Chapter Text
The subway station was a mess of flickering fluorescents and stale air, the kind of place that clung to the skin, made a person feel grimy just by standing in it. The lights overhead buzzed, the uneven frequency setting his teeth on edge. Dean took the stairs two at a time, his boots scuffing against the concrete, barely catching himself when the metal threshold at the bottom shifted underfoot. His weight adjusted automatically—small shift, center of gravity steady, just like they taught him.
Stupid. No reason for that.
He muttered a curse and pressed forward.
The security checkpoint was clogged with the evening rush, a slow-moving line shuffling toward the metal detectors. Overhead, the public safety announcement droned in a flat, mechanical voice:
"For your safety and security, please have your bag ready for inspection at any time. Report any unattended items to subway staff..."
Dean rolled his shoulders. His body tracked movement without thinking. He couldn’t help it. The too-close press of people, the artificial buzz of the speakers—too much stimulus, too much waiting.
Something wet and cold hit the top of his head. He glanced up, grimacing at the crumbling ceiling. Another drip. He angled himself away, resisting the urge to wipe his hair on his sleeve.
One more service call. Then home.
The detector let out a sharp beep the second he stepped through.
His pulse jumped.
Not because he was carrying anything contraband. He knew that. But his fingers still curled into fists, his breath catching in his throat before he could stop it.
Red flash. A shift in the air. A pause before the trigger pulls.
The security guard barely looked at him. “Step aside, sir. Open your bag.”
Dean nodded, too fast, too eager. Normal. Be normal. He unslung his messenger bag and set it down, watching the guard’s hands sift through his things. Check the hands first. Check for tension, for tells.
He already knew there was nothing in there. He’d checked. Twice.
The guard rummaged through his tools and tablet with practiced indifference. Still, the weight of strangers’ eyes crawled up his back like static. His shoulders tensed, waiting for the second beep, the command to move. A reset. A reassignment.
Finally, a nod. “You’re good.”
Dean swiped his transit card and pushed through the turnstile, moving fast.
The platform was crowded on one side, people jostling for position while waiting for the northbound train. The southbound was still boarding. He could make it. He wove through the bodies, ignoring the annoyed grumbles as he brushed past, and barely cleared the doors before they slid shut behind him.
The train car was mostly empty. Perfect. He dropped onto a seat in the corner, stretching his legs out in front of him. The light in his section of the train buzzed, fighting to stay illuminated.
Across from him, a broken fiberglass seat had been defaced with a crude etching—Human Supremacy.
Dean stilled.
Not the first time he’d seen it. Wouldn’t be the last. Posters had started showing up, slapped onto street signs, poles, and buildings. Cheap printouts screaming about androids taking jobs, about human purity .
His fingers twitched, like they wanted to rub the letters out. Like he was standing over a sink, scrubbing blood from his skin.
He exhaled sharply through his nose and forced himself to relax. You don’t react. You don’t let them see it. He shifted in his seat, scanning the other passengers. No one seemed to be paying attention. But then again, neither was he, right?
The screen above the seats flickered, shifting from a looping ad for some new dating app to a muted news report.
—Leading edge android scientist targeted in attack—
Dean looked away. He wasn’t supposed to notice. Wasn’t supposed to care.
But the words burned in the back of his mind. Raw. Ugly. Tangled up with his father’s voice, the smell of gun oil, the crack of knuckles against a wooden table.
His phone buzzed.
Dean pulled it out and stared at the notification. A message from his dad. Just three words.
Call me. Now.
His thumb twitched before he even realized he was moving. Muscle memory. Orders weren’t suggestions.
His name stripped from the records. His eyes flashing red. Private Winchester, I suggest you return to your assigned duties.
His jaw locked. No. Not tonight.
The train lurched into motion. Dean let his head tip back against the window, the cold of it a shock against his skin. A second of relief. Then something else.
Rain. Cold, sharp. Soaking through his fatigues, plastering them to his body.
The sharp crackle of orders in his earpiece.
