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Entry tags:
SpN: Come The Night, 12/?
Title: Come The Night
Author: roxy
Pairings/Characters: Sam/Dean, Dean/Angel, brief Dean/OFC
Rating:NC-17
Word Count: 2888
Spoilers: oblique reference to events in s5
Summary: this is (now) an AU treatment of season five, where Sam doesn't escape his fate and Boy King means just that. Dean once again enters hell to save his brother—not entirely voluntarily. When he returns to the world, everything's changed. He's lost Sam, the new world is difficult to navigate, and he finds himself saddled with an angry young man who elects himself to be Dean's guide.
Notes/Warnings: rape, dubious consent, extreme power imbalance. Some scenes are graphic. Feel free to ask if you'd like more info.
one ~ two~ three ~ four ~ five ~six
seven ~ eight ~ nine ~ ten ~ eleven
icon by![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
shalowater
They'd left early the next morning but not before the miner's wives had fed them and made a terrible fuss over Angel—they were carrying a shit ton of food, more than what they'd traded for—plus Dean managed to get a hand-made gun, weirdly similar to the Colt Paterson the monster killer had been made from.
The gun's got a good weight and feel in his hand; he flips it a few times before letting it swing around, the grip lands with a definite smack in his palm. Solid. It's not anything like the ivory handled semi-automatic he loved, but it's a good gun. Makes him feel…dressed again.
Angel tells him he's going to scout ahead a bit, look for a place to settle in and wait for this floating city-marketplace thing he'd told Dean about to make an appearance. Dean's fine with it—there's nothing out here, nothing for miles and miles but the gentle rise and fall of grassy hills, spring green and gold. There's nothing above him but miles of flat sky tinted an intense sapphire blue, unbroken by clouds…Dean runs his fingers over the hairy seed heads of the grass he's standing in, snaps a stem from the waist-high grass and crushes the end between his teeth. A rush of memory hits him as the sharp, bright green taste floods his mouth, of a summer spent somewhere in Idaho. It was a rare time, when Dad was actually around instead of sporadically appearing in their lives, and Sam and he'd spent most of that summer running around like little wild animals—burrowing in the dirt and building forts in the grass, spending all day in the sun, all night on the porch, curled up in Dad's worn sleeping bag and sleeping together like puppies. Dean grinned. Feral children.
A rough cry breaks his reverie and he looks up, for a quick second all he sees are wide, black wings snapping open in the sky before it becomes a hawk swinging around on an updraft. Dean shudders—he's had a lifetime's worth of the sight of giant wings.
It's not long before Angel comes dashing out of the grass and Dean tightens up all over, looks behind him, but the kid is grinning with excitement and Dean can't help but grin back. He's about to ask Angel what was up, when an odd creaking noise breaks the quiet. He hears the creaking noise again, quickly followed by a booming echo so loud it makes him jerk, and Dean yells, “What the fuck is that?”
Angle looks at him, puzzled, before blushing slightly. "Oh wow," he says, and slaps his forehead, "Damn! I forgot I had to tell you about them. Let's go look!"
"Look, look at what?" he growls but Angel's already dashing off in the opposite direction and so Dean follows, and he's got to admit, Angel's excitement is rubbing off—the booming sound he'd head earlier is even louder now, the eerie creaking as well. They run up a gentle hill and Angel comes to such an abrupt stop that Dean runs into him, has to grab his shoulders to keep them both from tumbling over and sees—something amazing. What comes sailing through the ocean of grass is purely impossible. His hands tighten on Angel's shoulder, then slip around him without thought and instead of Angel fighting his grip, he sinks back against Dean, the long, lean, length of him resting on Dean's chest. Angel says, low and full of awe, "Fucking cool, right?"
Dean nods, his chin dips just a bit, and the tip of his nose grazes Angel's shorn scalp. He takes in a deep breath. "Yeah, pretty fucking cool, no doubt."
Through the green, green grass, huge dark shapes sail into view, wooden ships with masts that scrape the sky, topped with acres of canvas, bellied by the wind sweeping through the grass. They're moving slow, probably no faster than a man can run at top speed but now Dean gets what the word ‘majestic’ means.
