unsnapped his wrist band. "Pull it is then. Would you like to take ... your ... any of your ... stuff off?" Sam smiled. The other man was wearing full dress uniform, much more than Sam would ever wear willingly.
"No." After the word was out, he realized the room was overheated. Bet it was Wesson's 'unconventional' technique. It wouldn't do him any good though. "Let's just get this over with." I don't want to waste another minute of my time on you.
Raising his eyebrows Sam settled back in the chair, "fair enough." It really was a shame that he would never get to enjoy Dean's company. He was an interesting man. Sam couldn't help the smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth. He cleared his throat. "Are you ready?"
Was he trying to irritate him some more? All those smiles, the acting like this was a voluntary consultation when Dean couldn't wait to get the hell out of here. Sniffing, he merely waited. The silence was a little awkward, but Dean didn't give a shit. This whole damned thing was awkward.
When Sam initially leaned in toward him, Dean didn't pull back. For the space of a heartbeat, it felt like last night... safe. Then he remembered this was one of the bloodsuckers, and sat back as far as he could, eyes drilling into Sam's.
Sam closed his eyes and focused. Dean provided a shockingly easy target, the man's anger and resentment was like a beacon. The smiled faded from Sam's face and he opened his eyes again and leaned further forward, staring into those green eyes. They were a little distracting at first. Sam had once described his gift as though it was like having the ability to stand close enough to someone to feel the heat radiating off their body. When Sam let his mind go, he could feel what other people felt, often became quite absorbed in their emotions. It wasn't unheard of for Sam to feel sad himself, feel ill, and want something he had never known he wanted. The walls, walls like the ones Dean had managed to build, were tricky. Of all the people in the unit though, Sam had the most success at slipping through them. His secret was to wait, lean on the walls, and not push. He could never quite describe what he did - but it seemed to work.
Sam tested, running his mind along Dean's. As always there were things that resided well outside the protected part of Dean's thoughts: his work, his animosity toward Sam, hatred of Tel Unit in general, he liked Sam's lips, had wanted to kiss him. Sam beamed a smile at Dean then licked his lips for good measure. He had a feeling that he wasn't going to leave this appointment with many more things to smile about. "I wanted to kiss you last night too," he said never breaking his lock on Dean's eyes.
Dean jerked back. He was reading him. This man was doing what no other bloodsucker had in years, he was reading him. "Yeah well, I'm over it," he responded, trying desperately to slam his mind shut. This hadn't happened before. He'd thought no one could slip through, no one.
The other man's thoughts and feelings wavered momentarily and Sam began to feel. It was a bit vague at first, and for once, Sam had more images at first than feelings. There were a lot of people, and anguish. It was heart-breaking. Sam's smile disappeared quickly, replaced by a frown, his eyes narrowing. He pulled. Contrary to what most people thought, Sam didn't get any enjoyment out of pulling emotion, it just felt wrong. This time, it felt worse. For some reason, Sam felt unsettled, as though there were more to his connection with Dean than what he was forcing. It was strange. And suddenly, as his mind wandered, he was through to a different place. He watched Dean's face as it slowly registered the intrusion. The ship, the trauma. This was why Sam had been brought to see Dean.
Feeling Sam deep inside his memories now, unwilling to believe the truth, Dean sucked in a breath of air. His knuckles started to turn white as he concentrated, wanting Sam out of his mind. And yet... he could feel a tug, and another, and was powerless to stop it. Sam was sifting through his mind, dammit.
He'd been on leave, but volunteered to pilot a galaxy class subspace vessel taking critically needed supplies, including a vaccine to deal with the deadly outbreak of space plague, to a newly colonized planet. Sitting around on his ass just wasn't a Winchester thing. Everything should have been routine, and it was, until he was alerted to a distress signal from a large malfunctioning passenger ship that was slowly being dragged into the gravitational pull of a planet.
Dean tried to pull his mind back, take back the territory Sam was gaining, fucking violating. His chest rose and fell, but his mind ... it was Sam's for the time being.
"Two hundred eighty nine people? What about your escape vessels?"
Dean wiped his face with his hand. He was looking at a sea of faces, begging, shouting to go with him. Even after jettisoning non-essential cargo, all he could take was twelve.
Fights broke out. People started drawing lots, arguing about who won. The small crew could hardly hold the crowd of desperate people back, and looking at the dials on the wall, Dean could tell the ship was falling at an escalating pace. He would have to detach his vessel quickly, if he was going to get anyone to safety.
"Enough," he shouted. Some listened, some didn't. He started walking around the large ship, pointing, choosing people. "You, you, you," he walked a few more rows, felt a woman wrap her arms around his leg, begging, screaming. Bending over, he forced her to release him, felt her tears on his hand, forced himself not to react.
"You, and you."
"What about my sister?" The young boy asked.
Dean looked at her and saw she was an adult, shook his head no, and cringed at the shouts of "what about my sister... why not my sister." And he could hear the sister pushing the young boy to leave.
"On the ship," he told the children he'd selected. Some of them he had to tear out of their mothers' arms, as they struggled to stay with their parents.
"Where's the kid, the boy with the sister, where is he? Last chance..." Dean almost ... almost felt tears in his eyes. He didn't insist the boy come along. "Good luck," he whispered, and walked off the deck, pushing the kids he was taking to run. His hand was on his weapon, though he hadn't drawn it.