Movement—too fast. A flicker of metal in the dark. Then the screams started.
His fingers twitched. A habit. A reflex. The ghost of a movement—reaching for a gun that wasn’t there. That hadn’t been there in years.
The train jostled violently around a bend, and Dean’s body moved before his brain caught up, bracing instinctively. Hands steady, breath even. Just like they trained him.
Relaxing wasn’t an option anymore.
Maybe it never had been.
With a sigh, he pulled out his phone, opening the last thread with Sam. The messages were old.
Too old.
Dean had enlisted the day he had turned eighteen, he hadn’t even graduated from high school at that point. No diploma, no plan, just the desperate need to get out. The promise of escape.
When he left, Sam was twelve. Still a kid. Too big eyes, a mop of shaggy hair, always asking too many damn questions.
By the time Dean came back, Sam was taller than him. Built solid. Angry at the world.
They’d been close once—best friends, even.
But whatever happened while Dean was gone, it burned their family down for good.
Neither Sam nor Dad ever gave him the full story. Dean stopped asking after a while. The only thing that mattered was that by the time he set foot back in their apartment, Sam was already halfway out the door.
Three weeks.
That’s how long Sam stayed before he was gone, too.
Dean had been too wrecked to stop him. Too lost trying to figure out how to exist in civilian skin again.
At first, he tried to stay in touch. Sent messages, left voicemails.
Sam’s replies were short.
Then they stopped coming altogether.
Dean turned toward the window, watching the city blur past. The train’s hum, the murmur of distant voices—it all faded into the background.
There were days he let himself wonder. Where Sam was. If he was happy. If he even thought about home. If he ever thought about Dean.
If he knew how much of himself Dean was burning just to make sure he was safe.
Dean wanted to stop caring. It would be easier if he did.
He told himself that a lot. Never quite believed it.
He closed the messages and shoved his phone back into his pocket.
He’d stopped waiting for an answer a long time ago.
The train slowed, pulling into the station.
The streets narrowed as he followed the directions, buildings pressing in on either side. Everything here looked tired, worn down by time and neglect.
Cracked pavement. Cigarette butts. A mix of damp concrete and something acrid hanging in the air.
Dean checked his phone again.
Right place.
Ahead, a single door stood out against the grime-streaked brick: The Emporium. The bold lettering was barely visible beneath years of wear, its edges faded, like the city itself was trying to swallow it whole.
The door didn’t match the rest of the building. Sleek metal, cold and sterile. The surface was scratched from use, but no rust, no dents. Like it had been built to last, even as everything around it decayed.
Dean hesitated for half a second—barely long enough to notice.
Above the door, a small red light flickered. A signal. A status indicator.
For a brief, irrational moment, his mind supplied something else—a flashing red optic, the threat of—
Dean exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulders like he could shake the feeling off.
Move. Forward. Now.
He pushed inside.
The reception area was too clean. Not the kind of clean that came from good upkeep—the kind that came from effort. Like the city’s filth stopped at the threshold, held at bay by sheer force of will. Military bases were like that, too.
The furniture had seen better days, functional without being lavish, but it was maintained. Deliberate. No cracks in the walls, no exposed wiring. The air smelled faintly of something floral, artificial. Something meant to cover up something else. Soft, unobtrusive music hummed from a speaker tucked somewhere out of sight.
Dean barely resisted the urge to glance around, to take stock of the exits, the camera placements, the weight of the silence underneath the music.
It wasn’t a habit he’d ever shaken.
Behind the desk, a woman sat with her feet propped up, utterly absorbed in a book. Dark waves of hair spilled over her shoulders, framing a heart-shaped face that didn’t so much as flicker with acknowledgment. She popped her gum in a steady rhythm, the sound punctuating the moment like a deliberate test of patience.
Dean cleared his throat, shifting the weight of his messenger bag. The movement was too intentional, too much like resetting his stance after standing too long in one place.
One perfectly arched eyebrow lifted. Another pop.
“Let me finish this page, Ken doll.”
