SpN: Come The Night 8/?
8/26/11 12:42 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
roxyTitle: Come The Night
Author: roxy
Pairings/Characters: Sam/Dean, Dean/Angel, brief Dean/OFC
Rating:NC-17
Word Count: 3866
Spoilers: oblique reference to events in s5
Summary: this is (now) an AU treatment of season five, where Sam doesn't escape his fate and Boy King means just that. Dean once again enters hell to save his brother—not entirely voluntarily. When he returns to the world, everything's changed. He's lost Sam, the new world is difficult to navigate, and he finds himself saddled with an angry young man who elects himself to be Dean's guide.
Notes/Warnings: rape, dubious consent, extreme power imbalance. Some scenes are graphic. Feel free to ask if you'd like more info.
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icon by fragilecat@![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
a_random_mess
Then An Angel
"Why is it always me? Why do I gotta be the one?"
Min, as he finds out she's called, has him set the trays down, then sends him back out to the dining room with a huge bowl of soup and a Sam-fist sized chunk of bread. First bite has him moaning, it's that fucking good. Not thin and stretched with water like most shelter cuisine, but thick and full of tender chunks of meat, and thick cuts of vegetable. And screw Sammy, he did so eat veggies from time to time, especially when they were like this, cooked to mush and covered with creamy broth, salty and slightly peppery. It disturbs him a wee bit that he's not sure what the meat is, but his unease is outvoted by his hunger.
Dean's slurping down his second cup of coffee when the doors flies open and a group of young kids come tumbling in.
"Knock off that noise, ya frickin' punks," yells one of the table sitters, and Min comes dashing out. "Finally. Here you go, grab those trays and bus the rest of them tables, Mark. Carlos, you got broom duty-- Fredo, in the kitchen with tha dishes for you, right now. And Angel…you know what to do."
She gets a rapid-fire of disgruntled snorts in reply but Dean can tell none of the kids are really annoyed, except one, a squinty-eyed, gangly thing Dean judges to be almost as tall as he is. He's sporting a pimpled triangle of a head on a skimpy stalk of a neck, all angles and long bones and lots of jaw. The kid's head is shaved but for a long, bleached-blond fringe hanging into his eyes—and laughably, he's got a skimpy ring of fuzz around his mouth that looks like dirt—the some-day-going-to-be beginning of a beard. Min comes up on one side of the kid and slips an arm around him. She pulls him into a hug that's more threat than affection. Kid rolls his eyes and looks resigned to both hug and threat.
"Angel," Min murmurs, but not low enough that Dean can't hear her, "He's feeling pretty good today. Not fighting ghosts…how about you take care of him, and let the other boys help out in the kitchen? And don't let anyone give him anything to drink, y'hear?"
"Why is it always me? Why do I gotta be the one?" the kid complains and Min just shakes her head.
"Because you're the only one he'll listen to, you little shit."
Dean's jaw cramps. "Hey, I'm right here. Mind not talking about me like I'm not?"
The kid looks over and smirks. "Well, well, you are, aren't you? Whatsa matter, not saving the world today? You and your hunter pals, you're all a piece a work."
Min huffs in irritation and smacks the kid hard enough to bounce his head around. "Angel! Show some respect, you pissant little bastard. You talkin' 'bout my dad—a Hunter too, and was in the War." She glances back at a table by the kitchen door, at a white-haired man sitting there. Big arms were crossed over a huge chest, muscles gone to fat with age…he was gently snoring, arms crossed and his chin dipped down resting on that chest.
Angel looks apologetic—or a half decent impression of it. Dean glances back to at Min's dad. The guy was old, and the spitting image of James Earl Jones…even asleep Dean could tell he was no one to fuck with. No wonder Angel looked ready to apologize.
Some of the sitters start cursing the kid, disgruntled mumbling along the line of "we saved your useless asses…we kept you from getting ass-raped by demons, you ungrateful shit…might be eighty, but I can still kick your ass, bitch..."
"Ahh, shut up. If you old farts saw as much action as you claim, you'd be as nuts as old demon killer here. Or drink as much." Angel jerks his chin at Dean and Dean flips the little fuck off.
"Fuck you," Dean says, "if the old guy does go to kick your ass, I'm holding you down." The kid snorts and plops himself down at Dean's table, snags a piece of bread. He watches Dean as he chews, completely confident that Dean won’t knock him off his chair for stealing his food and it makes Dean wonder who the hell this kid thinks he is to him? Dean pulls a piece off the bread left and chews too. They watch each other for a few moments before Dean asks, "So…is that what I do," Dean muses, "I drink?"
"Bru, you're sellin' yourself short—you don't just drink," the kid croons. "You DRINK. A lot."
"I'm a drunk." Dean feels himself out…there's no wanting of it, he doesn't feel the slightest bit of craving, hell, he doesn't give a damn about a drink…but the way everyone reacts to him, like he's some kind of unpredictable nutcase…but a basically harmless one. He's not sure which pisses him off more. Thinking about it makes his head hurt and pisses him off and he does kind of want to slam his fist into someone, anyone…."A drunk."
