Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

In the middle of a gunfight, there isn’t much to think about. Survival clung to Dean’s fading mind as camouflage and bullets tore past too fast to register. The Gotoro Empire was closing in, and he was falling behind.

He couldn’t get caught—not by a stray bullet, not by a soldier. He pushed harder, trying to outrun the whistling fire. The treeline was close, uphill enough to steal his breath. They were all escaping, dishonor and livid lieutenants waiting on the far side of the forest.

Kent ran ahead, steady and sure. He reached the trees, ducking into cover—just as Dean stopped dead. A scream ripped from his chest as he tumbled to the dirt. A white-hot sear tore through his leg. He looked down, stupidly, at the blooming, too-red flower on his thigh, and the world tilted.

“Man down!” Kent’s voice cracked raw. He spun back, veins standing out at his neck as he heaved Dean onto his shoulder. Dean should’ve made it himself. He shouldn’t have needed saving. He shouldn’t have been shot. He shouldn’t be here.

But the blood wouldn’t stop. His vision was already thinning at the edges.

“Stay with me, soldier,” Kent said, over and over, a drumbeat against the chaos.

The trees blurred as Dean’s head lolled. Behind them, a bomb split the air—branches and bark exploded outward. Kent dove. Dean, limp, merely a shield to his friend— took the worst of it.

When the silence fell, Kent staggered upright and burst through the last of the brush, Dean still dangling off him.

“Medics! I need a fucking medic!”

Hands closed in, lifting him off Kent’s shoulder and onto a waiting gurney. Through the blur, he caught a voice—calm, deep, immovable:

“I’m Dr. Harvey. You’re in good hands, soldier.”

Harvey's hands were just that. Warm and steady. He moved around the gurney with the quick, efficient grace of a man who knew his own strength and space.

Salvation came to Dean on his knees. But it wasn't from God; there were no prayers, no preachers, no ordained goodness offering purpose. There was no purpose in God, only surrender. And Dean didn't surrender to just anyone.

A different kind of warmth spread through him. Slender, firm fingers tangled in his hair, pushing him closer to a more tangible deliverance.

"Dean—" Harvey muttered, keeping his voice low and quiet. His head was tilted back against the pillow. The columns in his neck stood tall, proud as Dean took him deeper, savoring, swallowing, worshiping in the sanctuary of this small bedroom. "Look at me, sweetheart, let me see those eyes."

Dean nearly choked, his chest growing tight, but when he looked into Harvey's eyes, he was back home in the lush greens of Cindersap Forest, sunlight speckled through the tree tops. Home was a long way from here. 

Dean’s mouth was dry. He tried to speak: “If I die—”

“Not going to happen,” Harvey cut him off, already working fast. “You’re in the best hands. Don’t look at your leg, just look at me, you’re going to be fine.”

Pain seared. The bullet was still lodged deep, the heat draining from his body.

“Maru—blood infusion, now," Harvey commanded, not looking up, his focus absolute, his posture straight and powerful under his scrubs. Then, a prick in his arm—nothing compared to the fire in his leg..

“On it, Doctor.” A woman leaned over him. Glasses blurred in and out of focus. “Can you see how many fingers I’m holding up?”

He blinked, shook his head weakly. Too much blur, too much ringing— he tried to speak, tried to tell the kind doctor about home, but he was losing his senses.

The ringing never stopped. Tinnitus, his doctor had told him. The bombs and bullets ruined not only his mind but also his body, but he never complained to Harvey about this. 

 Harvey’s taste was on his tongue, and Dean, ever so loyal, swallowed everything Harvey gave him. 

A hand cupped his cheek, warm and firm, guiding Dean off his length, and signaling him to come closer. Eager, Dean rose, crawling over Harvey’s body, careful not to put pressure on his lower back. Dean settled in by Harvey’s side, a spot he swore he was born to be. 

He nuzzled his face into the crook of Harvey's neck, mapping hot, wet, open-mouth kisses along the salty surface of his neck and jaw. Harvey groaned, his hand pressing into the mattress to try and shift his weight, a faint tremor of effort in his arm before he settled again.

“Are you okay?” Dean paused, whispering the words against Harvey’s skin. 

“It’s fine,” he muttered, his voice losing that dominant edge before snapping back into his command, “I’m gonna take care of you, sweetheart.” 

He felt Harvey’s voice between his legs before his hand.

Warm hands steadied him. A voice cut through the static:

“Private Galigan? If you can hear me, squeeze my hand.”

In his mind, Dean reached for safety like a boy clutching his guardian.

“Good,” Harvey said. “That’s good.”

His hand was warm. Steady. Dean focused on that point of contact, the first thing that hadn’t hurt since the forest. He held on like it was the only thing tethering him to the world.

“Dr. Harvey, his vitals are improving.”

“Lucky guy,” Harvey muttered. “He’ll be home soon enough.”

“I can’t wait to go home,” another, whimpering young voice whispered, the last words he heard before the drugs put him under. 

Home. The words echoed in the darkness of his slumber. What a cruel joke.

“Once Private Galigan makes a recovery, he will resume active duty. Thank you for your Service, Dr. Patterson.”

Those words ripped him from a deep slumber; the tent was pitch black, but quiet snores alerted him to another’s presence.  

When trying to sit up, he remembered his cruel circumstances. A hiss tore from his lungs, bedsheets crinkled, and an alarmingly young voice grunted, “Shut the fuck up.” 

Before he could respond, the tent’s entrance gave way to a stream of flashlight, and in walked a strikingly tall man. 

“Don’t be like that, Private Mullner,” the doctor warned, turning on a kerosene lamp. Facing Dean, he could recognize the familiar glasses of the man who saved his life. 

“I’m happy to see you awake, soldier.” His smile was polite, but his tired eyes gave him away. “I’m Dr. Harvey, in case you forgot.”

Despite the dry mouth and weakness, he tried to speak.

When Harvey’s hand wrapped around him, stroking him to the edge with deft, careful movements, he had to hide, pressing his face against Harvey’s shoulder to absorb. The moans. The heat cooled in his stomach, his hips stuttering at the growing friction. 

“Baby,” Dean gasped against him, writhing, trying to get impossibly close.

“Shh.” Harvey soothed, slowing his rhythm, “Quiet, sweetheart— don’t let them hear.”