Ships make noise, lots of it. Ropes creak and wood cracks and booms, wheels rumble and squeak and their metal cladding shrieks. Sails snap in the air--the sound was that of his bed sheets being snapped between Dad and Mom's hands, them laughing, him clapping his hands—tears fill his eyes because shit, the ships are amazing, fantastic, it's pretty fucking glorious and make his chest tight with the wonder of it.
Behind the ships are teams of wagons and smaller vans, that look more like what Dean had been expecting, brightly colored and decorated little houses on wheels. Sprinkled through the crowd are men and women on horseback and just from the way they're moving, Dean can tell they're guards. Good to know.
2
They follow behind the Floating City. Angel says when the caravan and ships settle, they'll catch up—a couple of days should be all it takes and then, they can see about getting attached to one of the crews—the city always hires on workers wherever it stops.
Dean nods. He'd done some work as a roustabout one summer, him and Sam; it can't be too very different.
The first night after seeing the ship, they camp, and keep the fire low, huddle close for warmth. Dean sips some of the powdered coffee Angel made and wishes that Sam were with them, drinking one of those weird coffee abominations he liked. He took in a deep breath, stabbed the fire with a thin branch and started, "Once, me and my brother, we're in this diner right?" Angel raises an eyebrow but keeps silent. "--and he's bitching and complaining about me," Dean goes on, "using my fingers to eat with, right? Now let me ask you—what's wrong with eating a sausage with your fingers, hunh?" Angel shrugs like yeah, nothing's wrong with that.
"Yeah, so he's all bitch, bitch, bitch, and takes his knife and fork to cut up a goddamn sausage patty, the freak—and shoots it across the room. Thing was dry and hard as a hockey puck. Shoulda seen his face when it landed like, two tables down…" Dean's laughing damn hard, as hard as he had that day…it was one hell of a look. No one could top Sam for that.
Angel laughs too, and the more Dean laughs the harder he laughs until they're leaning against each other, wheezing and wet-eyed.
When Dean can catch his breath, he says, "Hey. Thanks."
Angel nods—and leans over, presses his mouth against Dean's. They both inhale—shocked, and confused. Angel squeaks, "Don't hit me—"
Dean leans back, licking his lips and he admits, it wouldn't be hard, to let the kid keep going, to see where kissing leads. He's lonely, he's horny, and Angel, fucking kid…he's got a mouth like silk…more than that, Dean likes him. Likes him a lot but…Sam's out there, somewhere. Maybe he doesn't care anymore—more than likely, Sam doesn't give a flying fuck about his pretty much worthless brother. Yeah, well, fuck that, doesn't matter if Sam cares or not. All that matters is that he find Sam and help him, whatever way that's called for. He can't pull Angel farther into it their shit than he already has. He hasn't forgotten how Sam is about his toys--Dean blinks.
Wow. Hell of a fucked up thought, he tells himself. He's suddenly aware of Angel pulling away from him, and carefully pulls him back. "No hitting, dude, promise. I'm not mad, in fact, I'm flattered, it's just…."
"Yeah, got it," Angel mutters, eyes on his boot toes. "M'sorry. I'm stupid."
"No! You're not. I wish…I just…can't, okay?"
Angel huffs and doesn't speak again. It's not too long after, he's snoring. Dean lays back, pulls Angel under his arm and hopes to fall asleep himself.
~o0o~
They catch up to the City late in the afternoon of the third day, the ships at rest, their crew striking the sails. Dean notes that the guards he'd noticed traveling with the caravans were more than that—they were hunters, and more open about it than the attitudes of the folks in the Out Town would suggest. They're painted, and tattooed and clanking with iron and silver, ivory and jade. And the eyes—there was no mistaking that intense watchfulness verging on paranoia in the eyes. Some of the riders look like they've turned the corner into full-blown nuts, but above that he sees that all of them report to one guy, a stocky, dark-skinned, bald guy on a thick boned horse. The guy waves them over when he catches sight of them.
"Deivoluntaz, brothers. Christe." He squints at them, studying their reaction—running his eyes over the gun tucked in Dean's belt before asking, "Here for work?" The guy's almost as tall as Dean, thicker across the shoulders, shaved bald and tattooed, skin puckered and dimpled with scars.
"Christe," Angel replies. "That we are. Me and my friend here. I'm Angel, he's De."
