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4/29/10 12:45 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
roxyTitle: Just Before Dawn
Author: roxy
Pairings/Characters: Dean/Victor
Rating: R
Word Count: 6935
Summary: they could have been friends
When Dean woke up, there was a split second in which he thought he was back in Hell, or still in Hell. He stank, he hurt, all over. Wherever he was, it smelled like rotting meat, like piss and shit. Like Hell, only…only....
He blinked, and slowly the nebulous white fog overhead became a pocked ceiling. He took in a hesitant sniff. No stink of sulfur, no stink of burning metal. He hurt, but it didn't hurt the right way. the right way....
He shuddered, rolled to his side and threw up as if it was the first thing he did every time he woke. He kind of expected to hear the spatter of vomit on wood but it sounded off, weird. He opened his eyes and he was staring into a plastic dollar store trashcan.
He was in bed—on a mattress, actually, a stained, filthy, rank mattress on the floor of…he looked around. A room. He hoped it was a real room. He dragged himself upright. Had they stopped moving? Were they were squatting somewhere? He didn't remember. There was a long rectangle of gauze and tape over his ribs—the only thing he was wearing. "Sam," he called—croaked. His throat felt like it'd been sandpapered. "Fuck." He sounded like a frog. A pissed off, pathetic frog.
There were three doors in the room. He staggered to one, pulled it open. It was no bigger than a shoebox inside—a closet, empty except for one duffel bag on the floor, his. He moved slowly towards the other, his hand dragging across the wall. Pulled the door open, and looked out on a tiny wooden deck. Overhead, a silver slice of moon cast barely enough light to see. Rangy trees, spindly shrubs…through them he could see the flicker of moonlight on water…he could just catch the wet, rotted smell of stagnant water. He stepped out on the deck, careful of his bare feet on the rough wood floor. Cupped his hands around his mouth and loud as his throat allowed, called, "Hey, Sam…."
Nothing.
He turned, aimed himself towards the last door that opened to reveal a short hallway, a bathroom at one end, the dark square of an open doorway at the other. The bathroom was barely bigger than the closet, barely big enough to hold a toilet, a teacup of a sink, and a tub. The bottom of the tub was pitted, and coated with rust. There was a wide red line of rust in the ancient porcelain of the sink, running from under the faucet to the drain.
Great. They were squatting somewhere he had no idea where, in a dump that probably had no water and suddenly, he was so thirsty, thirstier than he could ever remember being…so thirsty it hurt. "Sammy…."
He pulled himself out of the bathroom, feeling wrung out and betrayed and ready to throw himself down and never get up again. That was when he noticed, by the bed, a little stack of plastic bottles, filled with water. He dropped to his knees, and crawled towards the stack of empty and full bottles. Grabbed one so tight it bulged. It took him a few tries to get the cap off and then, he was frantically pouring water into his mouth. It ran down his chin and down his chest and felt so good--like even his skin was happy for it, opening for it, God, more, more—
He choked, gagged, and the water came back up, splashing against the floorboards.
"Wait, wait…" he struggled for control, tried to calm himself enough to try again. "Okay, slow…slow." He cracked open another bottle. Took a sip. Swished it around his mouth, before letting it trickle down his throat. He slowly emptied it, eyes closed. He sighed, splayed his legs out in front of him on the wooden floor, clenched the empty bottle to his chest. How many of those bottles would it take to wash himself, he wondered? He took a couple of bottles into the bathroom with him, to dump in the sink and wash his face, at least.
Miracle of miracles, when he tried the faucet, water ran, yellow at first and then clear. He squeezed his eyes shut. "Well, that's good. That's a good sign."
Back in the room again, he sat on the cleanest edge of the mattress. He was a little more alive now that he'd had water, washed his face. He noticed a pale square under one of the bottles leaning against the disgusting mattress. Dean's hand shook as he unfolded a sheet of grimy lined paper—
Dean. I'll be back. You're fine. It should wear off in a day or two. You got clipped by a talon. I'm real sorry but I got a tip that couldn't wait. I wouldn't leave you unless I knew you weren't in danger—
"Fuck. Lies, lying bastard!" Dean almost crumbled the note.
--just rest. It looks bad but the cottage has electricity, water, heat. Thanks to some paranoid somebody, there's a working generator and I left the car, in case you wake up before I—
Dean ripped the note in half, balled it up and threw it hard as he could across the room. He wobbled over to the closet, yanked his duffle out. Clean clothes, the Beretta tucked between his underwear, his Bowie. He lifted the clothes. Energy bars in the bottom. He gulped, sighed, and took one out, ripped off the wrapper and took a bite, chewing grimly. His jaws locked up, taste buds going into shock. How the fuck long had he been out? Without Sam? His stomach growled like a wild animal as he ripped chunks from the bar, and thought.
He was somewhere safe, maybe--probably safe, or Sam wouldn't have--he was armed, he had shelter and water but for how long he had no idea. There was a t-shirt, a pair of jeans, neatly folded on the floor next to that mattress he was going to toss out as soon as he had the strength. He went through his clothes. His wallet was in the pile, couple of IDs inside, half the cash he remembered having—more than half the new credit cards were gone. "Fucker." His Colt was under the pile, clean. He remembered firing it at the…the…something. What? He rubbed the bridge of his nose. Something. His car keys were in the coat pocket. His phone. On the floor between his boots, Sam's phone. So he'd been left. If the cards were gone…Sam probably hadn't intended to be back anytime soon, no matter what the note had said. He could have died, and no one….
The room wobbled and tilted under his feet. Dean sat gingerly on the edge of the filthy mattress and rubbed at his eyes. They were so sore and painful that rubbing his lids made them water and run. His chest ached like he'd been kicked. It got hard to breathe but that was probably the dust all over everything.
He walked around the house. Someone's vacation cottage, looked like. Not something owned by rich folks, that was plain. Besides the room with the mattress, there was a kind of a kitchen, a living room. There was a table in the kitchen. In the living room, there was another mattress leaned against the wall and covered with a tarp. A couple of folding chairs and a sofa were pushed against another wall.
The doors were locked, the windows locked. Okay. He grabbed one of the clean t-shirts out of his bag, found his dopp kit back in the shadows of the closet. "Thank fuck."
He pulled up the pink stained bandage over his ribs. The claw mark Sam had referred to was shallow, clean under the gauze. Looked like whatever it was had barely hit him. What kind of venom could have knocked him out like that? He couldn't think of anything that would put him down like that without eventually killing him.
He stood under the showerhead, face turned up to the weak spray. Grateful for hot water. Grateful for soap and not stinking. He ran his hands over the scruff on his chin and neck and thought about shaving. Figured he'd wait. When he saw Sam again, he planned to kill him and a beard would make a handy disguise.
He leaned against the sink and sopped up as much water as he could with the t-shirt. Took care of his teeth. The water had an odd metallic tang to it that made the mint of the toothpaste taste weird, almost like blood…he spit hard and rinsed harder. He stared at himself in the cloudy mirror. What had been so important that Sam had dropped him here and run? Left him naked and filthy and alone?
Screw that, he thought. He knew damn well what had made that fucker leave. Ruby, fucking bitch. When he caught up with Sam again, he was going to gank that bitch good....
How long had he been out? He felt less wobbly and a lot closer to human again now that he'd eaten and showered. He couldn't have been down that long. The place would have smelled worse, the mattress would have been much worse than it was. Dean grimaced. Speaking of which.
He manhandled the mattress out of the room and behind the cottage, where there were a couple of big metal barrels with ashes in the bottom.
He dragged the clean mattress into the small room, lay down on it and tried to decide if he should leave now, and risk missing Sam, or just lay there like the pathetic spineless wimp Sam thought he was and wait?
Fucker took the booze too. Bastard. He bet Sam did that on purpose.
He'd been squatting in the cottage for about three days. He was sitting on the mattress, eating cereal out the box, one of a few different brands he'd found in the cabinets, along with cans of soup and shit…opening those cabinets and finding food in them, in the 1950s era fridge in the kitchen…it'd felt a lot like being gutted.
He was chewing and staring at Sam's phone propped up against his boot. Chew, stare, chew, stare, he was waiting for…for the phone to ring, he guessed, which was kind of stupid. If Sam had wanted to talk to Dean, he'd have called by now. He swallowed the last unappetizing handful, sucked down some water. He stood, yawned deeply and stretched until his back popped. Shoved his feet into his boots, and then--stamped hard on the phone, stamped and stamped and stamped until he felt each smash of his boot jolt up his spine, stamped until it hurt and it was impossible to tell just what he'd been stomping on. He grabbed his duffle from the end of the bed and blindly crammed whatever he could get his shaking hands on into it.
