Archive of Our Own ^beta

Brock never really considered himself to be the fatherly type. He'd babysat, sure, but that's not really the same thing. He'd been the little brother in a fatherless home, yearning for some kind of guidance. 

He assumed he'd end up in the same kind of place; an absent parent to two kids and stuck with an ex he'd never intended to marry, trapped in a trailer park in the middle of fuck all nowhere. Had he decided to stay in the military, that probably would have happened.

Domesticity was the farthest thing from his mind when he chose the life he lived. The fact that he would end up cutting hot dogs into bite-sized pieces for two fussy toddlers was pure insanity. But there he was, tiny spork in hand, cutting even smaller pieces so there wouldn't be another choking incident. 

Hank was the easiest, he was good with solid foods, but Dean either ate too fast or cried at the sight of un-mashed carrot. It was past eleven, and the Doc had wanted a night to work peacefully, which meant that Brock got a full plate of nanny duty. 

Getting both twins to sleep at the same time was utterly impossible, and once Dean was finally calm enough to close his eyes, Hank would jump up and scream, and then they'd both cry. 

He knew the Doc would be pissed, but Brock couldn't handle it anymore. If they were hungry, they were hungry. And hotdogs were cheap.

"Here," Brock had finally gotten the remainder of Dean's food looking like pate. "You gonna eat it now?" 

Dean looked up at him with big, green eyes. His lip quivered and he sniffled harshly. 

"C'mon, Dean." Brock scooped up half of what he would've given to Hank. "Your brother's already done." 

Hank battered on his highchair in response, giggling at Dean and Brock with his ketchup stained face. Dean began to sniffle again. 

"Can you just try it?" Brock sighed deeply. "Please?" 

Dean looked at the mush again and opened his mouth begrudgingly. He was such a picky eater that at least one spoonful was a win in Brock and Doc's book. 

After several tumultuous chews, Dean smiled. His little, grubby baby hands began to pick up his own food, and Hank squealed in delight next to him. 

"See? I told you you'd like it." 

Getting everything cleaned up was the easiest part, considering that Brock had already set up a routine. The Doc was kind of a slob, and it didn't help that he hadn't ever had to pick up a broom in his life, let alone a mop. 

He'd hold one twin on his hip while cleaning their highchairs, smiling lightly as they both giggled uncontrollably at the suds and water. Brock wished he could remember being that happy and carefree. 

He wiped their hands and faces off, hoisting them both up on each hip and making his way to their room. They were both learning their words, Hank being the one to babble the most, explaining nonsense to Brock as he walked. Dean would make more noises, clutching onto Brock's shirt as Hank talked both their ears off. 

Brock bounced Hank to the side to open the door to their room, both twins laughing heartily. 

It was going through renovations, and Brock took careful steps to avoid both the twins' toys and random boxes the Doc had left in their room. They weren't yet ready for their twin beds, both still sleeping in their cribs, but Rusty was adamant at getting them both ready to graduate to them. Which Brock found to be stupid. They couldn't even eat on their own yet, let alone fully walk. Why try to rush things?

He set Hank down, ruffling his hair lightly. The blonde laid down almost instantly, and Brock breathed a sigh of relief. Dean clung to his shirt harder as Brock tried to peel him off his side, but approaching his crib only made Dean's little fingers tense harder, his other hand pulling at Brock's ponytail. 

"It's time for bed, kid." He whispered. "It's nearly tomorrow anyways." 

He managed to pry Dean's hand away from his shirt and hair, laying him down gently. He could already see big, glass eyes welling with tears. The loud sniffling was already starting. He really needed to talk to Rusty about Dean's separation anxiety. 

He stepped back, twisting his ankle slightly and biting back a curse as he nearly tripped on whatever mess was on the floor. He turned, moving his foot back to see a stuffed giraffe. He grabbed it, dusting it off and lightly shaking it above the crib to get Dean's attention. 

He stopped fussing long enough to look at it, tilting his head slightly and sniffing back at his running nose. 

He reached his tiny hands out for it, and Brock lowered it into his grip. 

"Goodnight, Dean." 

He set up their night light, and their music box, shutting the door behind him softly after ensuring both boys were fast asleep.

.

“It's now or never, Samson!” 

Brock snapped his head up, blinking sporadically as the ocean water flushed his eyes and nose. The water was as dark and unyielding as the night sky.

“You're too late, Gathers,” Some looney from The Guild, Doctor-something-or-other, bellowed from the roof of the fishing boat. There was a running theme of spider crabs, which made the gun look more like a toy in his claw. “Did you really think I wouldn't know about your little plan?” 

Brock swam with broad strokes, his nose burning as the salt barraged his senses. He reached the side of the boat quickly, unsheathing his knife as Dr. Dickhead grabbed Gathers by the neck. 

“Do it then, you sorry sack of chicken shit!” Hunter grabbed the Dr.’s attention, tapping on his leg in a circular motion. “Keep going,” Brock could hear in his head, knife back at his hilt.

He pulled himself up silently, reaching for the bag strapped to his leg. The tracker was circular and smooth, silver encasing red. It sat lightly in Brock's palm. He could hear Gathers locked in a heated back-and-forth, sprinting to the back of the boat, not missing his chance. 

“Hell-ooo? Earth to Brock!” 

Brock snapped up, blinking rapidly as the fork in his hand clattered to the ground.

“Great,” Rusty rolls his eyes, “See boys? That's why you don't stay up all night watching cable.” 

Brock took a few more blinks. He must've dozed off during breakfast. 