"Well…" the boy Angel sneers outright now. "If by 'a drunk' you mean you suck down tubs full of liverkiller, talk weird bullshit about weirder shit and end the evening by throwing up in your hands and passing out on the floor, than, yeah. You're a drunk."
Dean stops chewing. Stares at Angel. "I did all that last night?"
"No, sir," the kid responds, doing a decent imitation of respect, sounds just like Sam and then kills Dean's slight relief by continuing, "You do that every night."
"Jesus…I'm a drunk. No, I'm a crazy drunk. What the fuck—" Dean stops thinking about it. He can't do anything at the moment, and he's got food in front of him so he falls back on Dad's training. Take advantage of food when you've got it, you never know when you won't. So, he keeps eating, manages to fend off Angel's forays towards his coffee and when he's done, follows a bit of training he should have done first, and scopes out the place he's landed in. Between sips of just barely decent coffee, he sees that the room is more of a hall, long, wide, and looking somewhat like an old time lodge, with its rough wooden walls and timbered ceiling. There's the doors behind him, and another exit on the wall facing him. Transom style windows are set high in the walls. No way he'd be able to get out of them, too narrow. He lets the thought go—it's just an idle observation. They do let in a little more light as the sun moves, and the light reflects off bits of mica in the rough cut stone that makes up the huge fireplace. It's only when he actually looks at the fireplace and the cow's skull hanging on it, that he sees the screen hanging over the skull—a strangely familiar screen even though it's so odd he can't place where he could have seen something like it. It was flat, a dead sort of silvery grey.
The weird looking screen over the fireplace suddenly lights up as Dean's studying it and he jerks back, startled. The silvery surface giving over to eye watering flashes of color until it settles into colorless static. There's a high pitched whine, and then it spits out a long howling roll of sound. The static on the screen crackles, smoothes out into an image of roses. The room groans as one, feet shuffle impatiently, and some of the crowd gets up and walks out.
"Ya, fuck, here comes the inspirational hour. Why've we gotta listen to this shit?" one of the older guys complains. A guy sitting near him, about Dean's age, digs an elbow in his ribs.
"Good to know what the enemy is doing, isn't it? Keep an eye on 'em."
"Maybe, but it's damn borin' programmin'." The room breaks into laughter but Dean's got a feeling what's about to happen is something he's not gonna like. He keeps an eye on the screen. A white crown against a dark green background pops up, along with a blast of some kind of corny, semi-martial music. A pretty girl, with long black hair and a wide smile outlined in red, comes into view as the crown fades out. "A good evening to you, citizen family. Brother Prince greets you and wishes you healthwealth." Her image fades into a video of—
Dean jerks back in his chair, dropping his cup and jostling the cursing kid. "Holy fucking shit…"
The kid drags an old bandana out of somewhere and mops up the spilt coffee. "I know," he mutters. "I hate that asshole too."
One of the other old guys agrees. "Everybody hates that asshole," and then stares grimly into his own coffee cup, tapping the edge with the two fingers remaining on his right hand. Min's dad jerks awake and the look he levels at the picture on the screen makes Dean shudder.
In the bright sunlight, in a beautiful garden, his brother's parading around in a ridiculous white suit, a hotel in the background. He's waving, smiling…Sam's surrounded by black eyed body guards. A buzz builds in Dean's ears, louder and louder, his chest is wrapped around with too tight bands, his vision blurs….
By the time Dean's back in the real world the newscaster or whatever she is, is wrapping up the broadcast. She holds up a piece of parchment, painted with some numbers and a small skull. Rose canes twine in and out of the skull's eyeholes…Dean feels his gut lurch up. He claps a hand over his mouth…gets in a flash of horror-coated memory that she's not holding up parchment. The crowd around him lets out a low groan…a thick crimson drop falls from the 'parchment' and is clearly visible on her white desktop. That circle of blood becomes all Dean can see.
"Proof that they are still among us, still conspiring to bring harm to Brother Prince and War back to the world. When you find someone in the city wearing a symbol like this or this—" and a few different styles of tattoos flash by on the screen, most of them slightly disfigured. Dean recognizes them all and knows that they've been defaced in slight ways to break their power. "—then do your duty. Alive is preferred, but proof of death is also acceptable. Your reward will be the pride in your duty, and rightly so…and of course a fat, healthy check. Brother Prince knows pride only goes so far towards feeding the family." She gives a coquettish wink to the audience and fades again to a picture of Sam, sitting prim and proper on a huge burgundy chair that looks familiar in a very bad way.
"What the fuck is going on? What the hell—Sam?"
"Shut up," the kid hisses and punches Dean in the arm hard enough to make it go numb. The fucking little bitch had Sam's accuracy in hitting the dead spot. "Don’t say his name, you'll bring him up."
