SpN: Come The Night, 23/?

[roxy]

Title: Come The Night, 23/?
Author: roxy
Pairings/Characters: Sam/Dean, Dean/Angel
Rating:NC-17
Word Count: 3013


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.
It gets worse before it gets better....


one ~ two~ three ~ four ~ five ~six
seven ~ eight ~ nine ~ ten ~ eleven ~ twelve
thirteen~fourteen~fifteen~sixteen~seventeen
eighteen~ ninteen~twenty~twenty-one~twenty-two












icon by chalk



There are a few blocks of apartments set aside for petitioners, generously provided at low cost by the city of the Citizen King, and they make their way to one of the buildings. There are several ways to get an apartment free, Shem explains, but none of them are about to spend even a single evening as a horse, or give up any of their blood, for god's sake. Or volunteer the fact that under the veils and without their charms both Angel and Dean have eyes of a greenish hue that is popular in Dys and guaranteed to grant certain privileges that no one not raised in the cities is stupid enough to think ends in a good way.

The apartment turns out to be surprisingly clean. In fact, it's even comfortable. There's a bath and kitchen, there's a sitting room done up in welcoming colors and cozy furniture, and a bedroom just as nicely outfitted. But what's most important to Dean, it has plumbing—plus lots and lots of hot water, and a shower big enough for him to spread his arms, and not have to duck down to get his head wet. That makes it the fucking Marriot as far as Dean's concerned. He's been dying for a hot fucking shower and a real mattress. But more than that—he frantically sheds everything of the bridal robes along with the little fucking bells ands bracelets. They hit the floor, Angel's too, as he gets with the program. In minutes they're both standing in a snowdrift of fabric and jewelry. Shem tosses their bag at Dean, and Dean finds their stuff in it. "Fuck yeah. You're a good man, Shem."

"I know," he smirks.

Dean and Angel are scrubbed make-up free and comfortably dressed. Dean's just in a pair of jeans, Angel'd laid a shirt out for him but Dean's reluctant to put it on—it feels like he's been covered forever, drowning in those fucking robes and crap and for a few minutes all he wants to feel against his skin is air. He wants to stretch his bare, unencumbered toes in the soft carpet, he wants to think about nothing and he wants…hoping against hope, he looks in the kitchen's tiny fridge.

"Fuck yes, fuck me, this is—this is perfect." He stands up with two dark glass bottles clutched in his hand. "Real beer. In a bottle. It feels like…" Forever since the Outlands and their close similarity to what he'd lost. Ever since, he's felt like he's been in a not very nice dream—except for Angel. He's been the good part of everything. He hands Angel one bottle and smiles at him. "Hope it's half decent," he says, and wishes they were alone. Angel looks up at him, his eyes dark, and his smile says he wants the same thing….

Shem blurts out a little insinuating dry cough and smirks when they turn to him with identical frowns. He says, "Well, we're going to need some food with that. We not going out now, so we'll get some off the vendors. Should be some 'round shortly--they go from floor to floor selling small hots," he explains at Dean's look, "You know…soup pots, hot hand meals…he sighs. "Explain," he tells Angel.

Angel shrugs. "I…pretty much what he said."

Dean cocks an eyebrow. "You mean like hotdog vendors going floor to floor?"

"Yee-ess…?"

"Hunh." Dean thinks that's a damn good idea and Angel laughs at the pleased expression on his face. He moves to stand closer to Dean and they lean back against the kitchenette's counter, drinking, shoulders brushing with each move. Dean feels his cheeks go warm and stifles a fucking giggle from out of nowhere. Any second now, he's going to ask to braid Angel's hair. Or stab himself in the eye.

"We'll bunk down here, and in the morning, I guess you all take off. And speaking of food, I think we want better than soup pots—" Shem gets up, says, "I'll be back in say…an hour?" Gives Dean a wink and leaves the apartment.