“Gee Brock, you sure are sleepy!” Hank started, mouthful of some colorful cereal Dean had picked out. “Well, if it was a Heat of the Night marathon, I'd understand.” Dean nodded in agreement and Brock grinned. 

“I was out late, doing some…” Two pairs of expectant eyes stared into his skull. He glanced to the Doc, watching his eyebrow raise. “... fishing.” 

“Can we come with you next time?” Dean beamed.

“You hate fishing, dingus!” 

“No I don't! I just don't like when the fish get stuck in the hooks! Or the bait-” 

“So the entire point of fishing?” 

Dean frowned, haphazardly swishing his spoon along the bowl. Hank smirked. Dean never seemed to push back. 

“You boys can go fishing during daylight hours,” Rusty huffs, jabbing an overly cooked (burnt) piece of bacon in Brock's direction. “No night fishing until you can stay home alone without killing Helper.” 

It got quiet, and the four of them let it stay that way, mouths full of cereal and egg mush. 

Dean kept looking at Brock, then back to his bowl. Then back again. He stayed at the table as Hank and the Doc got up, leaving their bowls and plates behind for Brock. He wordlessly gathered them, deciding he'd rather let his hashbrowns get cold than have to scrub the shit out of the new plates. 

“What did you catch?” Dean asks quietly. 

“Uh, just some…” he couldn't for the life of him think of any fish near the compound, racking his brain for fish facts that he'd endured during one too many long trips on the X-1. “...trout.” 

“That's cool.” 

“Yeah.” 

The scalding water irritated the cuts on his hands, the off-brand soap stinging them even more. Dean still sat at the dining table, drinking the last of the milk from his bowl and casting tentative glances at Brock. 

“Will you really take us fishing? Like really fishing?” 

“I mean, yeah , if you want to.” 

Small hands passed him the plastic green bowl he'd bought with Rusty's credit card. 

“I would really like to.” Dean said quietly, almost nervously, before pushing his chair in and all but running out of the kitchen. 

Brock raised a brow. The faucet was beginning to overflow with bubbles. Sometimes he couldn't make heads or tails of what those boys were thinking.

.

He never got tired of killing goofy henchmen. That was his one constant in life: supervillains dressing their lackeys up in the most ridiculous and fun to punch outfits he'd ever seen. 

The never-ending danger to the Ventures provided Brock with an uncapped kill count, and it never got old. But when the dust clears and he's stuck on clean up duty the rest of the night, trapped with his thoughts in the middle of fuck all Colorado, he'd start sinking.

The hose hadn't been able to reach all the way into the hangar, so the Doc had made some unnecessarily complicated… enhancements to lengthen it and increase the water pressure. It squirmed awkwardly in Brock's hand as he sprayed blood into the grass. It was like fighting a fucking snake. 

He watched the blood form rivers that all joined into one and other, the thickness diluted so easily. 

It was unusually hot, which is what he and the Doc had started to say every year when June rolled around. He'd taken to swinging the hose around his neck to cool off. The night was humid. And very quiet. 

Brock let out an aggravated huff. There was still a lot of blood. He could've been six beers down and dead to the world in his room by now. 

"Are you tired?" 

Brock jumped, losing his grip on the hose and watching it flail pathetically until he caught it again. "Fucking christ!" 

Dean jumped too, spilling a little under half of the cup in his hand. "I'm sorry!" He blubbered.

"Dean. We've been over this," Brock started tersely. "Don't sneak up on me."

"I'm sorry Brock, I really didn't mean to!" He stuttered around missing teeth. "I just wanted to check on you." 

" 'M fine." He looked back into the open field. 

"I thought you might be thirsty, so I made an extra cup!" Dean gently nudged it into Brock's arm. "I think I spilled some of it, though." 

Brock released one hand's death grip on the hose and took the drink from Dean. It took all of his focus not to accidentally crush the plastic cup, or the small hand holding it.  

When he didn't move to drink it, Dean's eyes somehow went wider, looking expectantly from the cup and back to Brock. He sighed, and took a sip. 

Extremely sweet lemonade. So sweet in fact, that it made Brock's teeth ache immediately. He drew his mouth into a fine line and looked at Dean, who was staring at him expectantly. It was obvious that Dean had made it himself, so Brock forced himself to swallow and choked out a "Pretty good." 

"Really?" Dean brightened. "Hank said it was mega gross but I knew you'd like it, Brock!" 

Apparently satisfied with at least one person enjoying his recipe, Dean took to looking out at the night as well. His buzzed hair was finally growing back, the last lice scare had made Brock break out the clippers, and it looked lighter than it had been before. The twins had just turned ten, and Dean had been gifted a set of Spiderman pajamas from one of Doc's old college friends. He had worn them every night for the past week, and Brock wondered how the kid hadn't died of heat stroke yet. 

"Why're you boys havin' sugar right before bed?" Brock was finally making progress on the blood tsunami, walking sluggishly along the edge of the concrete. 

"Pop's busy and we were thirsty," Dean followed his foot prints. "Hank made a rootbeer float but I just wanted lemonade. Those are both summer drinks." He said matter-of-factly, playing hopscotch around the wet boot prints. 

Brock grimaced knowing the kitchen was going to be a wreck. So much for only spraying down the hangar. 

"What's your dad workin' on?"

"I dunno." 

They were walking back and forth from the edge of the concrete, Dean making a game out of Brock's footprints and the water. It was an easy routine, Brock doing a task and Dean silently following behind. Hank would ask a million questions, want to “help,” but Dean would stay back. Observant, but meek.