"He's my brother, not fucking Voldemort," Dean snaps, rubbing his arm, but deep inside, he shivers...and doesn't say Sam's name aloud again.
Everyone's eyes are on him, assessing, weighing...whatever judgment they reached must have come down on his side. They mostly ignore him again. Except for one fucking jokester who says, "Ah, leave him alone. Don't you know you don't have to worry about him? He's the great Dean Winchester, the one who kept that fucking bastard from ruining the whole planet, The Scapegoat."
Dean narrows his eyes at the old coot and says "What's that mean? So, I'm Dean Winchester—what of it?" and the crowd breaks out into laughter. Dean slams his chair back and comes to his feet, ready to throw punches, but just as he clears the table and the annoying kid tangling up in his way, Min comes rushing out of the kitchen.
"You leave De alone, you hear me? Angel—I told you to look after him."
Dean finds it hard to believe that Angel's squinty little eyes can screw up even tighter. His huge jaw juts out even more with anger, or something. "I am taking care of him," he shouts. "No one else is gonna deal with the crazy sonofa bitch," he says but in a barely audible mumble and Dean, taking in the angry set to Min's mouth that makes her look as scary as her dad, figures the kid isn't completely stupid.
"Well, do something else—get him settled for the night. Get him some liverkiller if you have to." Min searches her pocket and tosses something to Angel that he snatches out of the air with a pleased smile. She pushes her braids back from her face with a very weighty sigh. Behind her, the screen shivers and screeches before settling into an image of the newscaster again. "Oh great," she mutters and hustles off to the kitchen.
"From our Brother Prince in beautiful Dys, a pleasant good night to all our citizen families," the newscaster practically oozes smarm, and the screen blats the stupid shit music again, and goes blank.
"Thank fuck," one of the men says. "Thank fuck we're well out of it or that fucking thing would be going all day and night."
Dean grabs the kid—Angel--by the arm. "Get me out of here, I need to—to—think about stuff."
"Yeah, yeah, stuff—sure you're right." Angel replies and rips his arm out of Dean's grasp. "Min. we’re leaving." He shouts towards the back. Min warns him to be careful and he snorts, loud. "Come on, crazy bastard, let's got get a room somewhere."
"My name's Dean, you little fuck, and I don’t think I want to get a room with you."
"Dean, yeah, yeah, Dean Winchester—you and a shit ton of other crazies," the kid growls. "Look, I don’t give a shit if you don’t want a room with me, bru—shit, smell you, it's no treat for me either. But Min's got some kind of thing for you, and I been elected to be Crazy Wrangler." Angel casts a look back at Min, peering out of the kitchen pass-through and smirks when she turns away.
They end up in a darker part of town, unbelievably even crappier looking then where the shelter had been. The kid stops in front of a house that looks to be on a slight tilt, pulls Dean with him up the stairs of a rickety porch, the wood shrieking with their footsteps. Inside, the place is even less attractive. It smells worse than a ghoul, and someone wasted a perfectly good gallon of dirt colored paint. Seems the place is sort of a boarding house, looks to Dean to be more of a rent by the hour than by the week kind of place…again, nothing he's not used to. Angel bickers with some guy Dean takes to be the landlord, leaves with him after a heated discussion. "I'm gonna go get the room key," he tells Dean. "Wait here."
Dean lets him go with a nod and stands there, tapping his finger against his thigh waiting for Angel to come back with the key. It takes him that long to get it…the dude's desk is right there in what passes for the lobby and they walked past it…his stomach cramps, and he swallows hard. But he doesn't feel bad for what the kid's doing. Not his business. Besides, he's done it himself. But only for Sam whispers in the black empty spaces between memories. Whatever. Whoever the fuck this kid was, he wasn't family, wasn't his responsibility, and he told his fucking, whiny inner crybitch to shut the hell up.
Angel came back alone, wincing a little as his came up the narrow, dark hallway. "Let's go."
He wasn't talking and Dean wasn't asking. It wasn't his damn business and he didn't give a fuck. It was enough he could lay down this night and be halfway safe…shit. He'd figure something out. Fuck. Some way to pay this kid back. He sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. "They got a shower in this dump?"
"The fuck—really? No, really? And y'know, thank god." The kid jiggles the doorknob--cursing and swearing when it won't open right away that he's going to go back down to the lobby and beat the shit out of that lying motherfucker, just wait--before the door pops open.
Dean stamps into the room, scowling. "You…what the fuck, you saying I'm afraid of water or something?" not expecting the reluctant answer he gets.
"Um…you always say the…water turns to blood on your skin. You. You scream a lot. And fight like a—like a—" The kid gives him a sideways glance.
"Like a crazy person," Dean finishes for him. He's sure this conversation can only be improved by throwing up. Something had happened to him, really bad, something more involved than Castiel throwing him…into the future? Or sideways into some freaky alternate universe? He rubs his mouth hard…and Sammy, what's Sammy done?
