DURING COLD WAR
NICARAGUA (1984)

          Dean nestled into a worn, faded chair, his shoulders hunched as if trying to fold into himself. The air inside the large tent buzzed with activity. Around him, the crew moved with purpose, their footsteps muffled on the dusty ground as they efficiently packed away packages into crates. The racket of their movements, the clinking of metal, the rustle of cardboard, was a soothing backdrop to Dean’s solitude. He didn't need to know the specifics of their tasks; their presence offered him a sanctuary from the relentless tension he felt around Ben, his brother. The constant bickering and the strained realationships with his brother and his teammates had drained him, leaving him craving the quiet space. 

In his secluded corner, far from the flurry of the tent's entrance, Dean sat hunched over a small, creased piece of paper. The dim light filtering through the tent's walls cast a gentle glow on his concentrated face. Each word he wrote was a labor of love, painstakingly inscribed with a care that bordered on reverence. Despite his brother's evident discomfort with his choice of partner, Dean remained steadfast in his connection with Jayden. Now in his 60s, Jayden's age seemed to widen the gulf between them, even if Dean never aged over 30. Yet Dean’s commitment remained unshaken. Jayden’s letters were filled with his anxieties, about aging, about the possibility of never seeing each other again, and the solitary nature of their connection through paper. Dean always countered with promises of reunion after the war, vowing to fulfill the dream they had clung to: a marriage, even if it defied the law. The guilt gnawed at him, knowing that Jayden's sacrifices, his unfulfilled dreams of fatherhood, the life he had postponed, were all tethered to Dean’s promise to return.

Dean could never bring himself to mention his thoughts to Jayden. Despite his own desires to end their relationship so Jayden could perhaps find a happier, more fulfilling life, every letter he received was a pity reminder of Jayden’s unwavering affection. Jayden’s words, overflowing with love and constant thoughts of Dean, only deepened his internal conflict. His left hand faltered, his pen pausing mid-sentence as his rocky emotions surged. A tear, unbidden, traced a path down his cheek and fell onto the paper, blurring the ink. He watched as the tiny drop seeped into the fibers, mingling sorrow with his heartfelt words.

Even amidst his heartache, Dean found solace in the thought that this personal struggle was preferable to the empty celebrations of a war that remained uncertain. Stationed in the dense, humid jungles of Nicaragua, his team was mired in a limbo of waiting, their days punctuated by restless activities. His comrades, lacking a better distraction, often amused themselves by prancing around with an RPG, more specifically, Gunpowder, who chases after Ben like an irritating pest.

The sudden shout from outside the tent sliced through the murmur of activity. "Telec, you in here!?" The voice belonged to Soldier Boy, Ben, his brother. His voice cut through the air like a commanding blade, deep and resonant, with a tone that seemed to vibrate through the very core of those who heard it. Each word was enunciated with deliberate precision, a firm rhythm of sounds that brooked no argument. There was a compelling weight to his tone, underscored by an unyielding confidence that suggested he was used to being obeyed. But in actuality, it was to hide his insecurity he so sought to hide from everyone. His reputation was a prized possession he held with importance and if someone or something were to tarnish it, to the depths of hell with them. 

Dean’s heart raced as he hastily concealed his letter beneath a stack of other papers. He stood up quickly, trying to mask his anxiety.

Ben’s gaze swept across the tent, landing directly on Dean. His lips curled into a smirk. "Ah, there you are,” Ben’s tension eased as soon as he saw his brother. Someone else he would never let anything happen to them, only if it came from him directly. “everyone’s relieved of duty for now." He gestured with a dismissal wave, toward the entrance behind him. His broad, muscular frame emitted a sense of strength and dominance, accentuated by his fitted superhero costume. The outfit, a mix of patriotic and military elements, includes a dark forest green bodysuit symbolized with a small yet noticable star-studded emblem in the middle of his chest plate. The face of an eagle with it’s wings on each side, curving as if it was flying, went along with the curve if the chest plate above the star. Symbolizing that Ben was indeed the face of America and whoever disobeyed would face America’s ungodly wrath. 

