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artyandink · 4 months ago

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amoralism | fourteen

SUMMARY: You and Dean Winchester are the top agents from Major Crimes. You’re also assigned as partners on the same case- a crime syndicate is running loose and buying out most of downtown New York. He hates you cause you hate him. You hate him cause you think he got in his position with his daddy’s influence. But this case is personal to one of you more than the other- and you may be getting too personal for comfort.

TW: Dean’s the mole, the Sucide Squad formation and it being a train wreck, a bit of family problems, angst

SERIES MASTERLIST

Song Inspo: Tears of Gold - Faouzia

chauvinism

The mission had been in the works for two long, grueling weeks, and it still felt like a long shot.

You, Sam, Bobby, and the so-called "Suicide Squad" had spent hours in the Bureau's underground briefing room, a place so buried under layers of concrete and steel that cell reception was a distant memory. The air inside was thick with the smell of stale coffee, sweat, and stress—everyone had been pulling double shifts, and no one was more wired than you. The clock was ticking. Dean’s files were being held under lock and key by Raphael Deacon, the Director of the FBI, and a man with more power than the President on his worst days.

But the files—Dean's files—were the key to everything. They held the proof, the answers. The only way to clear Dean's name or understand why he had betrayed you all. You needed those files, and there was only one way to get them: a heist.

It sounded absurd, like something out of a bad spy movie, but it was the only plan anyone had that made sense. Bobby had been pacing the front of the room, whiteboard behind him filled with diagrams, maps, and hastily scribbled notes as the rest of the team crowded around.

“We go in quick, we go in quiet,” Bobby muttered, pulling the cap off a dry-erase marker with his teeth and slashing another line across the board. “We got exactly one window where Deacon’s gonna be out of his office, and that’s when we make our move.”

You leaned back in your chair, arms crossed, trying to ignore the tension building in your chest. You’d been part of risky ops before, but this? This was borderline suicide.

“You really think we can pull this off?” you asked, glancing at Sam next to you. His brow was furrowed, a hand running through his long hair as he scrutinized the plan for any weakness.

“We don’t have a choice,” he said quietly, eyes meeting yours. “It’s the only way we find out what’s really going on with Dean.”

His words weighed heavily on you. It had been weeks since you last saw Dean, and the encounter had shaken you to your core. You hadn’t spoken to anyone about it—especially not Sam. You swallowed hard, pushing the thoughts of Dean to the back of your mind. Focus. You needed to focus.

Across the table, Charlie Bradbury was furiously typing away on her laptop, her fingers moving faster than you thought was humanly possible. “Okay, okay, I think I’ve got it,” she said, her voice cutting through the room. “I’ve hacked into the security system. We’ve got a thirty-second delay between when a breach happens and when it gets reported. That’s our window.”

John Winchester, his arms folded over his chest, grunted from his spot near the back of the room. He hadn’t said much throughout the planning—just his typical gruff one-liners about security, strategy, and how this was a fool’s errand. But when he spoke, everyone listened.

“And what happens if we miss that window?” John asked, his voice low, but enough to send a ripple of unease through the group.

“We don’t miss it,” Bobby snapped, glaring at John. “We can’t afford to miss it.”

Rufus Turner, leaning back in his chair with his feet propped up on the table, gave a lazy grin. “Oh, this is gonna be fun. Haven’t done a good ol' heist in years.”

Next to him, Agent Jack Kline, the youngest member of the team, looked more nervous than excited. He had the look of a deer caught in the headlights, but he was trying to mask it with a look of determination.

Mick Davies, sharp as ever in his suit, spoke up next. “What’s our exit plan? We can’t just waltz out of the building with federal files in hand. Deacon’s got eyes everywhere.”

Bobby paused, pacing again, his boots heavy on the floor. “We’ll split up. Create enough chaos that no one knows what’s happening until we’re gone. Charlie, you’ll jam the internal comms, give us time to slip out without alerting the entire Bureau.”

Garth chimed in, tapping his chin. “And what about disguises? We can’t exactly stroll in looking like this.” He gestured down at his casual clothes.

“That’s where I come in,” Mick said, a slight smirk tugging at his lips. “I’ve got some connections. We’ll have uniforms. FBI suits, maintenance workers, delivery personnel. The whole nine yards.”