"Look…if you want to shower, I can get you some clean clothes…"
The little fuck looks so hopeful Dean has to smile. "Yeah, if I can get some, these are ripe—shit, they're rotten. I hate to think what's living in here with me." The look he got back from Angel…it pinched right under his heart. Fucking kid.
"Great, great—grab a shower—back down the hall, there's a couple of showers. All towels and stuff are back there. Soap too. Oh—here." He hunts around in his pocket and drops a couple of what look like silver slugs into Dean's hand—what Min had given him. "There's a paybox, it'll give you soap. Gonna run back to the shelter and be right back. Don't change your mind, okay?"
"Kid!" Dean snaps, and stalks off towards the shower room. Whatever minuscule drab of dignity he's got left, he preserves by not looking back. He can take a shower by himself, he's not nervous, damn it. Not one bit.
He finds the shower room quickly, led on by the scent of damp wood and mildew. "Great, lovely." But then again, he's showered in worse places, worse by far. The room was lit like an operating room, bright harsh lights, green tiled walls and floors. It brought back memories of high school and locker rooms, smelt even worse. Partitions were there to give the illusion of privacy. Looking at the setup, Dean shrugs. Definitely seen worse, at least the showerheads were big. Right inside the entrance was a beat up old vending machine, a lot like the machines he'd grown up with--rest stop magic they'd been, when he was a kid. This one held packets of soap and toothpaste and shaving cream, lady stuff and…condoms and lube. Good to know, he thought. Just in case. He sticks a slug in and gets change and soap. Shrugs and stuffs another in to get condoms. Just in case.
Next to the machine an alcove holds hooks, a bench and a stack of towels and washrags. There's a shelf running the width of it, about chest height for him, a place to put belongings, he guesses. He doesn't bother with the hooks or the shelf, just kicks his boots off and skims off the filthy rags with relief, lets them fall to the floor. The kid comes up right then, arms full of stuff that smells like institutional laundry soap. Looks like jeans and a shirt, underthings and socks. Good. Wearing boots and no socks, not a good idea. Angel's attention is on his bundle, he starts talking before even looking at Dean, obviously enthusiastic at the thought of getting rid of Dean's stench, a plan he's more than on board with.
"Okay. These should fit ya…your boots look okay, we can grab a boot brush here and give 'em a once over, Min'll like that. Now listen De, I'm tellin' ya, you gotta take em off, okay—can't get in the shower with your boots on—oh. Oh. Oh…" He fixes Dean with an open-mouthed stare, his eyes getting wider and wider until he looks like a guppy having a heart attack—flinches when Dean coughs.
"I'm gonna get in the shower, if you’re done with inventory, there."
Kid's cheeks flush an angry red and he stammers, "Fuck you," and throws the clothes down on the bench before storming off.
What set the kid off now? Dean shakes his head. Kids. All bitches at that certain age…he peers after Angel. Kid's probably, what—seventeen? All hormonal and bitchy, just like Sam at that age.
The water pressure was surprisingly decent, better than some motels. The water's warm enough, if not exactly as hot as he liked it, and the soap…, well, it's got a smell like wet paper bags but it lathers pretty good and his skin was crawling and he was so fucking dirty, it was making him gag, so all in all, not bad. He pours the soap powder on the thin rag and scrubs like it's the last he's going to do, and god, he can't help moaning…feels like he hasn't bathed in a million years. It's not long before his skin is starting to turn red, he's scrubbing so hard, but it's so good, just…good to finally feel clean and to be in the shower alone, to wash alone, no one else's hands on him but his own….Dean blinks. What in the fuck was that, he wonders. A little sharp pain zings him between the eyes before fading and it sinks in that some of that pounding he's hearing isn't inside his head—it's Angel beating impatiently on the thin door. "Drop yer junk and get the frick out all ready."
He's toweling down, damp hair curling around his face and down his neck, and the matted beard is dripping wet on his chin when it hits him—sure. "Kid…can I get shaving gear somewhere? I mean, not that shit in the vending machine." The guppy look is back, the kid's actually got his hand over his heart, and looks totally shocked. It takes all of Dean's will power not to kick his ass. "What, god damn it, I want this off, okay? Jesus."
"No, really? Really? I mean—'cause it's gross. And it catches food, believe me, I know this too well." His eyes go back to that irritating squint and he says, mean and snippy, "And maybe you'll even get laid, stop being such a fucking pain in the ass bitch all the time…."
"Shit kid, I could sport this mat and be wearing fucking kleenix boxes on my feet and still get laid."
"Kleenix—what the fuck is a kleenix box…never mind," Kid peered hard at him, a curious, assessing look, "Do you know how that whole fuckin' thing works? Never seen ya even near a bitch."
"Bitch? No wonder you don’t get laid."
"Hey, I never said I wasn't getting laid!"
