SpN: Come The Night, 19/?
1/22/12 08:31 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
roxyTitle: Come The Night, 19/?
Author: roxy
Pairings/Characters: Sam/Dean, Dean/Angel
Rating:NC-17
Word Count: 3307
Spoilers: oblique reference to events in s5
Summary: this is (now) an AU treatment of season five, where Sam doesn't escape his fate and Boy King means just that. Dean once again enters hell to save his brother—not entirely voluntarily. When he returns to the world, everything's changed. He's lost Sam, the new world is difficult to navigate, and he finds himself saddled with an angry young man who elects himself to be Dean's guide.
Notes/Warnings: rape, dubious consent, extreme power imbalance. Some scenes are graphic. Feel free to ask if you'd like more info.
one ~ two~ three ~ four ~ five ~six
seven ~ eight ~ nine ~ ten ~ eleven ~ twelve
thirteen~fourteen~fifteen~sixteen~seventeen
eighteen
icon by![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
deanbean08
2
Dean sprints after Angel, leaving their bags and everything they have inside the broken circle of salt. He does his best to keep himself between what's chasing them and Angel as they sprint for some impossible hope of shelter, running towards the rocky edges of the desert. The towers of Chronopolis break through the morning mists, pale with distance but there—and no way were they going to make it, not even close. Even if they'd had a decent head-start, the demons would scent them out, hunt them down and do what demons did. If Angel's lucky, they'll kill him. Dean knows for himself, it'll be the end—bloody, sharp and quick if he's lucky--the minute those freak bastards find out they can't get in him. Their breath saws in and out as they run, harsh and panicked, Dean's heart slamming with anger at himself as well as fear. They shouldn't have been caught out like that, they should have been safe and invisible to the damn monsters, would have been but for those fucking human--slaves, pets, what the fuck ever--pointing them out. At least, the freaks had no idea who he was and Dean figures the demons are gonna kill him without ever knowing what they have. That'd be the only good thing to come out of this fucking mess--
They get taken down at the point the desert bled into meadow, and from that point on, it got pretty bad.
~o0o~
Dean comes awake with a blinding headache, a rasping pain in his neck and a weird smell in his nose, kind of a cross between Vicks and sage. As soon as his brain comes back on line he's looking for Angel, just about to panic when he realizes that the weight pressed hot against his back is Angel and slumps with relief—gags. The pain in his neck is a rope cinched tight and connecting him to Angel. The kid shudders and snores, jerks awake when Dean's sharp movement pulls the rope tighter around his neck too.
Dean takes in shallow, oxygen starved breaths, and slowly realizes that the jingling, ringing, metallic sound he hears is real. He cuts his eyes to the left and startles. Staked out almost close enough to touch are the creepy, jittery, giggling freaks Angel called Horses. Chains are threaded through the head gear that reminds Dean of bridles and locked around short, metal poles. The freaks are too damn close—they stink, besides the smell of the Vicks/sage shit they've got smeared all over their bodies—they reek of unwashed human. Dean's relieved that they’re quiet now compared to before—one of them is sitting listlessly in the dust, picking at crusted sores on its arm, scratching and picking until blood runs while the other watches, silently, transfixed by the stream of red…
"Fucking freak creep demons," Dean hisses and tries to shift, determined despite the rope to keep himself between them and Angel.
"Not demons," the watching one says, words garbled by the thick bit in its jaws. It's not taking its eyes from the rill of blood. The other's lost interest in scarring itself, was now pulling at its hair, ripping clumps loose.
"What the fuck are you, then?" Dean asks and Angel growls, actually growls, startling Dean and frankly, freaking him out a bit.
"It's a fucking Horse—these looks like volunteer hosts. Pets, freaks…they follow the monsters around and when they're needed, let themselves be ridden." Angel spits in the Horses' direction and they giggle and point, mocking Dean's anger and Angel's disgust. "Thought there are—"
"No—what?" Dean interrupts. "The fuck? They're people? Who would volunteer for that? That's disgusting, dude--disgusting." He stares at the shorter one, a blonde with the kind of breasts that would have kept his attention through a hurricane—back before Sam. She echoes Dean, "Disgusting—disgusting—" and both the Horses dissolve into whooping, howling, laughter.
