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SpN: Come The Night, 13/?
Title: Come The Night, 13/?
Author: roxy
Pairings/Characters: Sam/Dean, Dean/Angel, brief Dean/OFC
Rating:NC-17
Word Count: 2861
Spoilers: oblique reference to events in s5
Summary: this is (now) an AU treatment of season five, where Sam doesn't escape his fate and Boy King means just that. Dean once again enters hell to save his brother—not entirely voluntarily. When he returns to the world, everything's changed. He's lost Sam, the new world is difficult to navigate, and he finds himself saddled with an angry young man who elects himself to be Dean's guide.
Notes/Warnings: rape, dubious consent, extreme power imbalance. Some scenes are graphic. Feel free to ask if you'd like more info.
one ~ two~ three ~ four ~ five ~six
seven ~ eight ~ nine ~ ten ~ eleven ~ twelve
icon by![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
bussybusbe
It's a digging day, and Dean's sweat-wet and dirty and chest deep in a hole that planned to be an outhouse, when Horse comes up and pops him in the back of the head. "Someone wants to talk to you, someone important," he says.
"Fuck, you asshole," Dean grouses, rubbing the hot spot on the back of his head. "Who's looking for me—'s it Angel?"
"No! You'll see." Horse reaches down, grabs Dean by the wrist and practically lifts him out of the hole like he weighs nothing, then points him towards a cobalt blue tent painted with gold suns and moons. Dean's seen the tent before, figured it was a fortune teller's tent, and avoided it. Looking at it now, he sees that the thing has tripled in size since the last time he's paid it any attention. He raises an eyebrow and makes a mental note to ask Angel what that's all about. Angel knows everything, because people tell the little shit everything. It kills him the way people react to the little fuck like he's a fucking baby cat or something. Only Dean knows there's a mean old rattler under that fluffy exterior. He smiles, no idea how much pride is in that grin….
Halfway to the big ass tent, he's stopped by a quartet of hunters, who check his wrist and the rest of him, seem pretty buzzed by the fact he's got an anti-possession tattoo on his chest. They walk him to the tent and lead him to a room within it.
His boots thunk against a wooden floor underfoot. That's different, he thinks, as are the posts holding up the tent's ceiling—they're kind of unusual. He's jammed a lot of posts in place lately, but none like these—they're carved and stained, parts sheathed in worked silver and what looks like gold—they look a little like Egyptian columns. Thick, tasseled ropes hang here and there, looking more decorative than practical. Lamps hang from the posts, throwing light onto the wide couch taking up quite a bit of the room. Fur rugs and silk coverlets are draped across its wide surface….
Dean can't take his eyes off of it—his eyebrows rising, he whistles--low and impressed, if in a negative way. It reminds him of a couple of days he'd spent snowed-in in Denver with no cable and his only entertainment a book left under the bed, some romance novel. Yeah, the tent looked like whoever lived here'd read the same damn book and really liked it.
He's left alone in the center of the tent, near a stand that holds a bowl and a pitcher, both full of water. The occasional lick of a breeze ruffles the hair on the back of his neck--he looks up to see a wide-bladed fan, sweeping the air around the room. He's surprised to see that despite the oil lamps, it's an electric fan—somewhere there's a generator. "Hunh. Weird…" He'll never get used to the weird mix of technologies.
There's a towel folded over the rim of the bowl, and a little cake of soap. The water in the bowl is faintly steaming. Whoever wants to see him must also want him clean. The whole mysterious bullshit thing is working on his nerves. This better not be some spell-casting bitch's little theater going on here, because he's more than ready to kick some ass—past due. Right now, he could be sitting somewhere with Angel and a cold—semi-cold—beer and fucking relaxing, damn it.
The lamps waver in the breeze of the fan blades, the dark corners twist and jump. With each flutter of the shadows, a creeping feeling of despair tightens his chest. The play of light is uncomfortably familiar and it triggers thoughts and emotions he'd begun to think had faded into ordinary nightmares. This though…he blinks his eyes to flickering flashbacks of Hell and…and glimpses of some horrible, not quite-remembered more.
