Best Interest At Heart Part 1

[yansadracan]

Title: Best Interest At Heart
Author: YanzaDracan
Artist: Tiggeratl1
Fandom: RPS (KANE & SPN), Person of Interest, SWAT, Law & Order: LA, The Bourne Legacy
Rating: R
Warning: Implied torture; language
Word Count: 6,790/19,265
Summary: The Machine always protected The Creator, but when numbers began to appear in other parts of the country, The Creator and The Human Protector could not be in these other places so The Machine found a solution. It found The Sorcerer and The Guardian.

Once upon a time there were two men who were many things to each other. Co-workers, protectors, best friends, brothers, and finally-lovers.

Friendly acquaintances knew a little, bosses knew little more, but only we knew everything.

My name is Eliot Spencer-I was born with that name, and I used that name right up until the time my partner and I retired from a government agency no one knows exists.

J^{2 & KANE}

I'd just come off one of those missions the higher ups considered a success, but leaves a bad taste in your mouth and a new chapter to your nightmares.

Still healing physically, my team's handler called me to come to the office.

"Jim…"

I was ready to plead my case for driving across town with my foot still in a Cam Walker boot.

"There's been a development and I need you here."

I knew that tone. There was no way I was getting out of this.

"I'll be there in an hour."

I sighed and said 'goodbye' to my quiet day of cooking, and restocking my freezer.

An hour later I was limped into Jim's office and sprawled on the couch-propping my cast on his coffee table. Ignoring the glare he sent my way, I waited until his PA was done fussing with files and coffee before I said anything.

"You better have a damn good reason for interrupting my down time."

Jim threw a folder in my lap and handed me a mug of coffee. The name on the file - Dean Winchester.

The first thing in the file was a picture of a man that was so prettily handsome it made my dick twitch, and my balls ache to look at it. I'd probably come in my boxer briefs like a randy teenager if I ever met the man in person.

"Jim…"

Was that a whine I heard come out of my mouth? The kid was only 24. At 28, I was by no means old, but I'd come into this profession the hard way. With no money for college, I took early enlistment in the Army, signed up for the Rangers where I was recruited into Delta Force. My current bosses had snatched me last up year. My bank account was growing as fast as my scars, but training snot-nosed greenhorns was not conducive to me living long enough to spend it.

"Keep reading, Princess."

Jim only calls me that when I'm too hurt to retaliate.

Father: John Winchester - Force Recon USMC - Deceased

Mother: Mary Winchester - Deceased

Brother: Samuel Francis Winchester - Deceased

On a weekend outing in Spain, Mary and Sam Winchester died, and Dean Winchester injured by a bomb set by Basque separatists. John Winchester finished his tour of duty then turned merc, taking Dean on missions as backup. At 16, Dean Winchester went into the jungle with father, John on a kidnap and rescue-only Dean and the victim returned. It is assumed John Winchester is buried somewhere in the Amazon jungle.

No known living family.

College degrees collected like baseball cards-top of his group at Langley's 'Farm'

John Winchester had been a piece of work.

I took a drink out of my mug and promptly spit it out-it had gone cold, and the clock said two hours had passed.

"So…I just spent two hours reading this because…."

"He's your new tech."

"I have a tech."

"He's requested a transfer out of the field."

"Langley know you're poachin' Winchester?"

"We should be hearing the screams any time now."

The look of glee on Jim's face was downright scary, and as if on cue the phone started to ring.

"Be here at 0900 tomorrow."

I'd like to say we clicked from the moment we shook hands, but I'd be lying. His picture didn't do him justice, and I had to fight down the urge to pin him to the nearest surface, and show him what I thought of all those fine assets of his until I looked in those moss green eyes. Arrogance, humor, and a diamond glint looked back, causing me to curse silently.

A chuckle from the office door let me know what Jim thought of putting two alpha males in a small enclosed space.

"Eliot Spencer-Dean Winchester."