"Shut up, you stupid fucks." The demon who'd wandered up while they were talking kicks the Horse until Dean swears he hears its bones snap. The one Dean's pegged as the boss demon takes a little black box out of a bag he's got hanging off its shoulder and opens it. "Smile, green-eyes, let's see if your eyes are worth anything…." A single sapphire blue eye stares at Dean, blinks once and slams shut, eyelid, box, and all.
Dean recoils—there's something about that box—the eye—that's familiar. "What the fucking fuck is that?"
The head demon curses, shakes the box, banging it against the side of the pole its creature is chained to, whipping it through the air when it doesn't pop open. "Open up, you fuckin' piece of crap…damn it. I hate these things! Chronopolis have perfectly good metalwork cameras. Why the hell won't He join the twentieth century?"
"Twenty-first," one of the demons mutters.
"What? Are you sure?" Another asks. "Twenty-first? I'm pretty sure it's the thirtieth?"
"No, you idiot, twenty-first," the second one answers, and then squints, flips the edge of her palm back and forth. "Kind of sorta sideways but still, twenty-first."
"Ah! I swear, I loose track sometimes, all this back and forth and in and out—"
"If you two are through?" The demon in charge snarls at them.
"Okay, yes, sorry. So…they look good. Healthy. Strong. Good looking too. They should fetch a lot."
"Oh yeah—we heading right back to Dys. These meatbags are going to make our fortune—s'why I was trying to transmit a picture—" He grabs Dean's chin and wrenches it to face the firelight. "Green eyes, spotty skin—if we sell this thing, it means a litter of disposable hosts and pre-bang booze and nice digs…"
"Yeah…say, let's give them a try, just a taste…those two over there are really starting to bore me." There's an explosive burst of jingling and moaning in the Horses' direction.
"Yeah. They've about reached that point of crazy that it's pointless to ride them. You lose all that fine motor control, nothing tastes right anymore--"
"Oh yes, so true, oh I know," comes a chorus of agreements. Dean feels like the top of his head is about to blow off. For some reason, all the crazy around him is nothing compared to this trio of fucked up demons and the horrible way they remind him of Chip and Dale, if there'd been an extra rodent and they'd liked turning people into bloody confetti .
~o0o~
The demon boss smiles as he separates them, promises Angel he's gonna take good care of Dean. The demons ignore the shape-masking pendant, treat it like it doesn’t exist, but they try to cut off the lock-out tattoo, many times. The Horses slice and chop at Dean's skin until he can't hold back the screams; they hack at it again and again. His mind plays tricks on him--he gets flashes of himself being skinned, being splattered with acid. He sees himself doing it to others. He smells sulfur and shit, tastes ash, blood…the tattoo won't come off, nothing can break it, skinning his chest just draws the ink to the surface of new pink skin, and if Dean was halfway mentally present, he'd wonder how it was possible…
Finally they stop. But the fun continues—they turn their attention to Angel and for the first time since they've been caught, Dean utter belief that they're going to die is shaken. The demons get the shock of their life trying to occupy non-tattooed Angel—they react like the kid's filled with holy water, their black-smoke forms boiling off of him like steam, even non-corporeal it's plain to see the demons are in pain just from touching him. Dean wishes his brains were fully engaged instead of waffling between slipping away like fog and going whole-hog into a psychotic break because he'd wonder hard what the fuck was up with that--
The demons are getting fed up with the situation and are talking about just taking Dean's eyes, (which are apparently plenty valuable even without the rest of him surrounding them), and calling it a day when a silver tipped arrow bursts out of the throat of the female Horse.
Dean lifts his head at the sound. His eyes go wide when the other Horse also drops silently to the ground, another silver tipped arrow through the throat. The demons are caught out--it takes them a few seconds to realize that their pets are dead. Dean rolls overtop Angel—whatever the hell is happening, if they want his kid, they'll find out they'll have to go through Dean Winchester. Hopes that it won't come down to that literally happening….
He blankets Angel the best he can with his body and hisses, "Don't move until I know what's going on."
Miracle of miracles, for once the kid does just that, with no argument.
Two dark figures ride down on them, screaming like banshees and hanging low over the neck of their horses. They come straight at the demons and Dean shouts—they're stupidly fearless and about to throw themselves right down the freaks' throats. The demons meet them head on, cocky and confident in their powers, meet the charge head on ready to rip whatever's riding down on them to shreds. The strangers suddenly rise up in the stirrups, bulging wineskins spraying something that have the demons rolling and screaming in the sand—"Saltwater," Angel mutters.