“Sounds like a damn circus,” you muttered under your breath, rubbing your temples.

Bobby shot you a look. “We’re working with what we’ve got.”

The plan was as convoluted as they came—deceit, manipulation, distraction, and everything in between. There was no room for error. One slip, one wrong move, and the entire operation would be over before it even began. But you were in too deep now. Backing out wasn’t an option.

The day arrived sooner than any of you were ready for. You could feel the tension in the air as the team gathered in the Bureau's underground garage. Everyone was dressed to play their parts—uniforms, IDs, all fake but polished enough to pass a casual inspection.

You tugged at the stiff collar of your maintenance jumpsuit, feeling out of place but determined. Sam, standing next to you, adjusted the lapels on his fake FBI suit, his eyes scanning the group.

“Everyone know their role?” Bobby asked, his voice hard as he gave one final look at the team.

Charlie was the first to respond. “I’ll be in the van, controlling the security feed and hacking the system as we go. If anything goes wrong, you’ll know because all hell will break loose.”

John, dressed as a janitor, grunted his agreement. “I’ll make sure the halls are clear.”

Garth, in his delivery uniform, gave a thumbs up. “I’m your distraction. Trust me, I’ve got this.”

Mick and Jack were already in character, blending in seamlessly with the handful of actual Bureau agents milling about the garage. It was showtime.

The mission began like clockwork. Mick and Jack were the first inside, walking through the front entrance with forged IDs and briefcases in hand. They passed the metal detectors, nodding at the guards with an air of confidence that only agents from another division could pull off.

Meanwhile, you, Sam, John, and Garth entered through the back, where maintenance workers were busy hauling in cleaning supplies and equipment. John’s hard glare kept anyone from asking questions. The man had a presence that made you glad he was on your side.

Charlie’s voice came through the earpiece in your ear. “Alright, you’re clear for now. Thirty seconds until the first security sweep. Move fast.”

Your heart pounded as you made your way through the narrow back corridors, trying to keep your footsteps light despite the rush of adrenaline in your veins. Sam was right behind you, his eyes darting between you and the path ahead.

As you rounded a corner, you caught sight of Raphael Deacon’s office—a heavy wooden door guarded by two agents. Garth was already in place, wheeling a large cart of ‘deliveries’ toward the door. You watched as he fumbled with the boxes, pretending to lose his balance.

“Oh no, shoot! Sorry, fellas, can you give me a hand here?” Garth asked, flashing his best disarming smile.

The guards, caught off guard by the seemingly harmless delivery guy, bent down to help him, just as John slipped past them into the restricted hallway unnoticed.

“Ten seconds,” Charlie’s voice warned. “You better move fast.”

John reappeared moments later, his expression tense as he gave the signal.

The door to Deacon’s office clicked open.

Inside, Raphael Deacon’s office was as imposing as you expected. The walls were lined with bookshelves, legal documents, and awards, but the real prize was the locked cabinet at the back of the room. Dean’s files were inside. Somewhere.

You rushed to the cabinet with Sam while John kept watch. Time was ticking. You grabbed the small lock-picking kit Mick had given you, your fingers trembling as you worked the lock. The seconds felt like hours as you concentrated, sweat beading on your forehead.

“Come on,” Sam muttered beside you, glancing toward the door.

Click.

The lock gave way, and you swung the cabinet doors open. Inside, stacks of files lay neatly arranged, but it only took you a second to spot the one marked with Dean’s name. You grabbed it, stuffing it into your bag just as Charlie’s voice cut through the comms again.

“We’ve got a problem. Security’s onto us. They’re not buying Garth’s act anymore.”

“Time to go,” John grunted, pulling you and Sam toward the exit.

The building was already buzzing with movement as you slipped back into the maintenance hallways, but just as planned, the chaos was enough to keep most of the agents off your trail. Garth had done his job.

Back in the garage, Charlie was already in the van, her fingers flying across her keyboard. “You’ve got maybe thirty seconds before they realize what’s missing. Let’s go!”

Everyone piled into the van as it sped away, the sound of sirens blaring in the distance. You sat back, heart racing, the weight of the stolen file heavy in your hands.