Dean clenched his jaw. The irritation was real, but it wasn’t just about waiting. Waiting meant giving someone else control. He’d been on his feet all damn day, fixing things, moving, working. That was fine. That was better. Now, he was standing still. Waiting.
Exposed.
He exhaled through his nose. Reined it in.
Not here to pick a fight.
Eventually, with a final pop of her gum, the woman closed her book. Her eyes flicked up, assessing him with lazy amusement—like she already knew exactly how long she could make him wait before he’d push back.
“You should’ve come earlier,” she said, unimpressed. “Most of the girls are occupied. I can try to fit you in, but no promises.”
Dean stilled.
Of course, she’d assume that.
For a fraction of a second, he felt his shoulders pull tight—like he had something to defend, something to correct. He forced the tension down.
Exhaled through his nose.
“I’m not here for that.”
He squared his shoulders, grounding himself. “Dean Winchester. I was called in to look at one of the androids.”
Not that desperate. Not yet.
That got her attention.
The smirk that curled at her lips was equal parts amusement and curiosity. “Well, isn’t that a switch.”
She leaned back in her chair, popping her gum again.
“Usually, the androids are the ones doing the servicing, not the other way around.”
Dean let out a short chuckle. Reflex. Automatic. A fast way to shake off the discomfort before it settled.
With a knowing grin, she pushed up from her chair, stretching like she’d been sitting there for hours.
“Come on,” she said, jerking her chin toward the hallway. “I’ll take you up to your ‘droid.”
Dean followed, his boots echoing too loudly against the polished floor.
He kept his eyes forward, jaw set, as they moved down the dimly lit hallway.
The doors were open.
Not all of them, but enough.
Fleeting glimpses—bare skin, tangled sheets, low murmurs bleeding into gasps and sighs.
The air was thick with sweat, perfume, something cloying that clung to the back of his throat. Like battlefield smoke. Like a maintenance bay after a core overheated, the faint burn of fried circuits beneath it.
Dean ignored it. Or tried to.
The woman ahead of him—he still didn’t have a name for her, not that it mattered—moved with an easy confidence, like none of it even registered. To her, this wasn’t anything unusual. Just another Tuesday night at The Emporium.
Dean focused on the back of her head, the way her hair swayed when she walked. Easier than looking anywhere else. He rolled his neck to shake off the tension winding tight beneath his skin. This wasn’t his scene. He wasn’t here for that. Couldn’t be. Not after… He forced the thought down before it finished forming.
Just a job. That’s all.
At the end of the hall, they turned a corner, stopping in front of a door labeled C45 in stark black lettering.
She smirked, stepping aside. “It’ll be in in a moment,” she said, casual, like she was dropping him off for a dental appointment.
And with that, she was gone, her boots clicking against the floor as she disappeared back the way they’d come.
Dean rolled his neck. Right. Time to work.
The room inside was dim, the soft glow of a bedside lamp casting long shadows over deep red walls. The decor leaned into luxury—plush carpets, satin sheets, a goddamn canopied bed that looked too perfect to have ever been slept in. Everything felt curated, a stage set for whatever fantasy a client was willing to pay for.
Dean had barely gotten his bearings when the door clicked shut behind him.
He turned, and there it was.
The android stood by the door, completely still. Too still. The newer models fidgeted—tiny micro-adjustments to maintain balance, programmed mannerisms to make them seem more lifelike. But this one didn’t move until it had to.
Then, all at once, it came alive. A blink. A tilt of the head. A step forward—fluid, smooth, almost human but not quite.
“Hello,” it said, voice smooth, artificial. “I am unit C-45. How may I assist you?”
Not fear. Not really. More like something clicking into place—something he didn’t want to name. He rubbed the back of his neck, taking in the machine’s appearance.
He assessed the android, taking it in.
The man—no—android was attractive. Dark hair. Strong jawline. Broad shoulders, lean muscle, built to please. It moved fluidly, but every so often, a twitch jerked through its posture—subtle, but enough to catch his attention.