"Or holy water…" Dean ignores Angel's snort and as the riders swoop into the middle of them, iron swords spraying demon blood into the air, he calculates at what point it'll be safe to run. Because Dean figures they while they might be safe from demons at the moment, the possibility that they just fallen into the hands of a different kind of slaver pukes is huge. Though what slaver would go through the incredibly dangerous trouble of fighting demons for their cargo, he can't imagine. Dean casts a quick glance at Angel. Well…Angel was awfully damn pretty. He'd fight a couple of demon troops for him. Maybe…
"Run, you idiots!" A woman's voice rings out and one of the cloaked figure's hood drops back.
It's a girl—and she's beautiful. Dean forgets everything and gapes at her. The girl—woman--doesn't look like Jo, not at all—she's taller and dark-skinned and her hair is in tight braids close to her skull—but it's the tilt of her chin, the set of her jaw, the fire in her eyes, that bring those memories of Jo rushing in, freezing him in place and he's embarrassed by sudden tears that threaten to fall. He grinds at his eyes with his fist, starts when the other figure reins in behind the woman. "Don’t be so mean, Rio, not like they got caught on purpose—"
She shakes off the other's hold and yanks at the reins of her horse, rides off. The other cloaked person, a man, says dryly before wheeling to run himself, "Well, you heard her. Run, idiots."
Angel grabs at Dean's arm and they take off after their rescuers. Dean twists as he runs, looks back at the camp. There's black smoke rising off the bodies. It wavers, the columns twisting and weaving in and out of each other before boiling away into the clouds. He can't think about that now—he's entirely concentrated on keeping on his feet, not letting Angel drag him and keeping those horses, or at least their dust trail, in his sights.
They end up at a small encampment, a half dozen or so tents surrounding a firepit. When they come into the center of the camp, heads whip their way.
"Fuck—" Dean heaves a sigh and readies himself, he's going to have to fight and honestly, he's about tapped out, unarmed, and might as well be naked as a newb. He sure was feeling dumb as one. One of the crowd stands up and points. It's the girl, Rio. She stands with her hands spread wide, empty, and calls out, "There they are--them idiots us told you 'bout."
There's some chuckling, some catcalls but mostly good-natured. The crew around the fire resettles, interest pretty much lost since they've been sorted out and the tension level drops.
"You all made good time." It was the boy who'd helped disrupt the demons. He pats Angel's back, hands them canteens heavy with water. He grins at them as they suck down fresh water, stops them before they drink too much. "I'm Shem. Glad you made it."
"Yeah…" Dean says, and hopes the sarcasm shows, "I'm sure. M'Dean, this is Angel. Thanks for the water. And, y'know, the rescue."
The boy—Shem—shrugs and grins a little wider. "Sit," he says. "We're 'bout to eat. Nothin's gonna get past us tonight." He nods, confident, so Dean nudges Angel closer to the fire. They sit in the circle of hooded travelers and get handed bowls of stew and strips of a warm, nutty flavored, flat bread.
For a while, there's nothing but the murmur of conversation and the sound of people seriously addressing their food. The bread gets passed around again after the stew, this time filled with dried fruit smeared with honey, along with a hot drink Dean realizes with pleasure is just coffee, strong and black. All in all, it's a pretty good end to a day that had started off with a promise to end bloody and horrible.
Of course, the moment he lets out a relieved sigh is the moment Rio rounds on Dean and Angel both, her face twisted into a snarl.
"You two--idiots--how'd you get caught? Don’t you all have charms? Protection? Even the babies know that wanderin' the Alley 'thout protection is like dancin' naked on coals."
Dean takes just a moment too long contemplating the image of her naked and dancing and gets a glare from her and a jab in the kidneys from Angel. She narrows her eyes at the pendant swinging against Dean's chest. "What's that?" she snaps. "Never seen nothing like that before…what's it mean?" She comes closer and runs a finger over it after getting Dean's silent nod of permission. "This here's some kind of…word, a language?"
"Yeah, it's old, older than anything spoke on the planet now, I'd guess. It's to cover our appearance. It changes our faces…" Dean shrugs. "…it's pointless now." He takes it off. "I'm not sure if it'll work for anyone else but—here." He tries to hand it to her and she jumps back, eyes wide.
"Christe," she gasps and only comes closer when neither Angel nor he flinches. "Man—your eyes the same but your face--you look completely different." The murmurs from crew still sitting around the fire change tone, get louder, and when Angel takes his off too and stands next to Dean, there's a distinct "shlip" sound of metal clearing leather—like a sword or knife being drawn out the scabbard.