"The water is lava," he giggled to himself. "The pebbles are spike traps!" 

"Don't step in the red water," Brock said absently. Who knew if these henchmen had HIV or Hepatitis, all he had to do was cut his foot on a piece of mulch and-

Christ, he was starting to sound like the Doc.

"You mean the blood?" Dean asked.

That made Brock frown. 

"Yeah." 

"Okay!" He didn't falter from being sunny and carefree. It freaked Brock out a bit. "The water is lava, and the blood is evil! Brock, did you know we have white and red blood cells?"  

"No way." 

"Yes way! About five million red blood cells per every microliter of blood!" 

Dean recited facts exactly how he'd read them. Brock was amazed at how much information he retained. He knew that the boys' beds were also their 'school,' but he also knew that the Doc was lazy. He wondered if any of the information the boys were learning was up to date. Wondered if Dean would stay the academic type. Hopefully Hank would try to as well.

The two went back and forth across the edge of the hangar for a bit longer, until Brock was satisfied with the cleanliness of the concrete. 

"C'mon," he started, fighting with the hose. "Pack it up for the night." 

.

“What’s the point?” 

Rusty scoffed, one popped wrist holding his hand to his chest as he raised a brow. “The point, young man, is that I am your father.” 

Dean rolled his eyes, turning back into his room. 

“Don’t you walk away from me, mister sass-mouth! You’re coming with us, it’s a family trip.” He stayed in the doorway as Dean fell onto his bed, groaning. “You better watch that tone, Dean. I don’t know what the hell has gotten into you lately, but I’m starting to regret giving you this room.” 

He sighed, ignoring his dad’s jabs, knowing he wanted an argument that he thought he could win. 

“How is this a family trip if it’s only you, me, and Hatred?”

“It was a family trip when you both sat out Spanakopita wasn’t it? Hank’s busy with his little band this weekend, and you need to get out of the compound. Your little vampiric phase has to end sometime.” 

“Fine,” Dean huffed, resting his head on his crossed arms. “I’m not wearing any speedsuits. Or shilling out any of your old inventions.” Rusty scoffed. “Those are my conditions. That, or I’m staying here.” 

Rusty scoffed again, this time more audibly. He shook his head and turned to leave, hand grasping the doorknob stiffly. “I don’t know what to do with you anymore.” He said low-ly before slamming the door shut behind him. 

Dean frowned, his anger melting away into tangible sadness. How could it possibly be a family trip if Brock wasn’t going with? If he didn’t even live with them anymore, didn’t call, didn’t visit? Why was he the only one who was still mourning what their family no longer was? It pissed him off, just as much as the reveal of their cloning. Why was it only him that seemed to realize how fucked up every single thing in their lives was? Is. 

He exhaled softly, turning over to rest on his side, right hand propping his head up. The stuffy air of the attic made him wish for better ventilation, but it was worth enduring to be away from the rest of the compound. Hatred fussing over him was freaky, and he couldn’t handle Hank and his Pop picking on him for no reason other than their own misery. Home wasn’t feeling like home lately. 

He missed his dad. And not his pop, his dad, the man that had taught him how to drive, the man that used to tie his shoes and ruffle his hair when he had figured it out for himself, the man that had up and abandoned them- abandoned him . He felt so angry, so misguided. He already knew neglect from one father, but two? It was almost too much for him to deal with. 

Not even mentioning that he felt as though Hank was Brock’s favourite. No, he knew it. Had seen it, felt it, experienced it. And yet Hank was just fine now, as far as any of them could tell. And that pissed him off even more somehow. 

It was so hard not to be mad. So he didn’t fight it. 

Everything else was apparently just so much more important to Brock anyways. 

.

New York was definitely a lot louder than the compound. Brock wasn’t sure why it was so hard for him to acclimate to, sitting by the penthouse pool, the cigarette between his fingers drifting ash onto his jeans. 

He’d gotten back to the tower late, Hank and the Doc already dead asleep. The breezy night air was cooling him down, and he breathed it in deeply. 

The sliding door to the patio creaked as it slid open behind him. “Oh, hey!” He turned around to see Billy, clad in his lab coat and sporting a new eyepatch lined with light yellow stitching. “I didn’t think you’d be up here.”

“Mission wrapped up early, I let Shoreleave take care of the paperwork.” 

“Always good to get out of doing the bureaucracy part,” he started, walking just a little bit closer. “I was looking for Rusty, but since you’re up and free,” Brock closed his eyes and sighed. “No no, now hear me out! White and I wanted to check out this old bar down on fifth. It used to be run by the mafia or some other cool shit, wanna come?”

“I know that one, a couple guild guys said it’s got some recent ties still.” He was actually more interested in the tattoo parlor just two storefronts down, having had the itch to get new ink and to shop around for someone to finish his Icarus. 

“Oh, that is so fucking cool! C’mon, come with us! It’ll be fun!” 

He took a long drag, holding it in a beat too long and exhaling roughly. “Sure.”

“YES! Fuck yes, meet us downstairs I gotta tell White,” Billy hollered, tripping on the incline, catching himself just in time. “He is not gonna believe this.”

It takes no time at all for the two scientists to run to the parking garage, perching at Brock’s car, leaning on it nonchalantly, as though the beads of sweat pouring down their faces and the panting wouldn’t give them away. 

“Get off my car.” 

Watching both of them retract wildly was almost enough to make him laugh. Almost. Listening to them bicker over who gets shotgun made it easy to frown again. 

“Why don’t both of you sit in the back then, huh?”

“Wha-t? No way!” White whines, pushing Billy’s head back away from the passenger door. 

