Author's Note:

1. I do not claim to own any of the Supernatural characters in this story, as much as I wish I did.

2. I have a very limited knowledge of the military, all of which is related to the Army. So sorry if I completely butcher the Navy and CIA in the process of writing this story. Also, I know that the plot line of this story is completely unrealistic and would never really happen in the military, but that's why this is fiction!

3. I do not claim that the events and actions taken by individuals of various nations or groups accurately reflect the real-life actions of these groups. I have merely created a situation in which the characters can do what I want. If you want a politically-correct fantasy land, I suggest you turn around.

4. Later in the story there will be M/M loving in the form of Destial. Again, don't like? Don't read.

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Dean was in the gym when he first got the call, so involved in his vicious assault of the punching bag that he almost missed the vibrations of his phone. It wasn't until the phone clattered to the floor that he noticed, and even then he was tempted to ignore it. Dean's workout time was exactly that, Dean's, and anyone who'd ever dared interrupt it had never made the mistake twice. Normally he would have ignored it just like he had countless times in the past, but at that moment he had the feeling in his gut of wrong, the feeling that only came with years of combat experience as a highly trained combatant of the United States Navy SEALs. His fears were not alleviated when he saw the name of his unit commander, Commander Samuel Campbell, flashing on the screen.

Grabbing the phone from the floor with sweating, shaky hands he answered, "Petty Officer Winchester."

"Winchester," his commander replied gruffly, "I am calling on behalf of Captain Robert Singer. We need to see you at headquarters at exactly 0900. I know this is an extremely unusual request, but Captain Singer was looking for the best for an urgent mission and I assured him that you would be happy to oblige."

At that, Dean internally rolled his eyes. Happy to oblige? Like he had a fucking choice! Especially when a fucking Captain was asking to see him specifically? He could only imagine what kind of shit he was about to step in. As the newly appointed Lead Petty Officer of his SEAL team, he should have expected this, he told himself. But then why had nobody told him that orders came directly from Captain Singer?

"I cannot stress to you enough the importance and the gravity of the current situation, Winchester. We will be expecting you at 0900. Do you have any questions?" Commander Campbell asked.

Again, Dean could feel his eyes starting to roll. He knew how this worked; even if he had all the questions in the world, it didn't matter. The question was rhetorical, always.

"Roger that sir. No questions at this time, I will see you at headquarters at 0900," Dean replied.

A quick check of his watch revealed that he only had an hour before he had to report. Mentally he cursed whatever damn assignment his team was about to receive that was so important he couldn't finish his damn workout! Wasn't physical fitness supposed to be an integral part of the military or something? Damn bureaucrats, this was probably just a dumb recon or security for some hoity-toity dignitary who thought so highly of themselves that they requested a security force of SEALs. Waste of fucking resources, in his opinion.

And with that on his mind, Dean grumbled all through his shower, an experience he normally relished. Living on a post like Coronado, surrounded by thousands of other uniforms everywhere he turned got old, fast. The only place he really felt like he could be alone or relax anymore was the shower. Pretty much every other moment of his life was spent in the company of his team members; hell, he even lived with some of them!

It's not like he could have imagined his life any other way; as soon as he was old enough to know anything, he knew he would join the military. As the oldest son of a Marine, that had always been his implied future, even though other options were available. But then his mother died in a freak house fire, from which he and his younger brother Sam barely escaped alive. His father, the brave man he was, even rushed back into the burning house trying the free Mary who had become trapped in the bedroom. It was futile, and everyone knew it; John had been lucky to emerge alive.

After that, everything went downhill for the Winchester family. John turned to alcohol to deal with the grief of losing his wife and everything associated with the life they had together. Next came the DUI and a dishonorable discharge from the Marine Corps. He was jobless and drunk for most of Dean's teen years, leaving the burden of supporting the family on Dean. It was then he knew that no matter what aspirations he had, the military was the only way he would be able to support himself and Sam. In Dean's opinion, Sam got the brains of the family, and Dean was going to pay for him to go to college no matter what it took. And after what felt like a lifetime in hell, but was actually just a decade and a handful of combat deployments, Sammy was in law school.