"You don't have to," Dean smirked.
nine
Author: roxy
Pairings/Characters: Sam/Dean, Dean/Angel, brief Dean/OFC
Rating:NC-17
Word Count: 3866
Spoilers: oblique reference to events in s5
Summary: this is (now) an AU treatment of season five, where Sam doesn't escape his fate and Boy King means just that. Dean once again enters hell to save his brother—not entirely voluntarily. When he returns to the world, everything's changed. He's lost Sam, the new world is difficult to navigate, and he finds himself saddled with an angry young man who elects himself to be Dean's guide.
Notes/Warnings: rape, dubious consent, extreme power imbalance. Some scenes are graphic. Feel free to ask if you'd like more info.
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icon by fragilecat@
a_random_messThen An Angel
Min, as he finds out she's called, has him set the trays down, then sends him back out to the dining room with a huge bowl of soup and a Sam-fist sized chunk of bread. First bite has him moaning, it's that fucking good. Not thin and stretched with water like most shelter cuisine, but thick and full of tender chunks of meat, and thick cuts of vegetable. And screw Sammy, he did so eat veggies from time to time, especially when they were like this, cooked to mush and covered with creamy broth, salty and slightly peppery. It disturbs him a wee bit that he's not sure what the meat is, but his unease is outvoted by his hunger.
Dean's slurping down his second cup of coffee when the doors flies open and a group of young kids come tumbling in.
"Knock off that noise, ya frickin' punks," yells one of the table sitters, and Min comes dashing out. "Finally. Here you go, grab those trays and bus the rest of them tables, Mark. Carlos, you got broom duty-- Fredo, in the kitchen with tha dishes for you, right now. And Angel…you know what to do."
She gets a rapid-fire of disgruntled snorts in reply but Dean can tell none of the kids are really annoyed, except one, a squinty-eyed, gangly thing Dean judges to be almost as tall as he is. He's sporting a pimpled triangle of a head on a skimpy stalk of a neck, all angles and long bones and lots of jaw. The kid's head is shaved but for a long, bleached-blond fringe hanging into his eyes—and laughably, he's got a skimpy ring of fuzz around his mouth that looks like dirt—the some-day-going-to-be beginning of a beard. Min comes up on one side of the kid and slips an arm around him. She pulls him into a hug that's more threat than affection. Kid rolls his eyes and looks resigned to both hug and threat.
"Angel," Min murmurs, but not low enough that Dean can't hear her, "He's feeling pretty good today. Not fighting ghosts…how about you take care of him, and let the other boys help out in the kitchen? And don't let anyone give him anything to drink, y'hear?"
"Why is it always me? Why do I gotta be the one?" the kid complains and Min just shakes her head.
"Because you're the only one he'll listen to, you little shit."
Dean's jaw cramps. "Hey, I'm right here. Mind not talking about me like I'm not?"
The kid looks over and smirks. "Well, well, you are, aren't you? Whatsa matter, not saving the world today? You and your hunter pals, you're all a piece a work."
Min huffs in irritation and smacks the kid hard enough to bounce his head around. "Angel! Show some respect, you pissant little bastard. You talkin' 'bout my dad—a Hunter too, and was in the War." She glances back at a table by the kitchen door, at a white-haired man sitting there. Big arms were crossed over a huge chest, muscles gone to fat with age…he was gently snoring, arms crossed and his chin dipped down resting on that chest.
Angel looks apologetic—or a half decent impression of it. Dean glances back to at Min's dad. The guy was old, and the spitting image of James Earl Jones…even asleep Dean could tell he was no one to fuck with. No wonder Angel looked ready to apologize.
Some of the sitters start cursing the kid, disgruntled mumbling along the line of "we saved your useless asses…we kept you from getting ass-raped by demons, you ungrateful shit…might be eighty, but I can still kick your ass, bitch..."
"Ahh, shut up. If you old farts saw as much action as you claim, you'd be as nuts as old demon killer here. Or drink as much." Angel jerks his chin at Dean and Dean flips the little fuck off.
"Fuck you," Dean says, "if the old guy does go to kick your ass, I'm holding you down." The kid snorts and plops himself down at Dean's table, snags a piece of bread. He watches Dean as he chews, completely confident that Dean won’t knock him off his chair for stealing his food and it makes Dean wonder who the hell this kid thinks he is to him? Dean pulls a piece off the bread left and chews too. They watch each other for a few moments before Dean asks, "So…is that what I do," Dean muses, "I drink?"
"Bru, you're sellin' yourself short—you don't just drink," the kid croons. "You DRINK. A lot."
"I'm a drunk." Dean feels himself out…there's no wanting of it, he doesn't feel the slightest bit of craving, hell, he doesn't give a damn about a drink…but the way everyone reacts to him, like he's some kind of unpredictable nutcase…but a basically harmless one. He's not sure which pisses him off more. Thinking about it makes his head hurt and pisses him off and he does kind of want to slam his fist into someone, anyone…."A drunk."