"Well, well. Dean motherfucking Winchester, as I live and breathe."
Dean's heart stuttered, his hand went to his back. Fucking hell, the guns were in the god-damn bag Amateur fucking mistake. "You're dead."
"Yeah, well, reports of my death, blah-blah-blah. Made good sense to keep it to myself, you know?"
Dean dropped his bag, and smiled and smiled. "Shit. Dude…gotta say, I'm fucking happy as hell to see you here—how'd the fuck did you find me?"
Victor sauntered into the little room. "If you know what to look for, it's not really that hard. Once you know just what it is you are looking for." He shook his head. "Finding this place though—that was a trip." He grinned at Dean, held out his hand. "How the fuck are you, man?"
Dean grabbed his hand, shook it wildly. The touch of Victor's hand, warm palm against his own was overwhelming. He couldn't bring himself to let go—didn't know how to. "Dude, fucking hell, I'm good now. Good now." He was only half aware that he'd grabbed Henriksen into a hug. "Damn. Damn."
Henriksen stiffened, and Dean instantly moved to let go, regretting the action but suddenly the man's hands were fisted in the back of Dean's shirt, and Henriksen let out a low shaky breath. "Fuck…I was beginning to think maybe I was a little bit crazy, like I made this shit up," he gasped, before letting go. He took a step back, shoved his hands in his pockets and gave Dean a crooked grin.
"Crazy? Yeah, well, you are a little," Dean grinned. "We all are." He looked Victor up and down. "Look at you. All Cisco Kid. The life suits you, hanh?"
"Shut the fuck up, asshole," Victor said, but looked kind of pleased with himself anyway. "So, where's your boyfriend—I mean, brother?"
"Dude, shut up—that shit's not funny. And that son-of a bitch…I have no fucking clue. He's…he said for me to wait here for him."
"Really?" Victor looked as shocked as he had when he first discovered that things that go bump in the night killed. "He…okay. Well, it's good to see you…"
Dean nodded. "I've got soup and coffee, sound okay to you?"
"Sure. Throw in those Lucky Charms you're eating and we got a meal."
Dean laughed out loud. "All right." Dean was beyond grateful for the company. He'd kind of started to think he'd slept through the Apocalypse and he was the last thing breathing. It didn't take him much to get Vic to stay the night, and for the first time in days, he actually slept the night through.
The next morning, Victor woke Dean. Thanked him for breakfast—toast and tomato soup. Told him he was on his way
"Yeah, okay," Dean said.
Victor smiled, shrugged and turned to leave. Dean was at his side, duffle strap over one shoulder. "Where we going Vic?"
"*You* ain't going nowhere with me, and it's Victor Not Vic. Not ever in this lifetime is it Vic."
Dean took in the tense way Victor held himself, wide-legged, one foot forward, balanced to throw a punch or a kick. He was watching Dean as closely as Dean watched him. Dean shook his head and grinned…"Come on Vic. Seriously? You turning down a chance to hang out with a handsome devil like me?"
"You're an asshole Winchester. Always have been." He looked around the small room, frowning. "You just gonna leave? What about him? Won’t he be looking for you to be here?"
Dean laughed. "No one's coming back here." He looked around, seeing what Vic saw. "I think this place was supposed to be my severance pay."
Vic whistles. "Man, your life sucks…"
"Don't I know it." Dean said. He shouldered past Victor, and might have accidentally elbowed him in the chest.
"Well, at least you don't hold a grudge."
Victor slid into the booth across from Dean and stole a fry off his plate. "Still looking?" he asked. Dean knew exactly what he meant…still looking for Sam?
Dean shut Vic's laptop with a frown. Watched the man chew his fries, but the irritation he felt wasn't with Vic, it was with himself. "Dude, get off my fries—and no. Shit. Okay, yes--a little."
Victor ignored Dean and stole another couple of fries before he turned those dangerous, dark brown eyes on him. He threw an arm across the back of the booth and Dean noted he had to sit up straight to do it. Made him want to smile at Vic. "Dean…Sam, he's probably…he is safe. Okay, he's looking for Lilith but that Ruby? She's gonna make sure nothing will hurt him. Right? They're on the same team, him and her. And Sam looking for that bitch Lilith—how is that a bad thing? She needs killing--trust me, I know this."
Dean pushed his plate closer to Vic, trying to swallow against the lump in his throat. "I…yeah. I know, I know. It's just…I'm still trying to wrap my head around Sam leaving like that, I can't believe he doesn't care enough to...well, shit. Maybe you’re right. Maybe I should just. I don’t know. Enjoy what time I've got, right?"
Vic tilted his head at Dean and frowned. It made his mouth do interesting things.
Dean sighed. Swear to God, he needed to get laid. Vic tapped the rim of his coffee cup, said, "I…sure. Good advice for us all, I guess. Hey…are you going somewhere I don't know about?"
"Going somewhere?" Dean laughed. "No, I was just having a moment, 'til you ruined it." He made a move as if to pull his fries back. "Why don’t you order your own damn fries?"
Vic's hand shot out, fingers wrapped around Dean's wrist. He grabbed a couple of fries with his free hand and shoved them in his mouth. Mouth full of fries, curved in a smile, he let go of Dean, fingers sliding away and leaving warm trails over his skin. He winked and said, "Your's taste better."
"Asshole." The warmth of Vic's fingers lingered. He kept himself from touching where they'd been…he liked the feeling.
Time rolled on; Dean knew how much time passed, he knew it almost to the minute. If asked, he'd be able to roll off the days, hours, minutes…but he kept on living anyway. He breathed, he slept, he ate—he laughed. He almost didn't feel guilty for going on with living, without Sam at his side.
No word, no sign of his brother. In a way, Dean was glad about that, considering the kind of signs he'd taken to looking for lately…stuff like fires in churches and convents blowing up and babies being barbequed. Nothing popped up though, no earthquakes or famines or wars, at least no more than usual. No floppy-haired, giant, yellow-eyed demon showing up with hordes of zombie soldiers in his wake. Rivers do not run with blood and birds do not fall from the sky, so—score. Dean checked every day, looked for the unusual, and what he found was small time: hauntings, poltergeists, possessed objects, infestations of imps—just their average kind of weird.
Victor was great. He was a hell of a partner. Working with him was almost as slick and instinctive as working with Sam. Better in some ways—Vic was like a pit-bull, he drew to put down, he followed orders unless it was his turn to give them and then, he expected nothing but Dean's best. He didn't second guess himself or Dean. Yeah. Vic was good. Dad would have loved him. Dean thought Vic was probably one of the best things that had ever happened to him—weird, because he'd come into his life as the worst.
"Oh fuck…" The low whisper woke him up out of a sound sleep as if it'd been a gunshot. For a quick few seconds, he trembled between the sleep world and the real, thinking Sam, Sam's back. "Shi--it."
Dean wasn't meant to hear the low, desperate whispering. Made him think of Sam all clenched over his hand and trying to be quiet…but that was *Vic* in the next bed. Sam had been gone—Sam was gone. And Vic….
Was jerking off to pirated porn. Okay. It was dark, and who the fuck could see he was hard, or what he was doing? Dean turned to his side and palmed himself. Shit. Vic's stealthy, careful pumps were telegraphed anyway, his bed had shit springs…it was that slow squeak, gasp, that got him all nostalgic, and *hard*, damn it. His ears almost hurt, he was listening so hard, and maybe if he moved real slow…
"Fuck, it's not like I—I don't know you're—ah--awake."
Dean bit his lip harder to keep from speaking—moaning--yelling out loud. When he figured he could open his mouth without losing it, he gasped, "Yeah. Awake. God."
Vic laughed, and then just...groaned like a fucking pornstar. "That's it. Fuck, right—"
Now, Dean thought, and he shuddered all over, come pulsing into his hand, thick and hot. When he could move again, he smacked his sore lips. The inside of his mouth felt raw. He touched the inside of his mouth with his tongue and imagined Vic, what if would feel like to have his dick in his mouth…the intensity of orgasm repeated, little echoes of it shivering him with each breath he took.