"Fuck this…" He washes like his life depends on it, trying to distract himself from his circling thoughts, from his pounding heart. It works after a bit—the warm water smells like roses and the cloth is soft against his reddened, tingling, skin.
When he's finished, he carefully pours a glass of mint-scented water, swishes it thoroughly in his mouth and drinks it down—he knows the water's meant to clean his mouth, make his breath more pleasing, he has to please…Dean blinks rapidly, finally recognizes the too tight sensation in his throat and chest as intense, mind-numbing, fear. Pleasing? What the fucking fuck—?
Before he can rip into that thought and dissect it, the fans waft a scent through the air that makes his hair stand on end and his dick give an interested thump. He turns and standing in the door way is one unbelievably hot woman. She's setting off alarms all through his brain but his body is straining towards her before he can even think.
"So, you’re D…something. You came in with an Out Towner, but you're not from the Out Towns. Or the mines, or Chrono, and definitely not Dys, not with that thing on your chest."
Dean takes a couple of deep breaths, settles himself. Damn, he thinks. She's overpowering, so much so that he'd almost suspect that she's a siren or a succubus…but she's human. She's got sliver all over her, in her ears, her nose, she's wearing multiple thin chains and bracelets, iron, silver, jade…not supernatural, just really unbelievably fucking hot. Maybe a little craft going on there too, but nothing harmful, he decides.
"I'm from somewhere else. Not sure how I got here, don’t care. Do you care? Looks like you're running the show here--you've got nothing to fear from me."
"Well, maybe not in the way you’re thinking. I don't know if my heart's safe," she says and splays her hand over her chest.
Dean presses his thumb against his mouth to hide a grin…he kinda likes it when a woman uses cheesy pickup lines on him, he likes a chick with a sense of humor. She smirks, and lays herself out on the couch, wide enough for two people--and all their friends. High enough that she had to step onto it from a footstool or something. Sitting up, she'd be at a real interesting height…a flash of Sam sitting on the end of the couch, smirking and blushing, whips through his mind. He squashes that thought ruthlessly.
"At this point," she says, "you're wondering who I am—or not." The curtains behind her billow suddenly, and Dean's attention jerks to them.
"I'm developing theories," he says, and the curtain jerks again. "Gotta say, from all the restrained activity back behind the curtains there, I'm probably about to plunge in over my head…"
"I'm the one who runs things in these parts—as in the Queen of the Floating City?" she said with a lop-sided grin.
"Ah. Yeah, okay…" fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. "So, over my head…unh…your Highness?"
"Ta-daa," she says. "And I'm bored. And you've got some reason to be on this trek, according to my seers, a hell of a fascinating reason and I want to know why that is."
"Unh, yeah…your Highness, Queen, unless this isn't a voluntary thing, I gotta get back to work." He's not about to talk to anyone about why he's there—no matter how great their tits are.
"Oh, it's voluntary…" she shrugs in a way that widens his eyes. It was a pretty sight and Dean was beginning to feel like it'd been centuries since he'd been anywhere near something like that. A little corner of his mind was yelling at him, but he paid it no mind. "I want you to come see me though…after work. Maybe I can help you…you can definitely help me," she purrs.
Dean kind of grins back. Looks like he's just been signed on to gigolo duty all voluntary-like…sure. Not that it'll be much of a hardship, just—why the hell pick him? What the fuck is so interesting about him?
He's dismissed and back on his way to Angel, dissecting the incident. The bitch was nuts. Dean knew, he talked a decent line of bullshit and there was always some loser who was going to fall for it, but he had no illusions about himself. He'd pulled one--maybe two--great, smart, too good for him chicks in his whole life…plus Sam. Brilliant, hot, sexy, all of them, and all of them with a big blind spot where Dean Winchester was concerned. Cassie came to her senses, Lisa never got a chance to know him well enough to dump him, and Sam…Dean bit his lip. Maybe the thing that was wrong about Sam, was Sam's big brother.