What did Dean have to mark a difference in their resebmlence? Nothing significant. Despite having the same short spiky fade haircut with a stubble less notable than Ben’s. He was provide a simple dark tan leather jacket, a chest plate covered by a plain black shirt and tactical black pants emedded with Boron carbide, Polyethylene, Kevlar to provide extra resistance against enemies. Since he was seen as second, he was rarely needed even if he was part of the team, so a full on costume didn’t seem plausible in vought’s eyes. 

Dean watched with a faint smirk as the tent emptied rapidly in response to Ben’s words. His gaze then fixed on Ben, noting the way his brother’s eyes widened in surprise and interest as they landed on the container that rested on the table. “Damn, Dean,” Ben exclaimed, his voice tinged with a mix of admiration and curiosity. “Didn’t even know this was here. How’d you find this jackpot?”

Dean observed as Ben set his shield aside with a clatter and eagerly rifled through a box on the table. With a quick, practiced motion, he tore open a package and dipped a finger into the contents, which was no doubt drugs. He tasted the substance, his eyes lighting up with satisfaction as he let out a pleased hum. With a grin, he held out the package toward Dean, offering him a taste.

He waved him off dismissively, his lips curling into a bemused smile as he watched his brother’s antics. “Not my thing,” he said, shaking his head.

Ben shrugged nonchalantly, dropping the package back into the box with a soft thud. “Your loss. Hell, why don’t they just give this to us? We’d have a better time taking out the Reds with this stuff,” he said, his tone half-serious, half-joking.

Dean responded with another smirk, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Because you on drugs is like a fucking cat on catnip, lazy as hell,” he retorted, his voice carrying a note of mock exasperation.

Ben chuckled, clearly entertained by Dean’s remark. “Fuck you, Dean,” he shot back playfully, pointing a finger at his brother as he bent down to retrieve his shield from the ground. With a swaggering stride, he made his way over to Dean, plopping back into his previous seat. 

His stomach tightened with unease as he watched Ben’s gaze flicker over the scattered papers on the desk, a nervous gulp escaping him as he tried to maintain his composure under the scrutiny.

Ben sighed heavily and slumped into the chair, the weariness evident in his posture. He removed his mask with a slow, deliberate motion, revealing his wet hair, which clung to his forehead in a disheveled manner, contrasting sharply with Dean’s neatly combed hair. He placed the mask on the desk with a soft thud and began tapping his fingers rhythmically against it’s surface. Letting a lingering silence echo between them. “Remember Normandy? We did just fine with it there,” he said, trying to spark a sense of nostalgia, giving Dean a notable smirk. 

He fought to suppress the anxiety gnawing at him, especially concerning the paper Ben might stumble upon. He turned, leaning back against the desk, his expression a mix of concern and resignation. Trying to mask his worry. “Wasn’t that just a PR stunt, though? I mean, you got high, sure, but not exactly on ballistics.”

Ben responded with a mocked laugh, shaking his head with a mixture of irritation and amusement. “You know, if you weren’t my brother, your face would’ve met my shield a long time ago.”

Dean let out a weary sigh, nodding as he attempted to lighten the mood with a wry comment. “Pretty sure I’ve had my fair share of that already.” His attempt at humor, however, seemed to sour Ben’s expression.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Ben quickly clarified, his voice softening with an edge of sincerity.

Dean scoffed and turned his gaze away from Ben, clearly skeptical. “Sure, you didn’t.”

Ben’s tone took on a more serious edge as he leaned forward which caught Dean off guard by placing his trembled hand on top of Dean’s, which rested on the table. It was a rare display of vulnerability; Ben, who rarely showed any signs of affection, was making an effort to reach out. “Look, believe what you want, Dean,” he said, his voice earnest and sharp with emotion. “But I do what I need to do to protect you, to protect us. In the end, it’s just you and me, buddy. That’s it.”

Dean’s brow furrowed as he considered Ben’s words. “What about Payback? The rest of the team?” he asked, his voice laced with concern and confusion. 

“Fuck ’em, we don’t need them,” Ben declared, his voice carrying a dismissive edge. He followed up with a retort of his own, “They hardly listen anyway.” His words cut through the tension, reflecting his frustration with their team’s repeated failures. Indeed, their lack of discipline often led to catastrophic failiures, though Vought always managed to sweep the messes under the rug.