He nodded, biting his lip. He closed his eyes in that dark bedroom, the bed creaked beneath him with each jerk of his hips— and when his eyes snapped open, the creaking was the sound of an old wooden frame, not their bed at home.

The sheer heat of Harvey’s feverish body against his side was what finally woke him fully. Morning light crept through gaps in rotting wood boards. Dean listened, heart hammering, for the noises of war: raining bombs, combat boots crushing leaves, parades of bullets. He could only hear the birds chirping, singing their songs. It had been so long since he'd heard that.
The war had moved farther west, but the threat of being found was something Dean simply couldn’t shake. Too many close encounters had drilled that terror into him.

Harvey was a dead weight against him, glued to his side, breathing ragged against his neck. Proof of life. Proof they had survived this far.

Dean couldn’t grasp it. The memories. They broke his mind. Home. Someplace he’d never see again, yet never be without. Salvation had found them in this crumbling cabin, and it was a fragile, feverish thing. 

There were days Dean missed that decrepit thing. Hidden, away from the world, just him and Harvey. He was prepared to die there. Parts of him did. 

The hand between his legs was a testimony. He was alive. He was free. He was safe. He was his tether to reality. 

Harvey's lips caught his, a brute, feverish kiss, all tongue and teeth, making Dean reach that edge, the coil snapped, spilling down Harvey’s skilled, warm, good hands. 

After a moment of breathless panting, he felt Harvey’s hand near his face. Dean's own grabbed Harvey’s wrist, pulling it to his lips and savoring every last drop, cleaning Harvey’s hand, sucking his testimony from his fingers. 

Harvey’s thumb left his mouth with a pop, moving to cradle Dean’s face, and pull his body back onto his. He closed his eyes in that dark bedroom once more, the bed creaking beneath them—but this time, he didn’t leave. He held on. To the sound of Harvey’s breath, to the warmth of his skin, to the present.

Afterward, they lay tangled together in the quiet dark, the only sound their slowing heartbeats and the distant hum of the world beyond their sanctuary. Harvey’s hand traced slow, possessive circles on Dean’s back.

“Was I good?” Dean whispered, voice tired and hollow as he listened to the frantic beat of his lover’s heart.

Harvey pressed his lips to the top of Dean’s silvering hair and told him, voice husky, “You’re always so good for me, sweetheart.”

Dean nuzzled into the crook of Harvey’s neck, breathing him in—soap and sweat and something uniquely, irreplaceably Harvey.

This was salvation. 

Chapter Text

Dean could finally breathe. His hair was damp, sticking to both his and Harvey’s skin. The soft snores coming from Harvey made his heart race. He’d been lying still for too long. Dean unwrapped himself from Harvey, gently untangling their legs, careful not to hurt the other.

Soft carpet warmed his feet as he pattered across the room to the ensuite. He caught his reflection in the mirror. His hair had faded to gray so quickly, stark against his midnight-black strands. Water ran over his hands as he ducked his head, rinsing the tiredness from his eyes. Dragging his coarse hands down his face, he felt the ridges of his scar. From the bridge of his nose to under his right eye—Harvey had done the best he could. It wasn’t his fault they kept busting it open.

A heavy sigh was released from his lungs. Keeping the faucet on, he ran a rag under the water, wringing it out to make sure it didn’t drip on the floor. If Harvey slipped because of him, he’d probably die.

Once the faucet creaked, the water ran dry. Dean moved back into the bedroom, sitting on the edge of their soft bed, and began to wipe away the sticky sweat from his brows, his chest, his crotch, and his thighs.

Harvey didn’t budge, sound asleep, lying on his side. Dean walked around the bed, sitting on the other side, mapping the expanse of Harvey’s back with the wet rag. Every inhale, every exhale reminded him that they were alive. He took his time. He always did here.

The rag made its way down to his lower back. Dean paused, sucking in his breath. He moved the hand towel off Harvey’s body, dropping it onto his bedside table. His hands reached for Harvey’s lower spine. The feel of this rough, knotted scar under his fingers now was so different from how it felt then—hot, swollen, and angry under his frantic hands in the filtered sunlight of the cabin.

Dean coughed on the dust motes flying through the air. It was stifling. The coppery smell of blood and infection cut through the pine forest. The sound of Harvey’s teeth chattering one minute, only to be halted by a shattered groan.

Dean’s own hands—younger, still roughed by war—shook violently. He could barely hold a knife over a flame. Every flick of his lighter failed. Each spark thwarted him. Harvey was face down on an old, dirty mattress. The tourniquet Dean had made wasn’t letting loose. But when Dean finally sterilized the knife and cut it loose, he was met with a wound, a horror show of red, weeping flesh.

“Clean,” Harvey mumbled into the miserable mattress. A fragment of his professional self was forcing its way through the delirium. They were the first words he’d spoken since their desertion. Pale and waxy in the face, the only color in Harvey’s skin was two spots of high, delirious color on his cheeks.

“I know, baby,” Dean muttered, voice shaking, raw, “I’m trying, I promise.” His heart was a wild drum in his chest, not from passion, but from pure, undiluted terror. He was a soldier. He was to cause wounds, not suture them. He’d only make it worse. Harvey was mumbling incoherent sentences. Orders. Medical terminology. The names of drugs they didn’t have access to. He didn’t even have more bandages. He never had them to begin with. Dean’s undershirt was torn to shreds, hardened, and sticky with the deep hues of blood.

He raised his black t-shirt over his head, using his bare hands to rip it in half, making it longer. Before anything else, he ran the last of their clean water over Harvey’s wound. His frantic, clumsy hands dabbed at it with his shirt, a futile attempt to follow Harvey’s orders. Every hitch in Harvey’s breath felt like a personal failure.

“Stay with me,” Dean begged, a hot pressure pooling in his eyes, “Come on, Harvey, don’t you dare quit on me.” He said it over and over, a frantic echo of the drumbeat Harvey had once used on him in that medic tent. Stay with me, soldier.

Harvey ignored his cursing, silently sitting on Dean’s bedside, uncurling the bloodied bandages around his calf. Harvey let out a weary sigh. "Six inches higher, and we'd be having a very different conversation."

Dean nearly rolled his eyes.

“Lucky me,” he mumbled while watching Harvey unravel his bandages. The dim light dampened the severity of the wound, but Dean was thankful for this.