~o0o~
"Dean! Fuck, what a day. Domini, I thought I was going to put a knife through that fuck's head today. Head chef," he explains at Dean's quirked eyebrow. "Spent all day over the spit and hot!—those cook tents are hot. Hey, did I thank you again for saving me from broiling in the sun, thanks a fucking lot, it's so much better drowning in my own sweat."
He's carrying a bulging bag that he drops on a scrounged table pushed against one side of the tent. Jabbers away as he pulls wrapped bread and meat out of the bag, along with some pieces of fruit that he lays on a plate and proceeds to cut soft spots out of. He talks on a bit more before he finally realizes that Dean hasn't said a word, hasn't snagged anything from the table, and wasn't telling him to shut up. He puts down the knife, fixes Dean with his green-brown stare. "What?"
"Ah…Angel, dude…" Dean rubs the back of his neck. "How much longer we gotta stay here? I mean, when's that petition thing starting up? I'd kinda like to leave…soon, y'know…."
When Angel answers him, his voice is heavy with patience, sounds like he's just this side of leading off with 'You idiot'. "Dean. Give a week, maybe more, the petitioners' caravan will be heading to Chronopolis. From there, if we make it through Court, we go to Dys. It's the best way to avoid slavers, demons, pirates—we talked about this. It's the best way. Safest."
"I guess." A part of him rebels against the notion of fearing demons or plain old people—but part of him is reluctant to expose Angel to anything worse than what he's already dealt with…part of him needs to protect him. It irritates the hell out of him, the way this kid has crept under his skin like—like—a damn chigger. "Whatever. What's for dinner, kitchen bitch?"
~o0o~
When he sees the Queen next, it's a strange meeting. Her guard is behind her, and in front of her is a hunched little old woman, holding a tea cup in her hand. It's full of a dark liquid that doesn't look much like tea, or even coffee. She tilts the cup and the fluid thickly coats the sides like blood, or syrup. She's staring into it, so hard that even Dean feels a prick of expectation. After a long couple of breaths she says, "hunh." Looks back at the Queen. "Well, Willa, your Majesty, girl, I couldn't see a damn thing outta this boy 'cept he's come a long way to get here—and he's dangerous as fuck but you can jus' look at his ass and see that." She winks and shuffles past Dean, and in a low harsh whisper meant just for herself and Dean says, "Boy…you come on over Zonda, the Mistress of the Mysteries tent someday soon, hear? Do you one for free."
Dean shudders a bit at the innuendo in her cracked old voice, and channels Sammy's manners. "Yes ma'am, me and my friend will come on over."
"You got a friend?" she says, not sarcastic, just genuinely surprised. "Well. Wonder why I didn’t see that."
After she leaves, and they're alone, Dean asks Willa, Queen of the Floating City, "What the fuck was that about?"
"We had a suspicion, nothing major. Here." She gives him a tall, thick glass shaped like a test tube, and a zippo style lighter. "Warm it a little before you drink. You'll like it."
He hesitates, looks up into her eyes and there's something in them that makes his mouth go dry. He does as she says. He sips and gags a bit—it's truly foul. But he's swallowed worse in his life and just grimaces and finishes it off.
They sit on her couch, talking a bit and then she asks him, "Why are you here, rosebud, and tell me the truth."
Dean thinks it sounds like a wonderful idea, and proceeds to tell her everything he knows, about him, about Sam. About Cas. It's a wild looping tale and he's pretty sure he's leaving out bits and maybe adding bits, getting them confused. She leans forward, eyebrows climbing her forehead the more he speaks. When he finishes, she sits back and stares at him, so long that he tries to give her more, tells her about him and Sam as kids, and how—she stops him with a hand over his mouth. "Yeah, alright now. That's good, D, that's fine…so somehow or another, you were in the thick of something bad. Eh. Demons, angels, I try to keep out of stuff like that, but…" She twists her head to get a good look at him, and Dean smiles up at her. "You know, they say Hell's King will sometimes trade good things for just the right sort of tall, green-eyed boy with a mouth like yours. I wonder what he'd give for one who thinks that he's his brother?"