Dean holds his hand out, "Christe," he says and smiles when the guy squeezes his hand a lot harder than he has to—gives it right back and gets a grin edging on a smirk in return.
"I'm Harold. I'm the Hunter in charge here." He tosses his chin in the general direction of behind him, clanking with the amount of metal he's got stuck in his person. "It's quiet in these parts; guess you picked up on that. Gotta get my girl to fix you up and then you can head on in. Big fat guy about twenty feet tall who you wanna talk to. Horse, that's his name. Ya'll show him your wrists when you get to him."
"My wrist?" Dean says and a beautiful young girl, toffee-colored skin catching his eye, comes sliding up next to him. She tosses back wild black curls with a smirk, and for a crazy second Dean thinks it's Cassie. But no, she's too young—too happy--
Considering the state of the world, he expects the girl to be a psychic, but it appears she's a witch. He covers his discomfort because there's a look in those brown eyes that puts him even more in mind of Cassie—she's no one to be trifled with, this one. She reaches into the painted canvas bag hanging off her shoulder and takes out a small covered pot and a paintbrush. "Roll up your sleeves, guys," she says and takes the cover off the pot, spits into it and stirs it up with the brush. Dean winces just a bit—the paint is thick and warm and slightly tacky against his skin. It's a dark red, almost paste, looks like henna. The brush is short, thick-bristled and pretty uncomfortable as she works the design onto his wrist—it's like getting painted with a stick. She sketches a design that he kind of recognizes--some odd version of a lock-out sigil, definitely's got some extra added something. He can't tell what kind of extra—Sammy'd probably know. He raises an eyebrow at her, considers. Doesn’t feel like it's a wrong thing, so…"Thanks."
"Um-hum." When she does the same to Angel, the kid grimaces at the feel and says, "ew," waving his wrist around until it dries. Dean laughs—he's pretty sure Angel is more annoyed by the girl's smile than her spit.
"Don't touch," she snaps when Dean pokes it. "Let it flake off." Her voice is sharp—commanding; not at all like the smile she gives him. It's a smile that promises delicious things and builds a little warmth in his gut—nice. She nods at the hunter, repacks her tools and walks off; casting Dean a look that underscores the promise of heat she'd given him.
Angel glares at her and at him, and it kind of puts a damper on the little thing maybe building here…whatever. Kid's gonna have to get used to it—Dean likes a long pair of legs and a killer smile, always has.
Harold saunters over. "That—" he points at the henna tattoo—"will burn right through you like a hot slug through butter if you try foul magic, or truck with demons. We're safe here more or less and we aim to stay that way. Nothing says fuck off to a demon like one of these marks, or one of their pet humans' head stuffed with salt, an iron nail or two through the brain pan and the whole mess stuck on a stake, where they can see 'em. You know what I mean?"
"I believe I do," says Dean. "And as far as demons go, can't see nothing wrong with your method of handling of them."
"Good," Harold says. "Let me send you on to Horse—he needs good men…um. Your Boy, can he cook?" He looks over Angel's narrow chest and long gangly limbs, body still waiting for the muscle his frame promises—
Angel scowls at him, his brows screw up and his mouth drops open--Dean can already hear it—Sammy going at full blast against their dad. Been there, got the t-shirt, set it on fire and buried it. "Angel!" he barks and Angel gulps, whips his head towards Dean.
"But, but—he said—"
"Asked if you can cook, is all. You wanna dig ditches in the sun all day or cook?" Dean smiles when Angel's eyes soften…he's a little surprised when Angel just gives in to him.
"Okay then. I'll see you later," Dean says and follows one of the hunters out of the little circle they'd been standing in. The smile Angel gives Dean is a little too much like the witch's for Dean's complete comfort.
Harold snorts. "Firecracker, your Boy. Better keep him close. Lots of people out here'd wanna snap up a treat like that."
Down an alleyway sits a cobbled together mess of vans and tents, a banner stretching across one wall is printed with the legend "riggers". Dean watches the traffic in and out of the odd assortment of tents and nods. It might not have the look of anything he's ever seen before, but the feels the same. This has got to be the offices they hire temp workers out of.