We stared taking each other's measure. He wasn't backing down, but neither was I.

"We gonna have a problem?"

I knew my tone was snide, but pecking order had to be established fast. I was heading to medical to get rid of the walking boot, and my team would be in the field as soon as I was released for field work.

"Only if you do stupid shit that's gonna get me killed."

His smile didn't reach his eyes, but at the sound of Dean's raspy baritone, my lizard brain was trying to crawl to the top again. I gave it a mental kick, and a nod of acknowledgement to Winchester.

"Meet me at 'The Park' at 0500. I need to get back to field readiness, and you're my new training partner."

After a couple years Jim stopped sending us out with a team. Between the two of us we have the skills needed. We could get in and out with barely a ripple. Some dumb ass in OPS had dubbed us The Ghost and The Darkness. Stupid names, but they stuck. Later found out it was a buddy movie with Val Kilmer and Michael Douglas. I jokingly asked Dean if he wanted to be Kilmer or Douglas, and the blank look told me I'd hit the one language he didn't speak-popular culture. It's a good thing his old man was dead. I wanted to find him and shoot him every time Dean gave me one of the blank stares.

For awhile we spent so much time in South America we needed a score card to keep the players straight. We spent eighteen months being Jake Gray and Lindsey McDonald causing chaos amongst the rebels and drug cartels. We were in a state of hyperawareness all the time, some days the hunters…some days the hunted.

It was a deadly game of chess with all sides more often than not hiding in city slums or the jungle. When I developed pneumonia Dean practically carried me through the jungle until we reached the outskirts of a native village. Dean called out in a language my fevered brain refused to translate. The next time I was coherent enough to understand anything, I see an exhausted Dean sitting by my bed talking with someone that could double for Sean Connery. When they see I'm awake, Dean made me drink some vile concoction. He never missed a beat of his conversation with Sean Connery wanna be.

A week later I was back on my feet and as we checked and repacked our gear, I asked Dean about 'Doc'. All Dean would say was he met 'Doc' when he was sixteen. While saying our goodbyes to the tribe and Doc's crew, the old man grabbed my arm in a surprisingly strong grip.

"As he once saved me-now he has saved you. Do not be so quick to squander the gift."

By the time we were pulled out of South America our world had narrowed down to two, and we took the last step that locked the circle with only room for two. When Jim found out, he didn't stop smiling for a week. Smart ass said it made Dean human and me mellow. I promptly kicked his ass around the gym.

"How's that for mellow?"

He was still grinning when he signed my release back to field duty.

Year seven sucked major ass…both of us almost died. Dean, always the over achiever, went for two. Bastard has more lives than a cat.

Needless to say we spent most of that year healing and rehabbing from our collective Near Death Experiences. I teased Dean that our house was beginning to look like Tony Stark's workshop, pieces parts of this, that and the other scattered around, I always checked the floors before going to bed. There was nothing worse than going to take a piss and breaking a toe on Dean's piles of scrap, but the things he put together from those piles of scrap saved our lives and covers on more than one occasion. If Jim ever found out about Dean's toys, they would have buried Dean in some basement lab, and things would have gotten real ugly. I'm not known as a man who shares.

Where was I? Ah. Year seven. After I got kidnapped and tortured, and Dean nearly killed himself getting us somewhere safe, we became two of the most paranoid people on the planet. We had become so insular within the agency that only a handful of people had access to our files and missions until after the fact.

We'd just finished a mission and were headed back to the States when Dean got shot in the back. It was Chinese New Year and when I heard the shot I thought it was a firecracker until Dean dropped like a stone. My first instinct was to take care of Dean, but to do that we had to be safe.

I left it to strangers to care for my partner while I went after the shooter. The man was a pro, and motivated, but I was committed to him not being alive to get another chance to complete his contract.

Stripping the cooling body of its weapons, phone and key card, I collected every bit of information I could find in the motel room before finding where they'd taken Dean.