It's hysterically funny, what she says, and Dean can't stop laughing. Until her hot little hand slides into his pants and wraps around his dick, and then the laughing stops. Everything stops. He's not even aware he's got her wrist in his hand until he hears her voice, low and controlled, matter of fact, "D, you're hurting me. Let go."
Fuck! He snatches his hand back and she smiles, though even fucked up as he is he can see the smile stops right at her lips. "Don’t worry about it. Why don’t you go home and I'll have my boys bring you to see me tomorrow."
"Okay," he nods and his head just keeps bobbing and bobbing. "I had a great time. Can we do this again? I liked that drink—what was it? Can we put chocolate in it next time, it tastes like ass but it feels good wow, I really feel good, how about you?" he asks and this time when she smiles, her whole face is smiling…it reminds him of kids he'd sometimes run into growing up, the ones that liked to step on bugs, cut worms in half…but then she kisses his cheek and she smells so good, and she's warm and soft and everything he didn't know he was missing after years of flat, hard planes under his hands, hard muscle and knots of scar tissue…her skin is like cream, smooth under his hands…there's a tiny, soft voice deep, deep, inside his mind, crying no, no, no….
Dean blinks back tears, it takes too long for him to remember that he's in the tent of the Queen of the Floating City. "I—I gotta go—Angel—"
"Your Boy," she says, a slight bitter flavor to her words. "Sure, you. Go on then. We'll talk." He staggers to his feet and feels her eyes burning on the back of his neck all the way out.
~o0o~
One of the quartet that had led him to the Queen's tent leads him back to the Temporaries' Camp, and somehow he makes it back to his tent. Angel is sitting on one of the bags cross-legged, scarfing down a bowl of something that steams and smells good. He ignores Dean when he walks in.
"Got enough for me?" Dean asks, blinks when the floor starts dancing. "Oh man, are you doing that? Stop it if you are. Wow."
Angel sniffs, wrinkles his face at Dean and says, "Fuck you."
Dean snarls, "You really do remind me of my brother, you little shit. Now gimme." He snatches the bowl and fends Angel off with a hand planted in the middle of his face, chortling as Angel screams some really inventive and nasty things at him. Dean can't help but be impressed.
That night, in his sleep, Angel rolls over Dean and hooks a leg over his curls into a comma and presses his face into Dean's chest. Angel's breath puffs out in warm starts and fits against him, the kid snorts from time to time and rouses Dean from deep sleep, rubbing his nose against his chest. Dean says, "Ew, Sammy," but smiles and sinks right back down to sleep, stroking long paths up and down Angel's back as he drifts off.
He sleeps good, dreamless and wallowing in the feel of safe that night.
14
Author: roxy
Pairings/Characters: Sam/Dean, Dean/Angel, brief Dean/OFC
Rating:NC-17
Word Count: 2861
Spoilers: oblique reference to events in s5
Summary: this is (now) an AU treatment of season five, where Sam doesn't escape his fate and Boy King means just that. Dean once again enters hell to save his brother—not entirely voluntarily. When he returns to the world, everything's changed. He's lost Sam, the new world is difficult to navigate, and he finds himself saddled with an angry young man who elects himself to be Dean's guide.
Notes/Warnings: rape, dubious consent, extreme power imbalance. Some scenes are graphic. Feel free to ask if you'd like more info.
one ~ two~ three ~ four ~ five ~six
seven ~ eight ~ nine ~ ten ~ eleven ~ twelve
icon by
bussybusbeIt's a digging day, and Dean's sweat-wet and dirty and chest deep in a hole that planned to be an outhouse, when Horse comes up and pops him in the back of the head. "Someone wants to talk to you, someone important," he says.
"Fuck, you asshole," Dean grouses, rubbing the hot spot on the back of his head. "Who's looking for me—'s it Angel?"