Harold crosses his arms over the pommel of his saddle and gives Dean a sharp, assessing look. "Well, boy, was gonna give ya the spiel 'bout not all the monsters bein' black-eyed, watch yer back--but I c'n see that you had a good dose a' that lesson. Good luck, son. I'll see ya around, no doubt."
Dean watches him ride off, and wonders just what it was the hunter had seen in his eyes.
3
It turns out, Angel's good with people. He's way better than Dean and in fact is as good as Sammy was, Dean discovers. He gets things done in ways Dean never could. Angel negotiates, cajoles, flirts…he convinces people how much it would benefit them to help the two of them, better, he makes the marks think it was their idea to help them all along. He never really lies, and never really tells the truth. Dean admires that about him. Comes to see more and more that the 'kid' is hardly that—he's smart, competent, and grown way beyond his years. He's pretty much Winchester material, Dean decides.
As for life in the caravan, or the Floating City, what the fuck ever they called themselves--well, he likes it pretty much. The work's hard, but it keeps his mind off shit, and he's never shirked hard work. He spends his days doing something he knows well. Digging: holes for outhouses, drainage ditches, for water.
Looking for water with the dowsers the City keeps on retainer is interesting—conflicting. He learned everything he knows about the supernatural from John Winchester and John Winchester pretty much believed that anything not purely human was evil and needed to be destroyed—except Missouri, who for some reason got a pass—
So he's never sure what to think of the dowsers. At first they make his skin crawl, make his fingers twitchy with the need to be curling around a trigger or a knife, but after a while he sees how much worth they have for the City, how really valuable they are. He's not an idiot—he treats them with respect and in turn, they treat him like a ditch digger. Fair enough.
This day, he's been helping set up corrals for the animals that the travelers bring along with them—mostly horses and oxen, some goats, some pigs. The day before he'd been part of a crew that secured the wagons and turned them into shops and homes. The shops were springing up like weeds—clothing, pottery, herbs and spices, furs and material and technology. It's a weird mix of medieval and modern. He watches a program on a palm size TV about just how wonderful Brother Citzen is, how generous. The Boy Prince, Brother, has a hawk on his arm, a big black thing wearing a hood…Dean sprints away, vomits in a garbage can in an alley between the shops. There's a poster glued to the wooden wall above the can…something about vigilance and freedom.
13
Author: roxy
Pairings/Characters: Sam/Dean, Dean/Angel, brief Dean/OFC
Rating:NC-17
Word Count: 2888
Spoilers: oblique reference to events in s5
Summary: this is (now) an AU treatment of season five, where Sam doesn't escape his fate and Boy King means just that. Dean once again enters hell to save his brother—not entirely voluntarily. When he returns to the world, everything's changed. He's lost Sam, the new world is difficult to navigate, and he finds himself saddled with an angry young man who elects himself to be Dean's guide.
Notes/Warnings: rape, dubious consent, extreme power imbalance. Some scenes are graphic. Feel free to ask if you'd like more info.
one ~ two~ three ~ four ~ five ~six
seven ~ eight ~ nine ~ ten ~ eleven
icon by
shalowaterThey'd left early the next morning but not before the miner's wives had fed them and made a terrible fuss over Angel—they were carrying a shit ton of food, more than what they'd traded for—plus Dean managed to get a hand-made gun, weirdly similar to the Colt Paterson the monster killer had been made from.
The gun's got a good weight and feel in his hand; he flips it a few times before letting it swing around, the grip lands with a definite smack in his palm. Solid. It's not anything like the ivory handled semi-automatic he loved, but it's a good gun. Makes him feel…dressed again.
Angel tells him he's going to scout ahead a bit, look for a place to settle in and wait for this floating city-marketplace thing he'd told Dean about to make an appearance. Dean's fine with it—there's nothing out here, nothing for miles and miles but the gentle rise and fall of grassy hills, spring green and gold. There's nothing above him but miles of flat sky tinted an intense sapphire blue, unbroken by clouds…Dean runs his fingers over the hairy seed heads of the grass he's standing in, snaps a stem from the waist-high grass and crushes the end between his teeth. A rush of memory hits him as the sharp, bright green taste floods his mouth, of a summer spent somewhere in Idaho. It was a rare time, when Dad was actually around instead of sporadically appearing in their lives, and Sam and he'd spent most of that summer running around like little wild animals—burrowing in the dirt and building forts in the grass, spending all day in the sun, all night on the porch, curled up in Dad's worn sleeping bag and sleeping together like puppies. Dean grinned. Feral children.