When I found him-I'd been terrified he was going to die before they got him stable, then I was worried he was going to be a paraplegic. The day he moved his legs was the first night I slept without waking every hour to see if he was still alive.

I'd learned a few things from Dean over the years, and knowing the agency would have their little crawlers out looking for any mentions of the aliases they provided us, I slipped into the admitting office and deleted their alias and used one of our own. I didn't contact Jim until Dean was discharged, I didn't want anyone knowing where we were until we were mobile.

Jim was furious that we'd dropped off the radar, so when the agency doctors released Dean for light duty Jim had gleefully sat him amongst piles of mission reports to analyze. Those weren't the only things Dean was analyzing---he was slithering through the agency's mainframes at the same time. Since I was stuck in the office along with him, I listened around corners and shifted through scuttlebutt. When we got home at night, we'd turn on whatever sports was on the tube, use sign and our own particular spoken shorthand to talk about what we'd found.

We only had the barest trail of crumbs for months until I got snatched out of the agency's parking garage. It took Dean a week to find me. That week felt like a year, and we never talk about it, and no one-not even Jim knows anything but the barest details of the that week, and what Dean did to rescue me. Usually something like this drove partners apart-we closed ranks, and as we healed, we began looking into the information Dean had 'persuaded with extreme prejudice' from the guys that snatched me.

Now, Dean and I know each other inside and out. We've seen the best and the worst of each other, but the coldly stoic way he extracted that information had me green around the edges, and worried that my partner had finally fallen off the crumbly edged cliff where people in our profession stand. I could only watch as he cracked every cell phone and computer in the place for information about my kidnappers before scouring them clean. He even used one of their cell phones to call a team of cleaners before loading the gurney he'd laid me on in the back of an ambulance he'd 'borrowed'.

When I forced my eyes open, I was still in the ambulance with an IV bag hanging over my head-Dean cleaning and stitching my wounds. The fact that he was mumbling to himself-reciting the proper way to care for each of the wounds he encountered was comforting. It was something he did whenever he had little practical knowledge and a lot of book knowledge.

Feeling safe, I closed my eyes.

The next time I opened my eyes I was clean, warm and tucked into a bed exactly like our one at home except nothing in the room was familiar until I looked down and saw Dean sitting on the floor-leaning against the bed-asleep. If this was one of our safe houses, it was one I didn't recognize, but knowing Dean's paranoid meter was probably set on 'TILT', I reached over and ran my fingers over his face.

"Eliot?"

"'m fine, but I gotta piss."

He reached for one of those jugs they make you use in the hospital, and when I started to protest, the green eyes narrowed.

"Trust me when I say you don't want to move."

Stubborn to the end, I started to reach for my dick until pain flared and stitches pulled leaving me panting and sweating.

"Stubborn."

"Bossy."

It was a week before I could do the simplest things. Frustration on my part and not sleeping on Dean's had us both snapping and snarling like junkyard dogs, and like all things under pressure there either had to be relief or an explosion. Since our usual forms of stress relief were not an option I was going to have to get Dean to talk about why he wasn't sleeping.

My opportunity came while we were going through the information Dean had collected. I was beginning to believe he was right when he said this wasn't about the agency-this was about us. Dean's shooting and my kidnapping were experiments to see how far off the reservation we would go for one another. All the information we had kept going back to the same name-Samantha Smith.

Samantha Smith was the head of the agency's behavioral science department-we weren't someone in her sphere of influence. Behavioral science worked on the live targets we retrieved. We found the files of five pairs of agents she had been studying. One or both partners of four of the teams were dead. Dean and I were number five. Reading through our files, this lady had way more information on Dean than was available. I know this because Dean carefully monitored all our agency files.

"How's she know all this shit?"

Dean sat staring at a picture then snatched up his computer bag and rummaged through the pockets. His face was so pale I could count his freckles from across the room.