Victor rolled off the bed, stalked to the bathroom and shut the door. Dean was asleep before he came back out.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck…" Dean yanked Vic backwards across the clearing, digging furrows in the mud. It hurt like hell knowing that every bump and divot was telegraphing itself up Vic's body—Dean could feel him clench and unclench under his hands, hands slick with Vic's blood…he screamed in his ear, "You okay? You okay?" Fuck, he couldn't stop himself screaming….
"Fuck *yes*, damn it--stop screaming at me." Vic's teeth were clenched, filled with red, there was blood in his mouth, masking his face. Under the bushes some feet away laid a naked dead man, half his head blown away. A few minutes ago, he'd been a werewolf, and he'd been in the process of killing Vic.
Dean wrenched Vic around, threw him against the car, ignored Vic's roar of pain and the stream of curses. He ripped open the war bag, dumped what was in it on the ground; he tossed a couple of jugs of holy water and a loaded gun on the ground between Vic's feet. The first aid kit joined it. The knife that had been in Dean's boot appeared in his hand as if by magic.
Vic was hyperventilating. "Remember that story you told me about killing a fucker like that on your own? You're a lying dick, Winchester."
Dean snorted, ripped the knife through Vic's shirt, not trying to be gentle. He scrubbed some of the blood from Vic's chest with the pieces. There were ragged gouges from collarbone to hip, blood thick and black in the tears. Dean grabbed him by the neck, pulled him close, smearing them both with Vic's blood. "Look at me. Did he bite you? Fucker, did he bite you?"
"What—*no*, no he didn’t bite me—"
"Think, you asshole. Be sure!"
"He didn't fucking bite me--he was too busy trying to gut me, you motherfucker."
"Good," Dean grunted. He pulled the remaining pieces of Vic's shirt free, threw them. He picked up a plastic jug of holy water.
Vic's deep brown irises were completely surrounded by white—it made him look like a shocked little boy, Dean thought. His heart seized up. Vic was so fucking scared, his mouth trembled. "What…what's next?" He eyed the gun.
Dean pulled him close, pressed his lips to Vic's mouth. "Hold on," he muttered, right against his warm, soft, quivering lips…he wrapped his fist around the handle of a full gallon jug and jumped back. "I'm sorry, dude." Threw the contents all over Vic.
Vic stuttered, "Hey what, what the hell just—" and screamed. Screamed worse than he'd screamed when the werewolf tried to shred him. Kept on screaming through two gallon jugs of holy water being dumped on him. Screamed as Dean thoroughly sprayed the wounds with a pump bottle full of holy water. Stopped screaming when his throat gave out and then, just grunted, cried softly, as Dean cleaned the wound carefully, pulled the edges together and taped him up.
"Come on, come on," Dean huffed and dragged Vic into the car. "You'll be okay, swear, you'll be fine, I'll stitch you up. You'll be pretty, still be hot. Chicks dig scars—"
"Oh God, shut the fuck up," Vic croaked. "You babble worse than my ex."
Hysterical laughter bubbled up, choked him—burst out in short, sharp, snorts. They'd lived through it. Vic was alive. He wasn't alone. He glanced up through the windshield at the shining silver moon and then, into the rear seat where Vic lay trembling and twitching, huffing out little pain filled breaths, and his euphoria died. They weren't out of the woods, not quite yet.
Next full moon they were sitting on the hood of the Impala, the ground in front of them littered with bottles. Dean pulled a dripping ice-cold beer out of the little plastic chest between them. "Another?"
"Fuck yeah, boy, keep 'em coming. You'll know when to stop, I'll be lying face down in the mud, passed out."
Dean threw an arm around his shoulder and Vic reached out, grabbed Dean's shirt and pulled him into his chest. "Love you, you stupid motherfucker."
Dean stayed right where he was and grinned into Vic's neck. "Yeah, yeah. Me too."
Four months. He was staring at the calendar, marker in his hand, when Vic came up behind him. "He's not dead. I promise you, he's not dead."
Dean sighed. "I don’t know man. He'd have contacted me. Some kind of way, he'd have let me know."
"Maybe he did…maybe that's how I found you. I mean, it was like I knew where to go. And who I'd find when I got there."
Dean turned around, searched Vic's eyes for…for something. Truth. Vic's eyes were deep, dark. Warm. And maybe…Dean folded his fingers in tight against his palm. "Yeah. Yeah." He pulled the calendar down, the notes and maps they'd tacked on the motel wall. "Let's go."
Vic nodded, grabbed the bags and headed out to the car.
"So…" Dean licked his lips. Porn. The stuff on TV wasn't as hot as his partner in the next bed, shirt off, abs gleaming in the light…Dean was grateful that Vic hadn't reached over and shut off the lamp like they always did, he'd left it on. He felt a little light-headed. Ever since the were's attack, when he'd kissed Vic, Dean wondered what he thought. He'd kind of expected Vic to take off after that whole fucking horrible month they'd waited and waited…he must remember Dean kissing him—okay, there'd been no tongue and no touching anything but do doubt, it had been a kiss. There was no part of the rules that said partners kissed…not him and Vic at least.
And now they were here, with Vic looking like he was about to be eaten by bears, glancing over at Dean, and rubbing the rise of his erection and Dean felt like he was about to pop. "Should we, want to…unzip?" He felt twelve years old and stupid as hell, how did they even get to this place?
"Yeah…" Vic nodded, eyes firmly on the set now, and unzipped. Pulled out the most amazing dick Dean had ever seen and he'd seen a few more than he'd ever let on, even to Sam….
Dean slowly undid his pants, gulping. He worried that Vic was going to run, that he'd stop him, or be…disappointed, whatever. He wanted to be on the bed next to Vic…or maybe in the next town, in a motel room on his own. Vic surprised him. Vic smiled at him, and jerked his chin at the set. Let's watch, okay?
Dean said, yeah, and it nearly got lost in the sharp intake of breath—Vic was already moving his hand, eyes locked on the gyrating lousy sex on the screen, seemed to be focused on the big fake groans. Dean was groaning himself. He looked down at himself, long strings of clear fluid dripped onto his thigh and he hadn't even touched himself yet. His ran a finger through it, and what clung, he brought to his tongue. A loud not fake groan broke the weird spell Dean was in…fuck, you…do that again.
Dean looked up, Vic was staring at him wide eyes, and he did it again, swiped up pre-come and sucked it off his fingers. His dick jumped, and he gasped softly. Vic…
Vic made a sound like something hurt, and his hips arched off the bed. Damn it.
"Hey…let me come over there, okay?"
"Okay, yeah, come on. Watch me."
Dean knee walked up the bed, until he was bracketing Vic's knees with his own—too scared to come closer. Vic jerked his chin again, this time at Dean, and demanded, "Touch me. Come on."
He jumped and groaned when Dean circled the head of his dick with his wet fingers. Vic kept jerking himself, and Dean's fingers rode on top of his, getting wetter and wetter as Vic leaked onto him. Dean cursed, leaned back, and frantically jerked himself off, the slap of his hand, the wet sound drowning out the bullshit going on in the background. This was real, this was hot, this was Vic, whose stomach rippled under Dean's hand, whose chest rose and fell as fast as Dean's did, who made little helpless noises that got under Dean's skin and reminded him of midnights and listening to Sam jerk off as quietly as he could in the other bed—fuck!
Vic rose up and twisted his free hand in Dean's shirt and pulled him into his lap, crashed their lips together and Dean felt fire race under his skin and fill him up—he came all over Vic and Vic's perfect, hot, taut abs…gasped into Vic's mouth when he came just as violently, so hard it hit Dean under his chin, his throat….
When they finally could move, the both of them, Vic started to laugh. "This isn't a fucking thing like the way I'd seen my life going."
Dean drove his face tighter against the spot in Vic's neck he'd decided was his. "I know, right? I thought…I thought you were probably going to leave after I…you know, that first time…" Dean felt himself flush. "That you thought I was some kind of freak."
Vic rose up on one elbow. "Even when I thought you were an incestuous, psychotic, narcissistic serial killer—I never thought you were hard on the eyes."
"Oh. Yeah, well…." Dean sighed, rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling, turned water-spots into maps and animals and faces. Sure, he thought. He knew how some people reacted to the way he looked…all too fucking well. Thought Vic was different, though--
"Hey, stupid." Vic planted his hand in the middle of Dean's chest, a warm square…punched him lightly. "That's not why I'm here, you know. I *like* you, Dean."
Dean kept his eyes trained on the ceiling, let his mind try and turn a series of blots and cracks into a giraffe. Vic punched him again, muttered, "You're such an asshole."