It was a victory. But as you caught Sam’s eye, you both knew this was just the beginning. The contents of the file would tell you everything—or nothing. Either way, there was no turning back now.

The mission was chaotic, convoluted, and dangerous. But somehow, against all odds, you had pulled it off.

Now came the hard part.

The adrenaline from the mission was still pumping through your veins as the van sped down the back roads, far away from the FBI headquarters. Charlie, behind the wheel, navigated the narrow streets with sharp precision, while the rest of the team sat in tense silence. The stolen file, Dean’s file, sat heavy in your lap, the weight of its contents unknown, but it was the key to everything.

You looked over at Sam. His eyes were fixed on the folder, a mix of worry and determination etched on his face. Bobby sat across from you, arms crossed, looking out the window. John was muttering to himself in the back corner, probably going over every tactical mistake you all might have made. Garth, still in his delivery uniform, was looking out the window with a goofy grin as if the whole operation had been some kind of field trip. Mick, ever the polished MI6 agent, looked almost too calm, while Jack sat quietly, fiddling nervously with his hands.

The van rattled as Charlie took a sharp turn, and you tightened your grip on the file.

“So, what now?” Charlie asked, glancing at you through the rearview mirror. “We just crack open this bad boy and hope for the best?”

“Yeah,” Bobby said with a grunt, shifting in his seat. “But not here. Too many eyes around. We need a safe spot.”

Sam finally spoke up. “We can go to my place. Jess is out of town visiting family, and it’s secure.”

You nodded. “Sam’s right. Let’s go there. We can regroup, figure out what’s in this file, and plan our next move.”

The ride to Sam’s place felt longer than it should have, despite the fact that it was only about twenty minutes away. The tension in the van was thick, and you could tell everyone was on edge. After the chaos of the heist, it was hard to believe you’d actually pulled it off. But as much as you wanted to feel victorious, you couldn’t shake the gnawing feeling in the pit of your stomach.

Dean was out there somewhere, possibly on the run, possibly still with the syndicate. Or worse, maybe he was exactly what the files would say he was. The thought sent a chill down your spine. After everything, after all the years you’d known him—had Dean really betrayed you all?

Charlie pulled up in front of Sam’s house, parking the van in the driveway. Everyone piled out, and you all made your way inside. Sam’s place was quiet, almost too quiet, the kind of stillness that made the atmosphere feel heavier than it should’ve been.

Sam locked the door behind him, and the group settled in the living room. You sat down on the couch, the file still in your hands, and the rest of the team gathered around.

Bobby leaned forward, eyeing the file like it was some kind of dangerous artifact. “Well, kiddo,” he said, looking at you, “you gonna do the honors?”

You glanced around the room, feeling the weight of everyone’s anticipation. Your hands shook slightly as you undid the clasp on the folder, opening it to reveal the contents inside.

There were several thick documents, each stamped with confidential seals and the unmistakable insignia of the FBI. You sifted through them quickly, scanning for something, anything that would make sense of this madness. There were surveillance reports, witness statements, memos—all detailing Dean’s activities over the last year.

Your eyes caught on one page in particular, a detailed report from Raphael Deacon himself. You skimmed it, your pulse quickening as you read the words:

"Subject: Dean Winchester – Special Agent, suspected mole within the FBI, believed to be in contact with syndicate leader Lucifer. Operative is highly skilled, with extensive knowledge of Bureau protocol. Unclear how deeply involved he is with the organization, but intelligence suggests infiltration may have been premeditated…"

You swallowed hard, passing the page to Sam. His brow furrowed as he read it, a deep frown forming on his face.

“This doesn’t make sense,” Sam muttered, flipping through the pages. “Dean wouldn’t do this.”

John scoffed from the back of the room. “You sure about that, Sam? People can change. And sometimes, they don’t turn out to be who you think they are.”

Sam shot him a glare. “Dean wouldn’t betray the Bureau. Not like this.”

You stayed silent, your mind reeling as you tried to make sense of everything. The reports, the surveillance footage, the classified memos—they all painted a picture of Dean as a double agent. But something wasn’t adding up. Dean was reckless sometimes, sure, but he wasn’t a traitor.