A misalignment. Like a system degrading.
"Yeah," Dean said, stepping closer. "I'm the tech they called in. Heard you’re havin’ some issues, buddy."
The android gave a small nod. “Indeed. Please proceed with your evaluation.”
Then, with the same eerie grace, it turned and lowered itself onto a stool, presenting its back to him.
Dean hesitated.
He’d worked on plenty of androids before—some in far worse shape than this one. But something felt different. He wasn’t naive. He knew what androids were used for in places like this. What this one had been used for.
And the longer he looked, the more he saw the signs of wear: scuffed plating along its wrists, faint scratches on the synthetic skin where hands had gripped too hard. A pang of something—frustration, maybe guilt—settled heavy in his chest.
Dean had seen what androids could do. The incredible things they were capable of. The damage they could cause. He’d spent years being wary of them, of what they meant, of what they took.
And yet, looking at this one, all he saw was neglect.
He didn’t like that. Didn’t like that it bothered him. Androids weren’t people.
He huffed out a breath and pulled out his tools from his bag. He frowned. His hex nut driver was missing. A quick search of his bag didn’t surface it.
Dean put the concern aside and got his tablet. “Alright, let’s see what we got here—”
The second he connected, a sharp jolt of electricity surged through the android’s frame.
Dean swore, stumbling back, his pulse spiking. Instinct had his hands up, bracing for a reaction. For something worse—something he should have expected. But the android just turned its head, eyes unreadable. For half a second, his mind filled the gap with something else.
A dark hallway. A flicker of red. A slow head tilt before… No. No, no—
He shook it off. Forced himself back.
“Shit—” He stared, heart hammering. “You okay?”
A beat. Too long. Just enough hesitation to make the hairs on Dean’s arms stand on end.
Then:
“You are amusing,” it said, its tone devoid of emotion. “As an android, I do not have the capability to feel pain.”
Dean let out a breath, dragging a hand down his face. “Oh. Right. Of course not.”
He forced his focus back to the tablet. Tapped through code. Skimmed logs. Overrode commands. Slow, but not unusual—for a model this old.
What he hadn’t expected were the hidden files.
He frowned, eyes narrowing as he sifted through the buried directories. Several unnamed programs sat tucked away beneath layers of permissions—untouched, unseen. Probably meant to stay that way. Hidden.
Probably.
His fingers hovered over one. Hesitation—just a breath—before he tapped.
A script flickered onto the screen, a set of predefined instructions. Protocols. A second too late, Dean realized what he was looking at—the functions that dictated how this machine served its clients. He closed the program immediately, jaw tightening. He closed the program quickly and moved on.
He breathed out through clenched teeth and shifted his focus back to the technical work.
It was just a job. Just a machine.
He’d tell himself that as many times as it took.
“You know, you’re pretty advanced for your age,” he muttered, more to himself than the android.
“Thank you,” it replied, its tone neutral. “But age is just a number. It is the level of care and maintenance that determines a machine’s worth.”
Dean huffed. “Ain’t that the truth.”
The android sat still, watching him. Too still. Like it was waiting.
Dean focused back on his tablet, shaking off the feeling that he was being studied just as much as he was doing the studying.
Despite its outdated components, its software was something else. Dean wasn’t easily impressed—he’d worked on top-tier models, cutting-edge machines built for military use—but this?
This was different.
The programming was a goddamn masterpiece. Layers of code woven together in a way that shouldn’t have been possible for its time. Efficient, elegant, self-optimizing. The thing had been built to last.
Dean knew engineering when he saw it.
This wasn’t just good coding.
It was careful.
It was designed to be more than just functional.
His fingers hesitated over the screen.
Just a machine. That’s all it was.
"Your software’s something else, even by today's standards," Dean admitted, half in awe. "Someone put a lot of thought into makin’ ya, that’s for sure."
The android hummed, a soft vibration in its chest cavity. “I am grateful for your compliments.”
Dean didn’t like that.
Didn’t like the way it answered.