"Well…" the boy Angel sneers outright now. "If by 'a drunk' you mean you suck down tubs full of liverkiller, talk weird bullshit about weirder shit and end the evening by throwing up in your hands and passing out on the floor, than, yeah. You're a drunk."
Dean stops chewing. Stares at Angel. "I did all that last night?"
"No, sir," the kid responds, doing a decent imitation of respect, sounds just like Sam and then kills Dean's slight relief by continuing, "You do that every night."
"Jesus…I'm a drunk. No, I'm a crazy drunk. What the fuck—" Dean stops thinking about it. He can't do anything at the moment, and he's got food in front of him so he falls back on Dad's training. Take advantage of food when you've got it, you never know when you won't. So, he keeps eating, manages to fend off Angel's forays towards his coffee and when he's done, follows a bit of training he should have done first, and scopes out the place he's landed in. Between sips of just barely decent coffee, he sees that the room is more of a hall, long, wide, and looking somewhat like an old time lodge, with its rough wooden walls and timbered ceiling. There's the doors behind him, and another exit on the wall facing him. Transom style windows are set high in the walls. No way he'd be able to get out of them, too narrow. He lets the thought go—it's just an idle observation. They do let in a little more light as the sun moves, and the light reflects off bits of mica in the rough cut stone that makes up the huge fireplace. It's only when he actually looks at the fireplace and the cow's skull hanging on it, that he sees the screen hanging over the skull—a strangely familiar screen even though it's so odd he can't place where he could have seen something like it. It was flat, a dead sort of silvery grey.
The weird looking screen over the fireplace suddenly lights up as Dean's studying it and he jerks back, startled. The silvery surface giving over to eye watering flashes of color until it settles into colorless static. There's a high pitched whine, and then it spits out a long howling roll of sound. The static on the screen crackles, smoothes out into an image of roses. The room groans as one, feet shuffle impatiently, and some of the crowd gets up and walks out.
"Ya, fuck, here comes the inspirational hour. Why've we gotta listen to this shit?" one of the older guys complains. A guy sitting near him, about Dean's age, digs an elbow in his ribs.
"Good to know what the enemy is doing, isn't it? Keep an eye on 'em."
"Maybe, but it's damn borin' programmin'." The room breaks into laughter but Dean's got a feeling what's about to happen is something he's not gonna like. He keeps an eye on the screen. A white crown against a dark green background pops up, along with a blast of some kind of corny, semi-martial music. A pretty girl, with long black hair and a wide smile outlined in red, comes into view as the crown fades out. "A good evening to you, citizen family. Brother Prince greets you and wishes you healthwealth." Her image fades into a video of—
Dean jerks back in his chair, dropping his cup and jostling the cursing kid. "Holy fucking shit…"
The kid drags an old bandana out of somewhere and mops up the spilt coffee. "I know," he mutters. "I hate that asshole too."
One of the other old guys agrees. "Everybody hates that asshole," and then stares grimly into his own coffee cup, tapping the edge with the two fingers remaining on his right hand. Min's dad jerks awake and the look he levels at the picture on the screen makes Dean shudder.
In the bright sunlight, in a beautiful garden, his brother's parading around in a ridiculous white suit, a hotel in the background. He's waving, smiling…Sam's surrounded by black eyed body guards. A buzz builds in Dean's ears, louder and louder, his chest is wrapped around with too tight bands, his vision blurs….
By the time Dean's back in the real world the newscaster or whatever she is, is wrapping up the broadcast. She holds up a piece of parchment, painted with some numbers and a small skull. Rose canes twine in and out of the skull's eyeholes…Dean feels his gut lurch up. He claps a hand over his mouth…gets in a flash of horror-coated memory that she's not holding up parchment. The crowd around him lets out a low groan…a thick crimson drop falls from the 'parchment' and is clearly visible on her white desktop. That circle of blood becomes all Dean can see.
"Proof that they are still among us, still conspiring to bring harm to Brother Prince and War back to the world. When you find someone in the city wearing a symbol like this or this—" and a few different styles of tattoos flash by on the screen, most of them slightly disfigured. Dean recognizes them all and knows that they've been defaced in slight ways to break their power. "—then do your duty. Alive is preferred, but proof of death is also acceptable. Your reward will be the pride in your duty, and rightly so…and of course a fat, healthy check. Brother Prince knows pride only goes so far towards feeding the family." She gives a coquettish wink to the audience and fades again to a picture of Sam, sitting prim and proper on a huge burgundy chair that looks familiar in a very bad way.
"What the fuck is going on? What the hell—Sam?"
"Shut up," the kid hisses and punches Dean in the arm hard enough to make it go numb. The fucking little bitch had Sam's accuracy in hitting the dead spot. "Don’t say his name, you'll bring him up."