"We're not dummies--we know about protection—salt and symbols. We did what we could to keep safe. They had their damn freaks break the salt lines…since when do people work for demons?" Dean growls.
The group still around the fire stare at him only now it's tinged with dawning pity—the kind of looks reserved for hurt puppies and the slightly slow. Angel shuffles closer, leans in toward Dean and says into his ear in a low voice that sends a shiver up Dean's spine, "Since your Brother Prince thought it'd be a good thing. For some people who don't deserve to be called human, it's a reward. For others, it's a punishment. Places like Chronopolis sentences their 'worst' offenders to servitude. It's a prison sentence you don't always survive…"
Dean shudders. Yeah. That's a nasty thought.
Shem turns to Dean. "Why were you all traveling alone? It's too seldom for lone travelers to move in the Alley like that. Were you kicked out of your caravan?"
"No," Dean snaps. "We left on our own. We need to get to Chronopolis and the petition thing wasn't working out for us."
"You're Petitioners?" they're asked, the way other people might have said 'fuckin' idiots'. "Why not just go with the group leaving from Floating City?"
"Because someone brought trouble down on us and we had to leave, that's why," Angel snarls and like they fucking rehearsed it, all of them turn to look at Dean, which pisses him off pretty good.
"Hey! It wasn't my fault. It's not always my fault, you know…."
3
It turns out that the camp they've washed up against is a nomadic tribe, one of the tribes Angel had tried to disguise Dean as a member of. The group they've hooked up with is small, maybe forty or fifty people, and not the whole contingent—some of the tribe was traveling with the city, earning pay as security, or traveling with caravans doing the same work—the Edgers were famous for being as tough on demons as the Hunters and a bit more plentiful. Later in the season, Rio explains, they'll meet up at the gathers. What money's been made would be shared out between the tribes---supplies and horses and goats bought, new tents made, it was a time of feasts and meeting with family….
Dean nods. "Kind of like the Turags," he says. He cut his eyes towards Angel. "They lived in a place, a continent called Africa—
"ManDei, I'm not an idiot," Angel huffs, "I know what Africa is. Who doesn't know where the Yellow King's empire is?" The group that's gathered around the fire as they've been talking nods, some making complicated protective signs in the air, some mutter quick snatches of prayer and everyone looks kind of nervous. Dena figures it's another of those Voldermort don’t-say-the-name thing. Angel looks at Dean. "Oh. Sorry. Something else you don’t know. I'll tell you later…."
Dean knows he doesn't mean it like that, but it does make him feel kind of stupid and in turn that makes him need to hide the feeling. He sneers and says, "Sure. Fuck you, by the way." Angel flips him off like he'd been expecting Dean to act like an ass. Well, it's business as usual, Dean thinks--him and Angel have once again fallen off a mountain of shit and into a…another, slightly lower pile of shit. Hopefully. Turns out they were saved by a boy and girl of Summer, a small tribe part of the bigger tribes called the Seasons. Didn't sound like a bad thing…maybe. Maybe their luck was turning up, finally.
They're bedded down at the outer ring of the campsite. Dean gets that—he'd do it too. If something bad comes through, strangers are going to act like an early-warning signal and a distraction in the way of becoming monster kibble. The campsite's got good security though. It's surrounded by iron chains, with sentries at every point the chains intersected. Dean approves. The chains are a good idea, he thinks. The trade off in weight being that not much would disturb the chains, not water or a sly footprint—plus for nomadic tribes like the Seasons, salt was a little too valuable to waste. Iron and herbs and spells kept them safe—that and a kick-ass attitude. Good. They were owed a damn breather. He stares up at the night sky and listens to Angel's soft snuffling and thinks about…nothing and everything. About Angel and how he feels and smells, how soft the scruff trying to be a beard is under his fingertips…Dean falls asleep and dreams about pie and cars and women in white dresses and the sound of wings far away….
20
Author: roxy
Pairings/Characters: Sam/Dean, Dean/Angel
Rating:NC-17
Word Count: 3307
Spoilers: oblique reference to events in s5
Summary: this is (now) an AU treatment of season five, where Sam doesn't escape his fate and Boy King means just that. Dean once again enters hell to save his brother—not entirely voluntarily. When he returns to the world, everything's changed. He's lost Sam, the new world is difficult to navigate, and he finds himself saddled with an angry young man who elects himself to be Dean's guide.