Dean remained silent, lost in thought as he processed Ben’s words. The quiet stretch between them was heavy with unspoken concerns. Noticing his brother’s silence, Ben nudged him gently, his tone softening as he repeated himself. “Alright? I need to hear something from you.” He gave Dean’s hand a reassuring squeeze, his eyes searched for a response.

“Yeah, yeah, I got you,” Dean finally replied, his voice betrayed his reluctance. He wasn’t entirely convinced but offered the response to appease Ben.

“Good.” Ben’s approval was brief before he groaned, pushing himself away from the table. As he stood, he scattered the papers across the desk, using it for support with a slight wince.

Dean’s anxiety grew as he watched Ben’s movements, his brother’s strained demeanor amplifying his unease.

“Let’s get out of this shit hole,” Ben suggested with a hint of levity, a playful glint in his eyes. “There’s this case officer named Grace. Let me tell you, she’d definitely hit you up.”

Dean had seen Grace around but had never interacted with her directly. Nervously, he muttered, “Uh...” as he rose from the desk, preparing to leave with Ben. “What, your charm didn’t fool her?” he asked, a mixture of curiosity and apprehension in his voice.

“Hardly,” Ben chuckled to himself, his head tilted as he considered the thought. “She thinks she’s too good for me, she’s not even pretty. The war’s gonna waste her beauty. Damn shame.” His tone was a mix of disdain and dejection, as if he were mourning a lost opportunity.

He nodded in agreement, his expression reflecting a shared sentiment, mostly to appease to Ben once again. “Sure is.”

Ben glanced around the tent, a sign that the conversation had reached its natural conclusion. “Let’s go then,” he said, his voice carrying a note of finality.

Dean felt a wave of relief wash over him, grateful that Ben was eager to leave the confines of the tent. However, just as Ben turned to leave, he abruptly halted, as if suddenly remembering something important. “Oh wait, my helmet,” He muttered, turning back toward the table.

As Ben reached for his helmet, his actions inadvertently scattered the papers on the desk. One of the papers slipped partially into view, revealing a glimpse of Dean’s note. Ben’s initial confusion quickly gave way to a deepening anger. Dean watched in apprehensive silence as Ben’s lip quivered with suppressed rage, his eyes hardening as he stared at the exposed paper. Ben lightly tapped the table, his gaze flicking from the scattered papers to his brother. “What’s this?” he demanded, his voice cold and measured.

Dean’s throat tightened, and he gulped nervously. “Just paper,” he replied fairly quickly and quietly, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Just paper...” Ben repeated mockingly, his tone laced with scorn. He tore the note from the table and examined it more closely. “Has your name on it. Care to tell me who else is named Dean Wilson in this fucking place?” His voice was sharp, edged with frustration.

Dean sighed in defeat, his hand rubbing his forehead. The movement only served to further fuel Ben’s suspicions. “It’s nothing, honestly-” Dean started, but his words trailed off as he braced himself for the inevitable fallout. He tried to reach out for the paper but Ben kept his hand out of reach from Dean, pulling back. 

Hie eyes remained on Dean until they could no longer, finally going to the contents of the paper. “Jayden...” Ben read aloud from the paper, his voice thick with disgust. The name seemed to curdle on his tongue, and with a sharp, angry motion, he slammed the paper down onto the table. He remembered who he was and it angered him. “How hard did you suck his dick that you miss him that bad to write a note like a fucking pussy?” His angry tone was mixed with a laugh of judement. 

Dean, already at the end of his rope, rolled his eyes and snapped, “Fuck you, man.”

Ben’s expression turned to one of stunned disbelief. “What?”

Dean, his frustration finally boiling over, confronted his brother with a raw intensity. “Everything I do, you criticize. You never congratulate me or even be there for me,” he said, his voice quivering with years of accumulated anger and resentment.

Ben’s response was immediate, a defensive attempt to invalidate Dean’s words. “Of course I do. What are you talking about?”

Dean scoffed in disbelief, his gaze sweeping around as if searching for some form of acknowledgment. He threw his arms out in an exasperated gesture. “Is your ego so inflated that you can’t come down to earth and admit it’s always about your reputation? Just once, think about someone other than yourself!”

Ben’s lip quivered, his face a mask of hurt and irritation. He tightened his grip on his shield, his eyes hardened. “Where is this coming from?” he demanded, his voice low and dangerous.