“You’re getting sent home,” Dr. Harvey said, his voice a low whisper, but it was impossible to avoid Mullner's fiery anger. A pillow, a poor weapon, flew across the tent, knocking over a tray of medical instruments. The metal tools crashed to the ground, scattering and clanging before finally settling. Dr. Harvey knelt on the hard ground, collecting his instruments. “Temporarily,” he continued, his voice low. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m fucking not.”

Dr. Harvey didn’t scold the other soldier this time; Dean assumed he understood the outburst.

Dean looked over. Mullner met his eyes, the kid’s eyes void of life, glossed over as if tears were threatening him. Now that he was awake, conscious, Dean realized he knew not only the name, but the face. George’s grandson. He was just a boy, recently eighteen. One of the unlucky ones. A child on the battlefield. His entire youth was stripped from him, lost somewhere in the fray.

“Alex?” Dean asked quietly, as the doctor silently cleaned up his mess.

It was silent. He felt two sets of eyes on him, but he could only look at the scared little boy lying on the cot beside him. For a brief second, Alex’s eyes filled with a lightness that should accompany such a young man.

“You’re the farmer’s grandson,” he said, his voice shaken and breathless. “You— you deliver food to my granddad…”

A flicker of memory—a basket full of leeks, the old weathered panels of their house, George in his wheelchair, a young boy hiding in the hall.

“I did.”

“Can you tell my granddad I’m okay? Grandma, too?” His breathing grew heavy, his voice laced with cold air when he spoke. “Don’t tell them I’m here. Just tell them I’m okay.”

Dean remembered only being able to nod, not looking the poor boy in the eyes. He couldn’t give his word. There was no such thing as promises in this environment. Everything was a gamble, including their lives.

There was a bang. Dean flinched, taking his hand off Harvey’s back. The noise had awoken him, too. “Dad? Pa?” a little voice sobbed behind the door. More knocking. Harvey grunted, using all his force to sit up straight. He maneuvered his legs to the edge of the bed, then looked at Dean with tired eyes. “Can you grab me some pants?”

“Mhm, ‘course, baby,” Dean whispered, rushing to get not only pants for Harvey, but for himself. After digging through the stuffed drawer, he bellowed out, “One second, sweet girl!”

Shorts were easier. He tucked his own pajama shorts under his armpit, walking over to Harvey and placing the silk shorts into his hands. Harvey’s fingers curled around them. The jingle of a dog tag made its way down the hall. Paws scratched against their painted door. Once, then twice.

“Can you just help me? It’s quicker,” Harvey asked once more, his voice quiet and muffled by their daughter’s subsiding sobs. The dog was there. She was trained for that.

But Dean was trained for this, silently sinking to his knees. His hand tenderly shrouded Harvey’s ankle, moving one, then the other, through the pant legs. The shorts ascended his calves and his thighs until they couldn’t anymore. On cue, Harvey’s hands were around his neck, and Dean lifted him to his feet with ease, reaching between them to make sure Harvey was fully covered.

“Bed or chair?”

“Chair, please.”

Dean kissed the side of Harvey’s head. His arms held Harvey with practiced, trained strength as he gently sat him down in the wheelchair tucked beside the foot of the bed.

Harvey strode across the room, confident and quick, waiting by the door as Dean finished tucking himself into his pants. When the door swung open, their daughter was sitting on the floor, curled next to the dog, Sasha, who had used her head as a grounding weight.

The second the door was open, both their daughter and the dog were on their feet. Sasha ran past Harvey, kneeling by Dean’s feet, looking up at him in warning. Meanwhile, their little girl wasted no time, climbing into the chair with Harvey, hiding in his arms, shoving her tearful face into his chest.

Claws scratched against his covered knee. Insistently even. She was just doing her job, yet the weight of a sinking rock filled his chest. Dean watched them, his heart racing—Harvey’s hand cupping the back of their daughter’s head, her small body curled trustingly against his chest. Sasha leaned against Dean’s leg, a warm, living weight, whimpering for him to listen.

Chapter Text

“You know, doc,” Alex chided, while getting his IV swapped, “Dean over there was quite the dog back home.”

Dean, who was lying on his side, avoiding pressure on his leg, ignored him. He had no bark or bite at the moment. The camo green tent they were in had become his entire world. In a week, he was scheduled to go home temporarily. His promise to Alex still hung heavily in the humid air. 

Before Dr. Harvey or Dean could respond, the tent flapped open. Craning his neck to see, Kent was standing in the entryway. Heavy bags lived under his eyes. Dean looked at his arms— they were straining against his uniform; he’d just kept getting bigger and bigger. He was a tank. All muscles. All machinery. 

Dr. Harvey went to open his mouth, to protest— tell Kent he shouldn’t be here, but the second the doctor’s eyes fell on Kent’s badge, his lips went tight and thin, uttering out a weary, “Evening, Corporal.”

"Good evening, doctor," Kent said, the title falling harshly from his lips. He locked eyes with Dean, a faint smile crossing his lips."Taking care of my boys, I see. Pelican Town's finest." 

But Kent didn’t look at Alex, only moved to sit beside Dean. “Sit up, let me see you, soldier,” Kent commanded, his voice deep and firm, a tone he doesn’t use with anyone else. 

Like a submissive dog, he did just that. Fighting back the wince that pulled at his features as he shifted in the cot. Kent clapped his hand on Dean’s shoulder, lingering. He caught Harvey staring. The doctor quickly went back to taking care of Alex. The doctors' movements were tenser than before. 

“Kent–I’m sorry, Corporal,” Alex chimed in, clearly left out, “Wasn’t Dean quite the dog back home? Everybody loved him. The ladies and the men—” 

The air grew thin, Kent’s voice overpowered the remaining oxygen, “A dog? Have some respect, Mullner. This man can out-drink, out-fight, out-fuck any boy in this unit.”

Kent’s hand connected with his shoulder once more, a hard, open-palmed smack that punctuated his words. Dean took a deep breath in, then held it.

“Dean Galigan, my best friend, is no dog Mullner," he finished with a cold, deep whisper, standing up to shadow over Alex, still staying at Dean’s bedside. “Don't forget, we keep our home lives to ourselves.”

Dean could see it in everyone's eyes. Fear. It was probably on his own. It’s been a long time since Kent referred to him as a friend. 