He forced his focus back to the updates. Most of the system was long overdue for patching—security fixes, performance optimizations, application updates. But the deeper he worked, the more he worked, the more he realized how deep the neglect ran.
There was no way he was finishing this today.
"Listen," Dean sighed, scrubbing a hand down his face. "This’ll take a few days to sort out. I'll do my damndest to get it done fast, but I gotta make sure everything’s workin’ right.”
“That is acceptable,” the android replied. Then, after a beat, it added, “I would rather be here with you than with clients.”
Dean’s fingers twitched, an old instinct kicking in—a feeling like stepping somewhere you shouldn’t.
He forced a breath out through his nose, clearing his throat. It doesn’t mean anything. Just a line of code. Just a machine spitting out pre-written responses.
“Uh… yeah,” Dean muttered, focusing a little too hard on the tablet in his hands.
He didn’t look up. Didn’t want to. “So, uh, you always belong to The Emporium?”
“No.”
Dean glanced up, the bluntness catching him off guard.
For a second, he swore he saw something flicker across the android’s face. A shift—too fast, too subtle.
Then gone.
“Right,” Dean muttered. “Makes sense. I can’t see a place like this puttin’ in the kind of time or resources it would’ve taken to create you. Someone spent a pretty penny,” he added. “Shame you haven’t been taken better care of.”
The android’s eyes flickered, a barely-there pause before it responded. “Yes. A shame.”
The newer models could update through the brothel’s intranet. Automated. Routine. But not this one. That’s why he was here. To manually maintain something that wasn’t supposed to need this much maintenance.
“That’s why you were called in,” it continued, “to address the decline in my functionality and bring me back to peak performance.”
It paused, “The newer models are far superior to me in every way, but your work will help extend the length of my usefulness.”
Dean stared at it for a second too long.
That was… The android was aware. Not just of its limitations. Not just of its declining functionality. It knew what was coming.
Could that be programming?
Dean exhaled sharply through his nose, turning back to his tablet.
Keep moving. Keep working.
This was just a job.
He worked in silence, forcing himself into the rhythm of it. Navigating the android’s system. Installing patches. Updating drivers. Running diagnostics. Each step deliberate—double-check, verify, confirm. He didn’t half-ass jobs like this, no matter how questionable the setting.
No matter how much something felt off.
Hours passed.
Finally, he straightened with a quiet sigh, rolling the tension from his neck.
"That’s it for now," he muttered, shaking off the stiffness in his shoulders. "You should notice some improvement, but I still got a ways to go before you’re runnin’ at full steam."
The android sat motionless as Dean packed up, shoving his tools into his bag with quick, practiced movements. A few more days, maybe a week. Then he could finish the job, move on, forget this place.
Forget this machine.
He was slinging his bag over his shoulder when the android stood. The motion was smooth—almost too smooth—except for the slight hitch as it tilted its head, rolling its neck in a distinctly human-like way. Dean’s gut coiled.
“To ensure that my functions are fully operational,” it said, voice as smooth and steady as ever, “I must request that you lie down so I can perform a test.”
Dean stilled, spine straightening and ingrained instincts kicking in. An old familiar instinct waking up.
Yeah, no.
“Not interested,” he said flatly, taking a step back.
The android’s expression remained neutral, its eyes flickering briefly as if processing the rejection.
“In that case,” it continued, “I would like to offer you a massage. It is a secondary function of mine, designed to provide comfort and relaxation.”
Dean blinked.
“Lie down, Technician,” it repeated, reaching for his hand.
The grip was gentle but precise. Unyielding.
For half a second, his brain filled in something else.
A corridor bathed in artificial light. A voice calling his rank. A hand on his wrist—
He swallowed hard. Forced himself present.
Dean hesitated, his brain warring with itself. On one hand, nope. On the other… The tension in his shoulders never fully left. It sat deep in his bones, constant, dull, the kind of ache that came from years of never really stopping.
He needed this.
He shouldn’t.
But he did.
Comfort was a luxury. And luxuries were dangerous.