A rough cry breaks his reverie and he looks up, for a quick second all he sees are wide, black wings snapping open in the sky before it becomes a hawk swinging around on an updraft. Dean shudders—he's had a lifetime's worth of the sight of giant wings.
It's not long before Angel comes dashing out of the grass and Dean tightens up all over, looks behind him, but the kid is grinning with excitement and Dean can't help but grin back. He's about to ask Angel what was up, when an odd creaking noise breaks the quiet. He hears the creaking noise again, quickly followed by a booming echo so loud it makes him jerk, and Dean yells, “What the fuck is that?”
Angle looks at him, puzzled, before blushing slightly. "Oh wow," he says, and slaps his forehead, "Damn! I forgot I had to tell you about them. Let's go look!"
"Look, look at what?" he growls but Angel's already dashing off in the opposite direction and so Dean follows, and he's got to admit, Angel's excitement is rubbing off—the booming sound he'd head earlier is even louder now, the eerie creaking as well. They run up a gentle hill and Angel comes to such an abrupt stop that Dean runs into him, has to grab his shoulders to keep them both from tumbling over and sees—something amazing. What comes sailing through the ocean of grass is purely impossible. His hands tighten on Angel's shoulder, then slip around him without thought and instead of Angel fighting his grip, he sinks back against Dean, the long, lean, length of him resting on Dean's chest. Angel says, low and full of awe, "Fucking cool, right?"
Dean nods, his chin dips just a bit, and the tip of his nose grazes Angel's shorn scalp. He takes in a deep breath. "Yeah, pretty fucking cool, no doubt."
Through the green, green grass, huge dark shapes sail into view, wooden ships with masts that scrape the sky, topped with acres of canvas, bellied by the wind sweeping through the grass. They're moving slow, probably no faster than a man can run at top speed but now Dean gets what the word ‘majestic’ means.
Ships make noise, lots of it. Ropes creak and wood cracks and booms, wheels rumble and squeak and their metal cladding shrieks. Sails snap in the air--the sound was that of his bed sheets being snapped between Dad and Mom's hands, them laughing, him clapping his hands—tears fill his eyes because shit, the ships are amazing, fantastic, it's pretty fucking glorious and make his chest tight with the wonder of it.
Behind the ships are teams of wagons and smaller vans, that look more like what Dean had been expecting, brightly colored and decorated little houses on wheels. Sprinkled through the crowd are men and women on horseback and just from the way they're moving, Dean can tell they're guards. Good to know.
They follow behind the Floating City. Angel says when the caravan and ships settle, they'll catch up—a couple of days should be all it takes and then, they can see about getting attached to one of the crews—the city always hires on workers wherever it stops.
Dean nods. He'd done some work as a roustabout one summer, him and Sam; it can't be too very different.
The first night after seeing the ship, they camp, and keep the fire low, huddle close for warmth. Dean sips some of the powdered coffee Angel made and wishes that Sam were with them, drinking one of those weird coffee abominations he liked. He took in a deep breath, stabbed the fire with a thin branch and started, "Once, me and my brother, we're in this diner right?" Angel raises an eyebrow but keeps silent. "--and he's bitching and complaining about me," Dean goes on, "using my fingers to eat with, right? Now let me ask you—what's wrong with eating a sausage with your fingers, hunh?" Angel shrugs like yeah, nothing's wrong with that.
"Yeah, so he's all bitch, bitch, bitch, and takes his knife and fork to cut up a goddamn sausage patty, the freak—and shoots it across the room. Thing was dry and hard as a hockey puck. Shoulda seen his face when it landed like, two tables down…" Dean's laughing damn hard, as hard as he had that day…it was one hell of a look. No one could top Sam for that.
Angel laughs too, and the more Dean laughs the harder he laughs until they're leaning against each other, wheezing and wet-eyed.
When Dean can catch his breath, he says, "Hey. Thanks."