Dr. Harvey quickly put his head down, finishing Alex’s IV in a deafening silence. However, for one fractured second, his eyes flicked up. Their gazes caught. The word narrowed to that small space between the cots.. Dean really liked his eyes, but not like this— not with that all-knowing fear dancing amongst them. 

“Kent,” Dean’s voice felt far away, but still, he tried to speak, tried to defuse the tension. “It’s okay. I’m desirable, what can I say?”

Kent scoffed at Alex before turning his back to the young man and the doctor. 

With a surprisingly soft voice, Harvey turned to Kent, his shoulders held high, and said, “You can treat these men however you want in your domain, but you treat them with respect in this tent.” He wasn’t stronger than Kent, but certainly much taller. 

Kent cocked his head to the side, a smile curling on his lips. “My bad, doctor.” His voice was sharp, his eyes were scanning the other man’s thinner, taller frame. “I forgot what your parents told me about you. Softest Patterson of the bunch, for sure. Hear from your brothers lately? I hear they’re doing good work for the Republic up in the sky.” 

Dean could only hold his breath. Alex was looking down at his lap, fighting back his emotion, and Dr. Harvey didn’t waver, despite such a personal attack. 

“Dean— when you visit home, why don’t you check in on the boys for me? I’m sure they miss having a man in the household.” 

“I doubt your wife cares to see me.” 

“Nonsense. Vincent's young, don’t want him to become a momma’s boy.” Dean felt the cool metal of his dog tag shift around his neck. Kent’s cold, rough hands straightened it out. “Try not to end up here again, buddy. You know I hate to see you on your back.” 

And with that, Kent walked out of the small tent, and all the air rushed back inside. The silence stayed thick and heavy. Dean’s mind was racing. He looked around the room. Alex had that thousand-yard stare. Dean knew the look. He’s seen it plenty during his service. 

“Alex..” Dean whispered, breathlessly trying to get the boy's attention. He only looked ahead. “You’re okay. Alright? You didn’t do a thing wrong, you hear me?”

Mullner gave a subtle, stiff nod, his eyes glossed over and distant.

Dean released a heavy sigh, slowly, lying flat. There was a harsh, unwavering heat in his gut.  His eyes locked onto the shadow of the tent poles and the sound of Dr. Harvey moving around the tent, shuffling papers, the stroke of his pen, the sound of his stethoscope against his coat. 

He spent much of his time listening to Harvey and his signs of life. His voice pierced Dean’s ears like a dog whistle. Unignorable. 

“Hey, why don’t you go meet me in your room? I’ll be right behind you.” His voice echoed in his ears, sweet and soft, floating around his circling mind.

“Okay, Dad,” he heard his little girl say, voice no longer filled with tears. The cold, wet snout of their dog was pressing into his shaking hands. 

There was a creak, then a click. A warm hand on his lower back, guiding him to a soft mattress. A furry weight on his lap. 

“Dean, sweetheart,” his voice now more hushed, more worrisome. “There’s someone outside.”

The dog whimpered, her tail wagging fiercely. 

“It’s late.” 

“I know.” 

“I’ll handle it.” Dean scooted out from beneath Sasha, giving her a firm, loving pet on the head, before standing, “Can you handle her?”

“Always do,” Harvey whispered, placing a grounding hand on Dean’s hip, before going to their daughter. 

When Harvey was out of the room, he walked to their closet, reaching up to the top shelf to grab a case. He swung it off the shelf, heaving it onto their bed. With shaking hands, he began scrolling the metal dial. Once the code was in, it clicked open. The dog’s bark made his shoulders rise, but after looking over his shoulders, his hands reached down and curled around the clean, metal barrel of his gun. 

He loaded two bullets into the rifle, clicked off the safety, and began tiptoeing out of the bedroom and to their front door. Dean could only see the shadow of a man. 

He closed his eyes, said a quick prayer, and swung open the door, pointing his weapon at the person at his front door.

“If you’re a reporter—“

The words faltered the moment Dean was met with ancient, ocean blue eyes. 

“Grandpa?”

The man behind the barrel smiled, warm and welcoming. “I didn’t raise no soldier, Dean.”

The gun clattered to the floor. The figure on the doorstep wasn’t a soldier or a spy from the Republic; it was just an old man, looking every bit like he’d crossed oceans and ideologies just to be here.

A sound escaped Dean’s throat—half sob, half disbelieving laugh. He stood frozen, his mind scrambling to catch up with the reality that the greatest threat on his porch was his grandfather’s raised eyebrow. 

“Are you going to invite me in,” Grandpa asked, his voice raspy with exhaustion, “or should I spend my final days roaming around Castle Village?”

Dean was still speechless, his heart hammering for a different reason now.

Chapter Text

From the hallway, Harvey’s voice cut through the silence, laced with a familiar, weary affection.

“I told you to get rid of that damned gun, Dean.”

“Pa, those are illegal,” his daughter scolded, carrying the same weight in her tone as Harvey. 

“Oh, Dean,” Grandpa chided, patting his back fondly, “you know what they say about happy wives.”

“Fine!” Dean huffed, turning on his heel to store the gun away safely. He then froze, turning back to look at his family, old and new, and sighed, “and we’re not married.”

“Yet,” Harvey interjected, then looked at grandpa and half-whispered, “wouldn’t you know, being a refugee is expensive.” 

It was the last thing Dean heard before he walked into his bedroom. The case was sitting upon their plush baby blue sheets, violently striking in contrast. 

He unloaded the gun, putting the ammunition away, and locked the gun back up, hiding it in the closet. 

His grandfather was the only person he’s met who spoke the truth. He’d aged so much. When Dean was on leave of duty, he remembered the way his armpits ached as he dangled from his crutches, but what never left his mind was the tired, worried expression in his grandfather’s eyes. 

The door was locked when he got home. He was desperate, arching to just sit down. He felt everything in his leg, the agony of his wound never dulling until the very end. Sometimes it still hurts. When his grandfather opened the door, he didn’t hold back— tears springing to his eyes, swinging the door open, and swiftly ushering Dean home. 

“The doctor did an excellent job,” Grandpa commented, examining the healing wound. “I’d tell you you’re lucky, but we both know that's not true.” 

“I have to see Jodi soon,” Dean swallowed, feeling tense under the scope of his grandfather’s inspection, “Kent’s the only reason I made it out.” 