“White, you don’t even know where we’re going, sit in the back, for crying out loud!” 

“Hey pal, I’m the one that told you about this joint in the first place!” 

Brock opts to roll his eyes and ignore them, not that they would notice, being way too engrossed in each other to even see him, let alone listen to him. They file in, still arguing, as Brock adjusts his seat and puts the key to ignition. 

He grunts, narrowing his eyes. He never moves the seat, especially not that far up. 

“Here Brock, I got maps up,” Billy beams from the passenger seat. “It’s super close, and the parking isn’t bad.” 

It’s not a bad drive, even though New Yorkers drive as though they haven’t seen pavement before. Pete stops sulking relatively quickly when Brock gives him the aux, now bemoaning about Adrienne’s lack of updated speakers. He rolls his eyes when Brock tells him he likes it that way. 

“Holy shit, it’s packed!” Billy balks as the GPS voice lets them know they’ve arrived. 

“There some event going on tonight or somethin’?” White says from the back. 

Brock sighs. The cars lining the street are covered in alumni and university decals, sororities and frats and nerd clubs alike. 

“Looks like the college kids have something going on.” He turns to the other two. “Should I turn around or…?”

“What? No, no, we should still check it out!” Billy pleads, even though Pete also looks uncertain. 

“I dunno pally, I don’t really have it in me to get mocked by a bunch of shitheads tonight.” 

Brock doesn’t want to admit that he agrees. Considering him and White having been in college over twenty years ago, they don’t want to look like oldheads trying to act like they’re still nineteen. The medieval weapon documentaries on his DVR more than prove his oldness, and he doesn’t need some frat kid to push his buttons.  

Billy scoffs. “Cowards.”

They both narrow their eyes at him, and before Billy can sigh and admit defeat, Brock’s whipped the charger into an illegal spot. Pete and Billy’s refusal to buckle up has sent them flying, both staring at him with frazzled hair and faces. 

“Let’s go then.” 

.. 

“What should I get?” 

Dean hums, looking over Jared’s shoulder at the flash sheets between his hands. There’s an awful lot of fine-line designs, dainty flowers and small trinkets. He motions for Jared to flip the first sheet over. 

“Well, the playing cards look neat.” He says as he points to an ace of hearts. “But maybe I’m saying that for myself.” 

Jared chuckles. “That would look good on you,” he says, and Dean ducks his face behind the taller man, hoping to hide the flush that blooms darkly. “I was thinking about this spider, but I don’t want to be too on the nose, ya know?” 

Dean nods in agreement, especially considering that the design is of a black widow, which would be particularly confusing. Still quite cute, though. 

“I cannot believe you would show those, I can’t believe you even filmed that!” 

Dean freezes as familiar voices fill the parlor. He grimaces as Jared turns around to see what the yelling is all about. 

“Oh, lay off, would you Billy?” Pete White says, flicking Billy Whalen on the head. 

Dean sighs, exasperated. Why would he think he’d be able to have a night out without his posse of acquired family members somehow butting in? At least it wasn’t his father, he thought, already grimacing over what Rusty would have to say about Dean getting a tattoo. 

“Why don’t you two get out of here, hold my spot in line,” says another voice Dean hadn’t expected to hear. “Here,” Brock slams a wad of cash into Billy’s organic hand. “I’ll pay the cover. Just wait for me, alright?” 

Dean reaches for Jared’s arm, wants to ask to leave, go back to their dorm, but before he can Jared whips around. 

“Hey, isn’t that your bodyguard?” 

Brock’s eyes widened. “Dean?” 

He sighs, annoyed. “What are you guys doing here?” 

Brock raises a brow, walking over as Pete and Billy leave, too busy going back and forth to notice Dean. Figures. 

“I'm here to get a tattoo, if it wasn't obvious.” He looks between Dean and then Jared, who smiles brightly at him. Brock doesn't return the energy. “I remember you.” 

Jared's face flushes. “Ye-s, on uh, move in day! Not the best intro, but uh, I swear I'm not crazy.” He chuckles sheepishly, holding out his hand for Brock to shake. 

He stares at Jared's hand, and Dean can tell he's thinking about crushing it. It's a pregnant pause, where neither of them move, and Dean scoffs and gestures with his head towards Jared, eyes locked with Brock. 

The bodyguard looks at Jared, and finally shakes his hand. His brow furrows when Jared doesn't falter at his grip. 

“Dean's told me a lot about you, I'm glad we get to actually meet-meet.” 

Brock hums. “We'll see about that.” He turns to Dean, who's rolled his eyes about three times now. “Be careful. Call me if anything happens.” 

“Yeah,” Dean looks down, arms crossed. “Will do.” 

“And don't get anything you'd regret.” 

“ Yeah. Got it.” 

They both frown, Dean still looking away and Brock lingering lamely. The tension building is enough to make Jared cough. 

It's when Brock finally turns away to the front to speak to the artists that Jared speaks up.

“Hey, are you alright? That was kinda…” 

“Weird?” Dean finishes. 

“Yeah, I mean I thought you were close.” 

“ Were. ” 

He feels very out of place suddenly, and as though everyone else feels the same way. He can't have anything to himself, of course. 

“I think I'm going to head back to our room,” he starts, shoulders slumping. 

“Really?” Jared looks at him like a lost dog, and it makes his eyes water. “I can take you back if you want me to,” 

“No, no, I'm fine. I don't want you to miss out on the rest of the night, thank you though.” 