Dean’s eyes flashed with a mix of defiance and pain. “As if you don’t know. You practically hate Jayden because of who he is, how he looks, even if you don’t say it directly. You claim you care for me, but it’s just to keep your reputation intact. You can’t stand that someone like me, who’s always succeeded despite being last, might win over you someday. That’s why I’m always the last resort.” 

Dean’s words seemed to strike a nerve, making Ben’s lip quiver even more. His once soft, concerned gaze now burned with irritation. “Watch your next words, Dean,” Ben warned, adopting a threatening stance as if preparing to teach a lesson.

Dean’s voice rose, filled with frustration and defiance. “What’s the fucking point? Just look at how you’re acting already!”

Ben, his anger visible, stormed toward Dean and slapped him with as much force as he could muster while still holding back. Dean staggered to the side, a small trickle of blood escaping from his mouth. He quickly regained his balance, a bitter laugh escaping his lips. “Oh, I know what it’s really about-” he began, his voice a mix of pain and defiance, ready to confront the underlying truths of their conflict

Ben’s face was a portrait of his inner conflict as he shut his eyes tightly, desperately trying to keep his composure. The effort to mask his emotions was evident, but his intense glare and the slight quiver of his lip betrayed his turmoil. His voice, strained and rigid, cut through the air with a sharp edge. “Really? Enlighten me, because I would really like to fucking know.”

Dean, sensing the vulnerability beneath Ben's facade, leaned in so close that he could feel the heat of Ben’s breath. The proximity amplified the tension, making each breath between them feel charged with unspoken animosity. Dean’s voice dropped to a low, menacing whisper, dripping with malicious intent. “It’s because I look just like you, and the thought of me with a man eats you up inside, doesn’t it? Especially with Jayden.”

Ben’s response was a forced, mirthless laugh, an attempt at dismissiveness that failed to hide the raw anger simmering beneath the surface. Without wasting words, he seized Dean’s forearm with a grip that was both vice-like and threatening, his knuckles white with the effort. “Dean, shut your fucking mouth-” The venom in his voice was noticable, each word delivered with a cold, hard edge.

Dean’s reaction was immediate and defiant. With a swift, sharp motion, he wrenched his arm free, his face a mask of fierce determination. “No!” he barked, his voice echoed with a blend of resentment and challenge. “You think you can control my every move, dictate who I see, control what I do as a member of this team!? Well, guess what, Soldier Boy- I can get whoever I want and do whatever I want without your fucking say.”

His amusement was evident as he observed Ben’s escalating fury. He straightened, casually slipping his hands into the pockets of his tactical pants, his smirk a clear provocation. “Maybe I’ll go after Crimson. Who knows? I look just like you. You don’t think she’s thought about it-”

The sheer force of Ben’s anger was explosive. With a sudden, brutal shove, he sent Dean crashing through a stack of tables stacked high with drugs. The collision was violent, splintering the table into jagged pieces and sending a cloud of white powder billowing through the air. Dean hit the ground with a heavy thud, the pain radiating from his chest like searing flames. He gasped for breath, each inhalation sharp and agonizing, the unmistakable crunch of broken ribs making every movement excruciating. Thankfully his superhero strength and his chest plate reduce the pain. His eyes remained fixed on the tent’s ceiling, where the drifting powder fell slowly, a ghostly snowfall that seemed to mock his suffering.

Ben stormed over to Dean, his footsteps heavy and deep with the weight of his anger. He dropped to his knees beside Dean, his entire body tense with rage. His face was a storm of fury, his breath coming in harsh, ragged bursts. He pointed a finger at Dean, his eyes blazing with a volatile mix of rage and frustration. “You know, I gave you leeway because you’re my brother, but if you’re going to act all high and mighty and drag her into this-"

Dean’s sudden, harsh laugh sliced through the tension, a sound both agonized and mocking. It was a painful, guttural noise that seemed out of place against the backdrop of Ben’s fury. Ben’s anger faltered, replaced by a moment of confusion. “What?” he demanded, his voice edged with disbelief. “What’s so fucking funny?”

“You!” Dean managed to rasp through the blood pooling in his mouth, his voice trembling with the pain in his abdomen. “Look at you. You’re so fucking insecure. I guess that’s what happens when you’re a disappointment to Dad.”