“Nobody wants to hear their spouse risk their life to save another,” His grandfather shook his head, standing up and walking towards the kitchen. “She has two boys at home. Sam could be drafted any day; don’t worry her even more.” 

He never spoke to Jodi, avoided her even. Alex Mullner’s grandparents were much harder to dodge. Grandpa invited them over weeks after Dean’s return; the pain had subsided, and he could put weight on his leg. The stifling pang in his chest was different, relentless, and heavy. He didn’t know how to say the words. Alex, wounded but not granted rest as per the lieutenant. Stitches were nothing to him. Dr. Harvey had clearly been in hot water already. 

The lieutenant’s voice played in his mind; it always sounded distorted, farther away. “Dr. Patterson, you are threatening the integrity of this unit.” his tall figure paced back and forth, his helmet just touching the ceiling.  The Lieutenant wanted Dean to see this. “Fix these boys up, and send them back to the field. This is the last time you send someone home. We have a war to win.” 

Dean sat at the round wooden table, staring blankly between the Mullners and his grandpa. Everybody was eating, humming, and raving over the food, but Dean couldn’t pick up the fork and knife. The steak was rare, bleeding slightly as the older folks cut into it, oozing into the mashed potatoes and tainting them red. 

The conversation around him turned to a dull static, a distant radio signal that he couldn’t tune in to. All he could see was blood seeping, splattering, spreading.

Dean rose to his feet, ignoring the sharp sting in his leg, and husked out of the room with no words said. It should be Mullner's boy sitting at this table. He’s just a boy—only a kid. 

A deafening quiet followed his desertion. A whirling whistle filled his ears, only interrupted by the slam of his bedroom door. He sank to the floor— never the bed, it’s too soft, suffocating. His head fell to his knees; he could only try to breathe. 

His head fell back, hitting coarse wood. It wasn’t his bedroom door. When his eyes fluttered open, he was no longer in his childhood room. The tree behind him kept him upright; his axe was clutched to his chest. The pinecones were digging into his skin. He was surrounded. Trees. On all sides, as far as the eye can see. The chopping propellers of a helicopter cut through the sky. He dropped the axe. Reached for his rifle. Hugged it close, finger on the trigger.

Once silence fell over the foreign forest, His shoulders dropped, his head lulling back against the tree, the gun falling lax in his hands. Dean blinked, looking up at the canopy of trees. He had no shirt to camouflage him from the enemies. It was wrapped around Harvey, tight, suffocatingly, the only thing that was holding him together in his final days. 

With shaky hands, Dean tilted the gun upwards, pressing the nozzle under his chin. When Harvey goes, this is how he will follow. 

The cold tip of the metal was stark, cooled by the chill autumn air, calming his nerves. His finger left the trigger, but he stayed there like that, crisp leaves falling around him. 

A moment of peace, before he lowered his weapon, taking a deep shuddering breath. Harvey was still alive, waiting for him to return, whether he was fully conscious of it or not. 

Dean closed the closet door. Harvey was waiting for him in the living room, entertaining a man he’d never met before with their daughter. The clock read one am. Way past her bedtime. 

He made his way back to the living room. His daughter was sitting in his grandfather’s lap, wide-eyed and curious, “You took two boats to find Pa?”

“Didn’t take much searching, you guys were all over the news.” 

“Oh, I know, Dad and Pa were angry bout it.”

“Dean ever liked attention,” Grandpa laughed softly, but it eased into a wheezing cough. He hid his tired face in his arms and tried to fight the sickness in his chest. When he was past it, he gently guided their daughter off his lap and sent her back to Harvey. “But you know, I just had to see this for myself… would you two mind if I talked to my boy alone?” 

Harvey’s eyes flickered to him, observing his features. He was probably in the bedroom for too long. Dean gave a subtle nod, walking over to Harvey and their daughter, kissing them both on the heads and muttering,

“It’s past her bedtime anyway,” Dean muttered, placing a shaking hand on Harvey’s shoulder, squeezing lightly. Maybe he was seeing a ghost. 

His daughter’s shoulders sagged, a frown tugging at her lips. Dean anticipated a stomp of her foot, but it never came. 

“Fine,” she muttered, then paced over to Grandpa and gave him a hug. “Goodnight, it was nice to meet you, poppop.”

The older man sat up straight, placing his hand to his heart and chuckled kindly, “Oh my, already? What an honor!”

She giggled, suddenly growing shy and swaying with her arms around her back, then ran to Dean, wrapping her tiny arms around his sturdy legs. 

“I love you, Pa.” She whispered. Dean froze, Harvey was watching with softening eyes, as Dean bent down, engulfed her in his arms and held her close.

“I love you,” he mumbled into her hair. They lingered there for a moment. She held on tightly and he couldn’t bear to let go. “So much, sweet girl.”

“You know, when you have nightmares, you can sleep in my room too,” she whispered, louder than she had probably wanted to. Maybe louder than he had wanted her to.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he gave her one final kiss, dropping his voice, “I’ll see you in the morning, goodnight.” 

He let her go, standing tall, watching Harvey wish his grandpa a goodnight from worlds away, watching his world retreat into the bedroom. 

When he turned around, it was him and the past. 

Quietly, breathlessly, Dean whispered, “You’re real, right? I’m not— I’m not loosin’ it am I?”

“It’s me, son. I’m right here,” he patted the couch cushion beside him. “Can’t say whether or not you’re loosin’ your mind. You were in that room for an awful long time.” 

Dean moved like a ghost across the room, settling stuff into the couch, staring almost unblinking at his grandfather. He didn’t know if the next blink would take him away. 

“How long?”

“No clock in there?” 

He lied, “No.”

“About two hours.” 

Dean said nothing, running his hands down his thighs, his knuckles turning white as they clutched his knees. 

“Are the birds different out here?” Grandpa asked, his voice soft and frail. 

“I actually haven’t birded since before…”

Chapter Text

“Is that the bird you like?” Kent asked, looking up at the trees while foolishly fiddling with his ammunition.

Dean peered up. The bird was strikingly yellow, with sharp black stripes, perched on a branch. Dean just shook his head. He hadn’t brought a gun today. Didn’t see the need.

“That’s a goldfinch,” Dean said, still scanning the canopy through his binoculars. “I like warblers. You won’t see them until spring.”