Notes/Warnings: rape, dubious consent, extreme power imbalance. Some scenes are graphic. Feel free to ask if you'd like more info.
one ~ two~ three ~ four ~ five ~six
seven ~ eight ~ nine ~ ten ~ eleven ~ twelve
thirteen~fourteen~fifteen~sixteen~seventeen
eighteen
icon by
deanbean08Dean sprints after Angel, leaving their bags and everything they have inside the broken circle of salt. He does his best to keep himself between what's chasing them and Angel as they sprint for some impossible hope of shelter, running towards the rocky edges of the desert. The towers of Chronopolis break through the morning mists, pale with distance but there—and no way were they going to make it, not even close. Even if they'd had a decent head-start, the demons would scent them out, hunt them down and do what demons did. If Angel's lucky, they'll kill him. Dean knows for himself, it'll be the end—bloody, sharp and quick if he's lucky--the minute those freak bastards find out they can't get in him. Their breath saws in and out as they run, harsh and panicked, Dean's heart slamming with anger at himself as well as fear. They shouldn't have been caught out like that, they should have been safe and invisible to the damn monsters, would have been but for those fucking human--slaves, pets, what the fuck ever--pointing them out. At least, the freaks had no idea who he was and Dean figures the demons are gonna kill him without ever knowing what they have. That'd be the only good thing to come out of this fucking mess--
They get taken down at the point the desert bled into meadow, and from that point on, it got pretty bad.
Dean comes awake with a blinding headache, a rasping pain in his neck and a weird smell in his nose, kind of a cross between Vicks and sage. As soon as his brain comes back on line he's looking for Angel, just about to panic when he realizes that the weight pressed hot against his back is Angel and slumps with relief—gags. The pain in his neck is a rope cinched tight and connecting him to Angel. The kid shudders and snores, jerks awake when Dean's sharp movement pulls the rope tighter around his neck too.
Dean takes in shallow, oxygen starved breaths, and slowly realizes that the jingling, ringing, metallic sound he hears is real. He cuts his eyes to the left and startles. Staked out almost close enough to touch are the creepy, jittery, giggling freaks Angel called Horses. Chains are threaded through the head gear that reminds Dean of bridles and locked around short, metal poles. The freaks are too damn close—they stink, besides the smell of the Vicks/sage shit they've got smeared all over their bodies—they reek of unwashed human. Dean's relieved that they’re quiet now compared to before—one of them is sitting listlessly in the dust, picking at crusted sores on its arm, scratching and picking until blood runs while the other watches, silently, transfixed by the stream of red…
"Fucking freak creep demons," Dean hisses and tries to shift, determined despite the rope to keep himself between them and Angel.
"Not demons," the watching one says, words garbled by the thick bit in its jaws. It's not taking its eyes from the rill of blood. The other's lost interest in scarring itself, was now pulling at its hair, ripping clumps loose.
"What the fuck are you, then?" Dean asks and Angel growls, actually growls, startling Dean and frankly, freaking him out a bit.
"It's a fucking Horse—these looks like volunteer hosts. Pets, freaks…they follow the monsters around and when they're needed, let themselves be ridden." Angel spits in the Horses' direction and they giggle and point, mocking Dean's anger and Angel's disgust. "Thought there are—"
"No—what?" Dean interrupts. "The fuck? They're people? Who would volunteer for that? That's disgusting, dude--disgusting." He stares at the shorter one, a blonde with the kind of breasts that would have kept his attention through a hurricane—back before Sam. She echoes Dean, "Disgusting—disgusting—" and both the Horses dissolve into whooping, howling, laughter.
"Shut up, you stupid fucks." The demon who'd wandered up while they were talking kicks the Horse until Dean swears he hears its bones snap. The one Dean's pegged as the boss demon takes a little black box out of a bag he's got hanging off its shoulder and opens it. "Smile, green-eyes, let's see if your eyes are worth anything…." A single sapphire blue eye stares at Dean, blinks once and slams shut, eyelid, box, and all.
Dean recoils—there's something about that box—the eye—that's familiar. "What the fucking fuck is that?"
The head demon curses, shakes the box, banging it against the side of the pole its creature is chained to, whipping it through the air when it doesn't pop open. "Open up, you fuckin' piece of crap…damn it. I hate these things! Chronopolis have perfectly good metalwork cameras. Why the hell won't He join the twentieth century?"
"Twenty-first," one of the demons mutters.