The harsh words struck a nerve, stirring up old wounds. His father’s shadow loomed large in his mind, an ever-present reminder of failure and judgment. "Yeah?" Ben says as his lip quivers in frustration and hate, he runs a hand over his face and rest his left hand over his shield, that remained grounded on the floor near Dean's face. "Well ever thought of what would happen if he ever found out you were a fucking fag? He would of kicked you out, and that's the only time I would have agreed with him." 

Dean’s laughter quickly seized at his words. His eyes flared with an intense, electric blue as he extended his hand toward Ben. A surge of energy erupted from his palm, unleashing a powerful blast that shot across the tent. This time, Dean didn’t hold back; his anger fueled every ounce of his power. The force of the blast sent Ben hurtling through the air, his body slamming into the tent’s makeshift walls with a resounding crash.

Ben’s fall was jarring, but he shook off the impact with a determined grimace. He quickly scrambled to his feet, his movements agile despite the force of Dean’s attack. As he regained his stance, he locked eyes with Dean, who was already preparing for his next assault.

With a defiant spit on the ground, Ben refocused his gaze, just in time to see Dean’s eyes glowing fiercely with blue energy. A beam of concentrated energy shot toward him from Dean’s eyes, and Ben raised his shield in a desperate defense. The sheer force of the laser pushed him backward, his combat boots skidding and grinding into the dirt. The pressure from the beam was relentless, dragging him across the floor as he struggled to maintain his footing.

Dean’s eyes remained fixed on Ben, his expression a storm of sadness and fury. “ fuck you! You caused all of this!” Dean’s voice cracked with the weight of his frustration and despair, each word punctuated by the intensity of his powers.

Despite the relentless assault, Ben remained on the defensive, raising his shield to absorb the relentless onslaught of Dean’s laser eyes. His face, though determined, betrayed a flicker of anguish. Deep down, he knew Dean was right. His brother had always been the one with the superior abilities, the one who seemed to have all the answers. The realization that Dean was consistently right, always one step ahead, was a bitter pill to swallow.

“I didn’t ask for this,” Dean’s voice was thick with emotion, embedded with a profound sadness. “I didn’t ask to be a superhero. You took my freedom from me!”

The accusation hit Ben like a physical blow. He knew, with painful clarity, that Dean’s words rang true. The secret of Compound V, the choices he had made, and the lies he had told Dean in the 1930s had all contributed to the situation they now faced. Ben had wanted nothing more than to protect Dean, to shield him from the harsh realities of their world, even if it meant sacrificing his own freedom. 

But was it really his choice to make?

As Dean’s laser eyes continued to bombard him, Ben’s defensive posture remained unyielding. His heart ached with the knowledge that despite his attempts to protect Dean, his actions had inadvertently caused him pain. The love he felt for his brother was a complex web of conflicting emotions, protective, guilt-ridden, and deeply sorrowful. As Ben advanced cautiously, each step measured and deliberate, Dean’s glowing eyes continued to unleash a relentless barrage of laser fire. The searing beams struck Ben’s shield with a concentrated intensity, yet it was clear that Dean was aiming deliberately at the shield itself, not at Ben. The energy beams danced around the edges of the shield, their brilliance flickering with the force of Dean's strained will.

Ben edged closer, the glow of Dean’s lasers growing dimmer with each step he took. The intensity of Dean’s powers seemed to wane, his breaths coming in ragged, uneven gasps. Finally, the light from his eyes flickered out entirely, and Dean’s body crumpled to the ground. The once formidable Dean was now a figure of utter despair, slumped on the floor, his shoulders shaking uncontrollably as he succumbed to a fit of sobs.

Ben’s heart ached at the sight of his brother’s breakdown. He stood there, immobilized by a wave of helplessness, unsure of how to bridge the chasm that had opened between them. Slowly, he reached out a trembling hand toward Dean’s shoulder, his gesture a tentative attempt to offer comfort. But Dean’s reaction was swift and harsh; he swatted Ben’s hand away with a frustrated flick of his wrist.

“Get out,” Dean’s voice was barely a whisper, laden with a painful mix of anger and sorrow. The words were muffled, his head hung low, avoiding eye contact with Ben as if to shield himself from any further emotional exposure.

“Dean, come on-” Ben’s voice was strained, his breath coming in shallow, labored gasps as he tried to reach out once more, his desperation evident in his tone.