“What makes ‘em so special?” Kent asked, popping the ammo into his gun, still distracted.

Dean shrugged, lowering the binoculars to rest his neck.

“Honestly,” he chuckled, “I just think they’re cute. Speaking of, how’s Vincent doing?”

“You know, sucking on his mom’s tit, crying all night.” Kent held the gun up, looking through the scope. “Sam’s been at his little emo friend's house all the time since he was born.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s not his friend,” Dean informed, lowering his binoculars and stretching his neck to ease the tension. "And Sebastian's nice, I helped him with his motorcycle last month."

“I don't care. Don’t insinuate that about my son,” Kent snapped.

He shot the gun off, aimed at nothing and no one. The sound made Dean flinch, and all the birds in the area scattered.

Dean winced—not only from the sound but from the sting of the question that followed.

“What about me?” Kent asked, not looking at Dean, but still leaning against the rifle, as if waiting for a response.

“You’re different,” Kent laughed, placing the gun down, its muzzle pointing into the dirt. “It’s not serious. You’re actually a man, not some scrawny little— you know what, never mind. Let me not get you all worked up.” He reached into his flannel pocket, pulling out a pack of cigarettes and placing one between his lips. With a flick of the lighter, it lit, its yellow-orange glow briefly lighting the quiet forest. The smoke billowed up into the trees, polluting the fresh air. “Would you be up for one last time?”

Dean rolled his eyes, sighing. He stared at his friend, eyebrow arched, before pulling the lit cigarette from Kent’s lips and placing it between his own, taking a puff and holding it between his fingers.

“You always say it’s the last time.”

“And you always come back.” Kent smiled, leaning back against the tree, stretching his arms over his head as if claiming the space.

“Jodi’s home with Vincent. How do you expect to make that happen?” Dean tried to deflect, pulling his knees to his chest, sitting on the ground. He was directly across from Kent, who looked far too relaxed for Dean’s liking.

Kent lowered his gaze. His hand casually dropped to his lap, resting just over his cock, half hard under the cargo pants. Dean’s stomach twisted.

He knew he should have run. He never quite understood why he didn’t. Maybe because he was just prey to be caught—running only prolonged the hunt.

“Well, cowboy?”

Dean didn’t reply with words. He simply placed the cigarette back between Kent’s lips, freeing his hands. Lowering himself to his knees, he reached for the button of Kent’s camo pants. Kent wore that uniform like a badge of honor—nearly every day.

Kent begged to be with him in his own ways. Begged him for this hunting trip. Begged him to enlist. To join the so-called good fight. And in return, through sheer power and force, Kent got what he wanted—whether that was Dean’s body or his presence on the frontlines.

Dean couldn’t see how any war could be a good fight, but Kent would just tell him that they were fighting for Freedom, with a capital F. The kind of freedom that only some men were entitled to.

Dean wasn’t free. He was trapped by circumstance, unsure how to claw his way out. He didn’t have a cause, a reason. He just got a letter saying he’d been drafted.

Dean knew he could have anyone he wanted in this town, but pickins were slim when it came to men. And Dean knew that no man in town would dare to consider this, let alone speak to him if they knew who he was behind the facade of a striking cowboy.

Kent’s hand came down, not in a caress, but gripping the back of Dean’s neck, holding him in place until he was finished.

“Get it nice and wet, cowboy. This is all we have.”

The rest of the experience was unrelenting. A push and shove to get him on his knees. Spit for lube. The relentless, punishing rhythm of Kent’s hips. The scratches and bruises would be visible when he got home. Kent never touched him after. If Dean didn’t finish in time, then he didn’t finish.

But this time, Kent pushed him away, finished, his body still solid and wanting despite it. The pine needles and acorns scraped against his skin as Dean was shoved forward, discarded like something worthless.

It was the last time he spoke to Kent. He didn’t need to say “never again.” When bombs began to explode, Kent followed their violent glow.

A year later, once drafted and stationed overseas, Dean didn’t expect to feel that familiar clap on his shoulder. He hadn’t expected the whispered, deep voice against the shell of his ear.

“Pulled some strings for you, cowboy.”

“Dean?” His grandfather’s voice entered his ears. When he blinked his eyes open, he couldn’t see the living room—only the plaid flannel of his grandpa’s shirt. He was being embraced, tucked against his guardian’s chest like a boy needing protection. “I wish I could say I came here with less bad news, son.”

A shaken sigh escaped Dean’s lungs. “How did you find us?”

“Kent pulled some strings. Once the news broke—it was international—he came to my doorstep. He gave me people to contact, things to give you. I waited for a while, I didn’t want to disturb your life, but I fear I’m at the end of my road.”

“Kent made it home?” Dean whispered, his voice nearly inaudible.

“His body did.” Grandpa sighed, his hand resting on Dean’s back, grounding him as the news tumbled out. “Wouldn’t say his mind. He took his life the day after he came to visit me. I have some of the stuff for you in the bag, but you don’t need to look at it.”

“I can’t,” Dean whispered, “Won’t be good for Harvey.”

“Will it be good for you?”

“I don’t imagine.”

“Me neither.”

Grandpa stayed the night on their couch. It was late, three a.m. by the time they finished talking. There was so much more to say.

When Grandpa retreated to his bedroom, Harvey was still awake. The side table lamp was dim, and a medical journal was pinched between his fingers. When the door creaked open, their eyes met.

“Okay?” Harvey whispered.

“No.”

Dean padded over to the bed, climbed under the covers, and glued himself to Harvey’s side. The book was placed down, the light stayed on, and a warm arm wrapped around him. Delicate fingers traced shapes along Dean’s bicep.

The silence was heavy. Harvey just grounded him, waiting for him to whisper.

“Kent’s killed himself.”

Harvey sucked in a harsh breath, his hand stilling on Dean’s arm.

“Good,” Harvey muttered. “But I don’t want to hear about him anymore.”

Dean just nodded. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I should have kept it to myself.”

“It’s fine. It’s in the past.”

But the past lived inside Dean like a second skeleton.

Kent died doing what he loved. At least, that’s what Dean believed—keeping a tight grip on Dean.

Dean visited that medic tent every single day until he was sent home. It was a week of heavy rain and storms. The tents on base didn’t shelter anyone from the downpour.