"What? Are you sure?" Another asks. "Twenty-first? I'm pretty sure it's the thirtieth?"
"No, you idiot, twenty-first," the second one answers, and then squints, flips the edge of her palm back and forth. "Kind of sorta sideways but still, twenty-first."
"Ah! I swear, I loose track sometimes, all this back and forth and in and out—"
"If you two are through?" The demon in charge snarls at them.
"Okay, yes, sorry. So…they look good. Healthy. Strong. Good looking too. They should fetch a lot."
"Oh yeah—we heading right back to Dys. These meatbags are going to make our fortune—s'why I was trying to transmit a picture—" He grabs Dean's chin and wrenches it to face the firelight. "Green eyes, spotty skin—if we sell this thing, it means a litter of disposable hosts and pre-bang booze and nice digs…"
"Yeah…say, let's give them a try, just a taste…those two over there are really starting to bore me." There's an explosive burst of jingling and moaning in the Horses' direction.
"Yeah. They've about reached that point of crazy that it's pointless to ride them. You lose all that fine motor control, nothing tastes right anymore--"
"Oh yes, so true, oh I know," comes a chorus of agreements. Dean feels like the top of his head is about to blow off. For some reason, all the crazy around him is nothing compared to this trio of fucked up demons and the horrible way they remind him of Chip and Dale, if there'd been an extra rodent and they'd liked turning people into bloody confetti .
The demon boss smiles as he separates them, promises Angel he's gonna take good care of Dean. The demons ignore the shape-masking pendant, treat it like it doesn’t exist, but they try to cut off the lock-out tattoo, many times. The Horses slice and chop at Dean's skin until he can't hold back the screams; they hack at it again and again. His mind plays tricks on him--he gets flashes of himself being skinned, being splattered with acid. He sees himself doing it to others. He smells sulfur and shit, tastes ash, blood…the tattoo won't come off, nothing can break it, skinning his chest just draws the ink to the surface of new pink skin, and if Dean was halfway mentally present, he'd wonder how it was possible…
Finally they stop. But the fun continues—they turn their attention to Angel and for the first time since they've been caught, Dean utter belief that they're going to die is shaken. The demons get the shock of their life trying to occupy non-tattooed Angel—they react like the kid's filled with holy water, their black-smoke forms boiling off of him like steam, even non-corporeal it's plain to see the demons are in pain just from touching him. Dean wishes his brains were fully engaged instead of waffling between slipping away like fog and going whole-hog into a psychotic break because he'd wonder hard what the fuck was up with that--
The demons are getting fed up with the situation and are talking about just taking Dean's eyes, (which are apparently plenty valuable even without the rest of him surrounding them), and calling it a day when a silver tipped arrow bursts out of the throat of the female Horse.
Dean lifts his head at the sound. His eyes go wide when the other Horse also drops silently to the ground, another silver tipped arrow through the throat. The demons are caught out--it takes them a few seconds to realize that their pets are dead. Dean rolls overtop Angel—whatever the hell is happening, if they want his kid, they'll find out they'll have to go through Dean Winchester. Hopes that it won't come down to that literally happening….
He blankets Angel the best he can with his body and hisses, "Don't move until I know what's going on."
Miracle of miracles, for once the kid does just that, with no argument.
Two dark figures ride down on them, screaming like banshees and hanging low over the neck of their horses. They come straight at the demons and Dean shouts—they're stupidly fearless and about to throw themselves right down the freaks' throats. The demons meet them head on, cocky and confident in their powers, meet the charge head on ready to rip whatever's riding down on them to shreds. The strangers suddenly rise up in the stirrups, bulging wineskins spraying something that have the demons rolling and screaming in the sand—"Saltwater," Angel mutters.
"Or holy water…" Dean ignores Angel's snort and as the riders swoop into the middle of them, iron swords spraying demon blood into the air, he calculates at what point it'll be safe to run. Because Dean figures they while they might be safe from demons at the moment, the possibility that they just fallen into the hands of a different kind of slaver pukes is huge. Though what slaver would go through the incredibly dangerous trouble of fighting demons for their cargo, he can't imagine. Dean casts a quick glance at Angel. Well…Angel was awfully damn pretty. He'd fight a couple of demon troops for him. Maybe…
"Run, you idiots!" A woman's voice rings out and one of the cloaked figure's hood drops back.
