Title: Off the Grid

Author: H_B_Alchemist

Rating: PG-14

Word Count: WIP

Genre: SPN/TRON cross over, Destiel

Spoilers: No SPN spoilers, very mild for Tron Legacy

Summary: John Winchester has been missing for twenty years. As primary holder of Pentagram Works, his legacy is passed down to his only remaining son, Dean. But when Dean finds himself lost in a world he never dreamed would ever exist and assisted by a siren program that is more human than programming, he must decide whether or not he should stop the viral terror threatening to overtake our world, or surrended and die on the legendary Grid.

A/N: A collab work with my friend, Supernatural-Fox on . she's planning on drawing chapter art for the story, so keep an eye out for that. Also thanks to my friend, Chuckles for offering his expertise on computer programming. Thanks guys!

June 23, 1987

A cold, dreary day greeted the remaining members of the Winchester family, as they roused and prepared for their usual daily routines. This normally included John slipping out to the office down at the arcade, leaving his only remaining son, Dean, alone and unattended. Sometimes he remembered to call his companion, Robert Singer, to come and keep an eye on his son.

Normally, these little excursions led to Dean sneaking out of the house alone, downtown, and finding his way to the arcade, where he'd spend the remainder of his day fiddling with the equipment, watching children play arcade games that even he couldn't afford to play. How ironic. The son of the city arcade owner couldn't afford to play his father's games. Not that that would really matter anyway. John wouldn't let him.

Now, John had not always been such a cold hearted man. In honesty, he used to be a very kind and caring father, a doting husband, and a dedicated worker in the field. Not only did he own an arcade shop, but he held shares in Pentagram Works, a computer systems network that was the growing rage of the decade. Most, if not all, of the networking for the arcade, was based off of the systems management that John had created with Robert during their partnership. Had this trend continued to grow, John would have held the title of Owner of the biggest Fortune 500 company in the country.

Then tragedy struck. His wife, Mary, had died at a relatively young age, leaving him a widower with two sons to take care of, a company, and a business to run. Having this thrown onto his plate, John had begun to pull away from his work duties, leaving them in the care of Robert, while he struggled to raise his two sons on his own and still keep the arcade open.

Then a second tragedy hit. Not four years later, his youngest, Sam, had died in a freak bus accident on a Friday afternoon, which left all but four students- Dean included- dead, and a maimed bus driver. This was the final straw that broke the camel's back.

John totally shut down. Having turned into a bitter recluse of a man, he stopped caring for the things he used to, leaving his eldest behind and dumping the responsibility of Pentagram Works on Robert's head. Most days, he refused to return home, leaving Dean to learn how to care for himself on his own. Robert became his surrogate father in John's absence, and life continued on.

Now, three years after the freak bus accident, Dean found himself at the arcade, yet again, fussing with the machines as he watched the few remaining children screaming and giggling over the games. One by one, quarters were dropped into the money slots, leaving more and more children out of pocket change and patience to try and beat the seemingly impossible games. Attendance at Winchester Arcades had dropped significantly in the years passed, and the business threatened to go under. Not surprisingly.

Now, Dean watched his father exit the office, a stack of papers in his hand and completely unaware of his presence in the arcade. The boy fingered a quarter in his pocket, watching John slip into yet another office near the back of the arcade before his attention diverted to one of the most coveted games in the building. Above the arcade console, a bright sign reading "Tron" flashed as if beckoning him to try his luck at the game.

No… he couldn't do it. He had no idea when his father would exit the room, and it was futile to try and beat the game. No one ever did. So with a heavy heart, Dean released the coin from his palm and continued sweeping around the machines, watching with envy as children he didn't even know got to enjoy his father's creations.

Dean sat on his bed, flipping through an old Constantine comic book with little interest. He hadn't been allowed to go to the arcade that day, which surprisingly enough was the highlight of his life. He'd been told to stay home for no reasons apparent.

He was so engrossed in his not-reading, he didn't hear his father enter his bedroom until the pair of heavy boots came to a stop right next to him. Looking up, he smiled at his dad, wondering what it could be THIS time he was going to get lectured on. "Yeah, Dad? Didja need something?"

John didn't answer. He simply stared at his son for a moment before taking a seat next to him. With a care that didn't reflect his normal behavior, he reached out and pulled his son into a tender hug, cradling his head just below his chin.

Odd. Dean tensed in his hold for a moment before allowing his father to bestow an affection he hadn't seen since Mary's death on his person. But.. it worried him. What could it mean… "Dad?"

"Dean… I need to go into the office tonight. I… I just wanted to tell you I'm sorry for the way I have been treating you lately."

"It's ok, Dad. I know you're busy lately." Dean was beginning to get worried. This really wasn't like his father…

"I know but.. it's no way to treat you, son." John pressed a kiss to Dean's forehead, smiling at him. "I called Bobby, he'll be over in a few minutes. He'll keep an eye on you tonight." Standing up, John headed to the bedroom door, turning back to flash his son a smile. "I'll be back tomorrow, alright?"

Dean nodded, feeling an uneasy sensation in the pit of his stomach. "Ok, Dad…" he shifted, watching him for a moment before blurting out. "You promise?"

John sighed, turning to leave. He glanced over his shoulder, offering him what he deemed a reassuring look. "Of course. Good night, Dean…"

And with that, John walked out of the room, and out of Dean's life, never to return.