Dean eased all over, and it was too easy to smile. "Dude, you love me."
Vic snorted. "Come here." He kissed Dean, slow, taking his time to get to know his mouth…"Yeah, maybe I do a little." It didn't sound the same as when he'd said it after not turning into a werewolf—there was no laughter in it, but that was all Vic would say about it, and Dean was more than fine with that.
It was good, it was great…until Dean started to lose his mind.
Dean chewed on the end of the pen while he flipped through the paper. They'd been kind of aimlessly wandering in a general eastward direction for lack of anything better to do. It's been quiet, but the kind of quiet that had Dean uneasy and cranky…he flicked back a page and stared. Half the page was a picture of a church, a local landmark, that had burned. Its stone walls were mostly tumbled in, what was left framed the remnants of a stained glass window….
There was a good shot of the crowd, pressed up against police barricades, faces turned towards the burning church—except for one. Facing the camera was…well, a guy that looked a lot like Sam. But that was crazy. Or not crazy…. "Vic…Vic! Holy fuck, it's Sam—get over here!"
Vic leaned over his shoulder but when Dean turned back to point Sam out, it was just a crowd of strangers, no sign of his brother. "Never mind…I guess I…I don’t know."
Vic cast him a look. "I'm gonna get coffee. Lots of it. For you."
"Yeah…thanks…" Dean stared at the picture and wished for something stronger than coffee.
A couple of days after that, Dean was sitting in a diner, two states away and waiting for Vic to come back from an interview. The interviewee was a witch and Vic had decided after one experience with Dean, that he'd handle those kind of things on his own from now on because Dean sucked at it, or so Vic claimed. Personally Dean thought Vic was full of shit, but if it spared him having to talk to those skeevy bitches, then fine. Good. Hell, he'd sit here and relax, drink coffee, check his e-mail or something.
The back of his neck crawled, goose-bumps ran down his arms. What the fuck…he looked behind himself, feeling foolish, and nearly choked. At the back of the diner, next to the restroom doors, stood Sam. He looked startled—angry? Dean jumped up, ramming his thigh against the underside of the table hard enough to make his eyes water. When he cleared them, Sam was gone.
Vic had been at him for a couple of days, especially when Dean let it slip he thought he'd seen Sam again at their last stop. "Dean, listen to me. I need you a hundred per cent, and I'm not seeing that. I know it, you know it. We're going to take some time off, okay? Go to Florida, relax. No argument, man."
It was a variation of the same rant Vic hit him with every day, and yeah, it was beginning to wear him down. Vic glanced at him again, looked so fucking worried that Dean gave in. He slumped against the window, sighed. "Okay, Yeah. You're right—and keep your eyes on the road before you kill us."
Vic was civilized enough not to gloat too outrageously.
Florida, Dean decided, was actually kind of cool when they didn’t have anything to kill. They sat on the beach a lot, drank a lot, and Dean watched Vic a lot. He was a compact wall of muscle, and Dean loved licking him from shoulder to shoulder and neck to dick. He loved licking him from soft to hard, liked the way his dick would rise up and slap Dean's chin before he'd coax it into his mouth and every time, every single time he did, Vic would grab his head and say, deep and awed, "shit." He'd roll his hips up, careful, until Dean grabbed his ass and squeezed, let him know it was okay to fuck in, fuck his mouth, hard, fast…sometimes though, he'd move so slow, so careful and Dean would just lick and taste and roll his tongue over every velvety inch of him, sip and tease and make Vic curse, and moan, and….
Dean shifted and rolled uncomfortably to his belly.
Victor tossed him a look. "Pervert. There's kids on the beach." He was laughing silently, that sideways lip-twist thing he did that looked like mocking, and it was, but he also knew just what it did to Dean….
Dean blushed. He rolled to face Victor, flipped him off and Vic laughed out loud.
Dean grinned. He liked the sound of Vic's laughter. He felt good. This was good—sitting on a beach, a little buzzed and the promise of really fucking good sex later…he was happy. It'd been a fucking long time since he felt that way.
Vic leaned over, grabbed his chin and kissed him. Right in front of God and everyone.
Vic pulled away, a bare few inches. "You're an idiot," he muttered.
"Yeah, me too," Dean said, "me too."
That night in the shower, Dean heard Sam's voice. Tinny, distant, frightening, because Sam sounded so frightened.
He was losing his mind. He heard Sam call him, and he knew. He was going crazy. Dean shook, his hands shot out and slapped against the tiles, nails digging in as they slid across the soap-slimed surface. "Hey…hey Vic," he tried to yell, but his voice creaked out, weak, too soft…he dropped to his knees in the tub, the crack loud in his own ears. "Vic...." Inside his head, Sam called him over and over, drowning out any other sound….
Dean was under cold water when the door cracked opened, bounced against the wall.
"Dean!" Vic was wrestling him out of the shower. "Dean what the fuck—why'd you lock the door? Why didn't you answer—"
He was on one of the beds, rolled in a blanket, another tossed over him, shaking to pieces. Vic straddled him, rubbed his hands briskly all over Dean, trying to force warmth into him.
"I lost it, I think," Vic said. The expression on his face was meant to be a grin, but it was falling apart at the edges. "We gotta skip this place—I put a hole in the bathroom wall they could rent out...man, I kept calling you and you didn’t answer. It took me too long to figure out you weren't jerking off. Shit." Vic ran a hand over his face, pulled at his lip. "What happened? Why?"
"Don’t know." Dean forced the words out between his chattering teeth. "Heard Sam calling---next thing I know you were trying to crack my brains out against the tub."
Vic snorted. "Yeah…so. Sam, hunh?" The look in his eyes…sad, a little scared…Dean grabbed his wrist.
"It's okay. Really, it's fine. I'm fine."
Vic heaved a huge sigh and leaned back. Nodded, but Dean could still see worry and the beginning of fear in Vic's eyes.
Dean, come back—
Dean stepped off the curb, and staggered. The shovel he carried hit the street with a clatter. His eyes swam. Shit. Dean. Sam again. This time, he felt a hand shake him, curve over his shoulder and squeeze. He didn’t have to see, the feel of it told him it was Sam's. Dean!
His head felt like it cracked down the middle. The air changed, the smell of damp soil and plants fading…he smelled alcohol, plastic, the musty smell of sheets gone too long without washing and then Vic was there holding him up, one hand fisted in his shirt and the other wrapped around the back of his neck. "Dean, Dean, don't don’t."
Dean looked up at him, looked right into his eyes and felt himself falling, down, down…"oh man. Vic. Victor. I'm sorry."
Vic blinked, and tears washed over his cheeks. "I know. I know. It's a good thing…we knew, these last couple of days, didn’t we? We knew." He pulled Dean in and Dean wrapped his arms around Vic and inhaled but his familiar smell was gone, his heat was gone…just the shape of a body in his arms and then Vic whispering, "but it felt so real…."
Dean opened his eyes to white—felt sun on his face. He blinked, and slowly the nebulous white fog overhead became a pocked ceiling, the weight on his arm became a hand, so big. Familiar. He was tangled up in a sheet and felt like he'd had the shit kicked out of him—his side was one long burning ache, his ribs felt splintered. He could feel a dream slipping away and his heart breaking, like glass, like glass.
"Oh god, Dean…" Sam had one huge hand gripping his arm, the other slipped under his head to cradle his skull. "You're awake…Bobby!"
Bobby rounded the doorway like a hellhound was after him, pulled up short and stared at Dean in a way that scared the hell out of him. His mouth worked a bit before he spit out, "Thank fuck boy, you scared the hell out of us."
Dean had the feeling Bobby wanted to say a lot more than that. He swallowed, tried to speak. "Sam left," was all he managed.
The hand on his arm tightened, almost painfully. "I was right here, all the time. Right here," Sam said. His voice shook, his fingers trembled.
"It's true, son. Sam never left your side," Bobby said.
Dean shook his head. "Left me."
"Dean, swear to God, I was here the whole time, trying to bring you back…I swear." Sam looked like shit…greasy hair, face so pale it shaded into green, puffy, black smears under his eyes…he gasped a few times, dropped his face into the crook of his arm. His shoulders began to shake.
Bobby gave Dean a helpless look and walked away, leaving them alone. Dean looked down on his brother, the pale skin of his neck. He put his hand on Sam's head, threaded his fingers through his hair. "It's okay, Sam," he muttered. "It's okay. Everything's gonna be okay."