“We need to dig deeper,” you said finally, your voice barely above a whisper. “There has to be something we’re missing.”

Charlie leaned over, scanning the files over your shoulder. “There’s a lot of redacted information here. They’re definitely hiding something.”

“Could be a cover-up,” Bobby mused. “Deacon ain’t exactly a trustworthy son of a bitch.”

“Then why’d Dean run?” Jack asked, his voice quiet. “If he’s innocent, why hasn’t he come back?”

The question hung in the air, heavy and unanswered.

“I don’t know,” you admitted. “But I don’t believe for a second that Dean’s in on this. Not fully.”

Sam’s jaw clenched, and you could see the conflict in his eyes. “We need more information. Something solid. These files... they’re not enough.”

Mick spoke up for the first time in a while, his voice smooth but thoughtful. “Perhaps there’s a lead we can follow. If Dean’s gone dark, there must be a way to trace his movements. Off-the-books contacts, safe houses, something he would’ve used to stay hidden.”

Rufus, who had been oddly quiet until now, nodded. “Dean ain’t dumb. He’d know how to cover his tracks. But he might’ve left a trail for someone who knows how to look.”

You stood up, pacing the room as the ideas swirled in your mind. Every second that passed felt like you were running out of time, like Dean was slipping further away.

“Charlie, can you dig into these files, see what’s been redacted and maybe trace where this intel came from?” you asked, knowing full well that if anyone could break through encrypted data, it was her.

She gave you a thumbs-up. “Already on it.”

Sam rubbed his eyes, the exhaustion evident on his face. “We should keep looking for leads, but I agree with you. Something’s off about all of this. Dean wouldn’t just run unless he had no other choice.”

The thought of Dean being out there, alone, possibly in danger, made your heart ache. You hadn’t been able to shake the feeling that there was more to this story. But the mission wasn’t over yet.

The prison was cold. It always was. The kind of cold that seeped into your bones no matter how many layers you wore. As you made your way down the long, sterile corridor, your footsteps echoed against the hard concrete floors, bouncing off the walls in a rhythmic, lonely sound. The guard leading you said nothing, his face impassive as he swiped his keycard to open another set of heavy metal doors.

It wasn’t your first visit here. You’d been coming to see Eleanor, your mother, for weeks now. But no matter how many times you passed through the gates, through the searches and the checkpoints, it never got easier. You felt the weight of it all pressing down on your chest with every step you took.

And today, it felt even heavier.

Your mind was a whirlwind of questions, of uncertainties. The mission had been chaotic, the files had been convoluted, and worst of all, Dean was missing. A mole. An alleged traitor. But none of it made sense. None of it fit with the Dean you knew. You hoped that your mother, with her past connections to the criminal underworld, might be able to shed some light on the situation.

The guard finally stopped in front of a small, enclosed room—a visiting room. "Five minutes," he said gruffly, as though the kindness of a full hour was something prisoners rarely deserved. He unlocked the door, then gestured for you to enter. You nodded and stepped inside.

Eleanor was already sitting at the table, her hands folded neatly in front of her, her expression as calm and composed as ever. She had that air about her, even in prison. A woman who had lived through chaos and come out the other side unbroken. Her hair was pulled back in a tight bun, streaks of gray more prominent now than they had been the last time you saw her.

When she looked up and met your eyes, her face softened, just a little.

"Hey, kid," she said, her voice carrying a warmth that you hadn’t expected.

"Mom." You managed a small smile, pulling out the chair across from her and sitting down. You placed your hands on the table, feeling the cold surface beneath your fingers, trying to gather your thoughts, trying to figure out how to start.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable—it never had been with Eleanor. She was patient, observant. She had a way of waiting you out, of letting you come to her when you were ready.

You glanced up at her and took a deep breath. "I need to ask you something."

Eleanor’s eyes narrowed slightly. She tilted her head, her hands still resting lightly on the table. "What is it?"

"It’s about Dean," you said, the words feeling heavy as they left your mouth.

Her expression didn’t change much, but you could see the flicker of concern behind her eyes. "Dean Winchester?" she asked slowly.

You nodded, your heart racing. "Yeah. There’s been… something’s happened, and I need to know if he’s involved with the syndicate."