He never understood why Kent chose to call Harvey “soft” that day. Harvey, Dean believed, kept his composure better than anyone he’d ever seen. It was hell—for Harvey, for Dean, for Alex. God, Alex Mullner.

Back in the medic tent, Harvey wasn’t strict. He let them sleep when they pleased, eat what they could get their hands on. Sometimes he’d stop, sit down between them, laugh, listen to a story—tell some of his own.

“Guys,” Dean had asked once, “If you were birds, which one would you be?”

“A dove, for sure,” Alex had answered confidently.

Harvey had taken longer to respond, humming as he thought. “A penguin.”

“Flightless, yet thick-skinned,” Dean smiled softly at him. “I like that.”

Then Kent arrived. The room always grew tense. Harvey busied himself, silent at his desk. Alex would stare off into the distance, lying either on his back or his side, facing away from Dean and Kent.

Dean didn’t know why Kent liked this so much. Kent would straighten his dog tag every visit. His knuckles brushed against Dean’s solid chest, dragging the movement out for far too long. But Dean had learned to enjoy it. It meant he was about to leave.

Near the end of Dean’s time in the tent, Kent stalled. He held Dean’s dog tag between his thumb and index finger, looking down at Dean’s chest. But then his eyes flickered to Harvey, sharp and pointed.

“Hey doc,” Kent’s authoritative voice broke the silence. “I hear your old man’s stopping in tomorrow.”

“Is he?” Harvey asked, his eyes still on Dean. He gently set his pen down on the desk. “That’s good.”

Dean didn’t know what got into Kent’s head. He wasn’t always this man. Maybe, in small ways, he was. Does a man get this far without believing he’s entitled to behave like this?

Back at home, Kent carried himself with the same bravado. He was the Man of the House, the Provider, the Patriarch. He led, others followed—Dean included.

Kent commanded every room, leading discussions on politics. His beliefs dripped with entitlement, oozing with self-importance, laced with blood. “Yoba bless the Fengrill Republic,” he’d say to anyone who’d listen. “Nothing better than god and freedom.”

Dean didn’t have god. He found peace in the idea that people caused both goodness and evil, not some omniscient being. His parents were taken by the last war—by the grace of god, but by the person who declared violence necessary.

Dean didn’t think he was fighting for Yoba’s gifted freedom. He was here because he was forced to sign up for the draft. He simply got unlucky.

The reason Harvey’s father was visiting the base was unknown to Dean. He never found out either. Being bedridden had its perks.

The day was coming to an end, Alex and Dean were in the middle of a heated card game when the tent flap opened.

He knew immediately. The eyes. They had the same eyes. Then Dean saw it. The badge.

General of the Air Force. Not four, but five stars.

He sat up straight, sucking in to puff out his chest. In one swift move, Dean stacked the cards into the deck, clearing the game.

General Patterson looked down the bridge of his nose, glancing around the room with a firm, straight face.

“Son,” he said, his voice perfectly modulated to Dean’s ears.

Harvey just picked his head up, cocking an eyebrow. For a moment, Dean saw the teenager Harvey used to be—the angsty son of an Air Force legend, the ultimate military brat.

“Your brothers are here too.” The general’s voice was lower now.

“Good for them.” Harvey dropped his gaze back to his notes and began to write again. “However, I’m working.”

“Right. Work. Well, that’s what I came here to talk about.”

Dean tried not to stare, but he could feel the General’s eyes on him. Alex had checked out entirely, leaving Dean in the wake of this family affair.

“The uppers are concerned about your ethics. I just thought I’d warn you before things escalate.” The General began to move, turning his back to the room and standing before the exit. “These men, son, are disposable. The Pattersons are not. Good, strong men like us make the Fengill Republic great.”

In a raised, but not quite shouting voice, Harvey hissed, “Get out.”

Chapter Text

The day Dean returned to his unit, he searched everywhere for Alex. His grandparents never learned the truth; Dean’s promise to keep Alex safe landed well with Evelyn, but George— George just laughed, low and bitter, startling his frail wife.

Dean understood.

He was sure somebody promised George the same.

He tried not to look lost as he wandered around the camp. He scanned every private’s face. Every kid chugging back whisky, playing card games with their friends, every boy sitting alone, staring off into the trees, the boys belting their national anthem, prepping for their next kill, every person lying in still agony in a cot. None of them was Alex.

He’d continue his search, but the whistle blew. An unignorable call.

Dean ran with vigor to the lineup, standing tall, chin held high, chest puffed out. They were toys to be displayed and played with. Dean kept his eyes lowered as the lieutenant and Sergeant patrolled them.

“Are you ready to kill those Gotoro scum?” the lieutenant screamed, voice gruff and gravely.

In unison, the line chanted, “Yes, sir!”

Dean’s lips moved, but no words fell out. The Sergeant followed the Lieutenant like a lost dog, hands held behind his back, almost in submission.

It wasn’t long before the Lieutenant stopped before Dean, towering over him. “Enjoy your vacation, princess?” He barked, his spit hitting Dean’s face, looking down his nose at him. “Excited to get back to killing those pieces of shit?”

He inhaled as quietly as he could. He knew the second his mouth opened that there wasn’t the right thing to say. So, like he was raised to do, he spoke the sobering truth.

“I don’t enjoy killing, sir.”

The lieutenant froze, turning to look at the Sergeant with a hostile glance. “Since you missed the show last week,” He laughed harshly, exaggerated and fake. His hand reached for his gun, and Dean couldn’t help it. His eyes went wide. “I’ll let you off the hook easy this time.”

The weapon in his hand wasn’t pointed at him, but the lieutenant’s gun made contact with his nose in one clean striking force. He fell to the ground, his vision speckling white and black as the warm blood ran down his face.

“Dismissed! Remember: Bright and early tomorrow. Be ready to kill.” The Lieutenant’s voice echoed in his aching head. Dean stayed, lying on the ground, curled on his side, awaiting more impact, but nothing ever came. Nothing but absurd amounts of thick red blood oozing down his face and neck.

When he no longer heard footsteps, he looked up, holding a hand to his throbbing nose, and rose to his unsteady feet. Dr. Harvey. He needed to find Dr. Harvey. He stumbled across the campsite, scanning the doctors' faces— some offered help, but he refused. He didn’t trust them. Dr. Harvey was the first man in his year and a half on duty who had shown him mercy.