4-29-2010
Author: roxy
Pairings/Characters: Dean/Victor
Rating: R
Word Count: 6935
Summary: they could have been friends
When Dean woke up, there was a split second in which he thought he was back in Hell, or still in Hell. He stank, he hurt, all over. Wherever he was, it smelled like rotting meat, like piss and shit. Like Hell, only…only....
He blinked, and slowly the nebulous white fog overhead became a pocked ceiling. He took in a hesitant sniff. No stink of sulfur, no stink of burning metal. He hurt, but it didn't hurt the right way. the right way....
He shuddered, rolled to his side and threw up as if it was the first thing he did every time he woke. He kind of expected to hear the spatter of vomit on wood but it sounded off, weird. He opened his eyes and he was staring into a plastic dollar store trashcan.
He was in bed—on a mattress, actually, a stained, filthy, rank mattress on the floor of…he looked around. A room. He hoped it was a real room. He dragged himself upright. Had they stopped moving? Were they were squatting somewhere? He didn't remember. There was a long rectangle of gauze and tape over his ribs—the only thing he was wearing. "Sam," he called—croaked. His throat felt like it'd been sandpapered. "Fuck." He sounded like a frog. A pissed off, pathetic frog.
There were three doors in the room. He staggered to one, pulled it open. It was no bigger than a shoebox inside—a closet, empty except for one duffel bag on the floor, his. He moved slowly towards the other, his hand dragging across the wall. Pulled the door open, and looked out on a tiny wooden deck. Overhead, a silver slice of moon cast barely enough light to see. Rangy trees, spindly shrubs…through them he could see the flicker of moonlight on water…he could just catch the wet, rotted smell of stagnant water. He stepped out on the deck, careful of his bare feet on the rough wood floor. Cupped his hands around his mouth and loud as his throat allowed, called, "Hey, Sam…."
Nothing.
He turned, aimed himself towards the last door that opened to reveal a short hallway, a bathroom at one end, the dark square of an open doorway at the other. The bathroom was barely bigger than the closet, barely big enough to hold a toilet, a teacup of a sink, and a tub. The bottom of the tub was pitted, and coated with rust. There was a wide red line of rust in the ancient porcelain of the sink, running from under the faucet to the drain.
Great. They were squatting somewhere he had no idea where, in a dump that probably had no water and suddenly, he was so thirsty, thirstier than he could ever remember being…so thirsty it hurt. "Sammy…."
He pulled himself out of the bathroom, feeling wrung out and betrayed and ready to throw himself down and never get up again. That was when he noticed, by the bed, a little stack of plastic bottles, filled with water. He dropped to his knees, and crawled towards the stack of empty and full bottles. Grabbed one so tight it bulged. It took him a few tries to get the cap off and then, he was frantically pouring water into his mouth. It ran down his chin and down his chest and felt so good--like even his skin was happy for it, opening for it, God, more, more—
He choked, gagged, and the water came back up, splashing against the floorboards.
"Wait, wait…" he struggled for control, tried to calm himself enough to try again. "Okay, slow…slow." He cracked open another bottle. Took a sip. Swished it around his mouth, before letting it trickle down his throat. He slowly emptied it, eyes closed. He sighed, splayed his legs out in front of him on the wooden floor, clenched the empty bottle to his chest. How many of those bottles would it take to wash himself, he wondered? He took a couple of bottles into the bathroom with him, to dump in the sink and wash his face, at least.
Miracle of miracles, when he tried the faucet, water ran, yellow at first and then clear. He squeezed his eyes shut. "Well, that's good. That's a good sign."
Back in the room again, he sat on the cleanest edge of the mattress. He was a little more alive now that he'd had water, washed his face. He noticed a pale square under one of the bottles leaning against the disgusting mattress. Dean's hand shook as he unfolded a sheet of grimy lined paper—
Dean. I'll be back. You're fine. It should wear off in a day or two. You got clipped by a talon. I'm real sorry but I got a tip that couldn't wait. I wouldn't leave you unless I knew you weren't in danger—
"Fuck. Lies, lying bastard!" Dean almost crumbled the note.
--just rest. It looks bad but the cottage has electricity, water, heat. Thanks to some paranoid somebody, there's a working generator and I left the car, in case you wake up before I—
Dean ripped the note in half, balled it up and threw it hard as he could across the room. He wobbled over to the closet, yanked his duffle out. Clean clothes, the Beretta tucked between his underwear, his Bowie. He lifted the clothes. Energy bars in the bottom. He gulped, sighed, and took one out, ripped off the wrapper and took a bite, chewing grimly. His jaws locked up, taste buds going into shock. How the fuck long had he been out? Without Sam? His stomach growled like a wild animal as he ripped chunks from the bar, and thought.
He was somewhere safe, maybe--probably safe, or Sam wouldn't have--he was armed, he had shelter and water but for how long he had no idea. There was a t-shirt, a pair of jeans, neatly folded on the floor next to that mattress he was going to toss out as soon as he had the strength. He went through his clothes. His wallet was in the pile, couple of IDs inside, half the cash he remembered having—more than half the new credit cards were gone. "Fucker." His Colt was under the pile, clean. He remembered firing it at the…the…something. What? He rubbed the bridge of his nose. Something. His car keys were in the coat pocket. His phone. On the floor between his boots, Sam's phone. So he'd been left. If the cards were gone…Sam probably hadn't intended to be back anytime soon, no matter what the note had said. He could have died, and no one….
The room wobbled and tilted under his feet. Dean sat gingerly on the edge of the filthy mattress and rubbed at his eyes. They were so sore and painful that rubbing his lids made them water and run. His chest ached like he'd been kicked. It got hard to breathe but that was probably the dust all over everything.
He walked around the house. Someone's vacation cottage, looked like. Not something owned by rich folks, that was plain. Besides the room with the mattress, there was a kind of a kitchen, a living room. There was a table in the kitchen. In the living room, there was another mattress leaned against the wall and covered with a tarp. A couple of folding chairs and a sofa were pushed against another wall.
The doors were locked, the windows locked. Okay. He grabbed one of the clean t-shirts out of his bag, found his dopp kit back in the shadows of the closet. "Thank fuck."
He pulled up the pink stained bandage over his ribs. The claw mark Sam had referred to was shallow, clean under the gauze. Looked like whatever it was had barely hit him. What kind of venom could have knocked him out like that? He couldn't think of anything that would put him down like that without eventually killing him.
He stood under the showerhead, face turned up to the weak spray. Grateful for hot water. Grateful for soap and not stinking. He ran his hands over the scruff on his chin and neck and thought about shaving. Figured he'd wait. When he saw Sam again, he planned to kill him and a beard would make a handy disguise.
He leaned against the sink and sopped up as much water as he could with the t-shirt. Took care of his teeth. The water had an odd metallic tang to it that made the mint of the toothpaste taste weird, almost like blood…he spit hard and rinsed harder. He stared at himself in the cloudy mirror. What had been so important that Sam had dropped him here and run? Left him naked and filthy and alone?
Screw that, he thought. He knew damn well what had made that fucker leave. Ruby, fucking bitch. When he caught up with Sam again, he was going to gank that bitch good....
How long had he been out? He felt less wobbly and a lot closer to human again now that he'd eaten and showered. He couldn't have been down that long. The place would have smelled worse, the mattress would have been much worse than it was. Dean grimaced. Speaking of which.
He manhandled the mattress out of the room and behind the cottage, where there were a couple of big metal barrels with ashes in the bottom.
He dragged the clean mattress into the small room, lay down on it and tried to decide if he should leave now, and risk missing Sam, or just lay there like the pathetic spineless wimp Sam thought he was and wait?
Fucker took the booze too. Bastard. He bet Sam did that on purpose.
He'd been squatting in the cottage for about three days. He was sitting on the mattress, eating cereal out the box, one of a few different brands he'd found in the cabinets, along with cans of soup and shit…opening those cabinets and finding food in them, in the 1950s era fridge in the kitchen…it'd felt a lot like being gutted.
He was chewing and staring at Sam's phone propped up against his boot. Chew, stare, chew, stare, he was waiting for…for the phone to ring, he guessed, which was kind of stupid. If Sam had wanted to talk to Dean, he'd have called by now. He swallowed the last unappetizing handful, sucked down some water. He stood, yawned deeply and stretched until his back popped. Shoved his feet into his boots, and then--stamped hard on the phone, stamped and stamped and stamped until he felt each smash of his boot jolt up his spine, stamped until it hurt and it was impossible to tell just what he'd been stomping on. He grabbed his duffle from the end of the bed and blindly crammed whatever he could get his shaking hands on into it.