"He's my brother, not fucking Voldemort," Dean snaps, rubbing his arm, but deep inside, he shivers...and doesn't say Sam's name aloud again.
Everyone's eyes are on him, assessing, weighing...whatever judgment they reached must have come down on his side. They mostly ignore him again. Except for one fucking jokester who says, "Ah, leave him alone. Don't you know you don't have to worry about him? He's the great Dean Winchester, the one who kept that fucking bastard from ruining the whole planet, The Scapegoat."
Dean narrows his eyes at the old coot and says "What's that mean? So, I'm Dean Winchester—what of it?" and the crowd breaks out into laughter. Dean slams his chair back and comes to his feet, ready to throw punches, but just as he clears the table and the annoying kid tangling up in his way, Min comes rushing out of the kitchen.
"You leave De alone, you hear me? Angel—I told you to look after him."
Dean finds it hard to believe that Angel's squinty little eyes can screw up even tighter. His huge jaw juts out even more with anger, or something. "I am taking care of him," he shouts. "No one else is gonna deal with the crazy sonofa bitch," he says but in a barely audible mumble and Dean, taking in the angry set to Min's mouth that makes her look as scary as her dad, figures the kid isn't completely stupid.
"Well, do something else—get him settled for the night. Get him some liverkiller if you have to." Min searches her pocket and tosses something to Angel that he snatches out of the air with a pleased smile. She pushes her braids back from her face with a very weighty sigh. Behind her, the screen shivers and screeches before settling into an image of the newscaster again. "Oh great," she mutters and hustles off to the kitchen.
"From our Brother Prince in beautiful Dys, a pleasant good night to all our citizen families," the newscaster practically oozes smarm, and the screen blats the stupid shit music again, and goes blank.
"Thank fuck," one of the men says. "Thank fuck we're well out of it or that fucking thing would be going all day and night."
Dean grabs the kid—Angel--by the arm. "Get me out of here, I need to—to—think about stuff."
"Yeah, yeah, stuff—sure you're right." Angel replies and rips his arm out of Dean's grasp. "Min. we’re leaving." He shouts towards the back. Min warns him to be careful and he snorts, loud. "Come on, crazy bastard, let's got get a room somewhere."
"My name's Dean, you little fuck, and I don’t think I want to get a room with you."
"Dean, yeah, yeah, Dean Winchester—you and a shit ton of other crazies," the kid growls. "Look, I don’t give a shit if you don’t want a room with me, bru—shit, smell you, it's no treat for me either. But Min's got some kind of thing for you, and I been elected to be Crazy Wrangler." Angel casts a look back at Min, peering out of the kitchen pass-through and smirks when she turns away.
They end up in a darker part of town, unbelievably even crappier looking then where the shelter had been. The kid stops in front of a house that looks to be on a slight tilt, pulls Dean with him up the stairs of a rickety porch, the wood shrieking with their footsteps. Inside, the place is even less attractive. It smells worse than a ghoul, and someone wasted a perfectly good gallon of dirt colored paint. Seems the place is sort of a boarding house, looks to Dean to be more of a rent by the hour than by the week kind of place…again, nothing he's not used to. Angel bickers with some guy Dean takes to be the landlord, leaves with him after a heated discussion. "I'm gonna go get the room key," he tells Dean. "Wait here."
Dean lets him go with a nod and stands there, tapping his finger against his thigh waiting for Angel to come back with the key. It takes him that long to get it…the dude's desk is right there in what passes for the lobby and they walked past it…his stomach cramps, and he swallows hard. But he doesn't feel bad for what the kid's doing. Not his business. Besides, he's done it himself. But only for Sam whispers in the black empty spaces between memories. Whatever. Whoever the fuck this kid was, he wasn't family, wasn't his responsibility, and he told his fucking, whiny inner crybitch to shut the hell up.
Angel came back alone, wincing a little as his came up the narrow, dark hallway. "Let's go."
He wasn't talking and Dean wasn't asking. It wasn't his damn business and he didn't give a fuck. It was enough he could lay down this night and be halfway safe…shit. He'd figure something out. Fuck. Some way to pay this kid back. He sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. "They got a shower in this dump?"
"The fuck—really? No, really? And y'know, thank god." The kid jiggles the doorknob--cursing and swearing when it won't open right away that he's going to go back down to the lobby and beat the shit out of that lying motherfucker, just wait--before the door pops open.
Dean stamps into the room, scowling. "You…what the fuck, you saying I'm afraid of water or something?" not expecting the reluctant answer he gets.
"Um…you always say the…water turns to blood on your skin. You. You scream a lot. And fight like a—like a—" The kid gives him a sideways glance.
"Like a crazy person," Dean finishes for him. He's sure this conversation can only be improved by throwing up. Something had happened to him, really bad, something more involved than Castiel throwing him…into the future? Or sideways into some freaky alternate universe? He rubs his mouth hard…and Sammy, what's Sammy done?