“I said get out, Ben!” Dean’s response was sharp. His voice, though muffled as he pressed his trembling hand over his mouth, was clear and forceful. He did not look up, his body language a clear barrier against any attempts at reconciliation.

The sound of their argument reached the ears of Crimson Countess, who appeared at the entrance of the large tent. Her entrance was silent, but her presence spoke volumes. Her eyes, filled with a mix of concern and understanding, locked onto the scene before her. She had rarely seen this vulnerable side of Ben and Dean, and the weight of his emotional collapse was evident even to her.

As Soldier Boy, Ben had always been a figure of harsh resolve, but in this moment, the façade of stoic authority gave way to a rare display of vulnerability. He turned his gaze toward Crimson Countess, the softness in his voice quickly returned to a demanding voice. He couldn’t be soft and vulnerable in front of her, it wasn’t what he thought she liked in a man. A man shouldn’t show emotions like his brother did. “Next time,” he said, his voice laced with a grim determination,

   “I won’t be so damn lenient.”

❛ ━━･❪ 🥀 ❫ ･━━ ❜

          Dean lingered in the tent for a few minutes, his movements mechanical as he worked to tidy up the wreckage left behind by the earlier conflict. The tent was a scene of devastation; scattered debris, overturned crates, and the disarray of a hastily abandoned operation. The drugs that had been strewn across the grass were now a useless mess of powder, their potential ruined by the chaos. However, a few intact boxes remained, and Dean focused on salvaging what he could. Despite the lingering agitation that simmered beneath his surface, his anger had begun to ebb, replaced by a steely determination to make something of the mess.

Just as he started to think that maybe, just maybe, Ben might possess a sliver of humanity amidst his flaws, that fleeting hope was snatched away by the harsh reality of his brother’s ego. With a frustrated shake of his head, Dean approached the table where he had found the note. It was miraculously still intact, and a soft, relieved smile tugged at his lips. He held it gently, his eyes tracing over the words as if they might offer solace or clarity.

The moment of calm was abruptly shattered by the thunderous roar of gunshots and explosions echoing through the camp. The noise was alarming, a violent reminder of the world outside the relative safety of the tent. Dean’s heart leapt into his throat as he dropped the note, his mind racing with urgency. He rushed toward the entrance, the chaos of the battle outside coming into sharp focus. As he emerged from the tent, the scene that greeted him was a whirlwind of violence. Soldiers scrambled for their weapons, the air thick with smoke and the acrid smell of gunpowder. The once orderly camp was now a battleground, with combatants firing wildly and explosions lighting up the night sky. Dean’s eyes frantically searched the chaos, his primary concern focused on finding Ben.

He moved through the fray, bullets whizzing past him with a deadly hiss. His gaze was locked on the distant figure of Gunpowder, who manned a mounted machine gun with reckless movement, spraying bullets in every direction. Even killing the soldiers that were on their side. Beneath the mounted gun, the TNT Twins and Mindstorm cowered, seeking cover from the mayhem above.

Dean’s attention was abruptly pulled back to the immediate danger as Gunpowder aimed the machine gun directly at him. Without hesitation, Dean activated his time-shift ability. The world around him seemed to freeze, the air growing thick and still as he moved with rapid precision. Time resumed its normal flow as he shifted out of the line of fire, narrowly evading the barrage of bullets. The sound barrier around him also slowed down, it felt like everything was echoing. 

In a swift, fluid motion, Dean charged up a blast of energy and hurled it at the mounted gun. The explosion was deafening, the gun disintegrating in a burst of fire and metal. With the immediate threat neutralized, Dean’s focus shifted to Gunpowder, who jumped off the mount right as the blast hit the gun. “Idiot…” Dean muttered, his voice a mixture of frustration and annoyance.

Dean’s focus was relentless as he raced through the chaos, his eyes scanning for any sign of Ben amidst the violence. The battlefield was a frenzy of gunfire and explosions, but he finally spotted Ben, silhouetted against the fiery backdrop of the conflict. Ben was locked in combat with an enemy, he was oblivious to the missile streaking toward him.