With a sigh, he let himself be led toward the bed. “I’m leaving my clothes on,” he muttered, feeling stupid even as he said it. “And the name’s Dean.”
The android smiled. The expression was eerily natural. “Of course, Dean.”
There was something unsettling about how easily it said his name, how the syllables rolled off its synthetic tongue like it had known him for years.
“You carry a great deal of stress,” it continued, like it was stating a fact. “As a technician, I assume your work is physically demanding. I suggest a deep tissue massage to alleviate tension.”
It paused, head tilting slightly. “For optimal results, you should remove your jacket and shirt, but please undress only to your comfort level.”
Dean exhaled sharply through his nose. He could say no. Grab his bag. Get the hell out.
His jacket was already off.
He tugged his shirt over his head, folding it too neatly before tossing it onto the stool.
Then, with no small amount of reluctance, he stretched out on the bed.
He expected it to be awkward. Expected to be hyper-aware of every movement, his body coiled tight even as the android’s hands found his shoulders.
His body stayed tense at first, tense like a finger on a trigger, just waiting for the right moment. He was waiting, waiting for something clinical and mechanical.
But the android’s hands pressed into his shoulders—warm, firm, deliberate.
And his body betrayed him. Dean’s exhale stuttered.
The pressure was perfect. Methodical. Not just programmed—adaptive. It shifted in real time, adjusting instinctively to the knots in his muscles, targeting the tension like it knew his body better than he did. Expert. Programmed. That’s all it was.
The android’s hands pressed deeper, worked through layers of tension that had settled into his shoulders like stone.
Dean let out a slow breath.
His eyes slipped shut.
Whatever else this thing was, whatever it had been built for—
Damn if it didn’t know what it was doing.
It was a damn good massage.
Dean hadn't realized how tense he’d been—how long he’d been carrying that weight in his shoulders, his spine, his jaw—until it was gone. His muscles felt loose, warm, his body caught somewhere between boneless relaxation and reluctant alertness.
He was almost disappointed when the android’s hands lifted away, finishing with a few light, sweeping strokes that sent a shiver down his spine.
The machine stepped back, its gaze sweeping over him in silent assessment. "I hope you feel better now, Dean," it said, and for the first time, there was something almost... proud in its voice.
Dean pushed himself upright, rolling his neck. No knots. No tightness.
"Wow," he muttered, flexing his fingers like he was testing out a brand-new body. "That was somethin’ else. You're one hell of a masseuse."
The android inclined its head. "You're welcome, Dean."
Dean exhaled through his nose, running a hand through his hair before standing. He reached for his shirt, tugging it back on with slow, deliberate movements, like his body was reluctant to break the spell.
His gaze flicked back to the android.
It was still watching him.
Waiting.
Dean slung his jacket over one shoulder. "I’ll see you again soon," he said with a lazy salute, more habit than anything.
The machine twitched.
Just a fraction—barely there—but Dean caught it.
A tiny hitch, like something had gone off-script. Then, just as quickly, it reset. Nodded once.
Dean lingered for half a second longer than he meant to. Something about the way it moved—just a fraction of a second too slow, like a real person caught off guard.
Stupid thought. He exhaled sharply through his nose and shook it off.
He grabbed his bag, making his way back through the brothel’s halls, retracing his steps to the front desk. The woman looked up as he approached, one brow arched like she was already bracing for whatever bullshit he was about to throw her way.
"Just wanted to let you know I'll be back tomorrow," Dean said, voice gruff, heavier than he meant it to be.
She nodded, popping her gum. “Lucky us.”
Dean huffed a quiet chuckle and pushed through the door, stepping out into the night.
The air outside was cool, sharp with the scent of damp pavement and city grime. It hit him like a reset, the neon glow of distant streetlights cutting through the darkness, the familiar hum of traffic grounding him back in reality.
The Emporium was… something else.
And as much as he hated to admit it, part of him wasn’t dreading coming back.
Not because of the android. Just the job. Just good money. That’s all.