"Well, well. Dean motherfucking Winchester, as I live and breathe."
Dean's heart stuttered, his hand went to his back. Fucking hell, the guns were in the god-damn bag Amateur fucking mistake. "You're dead."
"Yeah, well, reports of my death, blah-blah-blah. Made good sense to keep it to myself, you know?"
Dean dropped his bag, and smiled and smiled. "Shit. Dude…gotta say, I'm fucking happy as hell to see you here—how'd the fuck did you find me?"
Victor sauntered into the little room. "If you know what to look for, it's not really that hard. Once you know just what it is you are looking for." He shook his head. "Finding this place though—that was a trip." He grinned at Dean, held out his hand. "How the fuck are you, man?"
Dean grabbed his hand, shook it wildly. The touch of Victor's hand, warm palm against his own was overwhelming. He couldn't bring himself to let go—didn't know how to. "Dude, fucking hell, I'm good now. Good now." He was only half aware that he'd grabbed Henriksen into a hug. "Damn. Damn."
Henriksen stiffened, and Dean instantly moved to let go, regretting the action but suddenly the man's hands were fisted in the back of Dean's shirt, and Henriksen let out a low shaky breath. "Fuck…I was beginning to think maybe I was a little bit crazy, like I made this shit up," he gasped, before letting go. He took a step back, shoved his hands in his pockets and gave Dean a crooked grin.
"Crazy? Yeah, well, you are a little," Dean grinned. "We all are." He looked Victor up and down. "Look at you. All Cisco Kid. The life suits you, hanh?"
"Shut the fuck up, asshole," Victor said, but looked kind of pleased with himself anyway. "So, where's your boyfriend—I mean, brother?"
"Dude, shut up—that shit's not funny. And that son-of a bitch…I have no fucking clue. He's…he said for me to wait here for him."
"Really?" Victor looked as shocked as he had when he first discovered that things that go bump in the night killed. "He…okay. Well, it's good to see you…"
Dean nodded. "I've got soup and coffee, sound okay to you?"
"Sure. Throw in those Lucky Charms you're eating and we got a meal."
Dean laughed out loud. "All right." Dean was beyond grateful for the company. He'd kind of started to think he'd slept through the Apocalypse and he was the last thing breathing. It didn't take him much to get Vic to stay the night, and for the first time in days, he actually slept the night through.
The next morning, Victor woke Dean. Thanked him for breakfast—toast and tomato soup. Told him he was on his way
"Yeah, okay," Dean said.
Victor smiled, shrugged and turned to leave. Dean was at his side, duffle strap over one shoulder. "Where we going Vic?"
"*You* ain't going nowhere with me, and it's Victor Not Vic. Not ever in this lifetime is it Vic."
Dean took in the tense way Victor held himself, wide-legged, one foot forward, balanced to throw a punch or a kick. He was watching Dean as closely as Dean watched him. Dean shook his head and grinned…"Come on Vic. Seriously? You turning down a chance to hang out with a handsome devil like me?"
"You're an asshole Winchester. Always have been." He looked around the small room, frowning. "You just gonna leave? What about him? Won’t he be looking for you to be here?"
Dean laughed. "No one's coming back here." He looked around, seeing what Vic saw. "I think this place was supposed to be my severance pay."
Vic whistles. "Man, your life sucks…"
"Don't I know it." Dean said. He shouldered past Victor, and might have accidentally elbowed him in the chest.
"Well, at least you don't hold a grudge."
Victor slid into the booth across from Dean and stole a fry off his plate. "Still looking?" he asked. Dean knew exactly what he meant…still looking for Sam?
Dean shut Vic's laptop with a frown. Watched the man chew his fries, but the irritation he felt wasn't with Vic, it was with himself. "Dude, get off my fries—and no. Shit. Okay, yes--a little."
Victor ignored Dean and stole another couple of fries before he turned those dangerous, dark brown eyes on him. He threw an arm across the back of the booth and Dean noted he had to sit up straight to do it. Made him want to smile at Vic. "Dean…Sam, he's probably…he is safe. Okay, he's looking for Lilith but that Ruby? She's gonna make sure nothing will hurt him. Right? They're on the same team, him and her. And Sam looking for that bitch Lilith—how is that a bad thing? She needs killing--trust me, I know this."
Dean pushed his plate closer to Vic, trying to swallow against the lump in his throat. "I…yeah. I know, I know. It's just…I'm still trying to wrap my head around Sam leaving like that, I can't believe he doesn't care enough to...well, shit. Maybe you’re right. Maybe I should just. I don’t know. Enjoy what time I've got, right?"
Vic tilted his head at Dean and frowned. It made his mouth do interesting things.
Dean sighed. Swear to God, he needed to get laid. Vic tapped the rim of his coffee cup, said, "I…sure. Good advice for us all, I guess. Hey…are you going somewhere I don't know about?"
"Going somewhere?" Dean laughed. "No, I was just having a moment, 'til you ruined it." He made a move as if to pull his fries back. "Why don’t you order your own damn fries?"
Vic's hand shot out, fingers wrapped around Dean's wrist. He grabbed a couple of fries with his free hand and shoved them in his mouth. Mouth full of fries, curved in a smile, he let go of Dean, fingers sliding away and leaving warm trails over his skin. He winked and said, "Your's taste better."
"Asshole." The warmth of Vic's fingers lingered. He kept himself from touching where they'd been…he liked the feeling.
Time rolled on; Dean knew how much time passed, he knew it almost to the minute. If asked, he'd be able to roll off the days, hours, minutes…but he kept on living anyway. He breathed, he slept, he ate—he laughed. He almost didn't feel guilty for going on with living, without Sam at his side.
No word, no sign of his brother. In a way, Dean was glad about that, considering the kind of signs he'd taken to looking for lately…stuff like fires in churches and convents blowing up and babies being barbequed. Nothing popped up though, no earthquakes or famines or wars, at least no more than usual. No floppy-haired, giant, yellow-eyed demon showing up with hordes of zombie soldiers in his wake. Rivers do not run with blood and birds do not fall from the sky, so—score. Dean checked every day, looked for the unusual, and what he found was small time: hauntings, poltergeists, possessed objects, infestations of imps—just their average kind of weird.
Victor was great. He was a hell of a partner. Working with him was almost as slick and instinctive as working with Sam. Better in some ways—Vic was like a pit-bull, he drew to put down, he followed orders unless it was his turn to give them and then, he expected nothing but Dean's best. He didn't second guess himself or Dean. Yeah. Vic was good. Dad would have loved him. Dean thought Vic was probably one of the best things that had ever happened to him—weird, because he'd come into his life as the worst.
"Oh fuck…" The low whisper woke him up out of a sound sleep as if it'd been a gunshot. For a quick few seconds, he trembled between the sleep world and the real, thinking Sam, Sam's back. "Shi--it."
Dean wasn't meant to hear the low, desperate whispering. Made him think of Sam all clenched over his hand and trying to be quiet…but that was *Vic* in the next bed. Sam had been gone—Sam was gone. And Vic….
Was jerking off to pirated porn. Okay. It was dark, and who the fuck could see he was hard, or what he was doing? Dean turned to his side and palmed himself. Shit. Vic's stealthy, careful pumps were telegraphed anyway, his bed had shit springs…it was that slow squeak, gasp, that got him all nostalgic, and *hard*, damn it. His ears almost hurt, he was listening so hard, and maybe if he moved real slow…
"Fuck, it's not like I—I don't know you're—ah--awake."
Dean bit his lip harder to keep from speaking—moaning--yelling out loud. When he figured he could open his mouth without losing it, he gasped, "Yeah. Awake. God."
Vic laughed, and then just...groaned like a fucking pornstar. "That's it. Fuck, right—"
Now, Dean thought, and he shuddered all over, come pulsing into his hand, thick and hot. When he could move again, he smacked his sore lips. The inside of his mouth felt raw. He touched the inside of his mouth with his tongue and imagined Vic, what if would feel like to have his dick in his mouth…the intensity of orgasm repeated, little echoes of it shivering him with each breath he took.