It gets weird in a good way the second Shem leaves—Angel shocks the hell out of Dean by leaping on him and dragging him to the floor, all arms and legs and hot wet mouth. He's saying something, slurring it into his skin, his mouth—"Fuck, De, you've got me twisted, fucked up. I don’t know how we're going to—we'll never. We'll never, Dei—"

"Not true, when this is over, we'll make it, make a life, promise, you and me. It's going to be fixed, we'll fix him, and we'll live. We'll be happy. We will."

Angel moans, his hands practically wringing the skin from Dean's biceps, his chin and hips and knees knocking against Dean's, knocking Dean into the cabinets and against the floor, uncoordinated, a wild, desperate beat—it hurts but it feels good, too—no, it's amazing. Angel calms enough to slither his way up Dean's body, biting at Dean's neck, sets teeth in his earlobe and Dean shudders. "De, Dean, you really believe that—Dei, you're such a fuckin' idiot—"

"Thanks, you sweet talking son of a bitch."

Angel snorts a laugh into Dean's throat, licks over his Adam's apple and again when Dean's spine turns liquid and his hips take over. Dean's pushing into Angel, pretty much wrecking himself with how bad he wants the kid, and it's only slowly that he realizes he's been hitching himself across the floor by his elbows—and they hurt.

"Okay, that's it, can't do this." He pulls Angel to his feet. "C'mon, rug burn sucks, dude."

He urges Angel into the bedroom with little nudges of his hips, little kisses to his jaw and lips, teasing licks and nips that have them steadily moving backwards, surprisingly in sync considering how tall Angel's gone and got himself, all stupidly long steps—he catches Angel in his arms and twists, falls backwards, lands on the bed with the boy clutched in his arms, a perfectweight against his chest. "God, a real bed, fucking real pillows—sheets--this is gonna be so good, fuck…" He wiggles his ass back into the soft clutch of the bed and has to get naked right the fuck now, spread himself and his boy across the clean, smooth cotton….

"Yeah, okay," Angel laughs softly and kisses Dean, soft and sweet at first and then slowly deeper with intent. Dean groans, his dick jerking to full, bit by bit, kiss by kiss. He grabs Angel's ass and pulls him in, grinds against him. Angel's mouth opens on a gasp so of course Dean dives in; it's a fucking invitation, and in between kisses he asks Angel, begs him, "Can I, can I fuck you, do you wanna—?"

"Nah, I'm gonna get a shower, catch some sleep—been a long couple of days—"

"What? What—?"

"Christe, De, you couldn't be easier if you tried."

"Well, sorry. I don't have the blood to spare to work my brain, it's doing better things right now."

Angel screws himself down against Dean's dick. "Yeah, fuck, it really is, Mandei," he laughs, breathless and high, happy and it's as much that tone in Angel's voice, the big grin punctuated by ridiculous dimples, that makes Dean moan as it is the rock hard burning length of him trying to brand itself into Dean's thigh.

"Pants off now?" He manages in between kisses and desperate little breaths.

"Yeah. Yeah, Shem knows, when he sees the door closed he won't break in. I don't think..."

"Like I give a shit," Dean mutters and they help each other get their jeans off—Dean's not sure but he thinks even starting from mostly naked, it might be the fastest getting starkers of his entire life, except maybe—he wrenches that thought out of his brain and concentrates on Angel, the rise if his ribs, the way his dick sways when he drops his pants, slim and long and elegant and so, so, hard. Dean has to wipe his mouth, it's suddenly that wet. He shivers, thinking how badly he wants his mouth on him, to taste and feel him, to have all that inside him. "Angel."

Angel's standing at the foot of the bed, eyes locked on Dean's crotch, staring like they've got all the time in the world, eyes so fucking hot that Dean gets very much harder and incredibly self-conscious. He knows he's no porn star, but he's some above average, okay? He's not as big as Angel—damn, and how is that fair?—but he's never had complaints—"Hey, with the staring, you're creepin' me out."

"But I can't help it, you're fucking beautiful," Angel breathes, "Your dick is so pretty…let me…" he drops to his knees and licks Dean from root to tip, tongue wide and sloppy and wet. Dean likes the way Angel is on him, it feels so new and unskilled, like he's never done anything before, a quick fantasy Dean indulges in until Angel sighs and takes him right into his throat like it's nothing.