He basically runs out of the parlor, head ducked down with his arms and hands held tight to his body. He feels so pathetic, running away, like he always does. Facing his family wasn't on the agenda tonight, and without preparing himself mentally, it just can't… won't happen. 

“White, we have the same health insurance, what good would common law do?” 

Mr. White and Whalen have taken to bickering in the street, both in line for some swanky bar that most of the other university kids pass right by. Dean tries to tuck his head to the side, hoping that they stay engrossed enough in their back-and-forth that he can just go home. 

“I'm just saying, we could do it. I could get your social security benefits when you die,” 

“Oh yeah, because I'd die first. Oh, Dean!” Billy turns to him almost immediately, it feels like he's living in a sitcom. 

“Hello Mr. Whalen, Mr. White.” 

“Well, well, well, what are you doing out here?” Pete chimes in, one hand on his hip. “I thought you were more of a homebody.” 

“Yeah, I guess I just realized that, too. I'm headed back to my dorm.” He turns to leave again, trying to appear more hurried. “I forgot about an essay I have due tomorrow. Ten pages.” He doesn't like lying, but it's the only excuse he can think of on the fly. 

“Yeesh, forget about that crap, your college years are for partying!” Pete calls after him. 

“Can't miss this one, it's thirty percent of my grade. I really have to go, goodbye.” 

He's short, curt even. It's not his usual way, and he doesn't like it, but his emotions are getting the better of him. Snapping at the guys who live with your father wouldn't be the best idea, especially when trying to avoid him. 

Both scientists fade into the distance as he shuffles down the street, breathing out a sigh and wiping his eyes. Why did they even stop to talk to him? They didn't even like him anyways. 

This is so stupid. 

He wants to cry, and he wants to stop crying. He wants to be six years old and thrown into a pile of freshly raked leaves by his dad, wants his pop to pat his head and tell him he did a good job, even though they both know he didn't. It's stupid, to miss memories that his own body didn't experience. Fucking clone bullshit. 

“Watch where you're going, dumbass! ” Someone yells at him, shoulder-checking right past. 

He doesn't really react, just feeling off guard, unresponsive. He didn't think about how he'd get back to the dorm, now that he was just kind of walking down the street. Jared did drive him, and he wasn't about to ask Hatred to pick him up. 

He stops in his tracks when he sees it: Brock's charger. 

..

It’s fall, or autumn, as Dean insisted, correcting Hank and Doc and Brock at every usage of the word. Rusty’s switched off Brock’s cassette in favor of the radio, some throwback station that bores the brain from his skull. 

“Pop,” Hank whine-yells from behind Rusty’s seat. “This music really blows.”

He sees Dean nod in agreement through the rearview. He smirks. At least it’s not just him.

“If Simon and Garfunkel could hear you, they’d be in tears, Hank.” The Doc says, bite-y tone amplified by his slow and steady crank up in volume. 

They’re on the way to some science convention, so Rusty can sell half-made inventions that he botched from his father’s blueprints. Maybe the blueprints too. But he really can’t complain, the drive is scenic and he hasn’t had enough time to drive his car like this, knowing he wouldn’t have to repair it for the next two weeks. Hopefully.

“Why couldn’t we have taken the X1 again?”

“Doc, would it kill you to take your time getting somewhere?”

“YES!” He screeches instantly. “We’d have already been there and back by now if we had just piled in as usual, but no no, Brock needs to walk his car.” 

“I like car rides.” Dean chimes in, clicking his viewfinder and looking at whatever animal has piqued his interest. “Maybe we’ll see some more cows, or horses! There’s a lot of farm land around here.”

Hank scoffs. “ La-me .”

As if god could read his mind, Adrienne lets out a sickening pop, jolting the car up and making an awful metal racket where smooth tires should be. 

“SEE Brock? I told you something like this would happen, but no, let’s not listen to Rusty, let’s all do the opposite of what he thinks is best!”

“Doc, it’s one flat tire,” Brock sighs, having already gotten his car to the side of the road, surveying for any possible extra damage. “I’ve got a spare in the trunk, it won’t take long to change and then we’re back on the road.” 

Rusty makes a face. A face he normally makes when he knows he’s in trouble.

“What the hell did you do, Doc?”

“Nothing.” He blanches. “Just. Don’t know if I saw a spare in there,” He’s not looking Brock in the eyes, won’t even turn around. 

Of course. Where his spare should be are boxes and boxes of junk.

“Not junk! ” Rusty hollers, meeting Brock at Adrienne’s trunk. “These are going to get us groceries for the next two months.”

It’d be easy to bicker, to argue and yell and get angry, which he very much wants to do. He can only handle learned incompetence in large doses at home. He can feel his lid about to pop off, teeth grinding each other down to straight edges, but four eyes are peering at him timidly from the backseat. He takes a deep breath, sweat beading on his forehead as he chokes down what he wants to say, in favor of not reaming the boys’ father in front of everyone, including the cows. 

“Now what?” he forces out through his clenched jaw. 

“Oh. Well, I don’t know that’s for you to figure out, I’m not the bodyguard!”

Good god, does Rusty make it hard to be patient.

After both boys panic and result to divvying out who and which parts to cannibalize first, and Brock gives the Doc a few choice words, he stomps off to the other side of the road. 

“Brock! You can’t leave us here!”

“Let me just- think , ok? No talking, for five minutes.” Hank raises his hand. “No Hank, you can’t have my mullet after you eat my head.”