Angel nods—and leans over, presses his mouth against Dean's. They both inhale—shocked, and confused. Angel squeaks, "Don't hit me—"
Dean leans back, licking his lips and he admits, it wouldn't be hard, to let the kid keep going, to see where kissing leads. He's lonely, he's horny, and Angel, fucking kid…he's got a mouth like silk…more than that, Dean likes him. Likes him a lot but…Sam's out there, somewhere. Maybe he doesn't care anymore—more than likely, Sam doesn't give a flying fuck about his pretty much worthless brother. Yeah, well, fuck that, doesn't matter if Sam cares or not. All that matters is that he find Sam and help him, whatever way that's called for. He can't pull Angel farther into it their shit than he already has. He hasn't forgotten how Sam is about his toys--Dean blinks.
Wow. Hell of a fucked up thought, he tells himself. He's suddenly aware of Angel pulling away from him, and carefully pulls him back. "No hitting, dude, promise. I'm not mad, in fact, I'm flattered, it's just…."
"Yeah, got it," Angel mutters, eyes on his boot toes. "M'sorry. I'm stupid."
"No! You're not. I wish…I just…can't, okay?"
Angel huffs and doesn't speak again. It's not too long after, he's snoring. Dean lays back, pulls Angel under his arm and hopes to fall asleep himself.
They catch up to the City late in the afternoon of the third day, the ships at rest, their crew striking the sails. Dean notes that the guards he'd noticed traveling with the caravans were more than that—they were hunters, and more open about it than the attitudes of the folks in the Out Town would suggest. They're painted, and tattooed and clanking with iron and silver, ivory and jade. And the eyes—there was no mistaking that intense watchfulness verging on paranoia in the eyes. Some of the riders look like they've turned the corner into full-blown nuts, but above that he sees that all of them report to one guy, a stocky, dark-skinned, bald guy on a thick boned horse. The guy waves them over when he catches sight of them.
"Deivoluntaz, brothers. Christe." He squints at them, studying their reaction—running his eyes over the gun tucked in Dean's belt before asking, "Here for work?" The guy's almost as tall as Dean, thicker across the shoulders, shaved bald and tattooed, skin puckered and dimpled with scars.
"Christe," Angel replies. "That we are. Me and my friend here. I'm Angel, he's De."
Dean holds his hand out, "Christe," he says and smiles when the guy squeezes his hand a lot harder than he has to—gives it right back and gets a grin edging on a smirk in return.
"I'm Harold. I'm the Hunter in charge here." He tosses his chin in the general direction of behind him, clanking with the amount of metal he's got stuck in his person. "It's quiet in these parts; guess you picked up on that. Gotta get my girl to fix you up and then you can head on in. Big fat guy about twenty feet tall who you wanna talk to. Horse, that's his name. Ya'll show him your wrists when you get to him."
"My wrist?" Dean says and a beautiful young girl, toffee-colored skin catching his eye, comes sliding up next to him. She tosses back wild black curls with a smirk, and for a crazy second Dean thinks it's Cassie. But no, she's too young—too happy--
Considering the state of the world, he expects the girl to be a psychic, but it appears she's a witch. He covers his discomfort because there's a look in those brown eyes that puts him even more in mind of Cassie—she's no one to be trifled with, this one. She reaches into the painted canvas bag hanging off her shoulder and takes out a small covered pot and a paintbrush. "Roll up your sleeves, guys," she says and takes the cover off the pot, spits into it and stirs it up with the brush. Dean winces just a bit—the paint is thick and warm and slightly tacky against his skin. It's a dark red, almost paste, looks like henna. The brush is short, thick-bristled and pretty uncomfortable as she works the design onto his wrist—it's like getting painted with a stick. She sketches a design that he kind of recognizes--some odd version of a lock-out sigil, definitely's got some extra added something. He can't tell what kind of extra—Sammy'd probably know. He raises an eyebrow at her, considers. Doesn’t feel like it's a wrong thing, so…"Thanks."
"Um-hum." When she does the same to Angel, the kid grimaces at the feel and says, "ew," waving his wrist around until it dries. Dean laughs—he's pretty sure Angel is more annoyed by the girl's smile than her spit.
"Don't touch," she snaps when Dean pokes it. "Let it flake off." Her voice is sharp—commanding; not at all like the smile she gives him. It's a smile that promises delicious things and builds a little warmth in his gut—nice. She nods at the hunter, repacks her tools and walks off; casting Dean a look that underscores the promise of heat she'd given him.