"Dean?"

He handed me a file and the picture he'd gotten out of his bag.

"Who?"

"Mary Winchester."

"As in your mother…your dead mother?"

"Yeah."

"If she got out do you think your brother might still be alive?"

"No."

My first instinct was to ask how he could be sure-he was only four, but I knew that tone. Assumptions are not something you make in our business, but from the tone in Dean's voice I had to assume that Dean had watched Sam die.

There were a multitude of whys and wherefores-for which we had no answers, and the conclusions were really ugly.

We both sat frozen until Dean moved and started typing furiously. The deeper he dug, the uglier the picture got. As part of a research project, Samantha had taken on the identity of Mary Campbell, married John Winchester, birthed two children then implemented her exit strategy, sacrificing her youngest son in the process.

The jobs John had taken as a mercenary had also been orchestrated by Samantha and the agency for her study. Dean had been the culmination of her machinations. Digging deeper we found the one member on each of the four other teams had a parent that was part of Smith's team.

"Why did we survive?"

I looked up from my computer screen. We were the only team that survived, but the price had been high. We were healing from the physical damage, but the psychological effects…If I didn't soon get Dean to sleep the bitch would win.

I didn't realize I'd asked the question out loud until Dean answered.

"Because she made me."

There was all kind of nuances in that statement, but I didn't bother with them, I pulled out all the stops until I had cajoled Dean to lie down next to me.

We slept in fits and starts. The in between times we started to plan our exit strategy.

In a climate controlled bunker so deep underground only a few people remember it's even there, a room full of computer equipment hums. Verbal and video conversations, electronic pulses full of phone calls, emails, and financial transactions roll through the artificial intelligence. The Machine does its assigned task and sends patterns and video to various and sundry organizations, but every so often a lone number makes it way to an anonymous account accessible by only one person.

The Machine watches as The Creator and his Human Protector either protect the number or eliminate the number, whichever path is dictated. The Machine listens as The Creator expresses his frustration when a number outside their home territory appears. The Machine starts another search.

J2 & KANE

It takes six months, but everything is finally in place. All we need now is the right mission where Eliot Spencer and Dean Winchester go out in a manner befitting out reputations. The perfect going away present would be if Behavioral Sciences and those protecting them were dead in the process, but getting out of Washington, DC with the world thinking we're dead will have to suffice.

Christmas came early. Jim walked into the armory where we were updating our gear and told us to report to Behavioral Science for 'surprise' psych evaluations. I shrugged and secured the weapons while Dean begin to whine about having to cancel his first date in blah…blah…blah until Jim got frustrated and yelled at him to just cancel the damn date and get our asses across town.

Anyone listening to Dean's call would hear and age old 'So sorry, but something came up at work' excuse, but those words released computer files to our fellow teams that had been through hell at the hands of people we were supposed to be able to trust. We had no way of knowing exactly what the information would trigger, but at least one of the survivors of Samantha Smith's machinations had become increasingly volatile since the events that led to the death of their partners. It was carrying a truckload of guilt over what we had just set in motion that we walked through the doors of the Behavioral Science building and sat calmly in reception drinking surprisingly good coffee waiting for the final act to play out.

In the chaos that followed, four agents and the most senior staff at Behavioral Sciences died in a fire that destroyed the offices. Two of the bodies were never recovered, but the files found on the computers of two of the agents started an investigation. After said investigation, three of Washington's top power brokers died tragically, which caused an interesting vacuum among the old guard insiders. It was the perfect epitaph for Eliot Spencer and Dean Winchester.

The Machine watched The Apprentice and The Guardian. When it realized the pattern of what The Apprentice was doing, it carefully erased any tracks he left behind. The Machine agreed with the logic of having many hidden places across the country. It would make the work he'd chosen The Apprentice for easier. The Machine watched Jensen Ackles and Christian Kane settle into their new home in Denver, Colorado. Time passed until signals from The Apprentice's computer alerted The Machine that The Apprentice was fading from its systems. It was time to send a missive to The Creator and his Protector.