It really doesn’t take much, if any deliberation to figure out what to do. At least if it was just him. He’s been through much worse, and an idyllic stroll through the countryside was more of a reward than anything. The Venture gaggle made it hell; Rusty would probably insist on being carried, Hank would push Dean’s buttons to make his own fun, and Dean would end up in tears. He wanted to just start walking, they’d be bound to run into some small town with an auto shop or at least a phone to call a tow. But no, the Doc and the boys couldn’t make it easy on him.

“Ok, look. I’m going to start walking, I’m pretty sure there’s a town a few miles up the road, you three stay here and-” 

“You’re leaving us?” Dean balks, eyes wide. 

“Leaving you two shmucks,” Hank grins. “Don’t worry Brock, I’ll come with you.”

“SHMUCK?” Rusty shrieks. “Oh ho no, no, no Henry Allen. You can stay here with your SHMUCK father, and Dean can go help Brock rescue us.”

Hank whines and protests immediately, and the squabbling begins right after. 

“Brock,” Dean starts, standing beside him sheepishly as Hank and the Doc hurl insults at each other. “Please don’t make me stay here with them,” his voice is wavering on the verge of tears. “I’ll be helpful, and quiet, I promise!”

Brock lets out a deep sigh that makes his temple throb. “C’mon, let’s start walking.”

.

“Oh wow,” the artist he decided on says as she examines his existing ink. “Were you drunk when you got this?” 

“Must be rougher than I thought,” 

“I don’t wanna say the lines are all fucked up, but… the lines are so fucked up.” 

“Look, I will literally pay you any number you can think of if you fix this for me.”

She bites her lip, gloved hand prodding and poking at his bicep. “I don’t know about this one, since it’s just linework I could do a cover-”

“Only if you cover it with something that looks exactly like it. But better. No fucked up linework.”

She sighs. “I don’t know, man, it’s not looking good. I don’t think I could do anything to fix it and keep the original design.” 

He doesn't want to keep prodding, he doesn't want to be the guy who can't drop it and adapt, but fuck he really wanted this tattoo. Something special to him, that he loved and enjoyed. He sighs, masking real emotions in favor of being mature.

“Thanks for looking at it,” He grabs his jacket, hands her a twenty- “for your time.” 

“Hey man, I'm sorry I can't get it how you want,” she reaches for what he presumes is a business card, hands it to him gently. “If you think of any other way I can fix this tattoo for you, shoot me a message.” 

He gives her a polite smile. “Thanks.”

Brock sighs again, deeply, as he walks out of the parlor, already fighting the urge to light a cigarette. Dean must’ve moved on to the next bar, being that he didn’t see him as he left, or the other guy, Jansen something. He’d have to check in on that situation…

“Brock!” he hears from not too far away. “They’re real sticklers about ID’s,” Billy calls out, cash still in hand. “White’s inside, let’s go!”

.

They haven’t been walking long when Dean’s patience starts to falter. He’s slow, as expected, and a lot more curious than Brock had thought. He started out quiet, as promised, turning his head to watch Hank, the Doc, and Adrienne fade into the distance. Eventually, he takes to observing bugs on the edge of the road, blurting out facts and checking his bag for new slides to compare in his viewfinder. 

“Well, it’s weird, because they’re nocturnal!” Dean delights, ambient clicking pairing with the wildlife next to them. “But golly, they sure are neat looking. Wanna see?” 

“I’ve seen moths.”

Dean frowns. “Oh. Ok.” 

He goes quiet again, anxious eyes peering out from behind his toy. 

“Brock,” He starts, biting his lip and turning away. “It's nothing, nevermind.” The bodyguard sighs, turning his head back to the road. 

They continue, slowly, Brock having to check frequently to ensure Dean hasn't fallen behind. He can feel his temper starting to rise again. It's when Dean trips and busts his face that Brock finds that he really can't take it anymore. 

He feels something mean well up in his throat, something he doesn't like. 

“That's why you need to look where you're going,” he scolds, practically yelling as he huffs and turns around. “Why can't you just-” 

Dean's face is covered in blood. It stops Brock in his tracks. He's sniffling, one hand covering his bloody mouth and the other trembling on the asphalt, keeping himself propped up. Brock's seen worse a thousand times over, he's had to snap both boys’ necks, bury their bodies time and time again, and it hurt then, but right now? Right now, all he could see was Dean at five years old, silently crying as his hands fell off, flash frozen in an experiment gone wrong that he wasn't supposed to be in the room for. That was one of the earliest, and one of the hardest deaths to deal with. 

“Dean,” he started, snapping himself to the present. “Tell me what's hurt.” 

He splutters, blood and snot and tears making a puddle on the road. 

“My, my ankle,” Dean garbles. “And, and my mouth, my teeth!” 

“Here,” Brock softens. “Open your mouth.” 

Brock kneels down, moves Dean's hand. He's missing three teeth, two molars and a canine. Brock winces, finally seeing the bloody viewfinder in the grass. 

“Damn kid, that must've really hurt.” 

Dean sniffs through his hyperventilating, nodding his head. Brock gets him to his feet, forgetting entirely about his ankle until he cries out.

“I think it got twisted,” He's hobbling, and there's nothing for him to put to his mouth to stop the bleeding. 

“Here,” Brock bends down, has Dean get on his back, just like when he was little and would beg Brock to give him piggyback rides. “Don't worry, we'll get you help, kid.” 

.

Dean's not proud of it, but this isn't the first time he's stolen Brock's charger. He thought it was easy at first, surprisingly, but then living with the OSI's most experienced agent grants you skills. Apparently. 

He's not a car guy, so saying that Adrienne drives smooth could be far from the truth, but it's still more enjoyable than Jared's sedan. The interior smells of cigarettes and sandalwood, the leather seats meticulously maintained. 