Victor rolled off the bed, stalked to the bathroom and shut the door. Dean was asleep before he came back out.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck…" Dean yanked Vic backwards across the clearing, digging furrows in the mud. It hurt like hell knowing that every bump and divot was telegraphing itself up Vic's body—Dean could feel him clench and unclench under his hands, hands slick with Vic's blood…he screamed in his ear, "You okay? You okay?" Fuck, he couldn't stop himself screaming….
"Fuck *yes*, damn it--stop screaming at me." Vic's teeth were clenched, filled with red, there was blood in his mouth, masking his face. Under the bushes some feet away laid a naked dead man, half his head blown away. A few minutes ago, he'd been a werewolf, and he'd been in the process of killing Vic.
Dean wrenched Vic around, threw him against the car, ignored Vic's roar of pain and the stream of curses. He ripped open the war bag, dumped what was in it on the ground; he tossed a couple of jugs of holy water and a loaded gun on the ground between Vic's feet. The first aid kit joined it. The knife that had been in Dean's boot appeared in his hand as if by magic.
Vic was hyperventilating. "Remember that story you told me about killing a fucker like that on your own? You're a lying dick, Winchester."
Dean snorted, ripped the knife through Vic's shirt, not trying to be gentle. He scrubbed some of the blood from Vic's chest with the pieces. There were ragged gouges from collarbone to hip, blood thick and black in the tears. Dean grabbed him by the neck, pulled him close, smearing them both with Vic's blood. "Look at me. Did he bite you? Fucker, did he bite you?"
"What—*no*, no he didn’t bite me—"
"Think, you asshole. Be sure!"
"He didn't fucking bite me--he was too busy trying to gut me, you motherfucker."
"Good," Dean grunted. He pulled the remaining pieces of Vic's shirt free, threw them. He picked up a plastic jug of holy water.
Vic's deep brown irises were completely surrounded by white—it made him look like a shocked little boy, Dean thought. His heart seized up. Vic was so fucking scared, his mouth trembled. "What…what's next?" He eyed the gun.
Dean pulled him close, pressed his lips to Vic's mouth. "Hold on," he muttered, right against his warm, soft, quivering lips…he wrapped his fist around the handle of a full gallon jug and jumped back. "I'm sorry, dude." Threw the contents all over Vic.
Vic stuttered, "Hey what, what the hell just—" and screamed. Screamed worse than he'd screamed when the werewolf tried to shred him. Kept on screaming through two gallon jugs of holy water being dumped on him. Screamed as Dean thoroughly sprayed the wounds with a pump bottle full of holy water. Stopped screaming when his throat gave out and then, just grunted, cried softly, as Dean cleaned the wound carefully, pulled the edges together and taped him up.
"Come on, come on," Dean huffed and dragged Vic into the car. "You'll be okay, swear, you'll be fine, I'll stitch you up. You'll be pretty, still be hot. Chicks dig scars—"
"Oh God, shut the fuck up," Vic croaked. "You babble worse than my ex."
Hysterical laughter bubbled up, choked him—burst out in short, sharp, snorts. They'd lived through it. Vic was alive. He wasn't alone. He glanced up through the windshield at the shining silver moon and then, into the rear seat where Vic lay trembling and twitching, huffing out little pain filled breaths, and his euphoria died. They weren't out of the woods, not quite yet.
Next full moon they were sitting on the hood of the Impala, the ground in front of them littered with bottles. Dean pulled a dripping ice-cold beer out of the little plastic chest between them. "Another?"
"Fuck yeah, boy, keep 'em coming. You'll know when to stop, I'll be lying face down in the mud, passed out."
Dean threw an arm around his shoulder and Vic reached out, grabbed Dean's shirt and pulled him into his chest. "Love you, you stupid motherfucker."
Dean stayed right where he was and grinned into Vic's neck. "Yeah, yeah. Me too."
Four months. He was staring at the calendar, marker in his hand, when Vic came up behind him. "He's not dead. I promise you, he's not dead."
Dean sighed. "I don’t know man. He'd have contacted me. Some kind of way, he'd have let me know."
"Maybe he did…maybe that's how I found you. I mean, it was like I knew where to go. And who I'd find when I got there."
Dean turned around, searched Vic's eyes for…for something. Truth. Vic's eyes were deep, dark. Warm. And maybe…Dean folded his fingers in tight against his palm. "Yeah. Yeah." He pulled the calendar down, the notes and maps they'd tacked on the motel wall. "Let's go."
Vic nodded, grabbed the bags and headed out to the car.
"So…" Dean licked his lips. Porn. The stuff on TV wasn't as hot as his partner in the next bed, shirt off, abs gleaming in the light…Dean was grateful that Vic hadn't reached over and shut off the lamp like they always did, he'd left it on. He felt a little light-headed. Ever since the were's attack, when he'd kissed Vic, Dean wondered what he thought. He'd kind of expected Vic to take off after that whole fucking horrible month they'd waited and waited…he must remember Dean kissing him—okay, there'd been no tongue and no touching anything but do doubt, it had been a kiss. There was no part of the rules that said partners kissed…not him and Vic at least.
And now they were here, with Vic looking like he was about to be eaten by bears, glancing over at Dean, and rubbing the rise of his erection and Dean felt like he was about to pop. "Should we, want to…unzip?" He felt twelve years old and stupid as hell, how did they even get to this place?
"Yeah…" Vic nodded, eyes firmly on the set now, and unzipped. Pulled out the most amazing dick Dean had ever seen and he'd seen a few more than he'd ever let on, even to Sam….
Dean slowly undid his pants, gulping. He worried that Vic was going to run, that he'd stop him, or be…disappointed, whatever. He wanted to be on the bed next to Vic…or maybe in the next town, in a motel room on his own. Vic surprised him. Vic smiled at him, and jerked his chin at the set. Let's watch, okay?
Dean said, yeah, and it nearly got lost in the sharp intake of breath—Vic was already moving his hand, eyes locked on the gyrating lousy sex on the screen, seemed to be focused on the big fake groans. Dean was groaning himself. He looked down at himself, long strings of clear fluid dripped onto his thigh and he hadn't even touched himself yet. His ran a finger through it, and what clung, he brought to his tongue. A loud not fake groan broke the weird spell Dean was in…fuck, you…do that again.
Dean looked up, Vic was staring at him wide eyes, and he did it again, swiped up pre-come and sucked it off his fingers. His dick jumped, and he gasped softly. Vic…
Vic made a sound like something hurt, and his hips arched off the bed. Damn it.
"Hey…let me come over there, okay?"
"Okay, yeah, come on. Watch me."
Dean knee walked up the bed, until he was bracketing Vic's knees with his own—too scared to come closer. Vic jerked his chin again, this time at Dean, and demanded, "Touch me. Come on."
He jumped and groaned when Dean circled the head of his dick with his wet fingers. Vic kept jerking himself, and Dean's fingers rode on top of his, getting wetter and wetter as Vic leaked onto him. Dean cursed, leaned back, and frantically jerked himself off, the slap of his hand, the wet sound drowning out the bullshit going on in the background. This was real, this was hot, this was Vic, whose stomach rippled under Dean's hand, whose chest rose and fell as fast as Dean's did, who made little helpless noises that got under Dean's skin and reminded him of midnights and listening to Sam jerk off as quietly as he could in the other bed—fuck!
Vic rose up and twisted his free hand in Dean's shirt and pulled him into his lap, crashed their lips together and Dean felt fire race under his skin and fill him up—he came all over Vic and Vic's perfect, hot, taut abs…gasped into Vic's mouth when he came just as violently, so hard it hit Dean under his chin, his throat….
When they finally could move, the both of them, Vic started to laugh. "This isn't a fucking thing like the way I'd seen my life going."
Dean drove his face tighter against the spot in Vic's neck he'd decided was his. "I know, right? I thought…I thought you were probably going to leave after I…you know, that first time…" Dean felt himself flush. "That you thought I was some kind of freak."
Vic rose up on one elbow. "Even when I thought you were an incestuous, psychotic, narcissistic serial killer—I never thought you were hard on the eyes."
"Oh. Yeah, well…." Dean sighed, rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling, turned water-spots into maps and animals and faces. Sure, he thought. He knew how some people reacted to the way he looked…all too fucking well. Thought Vic was different, though--
"Hey, stupid." Vic planted his hand in the middle of Dean's chest, a warm square…punched him lightly. "That's not why I'm here, you know. I *like* you, Dean."
Dean kept his eyes trained on the ceiling, let his mind try and turn a series of blots and cracks into a giraffe. Vic punched him again, muttered, "You're such an asshole."