Angel glares at her and at him, and it kind of puts a damper on the little thing maybe building here…whatever. Kid's gonna have to get used to it—Dean likes a long pair of legs and a killer smile, always has.
Harold saunters over. "That—" he points at the henna tattoo—"will burn right through you like a hot slug through butter if you try foul magic, or truck with demons. We're safe here more or less and we aim to stay that way. Nothing says fuck off to a demon like one of these marks, or one of their pet humans' head stuffed with salt, an iron nail or two through the brain pan and the whole mess stuck on a stake, where they can see 'em. You know what I mean?"
"I believe I do," says Dean. "And as far as demons go, can't see nothing wrong with your method of handling of them."
"Good," Harold says. "Let me send you on to Horse—he needs good men…um. Your Boy, can he cook?" He looks over Angel's narrow chest and long gangly limbs, body still waiting for the muscle his frame promises—
Angel scowls at him, his brows screw up and his mouth drops open--Dean can already hear it—Sammy going at full blast against their dad. Been there, got the t-shirt, set it on fire and buried it. "Angel!" he barks and Angel gulps, whips his head towards Dean.
"But, but—he said—"
"Asked if you can cook, is all. You wanna dig ditches in the sun all day or cook?" Dean smiles when Angel's eyes soften…he's a little surprised when Angel just gives in to him.
"Okay then. I'll see you later," Dean says and follows one of the hunters out of the little circle they'd been standing in. The smile Angel gives Dean is a little too much like the witch's for Dean's complete comfort.
Harold snorts. "Firecracker, your Boy. Better keep him close. Lots of people out here'd wanna snap up a treat like that."
Down an alleyway sits a cobbled together mess of vans and tents, a banner stretching across one wall is printed with the legend "riggers". Dean watches the traffic in and out of the odd assortment of tents and nods. It might not have the look of anything he's ever seen before, but the feels the same. This has got to be the offices they hire temp workers out of.
Harold crosses his arms over the pommel of his saddle and gives Dean a sharp, assessing look. "Well, boy, was gonna give ya the spiel 'bout not all the monsters bein' black-eyed, watch yer back--but I c'n see that you had a good dose a' that lesson. Good luck, son. I'll see ya around, no doubt."
Dean watches him ride off, and wonders just what it was the hunter had seen in his eyes.
It turns out, Angel's good with people. He's way better than Dean and in fact is as good as Sammy was, Dean discovers. He gets things done in ways Dean never could. Angel negotiates, cajoles, flirts…he convinces people how much it would benefit them to help the two of them, better, he makes the marks think it was their idea to help them all along. He never really lies, and never really tells the truth. Dean admires that about him. Comes to see more and more that the 'kid' is hardly that—he's smart, competent, and grown way beyond his years. He's pretty much Winchester material, Dean decides.
As for life in the caravan, or the Floating City, what the fuck ever they called themselves--well, he likes it pretty much. The work's hard, but it keeps his mind off shit, and he's never shirked hard work. He spends his days doing something he knows well. Digging: holes for outhouses, drainage ditches, for water.
Looking for water with the dowsers the City keeps on retainer is interesting—conflicting. He learned everything he knows about the supernatural from John Winchester and John Winchester pretty much believed that anything not purely human was evil and needed to be destroyed—except Missouri, who for some reason got a pass—
So he's never sure what to think of the dowsers. At first they make his skin crawl, make his fingers twitchy with the need to be curling around a trigger or a knife, but after a while he sees how much worth they have for the City, how really valuable they are. He's not an idiot—he treats them with respect and in turn, they treat him like a ditch digger. Fair enough.
This day, he's been helping set up corrals for the animals that the travelers bring along with them—mostly horses and oxen, some goats, some pigs. The day before he'd been part of a crew that secured the wagons and turned them into shops and homes. The shops were springing up like weeds—clothing, pottery, herbs and spices, furs and material and technology. It's a weird mix of medieval and modern. He watches a program on a palm size TV about just how wonderful Brother Citzen is, how generous. The Boy Prince, Brother, has a hawk on his arm, a big black thing wearing a hood…Dean sprints away, vomits in a garbage can in an alley between the shops. There's a poster glued to the wooden wall above the can…something about vigilance and freedom.
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