After quickly toweling off, Dean dressed in his uniform, a blend of brown and tan pixels which immediately identified him as a member of a special operations group. Looking in the mirror, Dean cringed. He hated this fucking uniform. Recently the Navy had started phasing in new uniforms, and this is what Dean had gotten stuck with. For years he had been trained in camouflage, stealth, and secrecy. Now he had to walk around in a special uniform like a target on his back? No thank you.

Dean arrived exactly 15 minutes early to his unit's headquarters, where he was shown to a back conference room by a scared looking kid whose nametape identified him as Shurley. He had been in the unit for years now, but had never been allowed access to this particular briefing room, normally restricted for matters of the highest secrecy. Set up like a college lecture hall, rows of tables stretched across the room in a slight curve. Each row was a few steps lower than the row behind it, and at the bottom of the massive room was a single podium. The walls, the floors, the desks, and even the floors were black; in fact, the only thing Dean could find that wasn't as black as night was a massive projection screen at the front of the room, behind the podium. Making his way down the stairs, he settled on the third row from the front and centered himself on the curved desk. The uneasy feeling he had experienced when he received the phone call that morning was back in full force now. This was no ordinary mission for his commanders to roll out all the stops for.

The sound of a door opening pulled Dean from his reverie and he snapped to the position of attention when he saw Captain Singer enter, followed by Commander Campbell and a woman he didn't recognize. She was wearing a suit, so she clearly wasn't military, but he couldn't figure out why she would be there if she wasn't.

"Petty Officer Winchester. Please sit," Captain Singer said, and although his words were polite, his tone had all the warmth of a bag of frozen peas. "I'm sure you're quite curious as to why you're here right now. Commander Campbell has informed me that you are the best man for the job, so don't let me down. And with that, I will turn it over to Agent Harvelle."

On cue, the woman stepped forward with a laptop that she connected to the massive projector. She looked to be in her mid forties, with plain brown hair that fell just past her shoulders over an equally plain black pant suit. Of course she wore a fucking pant suit, Dean thought to himself. Hell would freeze over the day he saw a skirt walking around a military installation.

"Petty Officer Winchester, as Captain Singer said, my name is Special Agent Ellen Harvelle, of the Central Intelligence Agency. I'm here today because one of our operatives, one of the best actually, has gotten himself into a little bit of a bind, we'll say," the woman said as she clicked a remote, launching a powerpoint up onto the screen.

The image of a man's face appeared, magnified to take up the entire massive screen. It was clearly a generic photo, like one taken for an ID badge, not meant to be flattering, but even still Dean couldn't help the breath that caught in his chest. Clear blue eyes shown through the photo as bright as day, a messy mop of jet black hair sat on top of his head, and just the right amount of scruff adorned his jaw. Who the hell was this guy?

As if to answer Dean's unspoken question, Agent Harvelle continued talking. "This is your target, Special Agent Castiel Novak. He's been a NOC for a very long time, so he's deep… very deep," she explained. "In case you are unfamiliar, that's non-official cover, which means his actions are not technically sanctioned by the CIA or the government and we don't have any diplomatic means by which to negotiate his return. Even if we did, it most likely wouldn't turn out well for him."

"What do you mean? With all due respect, how could the CIA helping the guy end up… not helping?" Dean asked, thoroughly confused at this point.

"Patience, Petty Officer. If you think the combat operations you conduct are complicated, multiply that by a factor of a thousand and you have a clandestine operation. Not only must our agents execute their mission, they are required to lead double lives. Or, in the case of Agent Novak here, triple lives," Agent Harvelle said.

"Triple lives? So he's a double agent or something?" Dean asked.

"Or something, Petty Officer," said Agent Harvelle sadly, casting her eyes down at the ground.