"Fuck! Holy—holy shi—"

Angel slides his tongue along the length of him, humming and swallowing and it's fucking Dean up, it's so wet and the way it tightens and loosens and it's driving Dean crazy. "You gotta stop if you want me to fuck you, I—Angel, damn, don’t, I wanna fuck you, please."

Angel moans, swallows and pulls off slow, tongue dancing over his shaft as he does, kisses the tip when he's finally off and drills the point of his tongue into Dean's slit, moans and licks and sucks. Dean's about ot shove him off or come—not sure what's going to happen first, when Angel relents and lets him go.

"Damn, you taste so good, can't get enough," he rasps, voice wrecked, his hand shakes when he wipes his mouth and he laughs softly.

The thought that Angel sounds like that because of him, his dick…the shock of arousal hits him like a punch to the gut—he has to wrap his fingers around the base of his dick, tight, and think hard about ghouls and wendigo lunch and grandparent sex….

Angel crawls up on the bed and over Dean, his thighs bracketing Dean's. Dean wets his fingers until they drip and rubs the pad of his finger over Angel's hole. Concentrates on the way the tight muscle softens as he circles it, letting him rock the tip of his finger in, out. Angel opens for him, and his finger sinks in to a velvet heat. He sinks another in, spreads them, the silky hot give and clutch enough to get his breath stuttering. Angel rides them sure and steady, long lashes fluttering, lips opening. He keeps trying to touch his dick, but Dean won't let him, smoothly moving his hand away whenever he tries. Smirks when Angel's soft, punched out little gasps turn into moans and moans slide into cursing and begging and rise to demanding, loud and in no uncertain terms, "Fuck me!"

"Yeah, yeah, okay…" Dean works up as much saliva as he can and rubs it over his dick, trying to get it was wet as possible. Hopes it'll be enough and lines his dick up with Angel's hole because at this point, sad to say, he just really, really, really wants to get off. Feels he's got to warn Angel, kind of. "Okay, it's going to hurt."

Angel shakes his head. "Had worse, I can take it, just—" before Dean can move, Angel practically slams himself down on Dean and Dean spits out a hoarse shout in shock. "Move," Angel gasps, "move," pounding Dean's chest.

"But I'll hurt you without lube," he says, like he had any intention of not moving, just maybe…not as fast as Angel wants it….

"Are you kidding? You're not going to last long enough for it to hurt," Angel says it with a superior little smirk, but the fucker's right. There's no fucking way he's lasting, it was almost game over at Angel's words. Orgasm's riding up his spine like lightning on a wire, that jerk-tug-need to come making him growl, grab Angel by the scruff of his neck and yank him down to claim that pink cupid's bow and bite down.

Angel gives a muffled shout and shocks Dean by shooting all over his belly and chest, the surprised, lust-confused face Angel makes knocks the last shreds of Dean's own control to bits. It's hotter and slicker and so damn good when he sliding through his come, fucking up into Angel harder and faster now that the way is slicked, chasing ecstasy, riding that last good wave to the end, until he finally drops flat on the bed, limp and boneless against the sheets, and kindly lets Angel droop over him. "Fuuu--ck. I broke myself—your fault," he complains and snorts when Angel tries to punch him.

"Ungrateful old man…but s'good, right?"

"Fuckin' yes, it was good." Dean takes a moment to love it, revel in it—enjoying the afterglow like he hasn't in he can't remember when, before finally smacking Angel on the ass and pulling out—carefully—to roll him to the bed. He ignores the kid's outraged squawk. "Ech. C'mon—shower, dress before Shem comes back. Fuck, we never have enough time, do we?"

Angel shakes his head. "What are we really doing here? What's going to happen tomorrow, or when He sees you? What makes you think we survive this?"

"Dude, bru, what the hell—don't fuck this up. Don’t—"

"Dean. You don’t have a fucking dream of a beginning of a plan, let alone an actual plan."