He’d stumble, bleed, and groan the whole way there, but when he finally found the tall, lanky man, he fell to his knees. Harvey’s hands were warm, firm as they lifted him from his armpits, hoisting him into the cot with surprising strength.

The next thing he knew, there was a flashlight pointed in his eyes. “Follow the light, alright, Dean?” He said quietly. Dean tried, but struggled, wincing from the pain of it all.

In a slow slur of words, Dean whispered, “You remembered my name?”

Harvey just cleared his throat, shaking his head, and began cleaning the blood from his face. “You were memorable.” He said in a low, hushed voice. There were no other soldiers under his care at that moment. A heavy silence hung over them. He never asked what happened, only asked how he was doing.

“The old man said you did a good job, so I guess fine,” Dean said, as Harvey grabbed a sterile needle. Local anesthesia, he realized, once he lost the feeling in his face.

“That’s…that’s good to hear,” Dr. Harvey whispered, tossing the needle in a waste bin, grabbing more tools. He came back to Dean, needle and suture in hand.

Silence rained again. Dean could vaguely feel the piercing needle stitching up his punished skin. He looked at Harvey, catching his eyes, green and gold, like a lush forest in the summer sun.

Harvey quickly looked away, focusing on the repair. A punishment that was supposedly mercy. Last week’s show was weighing heavily on his mind.

“Do you know where Private Mullner is?” He asked, voice shaking, his words slurred from the numbing agent.

Harvey’s eyes locked with his; he stopped mid stitch.

“I’m sorry,” was all he whispered, finishing the job in an agonizing silence. At least he seemed sincere.

Dean’s heart was pounding in his chest, his heart trying to crawl out of his throat, and a wave of nausea washed over him.

“Hey— Dean— come on,” Dr. Harvey’s voice cut through, “hold on a little longer.” His voice was calm, steady, but laced with a hint of dread, “Give me one more minute.”

Dean swallowed, feeling the lump in his throat as his skin grew clammy. Harvey was quickening his pace as he put him back together. With a final tug, a knot was secured, and Harvey took three steps backward, grabbing a trash bin and shoving it back in Dean’s shaking hands, a reward for holding on.

His head fell forward, his insides spilling into the lined bin with a wretched sound. A hand landed on his shoulder, heavy, squeezing him to the ground. Dean’s shoulder shuddered; he purged more than he had inside him, gagging into the sloshing trash.

He felt the tickle of hair against his ear, Harvey’s hot breath on his skin.

“They’re going to tell you he was killed in action,” Harvey leaned in, whispering into his ear as his chest heaved and choked, “It’s a lie.”

The hand remained heavy on his shoulder, holding his shaking body steady. And when Dean’s body expelled all the horrors, the bucket was replaced with a cup of room-temperature water.

When he took the first sip to his sour lips, Harvey released his grip on him. He turned his back, gathering his tools as if nothing had happened. His hands were shaking— no, trembling as he washed them under a dwindling stream of water.

Dean’s world was tilting and spinning. He slowly leaned himself backward on the cot, his head resting on the pillow, as he looked up at the dizzy ceiling.

Harvey had returned, a sterile-smelling towel in his hand, cleaning his face with gentle, caring hands. “I really tried to get you out of here,” He whispered so quietly that Dean was mostly reading his lips. “I don’t enjoy doing this. Stitching you boys up just to send you back out there.”

Dean whispered, voice full of air, “You’re a good man.”

“Impossible in these conditions,” Harvey turned away, his back rigid when Dean heard the flat words fall from the doctor's mouth, “Once the local anesthesia wears off, you’re back to the barracks.” He exhaled sharply, grabbing his clipboard and writing down something unseeable to Dean. “New rules. I am sorry.”

Silent tears slid from his eyes, seeping into his stitches. It burned. His eyes, his wound, his chest, his gut.

Everything inside him was alight with a silent, screaming fury. Alex was a kid. A high school Gridball Star. He had a pretty girl at home waiting for him. Grandparents who’ve stuck around this long just for him.

sitting up, he stared at his combat-clad feet. Mud-stained dark green camouflage disappeared into a black steel-toed boot. Perfectly pleated, army green dress pants stepped into his vision. The hem of his pants hid the top of Dr. Harvey’s boot, which was otherwise the same.

Dry, white cloth was dabbed beneath his eyes. Kent’s voice, his vindication against Harvey, circled his mind. Soft? No—resistant, quietly brave.

Through his damp lashes, he saw Harvey, his shoulders not as stiff or straight, with a solemn, tight-lipped face, gently wiping away Dean's tears. His free hand came to the side of Dean’s face that remained unscathed. It was soft, grounding, unlike any other hands he had felt before.

“Dean,” the doctor whispered, low and shaken, “you are not disposable. Alex Mullner was not disposable.”

Harvey was born a rich man. But unlike his family, he was willing to pay the price of peace.

Dean groaned, rolling over, not into a cot, but their plush queen bed. Harvey wasn’t on the other side. Dean blinked his eyes awake; his vision came slowly as the light poured in.

By their dresser, Harvey was in his wheelchair, his hands shaking as he shoveled a handful of pills into his mouth. Dean rubbed his eyes before rolling flat on his back.

“Mornin’ baby,” Dean mumbled, rolling his head to look at Harvey. There were deep, dark circles that clung to his eyes.

Harvey ignored his greeting, taking a swig of water. His hands were trembling today, and water splashed over the lip of the glass as it clanked against the wooden dresser.

After a moment of Harvey sitting there, staring at the trinkets on their dresser, Dean rolled out of bed and shuffled beside Harvey.

“Okay?” Dean asked, softly,

“Bad day,” Harvey sighed. “Is your grandpa still here?”

“I let him sleep on the couch— it was late…I’m sorry.”

“No,” Harvey said, shaking his head, then quickly recoiling with a hushed hiss. Dean tried to soothe it, the pain and tension that flashed through Harvey’s body, but he shrugged Dean off. “It’s fine. He can stay as long as he’d like. I just— I need to just..rest, I guess.”

“I understand,” Dean whispered, taking his hands off Harvey entirely. “I can uhm… I’ll hold down the fort.”

Harvey nodded slowly. Before Dean left the room, he stopped at the door and told Harvey, “I love you.”

“I love you too,” he muttered, tired and weak.

And Dean was off, shutting the door behind him with a quiet click.