Dean eased all over, and it was too easy to smile. "Dude, you love me."
Vic snorted. "Come here." He kissed Dean, slow, taking his time to get to know his mouth…"Yeah, maybe I do a little." It didn't sound the same as when he'd said it after not turning into a werewolf—there was no laughter in it, but that was all Vic would say about it, and Dean was more than fine with that.
It was good, it was great…until Dean started to lose his mind.
Dean chewed on the end of the pen while he flipped through the paper. They'd been kind of aimlessly wandering in a general eastward direction for lack of anything better to do. It's been quiet, but the kind of quiet that had Dean uneasy and cranky…he flicked back a page and stared. Half the page was a picture of a church, a local landmark, that had burned. Its stone walls were mostly tumbled in, what was left framed the remnants of a stained glass window….
There was a good shot of the crowd, pressed up against police barricades, faces turned towards the burning church—except for one. Facing the camera was…well, a guy that looked a lot like Sam. But that was crazy. Or not crazy…. "Vic…Vic! Holy fuck, it's Sam—get over here!"
Vic leaned over his shoulder but when Dean turned back to point Sam out, it was just a crowd of strangers, no sign of his brother. "Never mind…I guess I…I don’t know."
Vic cast him a look. "I'm gonna get coffee. Lots of it. For you."
"Yeah…thanks…" Dean stared at the picture and wished for something stronger than coffee.
A couple of days after that, Dean was sitting in a diner, two states away and waiting for Vic to come back from an interview. The interviewee was a witch and Vic had decided after one experience with Dean, that he'd handle those kind of things on his own from now on because Dean sucked at it, or so Vic claimed. Personally Dean thought Vic was full of shit, but if it spared him having to talk to those skeevy bitches, then fine. Good. Hell, he'd sit here and relax, drink coffee, check his e-mail or something.
The back of his neck crawled, goose-bumps ran down his arms. What the fuck…he looked behind himself, feeling foolish, and nearly choked. At the back of the diner, next to the restroom doors, stood Sam. He looked startled—angry? Dean jumped up, ramming his thigh against the underside of the table hard enough to make his eyes water. When he cleared them, Sam was gone.
Vic had been at him for a couple of days, especially when Dean let it slip he thought he'd seen Sam again at their last stop. "Dean, listen to me. I need you a hundred per cent, and I'm not seeing that. I know it, you know it. We're going to take some time off, okay? Go to Florida, relax. No argument, man."
It was a variation of the same rant Vic hit him with every day, and yeah, it was beginning to wear him down. Vic glanced at him again, looked so fucking worried that Dean gave in. He slumped against the window, sighed. "Okay, Yeah. You're right—and keep your eyes on the road before you kill us."
Vic was civilized enough not to gloat too outrageously.
Florida, Dean decided, was actually kind of cool when they didn’t have anything to kill. They sat on the beach a lot, drank a lot, and Dean watched Vic a lot. He was a compact wall of muscle, and Dean loved licking him from shoulder to shoulder and neck to dick. He loved licking him from soft to hard, liked the way his dick would rise up and slap Dean's chin before he'd coax it into his mouth and every time, every single time he did, Vic would grab his head and say, deep and awed, "shit." He'd roll his hips up, careful, until Dean grabbed his ass and squeezed, let him know it was okay to fuck in, fuck his mouth, hard, fast…sometimes though, he'd move so slow, so careful and Dean would just lick and taste and roll his tongue over every velvety inch of him, sip and tease and make Vic curse, and moan, and….
Dean shifted and rolled uncomfortably to his belly.
Victor tossed him a look. "Pervert. There's kids on the beach." He was laughing silently, that sideways lip-twist thing he did that looked like mocking, and it was, but he also knew just what it did to Dean….
Dean blushed. He rolled to face Victor, flipped him off and Vic laughed out loud.
Dean grinned. He liked the sound of Vic's laughter. He felt good. This was good—sitting on a beach, a little buzzed and the promise of really fucking good sex later…he was happy. It'd been a fucking long time since he felt that way.
Vic leaned over, grabbed his chin and kissed him. Right in front of God and everyone.
Vic pulled away, a bare few inches. "You're an idiot," he muttered.
"Yeah, me too," Dean said, "me too."
That night in the shower, Dean heard Sam's voice. Tinny, distant, frightening, because Sam sounded so frightened.
He was losing his mind. He heard Sam call him, and he knew. He was going crazy. Dean shook, his hands shot out and slapped against the tiles, nails digging in as they slid across the soap-slimed surface. "Hey…hey Vic," he tried to yell, but his voice creaked out, weak, too soft…he dropped to his knees in the tub, the crack loud in his own ears. "Vic...." Inside his head, Sam called him over and over, drowning out any other sound….
Dean was under cold water when the door cracked opened, bounced against the wall.
"Dean!" Vic was wrestling him out of the shower. "Dean what the fuck—why'd you lock the door? Why didn't you answer—"
He was on one of the beds, rolled in a blanket, another tossed over him, shaking to pieces. Vic straddled him, rubbed his hands briskly all over Dean, trying to force warmth into him.
"I lost it, I think," Vic said. The expression on his face was meant to be a grin, but it was falling apart at the edges. "We gotta skip this place—I put a hole in the bathroom wall they could rent out...man, I kept calling you and you didn’t answer. It took me too long to figure out you weren't jerking off. Shit." Vic ran a hand over his face, pulled at his lip. "What happened? Why?"
"Don’t know." Dean forced the words out between his chattering teeth. "Heard Sam calling---next thing I know you were trying to crack my brains out against the tub."
Vic snorted. "Yeah…so. Sam, hunh?" The look in his eyes…sad, a little scared…Dean grabbed his wrist.
"It's okay. Really, it's fine. I'm fine."
Vic heaved a huge sigh and leaned back. Nodded, but Dean could still see worry and the beginning of fear in Vic's eyes.
Dean, come back—
Dean stepped off the curb, and staggered. The shovel he carried hit the street with a clatter. His eyes swam. Shit. Dean. Sam again. This time, he felt a hand shake him, curve over his shoulder and squeeze. He didn’t have to see, the feel of it told him it was Sam's. Dean!
His head felt like it cracked down the middle. The air changed, the smell of damp soil and plants fading…he smelled alcohol, plastic, the musty smell of sheets gone too long without washing and then Vic was there holding him up, one hand fisted in his shirt and the other wrapped around the back of his neck. "Dean, Dean, don't don’t."
Dean looked up at him, looked right into his eyes and felt himself falling, down, down…"oh man. Vic. Victor. I'm sorry."
Vic blinked, and tears washed over his cheeks. "I know. I know. It's a good thing…we knew, these last couple of days, didn’t we? We knew." He pulled Dean in and Dean wrapped his arms around Vic and inhaled but his familiar smell was gone, his heat was gone…just the shape of a body in his arms and then Vic whispering, "but it felt so real…."
Dean opened his eyes to white—felt sun on his face. He blinked, and slowly the nebulous white fog overhead became a pocked ceiling, the weight on his arm became a hand, so big. Familiar. He was tangled up in a sheet and felt like he'd had the shit kicked out of him—his side was one long burning ache, his ribs felt splintered. He could feel a dream slipping away and his heart breaking, like glass, like glass.
"Oh god, Dean…" Sam had one huge hand gripping his arm, the other slipped under his head to cradle his skull. "You're awake…Bobby!"
Bobby rounded the doorway like a hellhound was after him, pulled up short and stared at Dean in a way that scared the hell out of him. His mouth worked a bit before he spit out, "Thank fuck boy, you scared the hell out of us."
Dean had the feeling Bobby wanted to say a lot more than that. He swallowed, tried to speak. "Sam left," was all he managed.
The hand on his arm tightened, almost painfully. "I was right here, all the time. Right here," Sam said. His voice shook, his fingers trembled.
"It's true, son. Sam never left your side," Bobby said.
Dean shook his head. "Left me."
"Dean, swear to God, I was here the whole time, trying to bring you back…I swear." Sam looked like shit…greasy hair, face so pale it shaded into green, puffy, black smears under his eyes…he gasped a few times, dropped his face into the crook of his arm. His shoulders began to shake.
Bobby gave Dean a helpless look and walked away, leaving them alone. Dean looked down on his brother, the pale skin of his neck. He put his hand on Sam's head, threaded his fingers through his hair. "It's okay, Sam," he muttered. "It's okay. Everything's gonna be okay."
4-29-2010
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