It's a girl—and she's beautiful. Dean forgets everything and gapes at her. The girl—woman--doesn't look like Jo, not at all—she's taller and dark-skinned and her hair is in tight braids close to her skull—but it's the tilt of her chin, the set of her jaw, the fire in her eyes, that bring those memories of Jo rushing in, freezing him in place and he's embarrassed by sudden tears that threaten to fall. He grinds at his eyes with his fist, starts when the other figure reins in behind the woman. "Don’t be so mean, Rio, not like they got caught on purpose—"
She shakes off the other's hold and yanks at the reins of her horse, rides off. The other cloaked person, a man, says dryly before wheeling to run himself, "Well, you heard her. Run, idiots."
Angel grabs at Dean's arm and they take off after their rescuers. Dean twists as he runs, looks back at the camp. There's black smoke rising off the bodies. It wavers, the columns twisting and weaving in and out of each other before boiling away into the clouds. He can't think about that now—he's entirely concentrated on keeping on his feet, not letting Angel drag him and keeping those horses, or at least their dust trail, in his sights.
They end up at a small encampment, a half dozen or so tents surrounding a firepit. When they come into the center of the camp, heads whip their way.
"Fuck—" Dean heaves a sigh and readies himself, he's going to have to fight and honestly, he's about tapped out, unarmed, and might as well be naked as a newb. He sure was feeling dumb as one. One of the crowd stands up and points. It's the girl, Rio. She stands with her hands spread wide, empty, and calls out, "There they are--them idiots us told you 'bout."
There's some chuckling, some catcalls but mostly good-natured. The crew around the fire resettles, interest pretty much lost since they've been sorted out and the tension level drops.
"You all made good time." It was the boy who'd helped disrupt the demons. He pats Angel's back, hands them canteens heavy with water. He grins at them as they suck down fresh water, stops them before they drink too much. "I'm Shem. Glad you made it."
"Yeah…" Dean says, and hopes the sarcasm shows, "I'm sure. M'Dean, this is Angel. Thanks for the water. And, y'know, the rescue."
The boy—Shem—shrugs and grins a little wider. "Sit," he says. "We're 'bout to eat. Nothin's gonna get past us tonight." He nods, confident, so Dean nudges Angel closer to the fire. They sit in the circle of hooded travelers and get handed bowls of stew and strips of a warm, nutty flavored, flat bread.
For a while, there's nothing but the murmur of conversation and the sound of people seriously addressing their food. The bread gets passed around again after the stew, this time filled with dried fruit smeared with honey, along with a hot drink Dean realizes with pleasure is just coffee, strong and black. All in all, it's a pretty good end to a day that had started off with a promise to end bloody and horrible.
Of course, the moment he lets out a relieved sigh is the moment Rio rounds on Dean and Angel both, her face twisted into a snarl.
"You two--idiots--how'd you get caught? Don’t you all have charms? Protection? Even the babies know that wanderin' the Alley 'thout protection is like dancin' naked on coals."
Dean takes just a moment too long contemplating the image of her naked and dancing and gets a glare from her and a jab in the kidneys from Angel. She narrows her eyes at the pendant swinging against Dean's chest. "What's that?" she snaps. "Never seen nothing like that before…what's it mean?" She comes closer and runs a finger over it after getting Dean's silent nod of permission. "This here's some kind of…word, a language?"
"Yeah, it's old, older than anything spoke on the planet now, I'd guess. It's to cover our appearance. It changes our faces…" Dean shrugs. "…it's pointless now." He takes it off. "I'm not sure if it'll work for anyone else but—here." He tries to hand it to her and she jumps back, eyes wide.
"Christe," she gasps and only comes closer when neither Angel nor he flinches. "Man—your eyes the same but your face--you look completely different." The murmurs from crew still sitting around the fire change tone, get louder, and when Angel takes his off too and stands next to Dean, there's a distinct "shlip" sound of metal clearing leather—like a sword or knife being drawn out the scabbard.
"We're not dummies--we know about protection—salt and symbols. We did what we could to keep safe. They had their damn freaks break the salt lines…since when do people work for demons?" Dean growls.
The group still around the fire stare at him only now it's tinged with dawning pity—the kind of looks reserved for hurt puppies and the slightly slow. Angel shuffles closer, leans in toward Dean and says into his ear in a low voice that sends a shiver up Dean's spine, "Since your Brother Prince thought it'd be a good thing. For some people who don't deserve to be called human, it's a reward. For others, it's a punishment. Places like Chronopolis sentences their 'worst' offenders to servitude. It's a prison sentence you don't always survive…"
Dean shudders. Yeah. That's a nasty thought.