August 3, 2011

Dean trundled out of his car, ignoring the indignant looks pedestrians shot him as he bustled his way from the sidewalk to this apartment. Another bullshit day at the construction site left his ass utterly exhausted and in need of a beer. Yep, just another day in his fucked up life that's what this was.

Ever since his father's disappearance twenty years ago, Dean had gone down a slope of bad luck. He'd dropped out of school partway through college, lost the house he'd been holding onto with the remaining shares of his father's failed business and found himself working construction to hold onto the matchbox of an apartment he'd managed to secure.

Thus was his life for the past several years. Hell, he couldn't even keep a girlfriend, he was such a mess. Work, drink, mope. That was his life. The only bright spot in his days was the few times his only friend, Bobby, would come by to check up on the delinquent man… or bail him out of jail. Whichever came first.

So it came as no surprise to see Bobby sitting in his tiny living room the moment he walked through the door. What he was surprised to see was the briefcase sitting at the old man's feet, a strange sight that stuck out like a sore thumb in the run down room.

"On business again, eh, Bobby?" he asked, hanging his coat up and tossing his boots underneath the coat rack without care. He turned, crossing his arms over his chest to stare at the man with lackluster attention. "What is it this time, Bobby? Come to try and convince me to commandeer the company again? Because I don't know how many times I gotta tell you, but I ain't doing it."

Same story, every day. Bobby sighed, getting to his feet on creaking joints with a groan. "You just won't give up that pride, will you son?" he asked, crossing his own arms in return. "I'm tryin' ta tell ya son, that company don't belong in Adam's hands. He's running the place like a Nazi camp, and its killing business. Hell, we lost twenty points in stocks yesterday, because he ain't budging on the new company bill. We're losin' money, and Pentagram Works ain't the place it used ta be."

Walking over to Dean, he placed a hand on the taller man's shoulder, hoping to talk some sense back into him. "That company don't belong in no hands, but a Winchester's. Trust me, son."

"Yeah, well, he's my half-brother. That's gotta count for somethin' right?"

No, they weren't getting anywhere fast. As usual.

Bobby turned away with an irritated growl, striding back to the table. He grabbed the briefcase and slammed it down on the table, making the stray beer cans rattle like hollow maracas. "You're just as bullheaded as your father, Dean."

"Yeah, well I learned it from the best." Dean snapped, whipping around to stare at the back of his only friend's head. The room fell into a deep shroud of silence, nothing but the light static of the television and a clicking clock echoing in the small space around them.

After what seemed like an eternity, Bobby turned, his eyes soft with his sympathy for the man. "Dean… I know. I know you're hurt. John left when you were young, and I was there to pick up the pieces. Son, I understand. I lost a friend too, but… there's nothin' I can do about it now. And nothin' you can neither. It's best if we just move on, like we haven't for the past twenty years… and let his memory live the way it should: in tha past. Not hauntin' us."

Dean took his words, listening to each one for a hint of a lie or false hope to quiet his simmering anger. None of them held any sort of false security or conniving tricks to swindle him into believing him. They came from the heart. And if there was anything Dean trusted more in life, it was honesty.

It was why his father's last words stung so horribly.

After a moment, Dean simply softened, leaning against the nearest wall with his defeat. "Yeah… I know, Bobby. Damn, but I know it." With these words, he offered Bobby a shrug, motioning noncommittally into the air. "I guess… you wanna beer?"

"I'd love one,Dean. Thank you."

The remainder of Bobby's visit remained fairly uneventful, the two simply enjoying their beers in silence. Not once did they speak of the briefcase at the old man's feet, but there it stood, the veritable pink elephant of the room, making the air thick with anticipation.

It took another hour before Bobby decided to call it a night, rocking to his feet with some effort. "Alright… I'm gonna head home now. You have a good night, Dean. I'll stop by ta see you tomorrow, ok?" Without waiting for his answer, he turned and headed for the door of the apartment.

Dean watched him go, chewing his lower lip in his agitation. He was so caught up in their previous discussion, he didn't notice the conveniently placed brief case sitting by his counter until it was too late. "fuck!" he cursed, grabbing the offending object and darting out into the hallway.

Too late. Bobby was already gone. "Goddamnit…"

Glaring at the rectangular case in his hand, he carried it back inside and tossed it onto his counter with a solid thud. He'd give it to Bobby the next time he saw him…

Bobby never showed up. For three days that briefcase sat on his counter, and every day Dean walked past it with growing contempt. It was like that thing was mocking him, taunting him to open it and expose the treasures inside.

Every day, Dean walked past it with less and less confidence. Every day, he found himself staring at the black case, fingers itching to unlatch the damn thing and just look. If it quelled his curiosity…

No. He resisted, albeit with less finesse than he'd like. He resisted, making vows to just drive the damn thing back to Bobby's house.

It came as quite a shock to him one day when he found a programming screen open on his computer the minute he flipped the lid open. Confused, he stared at the script for a moment, reading through the feeds before finding a note typed at the bottom of the script that didn't match the rest of the code.

"What the hell…" he murmured, reading it over again as if to make sure he hadn't made it up in his head. Sure enough, the script broke off into a complete sentence; one that had him glancing up at the counter with dawning curiosity.

"Open the Briefcase."

TBC...