He's not sure where to go, usually isn't when he goes on a joyride, but he knows he can't go to his dorm or the tower. He sighs. Maybe he needed a new vape. Doing this bullshit so blatantly was dumb, but emotions tend to get the better of him. He huffs as he’s cut off for the third time on the same road. Brock wasn’t that oblivious, there’s no way he wouldn’t find out Dean had jacked his car, and he knew the trouble that was waiting every time he pulled this stunt, but it felt good to be rebellious. He had peer-reviewed a paper in his second semester psych class about how adult children role reverse with their parents, how they treat the parents how they had been treated, and the parents in turn acted how the kids did when they were growing up. It had made him cry for hours in his dorm.

He slams on the brakes as a fourth car forces it’s way into his lane, no regard for anyone on the road whatsoever. Dean slams the horn, cursing and yelling, feeling like Thaddeus Venture after running out of diet pills. He hates that he knows his face is red and puffy, that there are tears streaming down his face, snot welling up in his nose. 

“Fuck you, fuck you, FUCK YOU!” 

Maybe he’d get himself into an accident, wreck Adrienne completely and see if Brock cared more about his car than Dean. Maybe he’d die. That would show ‘em. 

He’s riding the bumper of the car in front of him, not caring about antagonizing or even his own safety. Everyone else could be blatantly disrespectful to him with no consequences, no regard for the world around them. He rubs the tears from his eyes roughly, sleeve of his hoodie grating his nerves. 

Emotions are high, as he knows but can’t rationalize, and the car in front of him was really not the one to mess with. After the third cycle of Dean tailgating and then passing in front to breakcheck, he’s careening off the road, tires screeching and metal clashing as the guardrail is ripped up by the side door. There’s nothing registering to Dean except adrenaline, and though he’s still alive when the car is stationary, he wishes he wasn’t. 

.

“How was I supposed to know he’d be there?” Billy squawks from behind Brock, the two of them joining White out front of the bar.

“You found this place and then didn’t check the event calendar?” White bites, sporting a shiner that’s gotten worse since he’d been thrown out. “Yeah, you just so happened to miss the classic Team Venture collector’s guild meet-up? Give me a fuckin’ break, Billy.”

“I thought he was in Akron for the week! Give me a break!” 

Brock pulls out his carton and lighter, motioning to White who takes one gratefully. He lights it quickly and takes a long drag. 

“You’re supposed to be quitting.” Billy titters as White blows smoke into his face. 

Brock gives a light huff, smoke pooling out of his nostrils. St. Cloud getting his ass handed to him by Pete White was definitely the highlight of the night, but the bar was as lame as lame could get. The old guild ties were pushing seventy-something, old, tired guys who wanted to do meet-and-greets for a quick buck. Definitely the most underwhelming outing he’s had in quite some time. 

“That was a good hit you got on him, though.” Billy says, watching White light up slightly. “I don’t think he was expecting that from you.”

Brock lets them cooldown, chatting and passing their light back and forth. He wanted to be half-asleep on the massive couch, barely paying attention to anything. He knew the Doc had some edibles stashed away somewhere, that would be nice. 

His nonchalance is shocked from his core, cig falling out of his mouth as he balks at the empty spot where his charger should be. He pats his legs, jacket pockets. He wasn’t swiped, Adrienne’s keys are still on him. He clicks the lock button lamely, hoping to hear her somewhere.

“Oh shit,” he hears White drawl behind him. “We’re about to see a murder tonight, get your phone ready!” 

“You two stay here, or call a cab or whatever,” Brock asserts, shutting down any chance of the two scientists following him, and filming, which Brock cannot stand. “I’ll have Doc reimburse you.”

He’s not really sure what to do, slightly tipsy and pissed off, so he stomps down the road, looking for any sign of his car. He calls the tow company that’s plastered all over the parking lots, to no luck. He sighs, pulling his wrist up to check the communicator. He’d put several tracking devices in odd spots through the years, there was bound to be at least one still intact on his charger. 

The communicator pings lightly as he pulls up the tab. Smart thinking, Brock. His brow furrows as the map expands, the tracker is stationary, presumably on the road, thirty minutes away. He huffs. He could make it on foot in fifteen. 

.

Brock’s thankful it's autumn , and not summer. He’s been walking over an hour, determined to keep going, hoping whatever town they get to has some kind of urgent care. Dean’s been silent, save for a few sniffles and hiccups. Brock knows his shirt is going to be stained in ungodly amounts of blood. 

“How’re you holding up?”

Dean grunts weakly in response. His head is down, resting on Brock’s shoulder. It reminds him of when he’d put the twins down for a nap. Brock blinks, willing his eyes to dry up.

“We’re almost there,” He asserts, not knowing if that’s true. “You’re doing great, Dean. Keep holding on.” 

They continue for a while longer before signs pop up for a town Brock’s never heard of, just a few more miles down the road. Cars are starting to pass them, signs of life trickling from up ahead. Brock’s thankful that he was right. When they enter the town limits there’s a payphone just outside of a small, dinky clinic. 

Explaining the situation to the wide-eyed staff feels redundant, given that they’ve probably never seen a huge, hulking man covered in blood hand off a kid, also covered in blood before. They act quickly, which he’s thankful for. He squeezes Dean’s hand as they put him on a stretcher. 

“I’ll be right back,” he says, watching Dean’s eyes go wide. Fearful. “I’m just going to be on the phone outside. I gotta get your dad and brother here.” 