J2 & KANE

Though Dean and I-I guess I better get used to thinking of him as Jensen, not Dean-had property all over the world, we decided to settle in Denver. It had all the things two up and comers like us could want, and the rest of the country was easily accessible. We started a consulting firm specializing in personal and business security, and set up our office on the ground floor of the warehouse we'd converted into living space, workshops and training rooms. The suits got pitched, and completing the transformation, Jensen cut Dean's sun streaked hair that tumbled over his shoulders, and I allowed my close cropped buzz cut to grow into Christian's long hair that tended to lay in curls, pierced my ears, and got a tattoo I'd designed years ago.

It was amazing how freeing it was to step away from Eliot Spencer, and do all the things I'd wanted over the years, but couldn't because they would either draw attention, or make me memorable in some way. When you work in our former profession the last thing you want to be is memorable.

I worried over Jensen those first few months as we settled into our new lives. As Dean he'd never hesitated to step to the front, and take charge loudly. He still takes charge, but he's quiet-reserved. He watches from the shadows, moves behind the scenes seldom coming into the light. Jensen has become the voice in my ear that leads me where I need to go, tells me what I need to hear, and only steps into the light to protect me.

The revelations of the machinations of the woman who gave him life has deeply scarred my partner, and when he allows it I pull him into the sun with me to enjoy this new life we have made for ourselves-I hope it will be enough.

We'd been in Denver six months, and Front Range Consulting was starting to build a client base. Banks and jewelers wanting their security systems tested, the occasional celebrity doing a quick appearance in town. It was enough to keep us busy, but nothing that would draw attention or put us in the spotlight.

We were still everything to each other, and I admit that when I would feel Jensen pulling away mentally-I'd use sex to pull him back to me. There were many nights after Jensen drifted to sleep I'd wrap around him and curse Samantha Smith because though we were closerthanthis-I missed Dean. The more Dean became Jensen the bigger the ball of loneliness in my chest became.

That loneliness is the only excuse I have for what happened next. For all that Denver is a large city and the state capital there were many aspects of the city that were still small town. For all the clubs and night life it didn't take long to begin recognizing the same names and faces. We needed a larger city…more sprawling…it was time to talk Jensen into moving to Los Angeles, to do that I'd have to convince him to walk away from our company.

I needed a buyer, or at the very least someone Jensen would trust to run the company in our absence. Using one of the back doors Jensen had left so we could move in and out of the Agency's files without detection I went looking for someone retired just long enough for boredom to have become their new best friend. Going through the list I'd noted several names until I saw one that made me forget all the rest.

Our handler, Jim Beaver, had retired the day after the last signature was on the last piece of paper having to do with the fire that caused the deaths of Eliot Spencer and Dean Winchester. Jensen was probably going to string me up by the balls, but here was the perfect solution to my problems. Now all I had to do was tug Jim's pigtails enough to get his attention.

Let the courtship begin.

J2 & KANE

After supper I turned on the TV to watch the Rockies play the Braves. What I was actually doing was watching Jensen. When he closed the files he was reading, I pounced.

"I think we should move to Los Angeles."

I was ready. All my arguments were solid.

"Okay."

"What?"

"Okay. We'll have to decide what stuff to take and what stays. I'll send out emails to the clients. How soon are we leaving?"

"What?"

"How fast do we need to move?"

"No rush. Before you close down the office-I found someone to take over for us."

It was Jensen's turn to gape.

"What?"

I handed him Jim's emails.

"Does he know?"

"No."

"He will."

"He retired after we 'died'."

"Coincidence."

"We don't believe in those."

"He's going to be pissed."

"Then I'll let you meet with him first."

"Love you, too."

"Jim always did like you best."