From behind him, he heard the wails and the shouts, and thundering footsteps... people clamoring to go with them.
"Run," he shouted. The instant the hatch was closed; he disconnected from the ship and pulled away. He left radio contact open because he was recording goodbye messages by people on the other ship. As the ship fell lower and lower, it's hull heating, turning red, screams erupted over the speaker. Before he could hit the cut-off button, the ship was swallowed up by space, and there was an eerie silence.
It didn’t last. The children started screaming and crying."
"Your fault, it's your fault."
"I want my mommy!"
Dean felt the tears that had refused to come before, and tried to pull away. "Enough!"
"Not quite yet, Dean, I'm sorry," and Sam genuinely was. Sorry. There was something else there, something, far worse. Dean wasn't the kind of man who couldn't handle any of the decisions he made during his time in command. In fact, he seemed, somehow, more comfortable functioning within the confines or rules and regulations. But...Sam shook his head and pressed his fingers against Dean's temple ... there was an overwhelming sense of loss. It was to do with the children, and yet not. It was confusing, and Sam was finding the grief ... too much... he blinked and glanced away from the sorrow and anger in Dean's eyes. The Children, a child. "Who...did you lose?" Sam whispered.
Dean blinked, hand lifting off the arm rest to shove Sam away, maybe punch him... he just barely held back. He moved his head, letting Sam's fingers slip off his temple, and taking a couple more calming breaths. "Did you get what you need?" How had this man slipped into his mind, how Goddamit? "Are we done here?"
Sam gasped in a breath of air and sat back too hard in the chair, the front legs lifted momentarily off the floor. "I didn't .. I mean ... I'm sorry." Sam's hand slipped up the back of his neck and rubbed gently, it ached and he couldn't shake off the sense of loss that was flooding through him. "W..we're finished here." Sam knew Dean was waiting for confirmation that there was no reason for him to be pulled from active duty but his mouth was dry. He reached out blindly for the table beside him and grabbed a container of water; he fumbled with the top and finally managed to get it open so he could gulp down a few swallows. He held his hand up to Dean, indicating he needed a minute.
Making an impatient sound, Dean stood up and turned his back to Sam. Without his too insightful eyes on him, he looked up and took a deep breath. "Is this supposed to make you feel better?" he asked, his voice too thick with emotion. "Stir things up instead of leaving them the hell alone." Running his hand over his face, he cursed, but kept it to a whisper, before he turned to look at Sam.
"I apologize for the intrusion. It's my ... job. I know you understand that." He lowered his eyes, realizing he was gripping the material of his own uniform pants tightly. Once Sam had managed to calm his thoughts a bit - he reached out - wondering. Once more, the other man was completely closed off. Whatever had given Sam a slight edge was now gone and he wasn't going to try anything else.
Sam picked up his wrist band and snapped it back on, activated the screen and tapped it a few times. "I've cleared you to resume duty." Oddly enough, he could sense the other man's surprise.
Dean looked at him for a long moment, bent down and picked up his hat. "Then we're done." With that, he turned and strode out of there, a strange feeling lingering in his gut. Something he couldn't shake, and he wasn't so sure it had to do with the memories that telepath had stirred up. The feelings seemed more focused on the man himself. "God, I hope I never see you again. Ever," he said under his breath, but knew, deep down, that since Wesson was the only telepath to get into his head, the next time it was deemed he needed a psych evaluation, that's who they'd send.
* * *
[Two Years Later]
The trip to the planet Aragon would take two weeks. Facilities had already been built on the planet that was to be colonized, and Space Corps was escorting scientists and a test group of colonists to the planet and would oversee their safety for six months until the conclusion of the test phase. If the green light was given then, there would be a full on colonization effort, with eventually over a million people starting new lives at their new home.
Though he was not the captain of the ship taking them to the planet, he would be sharing flying duties with the ship's captain, which suited Dean just fine because he hated nothing worse than having nothing to do. Most of the people they were taking would choose to be put to sleep for the two week trip, opting for the comfort of oblivion over the sparseness of the ship. This was no luxury vessel, with most of the rooms as small as a privy and very little offered for entertainment.
Sitting in the guest office on the ship and reviewing the trip details one last time and more particularly, making sure that his people were well equipped for anything that happened when they reached the planet, Dean was interrupted by a cough at the door. He looked up, "yes."
"Almost everyone is on board, sir."
"But?" Dean impatiently prodded the Corporal, raising his eyebrows.
"Mr. Dresden, from Tel Unit, has been injured in an accident and a replacement is being sent."
"Should be here any time. Sir, it is Sam Wesson."
The pen in Dean's hand dropped. "Absolutely not. He is on my 'do not use' list, you know that. Do whatever it takes..." As Dean spoke, the tall telepath he'd successfully avoided for years took up the doorway. "Get him off my ship," he said, without mincing words.
Sam blinked a few times, standing quietly in the doorway. "It's nice to see you again, Captain." Smiling, Sam stepped into the room, "unfortunately, you're stuck with me. No one else was available in time to meet with launch requirements." He paused and tilted his head to the side a slight frown flitting across his face as he felt a wave of hostility from Dean. "Of course," Sam nodded to the corporal as he wisely chose that moment to exit the office, "if you'd like to convince the powers-that-be that we should wait another six months before launching - you're obviously welcome to try."
(A/N: So... anyone into AU futuristic stories?)