"Hey! I was watchin' that." Dean growls, scowling up at you as you wrench the headset in from of him. Not-so-fucked-up XBDs were hard to come by, okay? And here you are, interrupting his precious time of relaxation. And unemployment.

When you'd first gone looking for the rogue Winchester, you'd expected some ten-feet tall, fearsome hunk of muscle, from the tales you'd heard. Instead, you'd gotten this guy. Not that Dean's capabilities were over-exaggerated; oh, no. But the stories certainly didn't give justice to his.. winning personality.

Dean, the last one standing of the legendary Winchester Family. John Winchester was a name that echoed all throughout the Badlands. Fucking hell—it needed no introduction. Neither did his sons, til' Sam sold his soul out to be a fuckin' corp. Dean always knew Sammy wanted out of the Edgerunner life—as if his baby brother wasn't chromed the fuck up and basically The Incredible Hulk, and that was without the gorilla-arm implants. Looking at him, you'd never have guessed Sam was one of the best netrunners in the Fractured States. He looked everything like the grunt Dean was.

Too bad he'd decided to shuck that life and become a corporate slave. Dean couldn't even believe they'd let him in the doors, with the Winchester rep; but maybe that's what got Sam inside in the first place. After all, netrunners were in high-demand. Good netrunners were scarce. Excellent ones were almost myth, and the competition was so fucking fierce. Sam had been so passionate about it—that the scene was constantly evolving, and changing. That that was where the whole world was, now, the important bits. How he could do good from the inside.

Dean thought that was a load of bull. Sammy had his head stuck in the fuckin' clouds; they've seen the real world, they've been right in the thick of it, and the only good that can be done is blastin' the skulls of dickheads and richfucks with loads of money.

"You better be here 'cuz you got a new job," Dean grumbles, blinking away the fun he was having with a grunt. "I was like..—" He pinches his fingers together, "this close to comin'."

Ugh. That'd been a damn good braindance, too. Dean winces, sitting up from the back of Baby, rolling his shoulders back with a distinctly human crack. What he saves on bodymods he shells out on the Impala. He's especially proud of the submachine gun that pops out on top. Or the muffler on the engine that makes her damn near silent when he wants to be. Makes him feel like freakin' Batman.

When they first pulled up to Night City, after Dad fuckin' went Cyberpyscho on him, before Sam went dark side (yes, a Star Wars reference, sue him), before they went no-contact—Sam was constantly eggin' him on to swap all his mushy, fallible human squish for chrome. Dean's not bare, he's got all the necessary stuff; reflex enhancements, whole-lot of nanofibre; but he ain't the Terminator. He's never gonna be. He's not gonna risk a fuckin' hacker getting in his head. 'Sides, he sees what that shit does to people— what it did to Dad..

No chrome. None visible. Why would he? He can stack up to a gang of chooms 99% metal, and that's what makes him a Night City legend. Plus, you always cover his ass.

(You're as good as Sam. Better, if that's possible. One of those fabled Arasaka tube-babies, literally born and raised with the sole purpose to netrun. A run-away, obviously. But as long as it meant you wouldn't go diving back to those asshats, that's what matters to Dean. He already lost his brother to 'em. He doesn't need to lose you, too.

He's also praying you do have a job for the both of you. Hopefully a big one. Seeing as how he's sleepin' in the back of his car. Yeah, yeah. He's five months late on rent, whatever. Landlord didn't have to try and knife 'im in his sleep, though. R.I.P to that guy.)