By bedtime we had a meeting scheduled with our former handler and we'd decided which Los Angeles property would suit our needs.

After all the years we'd been together I shouldn't be surprised at Jensen's organizational skills. Less than a day after agreeing to move-the non-essentials are packed, there's a rental truck in the loading dock, and a trailer for my truck. Jensen's pulling a trailer with our motorcycles.

It might be looking a gift horse in the mouth, but I was worried. I expected De…Jensen to go ballistic about not only moving, but about my contacting Jim. By the end of the day the only thing left to put on the truck was a few personal items, duffels and Jensen's laptop-our property manager in LA had our new home already outfitted.

By the time we ordered our last meal in Denver, Jensen's acquiescing to our move with no more than a blink of those pretty green eyes was sticking in my craw, so halfway through supper my thoughts tumbled out.

"Why'd you give in so easy?"

"You weren't happy."

Well hell. What do you say after that answer?

"Thank you."

"There is a price." Jensen said.

I waited while he chewed his shrimp mei fun to name his price.

"Jim doesn't know."

"Jensen…"

"That's the price, Christian. Jim doesn't know I'm alive."

Fuck.

"Fine."

Since he wasn't meeting with Jim, Jensen planned to leave at first light. Fighting my own form of separation anxiety, the minute the last empty food carton hit the trash, I was pinning Jensen against the counter-my lips and hands demanding all of his attention.

Every day it seemed he moved further away from me. Dean and Eliot were everything to each other, but now it seemed that Jensen was leaving Christian behind, or I was leaving him-I was no longer sure. Not much scared me, but the thought of losing the one person in the world that knew ME scared the shit out of me. So I did what I always do when I'm scared-I get stubborn-I dig in my heels and refuse to let go.

Now Jensen is quietly stubborn. He's like water against my stone. Everyone knows water is the strongest element on the planet, one minute smooth and reflective-the next boiling and destructive. Whenever some crazy idea went through his scary brain and computed that it was in the best interest of someone he loved, nothing changed his mind. His agreeing to move without a fuss had all the earmarks of one of those ideas.

So I set out to remind him that this is our life-not just mine that's important.

I don't remember how we got from the kitchen to the bed, but by the time my dick slipped from Jensen's body, my boy was nearly comatose. Looking at the marks I'd left on his freckled and scarred skin left me feeling satisfied that I'd reminded Jensen where he belonged. Tossing the wash cloth in the pile of laundry I had to do before I met with Jim, I slid under the covers and pulled Jensen in close. He grumbled, but settled against my shoulder.

Jensen slipping from my arms roused me enough to look at the time before burrowing down in the warm spot he left behind. The sounds of him getting showered and dressed to leave for California faded as I drifted down toward sleep until familiar lips against my forehead woke my brain enough to enjoy the last contact we'd have until I got to our new home.

"I'll love you always." He whispered against my skin.

Warmed by his words I slid all the way down. It wasn't until I was enjoying the morning quiet that the words came back to me. My first feeling was smugness. Last night's round of sex must have really left an impression. Once my lizard brain stopped strutting around the inside of my brain, the side that made me a damn fine spy kicked in and left a cold hard knot in my gut. Jensen's words sounded like he was leaving me because he knew I was going to leave him.

My temper flared. After all we'd been through-all the years together how could he even begin to think such a thing…but those years belonged to Dean and Eliot. Christian and Jensen had only been together for six months. Jensen had settled into his new life in Denver while Christian-I-had become restless and moody. Christian wanted to go where it was bigger, brighter, with more people to get lost among because Christian didn't quite know what to do with Jensen.

Fuck.

The buzzer on the dryer pulled me back to the reality of…only an hour until my meeting with Jim and throwing the last of my stuff in the truck so I could leave. I needed to get to Los Angeles before Jensen figured out a way to leave me for my own good.