"Look…if you want to shower, I can get you some clean clothes…"
The little fuck looks so hopeful Dean has to smile. "Yeah, if I can get some, these are ripe—shit, they're rotten. I hate to think what's living in here with me." The look he got back from Angel…it pinched right under his heart. Fucking kid.
"Great, great—grab a shower—back down the hall, there's a couple of showers. All towels and stuff are back there. Soap too. Oh—here." He hunts around in his pocket and drops a couple of what look like silver slugs into Dean's hand—what Min had given him. "There's a paybox, it'll give you soap. Gonna run back to the shelter and be right back. Don't change your mind, okay?"
"Kid!" Dean snaps, and stalks off towards the shower room. Whatever minuscule drab of dignity he's got left, he preserves by not looking back. He can take a shower by himself, he's not nervous, damn it. Not one bit.
He finds the shower room quickly, led on by the scent of damp wood and mildew. "Great, lovely." But then again, he's showered in worse places, worse by far. The room was lit like an operating room, bright harsh lights, green tiled walls and floors. It brought back memories of high school and locker rooms, smelt even worse. Partitions were there to give the illusion of privacy. Looking at the setup, Dean shrugs. Definitely seen worse, at least the showerheads were big. Right inside the entrance was a beat up old vending machine, a lot like the machines he'd grown up with--rest stop magic they'd been, when he was a kid. This one held packets of soap and toothpaste and shaving cream, lady stuff and…condoms and lube. Good to know, he thought. Just in case. He sticks a slug in and gets change and soap. Shrugs and stuffs another in to get condoms. Just in case.
Next to the machine an alcove holds hooks, a bench and a stack of towels and washrags. There's a shelf running the width of it, about chest height for him, a place to put belongings, he guesses. He doesn't bother with the hooks or the shelf, just kicks his boots off and skims off the filthy rags with relief, lets them fall to the floor. The kid comes up right then, arms full of stuff that smells like institutional laundry soap. Looks like jeans and a shirt, underthings and socks. Good. Wearing boots and no socks, not a good idea. Angel's attention is on his bundle, he starts talking before even looking at Dean, obviously enthusiastic at the thought of getting rid of Dean's stench, a plan he's more than on board with.
"Okay. These should fit ya…your boots look okay, we can grab a boot brush here and give 'em a once over, Min'll like that. Now listen De, I'm tellin' ya, you gotta take em off, okay—can't get in the shower with your boots on—oh. Oh. Oh…" He fixes Dean with an open-mouthed stare, his eyes getting wider and wider until he looks like a guppy having a heart attack—flinches when Dean coughs.
"I'm gonna get in the shower, if you’re done with inventory, there."
Kid's cheeks flush an angry red and he stammers, "Fuck you," and throws the clothes down on the bench before storming off.
What set the kid off now? Dean shakes his head. Kids. All bitches at that certain age…he peers after Angel. Kid's probably, what—seventeen? All hormonal and bitchy, just like Sam at that age.
The water pressure was surprisingly decent, better than some motels. The water's warm enough, if not exactly as hot as he liked it, and the soap…, well, it's got a smell like wet paper bags but it lathers pretty good and his skin was crawling and he was so fucking dirty, it was making him gag, so all in all, not bad. He pours the soap powder on the thin rag and scrubs like it's the last he's going to do, and god, he can't help moaning…feels like he hasn't bathed in a million years. It's not long before his skin is starting to turn red, he's scrubbing so hard, but it's so good, just…good to finally feel clean and to be in the shower alone, to wash alone, no one else's hands on him but his own….Dean blinks. What in the fuck was that, he wonders. A little sharp pain zings him between the eyes before fading and it sinks in that some of that pounding he's hearing isn't inside his head—it's Angel beating impatiently on the thin door. "Drop yer junk and get the frick out all ready."
He's toweling down, damp hair curling around his face and down his neck, and the matted beard is dripping wet on his chin when it hits him—sure. "Kid…can I get shaving gear somewhere? I mean, not that shit in the vending machine." The guppy look is back, the kid's actually got his hand over his heart, and looks totally shocked. It takes all of Dean's will power not to kick his ass. "What, god damn it, I want this off, okay? Jesus."
"No, really? Really? I mean—'cause it's gross. And it catches food, believe me, I know this too well." His eyes go back to that irritating squint and he says, mean and snippy, "And maybe you'll even get laid, stop being such a fucking pain in the ass bitch all the time…."
"Shit kid, I could sport this mat and be wearing fucking kleenix boxes on my feet and still get laid."
"Kleenix—what the fuck is a kleenix box…never mind," Kid peered hard at him, a curious, assessing look, "Do you know how that whole fuckin' thing works? Never seen ya even near a bitch."
"Bitch? No wonder you don’t get laid."
"Hey, I never said I wasn't getting laid!"
"You don't have to," Dean smirked.
nine
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9/2/11 01:10 pm (UTC)