“WHAT?” Rusty screeches, making Brock recoil, head away from the phone. 

“They said he’d be ok, Doc. We can get him implants or something.” Brock sighs. “Look, I called a tow they said they should be to you in less than an hour, we’ll figure out what to do from there.” 

It’s almost cruel, Brock reminisces as he picks up a shovel from the hangar. Cruel that only a week after Dean busts his face and Doc misses his chance to sell his shitty creations, both twins die after an arch-gone-wrong, burned to a crisp in the yard as Brock watched helplessly. He doesn’t remember who it was, only remembering the snap of their skull as he pummeled them, rage induced and fueled, until their face was pulp. 

He hates this part. Burying the boys. The Doc would stay in, liquor cabinet no doubt half empty as Rusty dealt with death the only way he knew how. He knew Doc wouldn’t be able to stomach this part anyway. 

Once he’s gotten the grave dug, ensured he wasn’t disturbing any others, it was time to haul the boys into their non-final resting place. 

That’s where he breaks, turning away from the charred corpses, covering his face with his arm, tears welling up and streaming down his face. He doesn’t know how he handles this every time, doesn’t know how to rationalize what’s happened. Doesn’t want to think about how one of those corpses is missing three teeth. 

.

Dean’s sat on the side of the road. It’s hilly, almost like a cliff, with the city’s own ravine sitting at the bottom. The water is still. Adrienne is partially wrecked, just below Dean but thankfully not submerged in water. He doesn’t know what to do. 

He knows he’s in trouble. Major. And it’s not something he wants to deal with, but he’s also tired of shying away from consequences. God, being alive is such a chore. 

There’s rustling up the road, trees and brush being forcibly pushed to the side until Brock emerges, brows downturned, ready for a fight. He softens when he sees the unlikely culprit.

“Dean?” Brock slides down the hill to Dean’s side. He’s confused, then crestfallen as he registers Adrienne, beaten up and partly destroyed. 

“Sorry.” Is all he says, waiting for the yelling, the scolding, some kind of punishment. 

“Are you alright?” Brock asks cautiously. 

“I guess.”

“You’re the one who jacked my car?” 

“Yeah. I’m sorry.”

Brock sighs deeply. He would’ve expected this from Hank, tended to, but coming from Dean? He wasn’t sure how to approach this. He wasn’t there for their rebellious eras, thought they had settled into being young adults by now. It made him a little queasy. 

“I’m impressed,” he starts, Dean finally looking at him, raising a brow. “Takes a lot to hotwire a car, especially mine.” 

“First time was the hardest.” Dean says, turning his head. Facing Brock was as hard as facing his pop. Harder. 

“First time?”

“But then I realized you only swapped traps every three weeks, so I could memorise it better.”

Brock tenses, remembers his seat being too far forward. He felt a smile tugging the corner of his lips. 

“Y’know Dean,” He starts, pulling a cigarette out of his jacket pocket. “All you had to do was ask.” He lights it in two tries as Dean scoffs.

“When? Like you’re ever around anymore.” 

He doesn’t say anything in response, taking a drag and letting it fill his lungs. He coughs as Dean pulls out a vape and does the same.

“Since when did you start vaping? ” 

“Why do you care?”

“Dean.” Brock’s tone goes harsh, Dean wincing as he does so, if only slightly. It still stings Brock’s heart. “What’s going on with you?”

“With me,” he bites. “It’s always me that’s wrong, isn’t it? Too scared, too wimpy, too whiny, too fucking annoying.” He fills his lungs again, smelling the sickly sweet apple as he exhales. “What’s wrong with me? What’s wrong with you ?” 

“Look,” Brock turns to face him, watching Dean’s eyes narrow, pulling his knees up to his face. “I know I wasn’t there for a while, and I’m sorry,” Dean scoffs, rolls his eyes. “But I’m here now, ain’t I? Tell me what’s going on.”

“That’s not good enough.” 

Brock sighs, tiredly. He doesn’t want to goad, add oil to the fire. So he sits down next to Dean, let’s him scoot a few inches away, doesn’t say anything about it. 

“I'm sorry.” Brock says, neither of them looking at each other. “I wasn't there for you boys. I wasn't there for you, when you needed me the most.” 

He sees Dean's face soften, eyebrows downturned, watching timidly. 

“I regret it, Dean. I did what I thought was right, keeping you boys and your father out of more danger. After the lab-” he braces, crushing the cigarette in his palm. 

Dean turns to face him fully. He was always a good listener. 

“I've buried you. A lot. More times than I can remember. The thought of having to bury you one last time… I couldn't handle it.” 

He steels himself. He never had a dad, never expected to assume the position of one, so he knows he's not good at these kinds of things, but big green eyes are welling up with tears in front of him, and he needs his boys to know they can go to him, anytime. 

“A father shouldn't have to bury his son.” 

And Dean loses it, right there, body-wracking sobs that he can't control, pressure being released from years inside. Brock moves in slowly, puts his arm around Dean until his boy pulls him into a hug.

He remembers an excited Dean, seven years old, running up to him to proudly show off a tooth that had fallen out, remembers coaching a fifteen year old Dean on where to keep his hands on the steering wheel of a car, watching him repeat it over and over (ten and two, ten and two.) 

He's referred to the Ventures as his family to everyone but them. He thinks of his own mother and brother, the trailer he grew up in. Remembers being beat, remembers his mother crying after she had left bruises all over him. His brother leaving for the army first, mental health getting worse and worse until he could barely recognize him, 

He doesn't want that for his boys. 

“You've always been my dad, Brock.”