Seeing Jim Beaver standing in the entryway of the office made me realize how much I'd missed the taciturn man. He'd been a huge part of my life before and after Dean. We'd gone from agent/handler to friends in the years we'd worked together, and the fact that he'd retired after we left proved how much he hid behind his furrowed brow and grumbled insults.

Another realization hit me before I opened the door that stood between me and my oldest friend. Jensen didn't want me to tell Jim he was alive because I had been Jim's friend before Dean. Dean had me and a handful of acquaintances, but he didn't form attachments-not like normal…fuck…I wanted to go back and kill John Winchester and Samantha Smith all over again. Instead I steeled myself and opened the door.

"Mr. Beaver. I'm Christian Kane."

"Call me Jim." He said as he shook my hand.

"Would you like a cup of coffee or anything before we get started?"

"Coffee, thanks."

I dropped his hand and turned to give him the folder Jensen had prepared with all the pertinent information about Front Range Consulting. Sticking to the script-Christian Kane does not know how Jim Beaver takes his coffee, I asked what he preferred.

"Black."

Setting his cup on the small table between us, I enjoyed my own cup while he read. He closed the folder, picked up his cup, and eyed me warily.

"On paper this is a perfect opportunity-so what's the catch?"

Warning lights flashed in my brain. Jim didn't get to be where he was in the agency by being stupid. Maybe Jensen was right about staying dead, but I was beginning to suspect he was playing a long game where his chosen family of misfits got everything they wanted while he faded into memory.

"No catch. We had to make a move and I hated dismantling a young company that was just finding its feet in the city. My partner wanted to shut it down, but I felt it could provide a place for people with a specific skill set in the civilian work place given the right management."

"The right management being your retired handler who always talked about having his own security firm?"

Jim's words were a spike in my calm, but I held to character.

"Pardon?"

I could see the anger flare in his eyes.

"Don't bullshit me, boy-long hair and fancy cowboy duds can't hide someone I've known since he was a snot-nosed kid. Where's Dean, Eliot?"

"Gone."

It wasn't a lie he was gone just not in the way I was intimating.

"You said partner."

"Yeah."

"Not Dean?"

I shook my head. Jensen most definitely was not Dean. They were the same person, but Jensen squashed many of Dean's quirks and habits under the heel of his expensive boots.

"You read the files we sent you?"

Jim nodded.

"I guess Dean took a page out of his parents' books and set it up so when it ended we were all protected. Take his gift, Jim. There's not much left of Dean Winchester-cherish that for a man that never learned to form attachments he cared enough to make sure you had a safety net when the shit hit the fan."

"That boy was a crafty little bastard." Jim smirked.

We spent the next few minutes lost in our thoughts of the past…of Dean, Eliot and Jim…late night planning sessions, injuries, and post mission fallout.

"What about you? What did Dean leave you?"

Jim's voice was quiet but his question felt like a hot poker to the chest.

"Everything. Christian Kane does what he wants when he wants and answers to no one but himself."

Because I refused to lose anything else to Samantha Smith's machinations I stepped around the table and held out my hand.

"I think Christian Kane would feel blessed to have a good friend and business associate like Jim Beaver."

Jim stood and pulled me into a tight hug.

"You're right, but you ever pull another stunt like this and I'll hunt you down and shoot you myself." He stepped back. "Now show me around my new home."

While Jim went to his hotel for his gear, I called Jensen to tell him the good news. Listening to his phone ring before it went to voice mail I hoped he was in a no phone zone and not trying to disappear. The text I received as Jim's rental pulled in the lot relieved my worry, but Jim was about to get a crash course. I needed to get to LA.

J2 & KANE

The property we chose was in Burbank, and had been new before there was such a thing as the production studios that had built up around it. The real estate agent claimed it was once a rich hacienda, but we bought it for a song because the buildings had fallen into ruin. Dean-Jensen had supervised the renovations when we'd been healing from various injuries during our partnership. Everything looked original, but under the adobe and wood was probably one of the most modern and secure buildings in Burbank. He'd even kept the escape tunnels that led from the basement into the building next door. It had been the servant's quarters and kitchens for the hacienda. Now it was being turned into a restaurant/bar that used food, beers and wines from local farmers and wineries.