Eleanor blinked, clearly taken aback. She leaned back in her chair slightly, her eyes scanning your face for answers that weren’t yet spoken. "Dean?" she repeated, almost incredulous. "Dean Winchester is involved with the syndicate? The same syndicate I used to run with?"

"That’s what I’m trying to figure out," you admitted, your voice quiet. "There’s a file, reports… all pointing to him being a mole inside the FBI, working with them."

Eleanor looked at you for a long moment, her gaze unblinking. And then, almost abruptly, she let out a soft, humorless chuckle. "No," she said, shaking her head. "No, that doesn’t make any sense."

"I know it doesn’t," you replied, feeling a mixture of frustration and desperation rise up in your chest. "But it’s there. His name’s all over the files. They have surveillance, they have witness accounts—everything points to Dean."

Your mother’s brow furrowed, her fingers tapping lightly on the table as she considered your words. "I knew Dean," she said finally, her voice steady, as though she was sorting through facts in her mind. "I worked with a lot of people who were mixed up in some dark stuff, but Dean? He wasn’t one of them."

You leaned forward, pressing her. "But could he have been involved without you knowing? Maybe something happened after you were arrested. Something that pulled him in."

Eleanor shook her head firmly. "I don’t believe it. Dean’s a lot of things, but he’s not reckless. And he’s not stupid. Getting involved with the syndicate? That’s a death sentence. And it’s not something he could’ve hidden easily, even from me."

You stared at her, trying to make sense of it all. "But what if… what if they forced him? Or what if he’s been playing both sides, working undercover?"

She leaned forward, her gaze sharp now. "Listen to me," she said, her voice low but intense. "If Dean was involved in the syndicate, I’d know. They don’t operate in a vacuum. Everyone knows everyone. And if Dean was in that system, his name would’ve come up long before now. You said there’s a file on him? Well, I can tell you one thing: Dean’s name isn’t in any of their systems."

Her words hit you like a punch to the gut. You had been hoping, deep down, that she could give you some insight, some hidden piece of the puzzle that would make everything click into place. But instead, it only raised more questions.

"Then why are they saying it’s him?" you asked, your voice barely a whisper.

Eleanor’s eyes softened slightly. "It sounds like someone’s setting him up. They’re using his name, his reputation, to cover their own tracks. And you need to figure out who’s behind it."

You swallowed hard, your mind spinning. Could it be true? Could someone really be framing Dean, manipulating the FBI into thinking he was the mole?

"But why?" you asked, more to yourself than to Eleanor. "Why would they choose Dean?"

"Because he’s good at what he does," she said, a hint of admiration in her voice. "And because they know that if you believe he’s guilty, no one will question it. Not even you."

The words stung, but you couldn’t deny the truth in them. If someone was framing Dean, they were doing a damn good job of it. And they knew exactly how to push your buttons, how to make you doubt everything you thought you knew.

You looked down at the table, your hands clenched into fists. "I don’t know what to do," you admitted, your voice small and defeated.

Eleanor reached out, placing her hand on top of yours. "You do what you always do," she said gently. "You dig. You find the truth. And you don’t stop until you have it."

You nodded, the resolve slowly returning to your chest. She was right. There was still a lot you didn’t know, but you couldn’t stop now. Dean’s life—his reputation—was at stake, and you couldn’t let him go down without a fight.

"Thank you," you said, meeting her eyes. "I’m sorry to have dragged you into this."

She smiled softly, squeezing your hand. "You’re my kid. You don’t need to apologize for coming to me for help."

The guard knocked on the door then, signaling the end of your visit. You stood, feeling the weight of the conversation still heavy on your shoulders. As the guard escorted you out, you glanced back at Eleanor one last time. She gave you a nod, her eyes filled with the kind of strength you always admired in her.

As the doors closed behind you, the coldness of the prison faded, but the uncertainty lingered. Dean wasn’t in the syndicate. You were sure of it now. But that meant someone else was pulling the strings—someone powerful enough to frame him, to make you doubt him.

You stepped outside into the crisp air, your mind still racing. There was more to uncover, more pieces of the puzzle to find. And now, you had to figure out how to put them together before it was too late.

Because Dean’s life depended on it.

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