Shem turns to Dean. "Why were you all traveling alone? It's too seldom for lone travelers to move in the Alley like that. Were you kicked out of your caravan?"
"No," Dean snaps. "We left on our own. We need to get to Chronopolis and the petition thing wasn't working out for us."
"You're Petitioners?" they're asked, the way other people might have said 'fuckin' idiots'. "Why not just go with the group leaving from Floating City?"
"Because someone brought trouble down on us and we had to leave, that's why," Angel snarls and like they fucking rehearsed it, all of them turn to look at Dean, which pisses him off pretty good.
"Hey! It wasn't my fault. It's not always my fault, you know…."
It turns out that the camp they've washed up against is a nomadic tribe, one of the tribes Angel had tried to disguise Dean as a member of. The group they've hooked up with is small, maybe forty or fifty people, and not the whole contingent—some of the tribe was traveling with the city, earning pay as security, or traveling with caravans doing the same work—the Edgers were famous for being as tough on demons as the Hunters and a bit more plentiful. Later in the season, Rio explains, they'll meet up at the gathers. What money's been made would be shared out between the tribes---supplies and horses and goats bought, new tents made, it was a time of feasts and meeting with family….
Dean nods. "Kind of like the Turags," he says. He cut his eyes towards Angel. "They lived in a place, a continent called Africa—
"ManDei, I'm not an idiot," Angel huffs, "I know what Africa is. Who doesn't know where the Yellow King's empire is?" The group that's gathered around the fire as they've been talking nods, some making complicated protective signs in the air, some mutter quick snatches of prayer and everyone looks kind of nervous. Dena figures it's another of those Voldermort don’t-say-the-name thing. Angel looks at Dean. "Oh. Sorry. Something else you don’t know. I'll tell you later…."
Dean knows he doesn't mean it like that, but it does make him feel kind of stupid and in turn that makes him need to hide the feeling. He sneers and says, "Sure. Fuck you, by the way." Angel flips him off like he'd been expecting Dean to act like an ass. Well, it's business as usual, Dean thinks--him and Angel have once again fallen off a mountain of shit and into a…another, slightly lower pile of shit. Hopefully. Turns out they were saved by a boy and girl of Summer, a small tribe part of the bigger tribes called the Seasons. Didn't sound like a bad thing…maybe. Maybe their luck was turning up, finally.
They're bedded down at the outer ring of the campsite. Dean gets that—he'd do it too. If something bad comes through, strangers are going to act like an early-warning signal and a distraction in the way of becoming monster kibble. The campsite's got good security though. It's surrounded by iron chains, with sentries at every point the chains intersected. Dean approves. The chains are a good idea, he thinks. The trade off in weight being that not much would disturb the chains, not water or a sly footprint—plus for nomadic tribes like the Seasons, salt was a little too valuable to waste. Iron and herbs and spells kept them safe—that and a kick-ass attitude. Good. They were owed a damn breather. He stares up at the night sky and listens to Angel's soft snuffling and thinks about…nothing and everything. About Angel and how he feels and smells, how soft the scruff trying to be a beard is under his fingertips…Dean falls asleep and dreams about pie and cars and women in white dresses and the sound of wings far away….
20
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Come the Night
1/23/12 03:58 am (UTC)Re: Come the Night
1/23/12 04:13 am (UTC)Thanks a bazillion for reading and for commenting!
(no subject)
1/23/12 04:44 am (UTC)I'm pretty sure parts of this will rip my heart out, so am anxiously anticipating the finished product, so I get a HEA too! :)
(no subject)
1/23/12 05:19 am (UTC)HEA? *make puzzled beagle face*
(no subject)
1/23/12 05:24 am (UTC)Happily Ever After. or at least a you-ripped-my-jeart-out/now-patch-it-back-together-damn-it!
(no subject)
1/23/12 05:36 am (UTC)*FALLS DOWN LAUGHING*
well, I'm positive it's going to end happy but my niece keeps giving me this *look* when I explain how that's going to work.
I decided to go J2 because I miss my version of Thomas (who's basically Patrick from my story a few years back, Lodi) and Michael but I love the idea so much that I might just write it as an SpN AU as well.
(no subject)
1/23/12 05:42 am (UTC)This sounds awesome - both ways (I miss Patrick too - I love that story so much!)