Food had become my passion when a one week undercover mission turned into six months. Jensen and I could have had a career in any high end restaurant after we wrapped the mission. I cooked for us when we had downtime, using Jensen as my guinea pig, but I occasionally cajoled him into the kitchen. Boy had a knack for sweets that made me shed a tear.

The décor stayed with the period of our hacienda using the courtyard between the buildings for patio dining. The menu would appeal to the studio employees with our local microbrews and wines a good match for our menu and desserts. I considered it a win when I got Jensen out of his aerie on the top floor of the house and into my kitchen making my desserts.

I was settling. Sure I missed the adrenaline rush of our missions, but I was alive, the soft opening of The Black Rooster was in two days, and I had Jensen in my bed most nights. The few days we'd been apart seemed to have given him the opportunity to find a happy medium between Dean Winchester and Jensen Ackles. I should have been happy.

I should have been more careful about what I wished.

Though the weather was chilly and damp, my world was shiny. Jensen had shown me the numbers for our first quarter. The Black Rooster was operating in the black, my kitchen staff was running smoothly, Jensen had taken over all those tedious duties I hate like paperwork and hiring. Our wait staff consisted of bit players and aspiring stars, but he managed to schedule around auditions and shooting schedules without service suffering.

There were hours when Jensen would disappear without a word, but I didn't question. The bumps and bruises he'd return with I put down to him finding a gym where he could spar with someone other than me. We kept the old skills sharp, never forgetting who we'd been, and that we'd made enemies.

Jim and I talked often. Denver and Jim were a perfect fit just as Jensen knew they'd be…our former handler was even developing a social life. Jensen had run background checks on several women Jim dated including the one that seemed to have started taming the irascible man. Linda Gehringer was a successful business woman who had hired Front Range Consulting for security on her business trips. It looked like Jim would soon be on permanent retainer.

Life was good, my family was safe, and I started to relax.

J2 & KANE

The Machine was not pleased. The Apprentice had somehow found its numbers. He was working on the numbers without the help of The Guardian. The Machine realized The Apprentice was as skilled as The Guardian, but there had to be the symmetry of the binary. There could not be only one. The Guardian must be alerted to the actions of The Apprentice for through his actions The Apprentice had elevated to The Sorcerer-second only to The Creator. Both must be protected at all costs. The Machine sent an email that would set things back in their proper binary.

Harold Finch opened the email that appeared in the account usually reserved for numbers The Machine kicked out. The email was addressed to The Creator, and the files were titled The Sorcerer and The Guardian.

He read about their backgrounds from the time they'd entered the system, into an agency so deeply embedded in the dark that they gave new meaning to the phrase 'black ops'. The smell of Chinese food brought a fond smile to his face. Harold often speculated the John Reese was psychic as he always seemed to appear at the most fortuitous of times.

The Machine watched the expressions of The Creator and his Protector as they read the information it had provided. Before The Protector left The Creator that night, two tickets for Los Angeles had been procured.

During the lull between the lunch and supper rush I took the time to fix a plate and set it in front of Jensen. He'd been keeping odd hours, and obviously not eating or sleeping properly. It was time to get to the bottom of whatever he was hiding.

"What's going on, Jenny?"

Jensen looked up from the paperwork he'd been entering into the computer. He looked like he was about to answer my question when one of the waiters came out of the kitchen carrying something that looked like it was plated by a five year old.

"Mike! Let me see that plate. Take it back. Who made this mess?"

I followed the waiter back into the kitchen, Jensen temporarily shoved to the back of my mind as I did my best to not snatch the cell phone from my assistant and throw it in the street.

Part 2