Dean’s heart pounded in his chest as he activated his time-shift ability, the world around him blurring into a vortex of speed. He moved with an almost superhuman swiftness, covering the ground in a matter of moments. As he reached Ben, he shouted desperately, “Watch out!” He extended his hand toward his brother, forming a shimmering blue shield around Ben. The missile collided with the shield, ricocheting off with a deafening explosion. He had anticipated the missile’s trajectory, but the explosion sent a shockwave that hurled him backward. He was thrown several feet, landing heavily on the ground. The impact was immense, and the world spun around him as his ears rang with the force of the blast. The chaos of the battle faded to a muffled din, and he struggled to regain his bearings.

For once, he felt human. If not for his superhero abilities, he may had just died then and there. As Dean’s vision cleared and his hearing slowly camed back, he heard Ben’s frantic voice call out to him through the haze of his disorientation. “Dean! Dean! Come on, get up!” The urgency in Ben’s voice cut through the fog of pain, and Dean opened his eyes to see Ben, unharmed and standing with an outstretched hand.

Despite the fierce argument and violent confrontation they had just had almost an hour ago, the sight of Ben’s concern struck a deep chord within Dean. The venomous words exchanged earlier seemed to dissolve in the face of Ben’s genuine worry. Their bond, forged through countless battles and shared history, was evident in this moment of vulnerability.

Ben helped Dean to his feet, his touch gentle despite the intensity of their previous fight. As Dean leaned against his brother, Ben wrapped an arm around his shoulders, offering a protective embrace. The gesture was a silent apology, a promise of reconciliation amidst the chaos. “I’m sorry,” Ben murmured, his voice laced with regret.

Dean, still dazed and battling the ringing in his ears, embraced Ben in return. The hug was an emotional release, a final gesture of brotherhood before the harsh reality of their situation set in. “It’s…it’s okay, Ben,” Dean whispered, though the pain and exhaustion made his words barely audible. Their heartfelt embrace was abruptly interrupted as Dean fell to his knees, overwhelmed by a sudden surge of pain in his ears. He clutched his head, the ringing in his ears intensifying to a near-deafening level. 

Ben’s face was etched with worry as he watched his brother collapse. “What’s wrong?” His voice was edged with panic as he assessed Dean’s condition.

Before Dean could respond, he felt a sudden pressure against his mouth. He struggled, instinctively pushing away the assailant. His vision swam as disorientation overtook him. He turned to find Crimson Countess standing with a BVM (Bag Valve Mask) in hand. Her face was a mask of resentment as she confronted Ben.

“What the hell are you doing?” Ben demanded, his voice strained.

“What I should have done long ago,” Crimson replied, her tone cold and resolute.

As Dean struggled on the ground, trying to regain his composure, he saw the entire team converging on Ben. Stand Edgar, a representative of Vought American, stood in the background, holding a device with a menacing smile. He adjusted the device’s settings with a satisfied grin, causing Dean to cry out in agony. Dean looked and saw Edgar, but before he could do anything, Gunpowder delivered a heavy blow, knocking Dean unconscious.

With Dean subdued, Stand Edgar turned off the device and approached the scene. The team, had finally overwhelmed Soldier Boy, now held him down while Crimson applied the BVM, effectively rendering him unconscious. Stand Edgar stood over the fallen brothers, his demeanor composed as he surveyed the aftermath. His scarf, slightly disheveled from the commotion, was the only sign of the chaos he had witnessed.

Their teammates, having subdued the brothers with a combination of determination and haste, formed a somber circle around them. The atmosphere was heavy with unspoken tension. Relief and concern mingled in the expressions of the victorious team members.

“We did it, right? He won’t come back?” Crimson asked, limping towards Stand Edgar, her face streaked with blood.

“Yes, you did,” Stand replied calmly, his gaze shifting to Telec. “Soldier Boy won’t. But,” he continued with a hint of uncertainty, “he might. Not to worry, he won’t remember any of you by then.” He finished as he heard a helicopter come closer. 

Dean’s letter that was meant for Jayden, remained undelivered, leaving Jayden forever wondering about the fate of him. 

All the way to his grave.

❛ ━━･❪ 🥀 ❫ ･━━ ❜

Author Note ➔
          hey...how are ya? Xd sorry it's been months, atp I feel like it's gonna be that way. And just so people know, people back then didn't know the real name of telec who was actually Dean back then. This chapter follows information from the bio I used to have for Dean, so if you remember that.
   ILY ♡