"Hey. There'll be a way, okay? All we gotta do is get into one of those court things Sam sits in on. And when he sees me, he'll want me close. And when I get close…" Dean shrugs. "We'll make up, hug it out, whatever. Everything's going to be okay." He smiles at Angel, while a part of him screams that no way was it going to be okay. That he wasn't going to deal with his brother, he was going to deal with Sam Winchester, the Boy King of everything who as far as Dean could tell, was fifty fucking cards short of a full deck.

Angel gets up, wraps one of the sheets around himself and walks out onto the apartment's tiny balcony. There's still enough light left to see people and cars moving in the street, life happening. Normal, as far as normal is for these people. As if to point up the fallacy of his thinking, a blimp sails past in the twilight sky, blinking lights outlining a screen broadcasting Sam's smiling face, spouting the kind of bullshit cattle ranchers probably did to the herds.

Dean kicks the fucking pile of scarves and materiel into a corner, yanks on a pair of jeans. He follows Angel out on the balcony, ready for him to snap, but he just sighs like his lubgs are deflating and leans back against Dean instead, his solid warmth filling Dean up…Dean looks away from the sky, tries to tell Angel something about him and Sam that he'll understand. "You don't understand what it's been like with me and Sam, the way it's always been. We've had each other's back for--forever. No matter what he's doing now, what he's being forced to do, he would never really hurt me."

Angel says quietly, "You really believe that, don’t you? You really think everything will be okay in the end…."

"Of course it will. It has to be. I wouldn't be here if it wasn't going to be. Sam can be as crazy as he wants to be, but there's one constant in his world—me. And it’s the lack of me that's making him this way. He's my center too, as much as I'm his."

"Then where does that leave me?" Angel asks and without hesitating Dean tells him.

"At my side, that's where. Right here at my side."

~o0o~

The apartment door opens with a nearly silent click. They both turn to the door, identical looks of pleased expectation their faces—Shem snorts at their damp hair and terrible attempts at innocent faces. Swings the couple of food stuffed bags he has clutched in his hands, and grins—and then slowly folds forward, a little gasp escaping him.

The bags drop and split open, an unfamiliar spicy scent filling the air. Little glass bottles chime as they hit the tiles, lose their lids and gush liquid all over the floor.

Dean's already crowding Angel behind him, the second that Shem looked—shocked, surprised, he was on his feet and pushing the kid back against what meager cover the couch provided, struggling to keep him there. This is bad, really, really bad, screams through his mind but before he can tell just what kind of bad it is, something hot and sharp rips into his thigh and he's on his knees, screaming like a bitch. The pain is so bad he can't stop himself from curling on the floor, nails breaking against the tile as instinct makes him try to crawl away from the hurt. He's burning up from the inside, like that time Alistair poured acid into his open stomach.

Angel screams, the sound bubbling and wavering like he's hearing it through water. He struggles to lift his head, focus, but nothing responds. He's frozen in place. His fingers spasm, his eyelids twitch and all he sees is Shem's empty eyes staring at him, the curve of his lip outlined by a thin, delicate line of blood, a lake of it under his cheek. Dean sees bright polished boots milling here and there behind Shem. He sees Angel dragged over the couch, limp hands dragging lifelessly over the tiles and smearing them with a thin sheen of blood before his vision swims to black.










24

Comments

[mdlaw.livejournal.com]

This is bad, really bad! m :O

[roxymissrose.livejournal.com]

*nods* Oh yes indeed, this is very, very bad!

Chocolate chip cookie? Hug?

[etrix.livejournal.com]

So I had to go back and start from the beginning because I seem to somehow have missed this, but--OMG--sometimes shotgunning something like this is the only way. except now I have to stop because there's no more yet, but I have to know what's happening. I pretty sure I know who/what Angel is and I need to find out if I'm right and if that's what it takes to fix Sam.

Wonderful story. Love the world and the people and the way the society has developed.

Looking forward to more.

Soon...

=]

[roxymissrose.livejournal.com]

Oh, thanks so much! I'm thrilled that you read this and very happy that you liked it!!

Yes, more is coming and very soon. And I'll bet you're right on point! ;)