"No! You'll see." Horse reaches down, grabs Dean by the wrist and practically lifts him out of the hole like he weighs nothing, then points him towards a cobalt blue tent painted with gold suns and moons. Dean's seen the tent before, figured it was a fortune teller's tent, and avoided it. Looking at it now, he sees that the thing has tripled in size since the last time he's paid it any attention. He raises an eyebrow and makes a mental note to ask Angel what that's all about. Angel knows everything, because people tell the little shit everything. It kills him the way people react to the little fuck like he's a fucking baby cat or something. Only Dean knows there's a mean old rattler under that fluffy exterior. He smiles, no idea how much pride is in that grin….
Halfway to the big ass tent, he's stopped by a quartet of hunters, who check his wrist and the rest of him, seem pretty buzzed by the fact he's got an anti-possession tattoo on his chest. They walk him to the tent and lead him to a room within it.
His boots thunk against a wooden floor underfoot. That's different, he thinks, as are the posts holding up the tent's ceiling—they're kind of unusual. He's jammed a lot of posts in place lately, but none like these—they're carved and stained, parts sheathed in worked silver and what looks like gold—they look a little like Egyptian columns. Thick, tasseled ropes hang here and there, looking more decorative than practical. Lamps hang from the posts, throwing light onto the wide couch taking up quite a bit of the room. Fur rugs and silk coverlets are draped across its wide surface….
Dean can't take his eyes off of it—his eyebrows rising, he whistles--low and impressed, if in a negative way. It reminds him of a couple of days he'd spent snowed-in in Denver with no cable and his only entertainment a book left under the bed, some romance novel. Yeah, the tent looked like whoever lived here'd read the same damn book and really liked it.
He's left alone in the center of the tent, near a stand that holds a bowl and a pitcher, both full of water. The occasional lick of a breeze ruffles the hair on the back of his neck--he looks up to see a wide-bladed fan, sweeping the air around the room. He's surprised to see that despite the oil lamps, it's an electric fan—somewhere there's a generator. "Hunh. Weird…" He'll never get used to the weird mix of technologies.
There's a towel folded over the rim of the bowl, and a little cake of soap. The water in the bowl is faintly steaming. Whoever wants to see him must also want him clean. The whole mysterious bullshit thing is working on his nerves. This better not be some spell-casting bitch's little theater going on here, because he's more than ready to kick some ass—past due. Right now, he could be sitting somewhere with Angel and a cold—semi-cold—beer and fucking relaxing, damn it.
The lamps waver in the breeze of the fan blades, the dark corners twist and jump. With each flutter of the shadows, a creeping feeling of despair tightens his chest. The play of light is uncomfortably familiar and it triggers thoughts and emotions he'd begun to think had faded into ordinary nightmares. This though…he blinks his eyes to flickering flashbacks of Hell and…and glimpses of some horrible, not quite-remembered more.
"Fuck this…" He washes like his life depends on it, trying to distract himself from his circling thoughts, from his pounding heart. It works after a bit—the warm water smells like roses and the cloth is soft against his reddened, tingling, skin.
When he's finished, he carefully pours a glass of mint-scented water, swishes it thoroughly in his mouth and drinks it down—he knows the water's meant to clean his mouth, make his breath more pleasing, he has to please…Dean blinks rapidly, finally recognizes the too tight sensation in his throat and chest as intense, mind-numbing, fear. Pleasing? What the fucking fuck—?
Before he can rip into that thought and dissect it, the fans waft a scent through the air that makes his hair stand on end and his dick give an interested thump. He turns and standing in the door way is one unbelievably hot woman. She's setting off alarms all through his brain but his body is straining towards her before he can even think.
"So, you’re D…something. You came in with an Out Towner, but you're not from the Out Towns. Or the mines, or Chrono, and definitely not Dys, not with that thing on your chest."
Dean takes a couple of deep breaths, settles himself. Damn, he thinks. She's overpowering, so much so that he'd almost suspect that she's a siren or a succubus…but she's human. She's got sliver all over her, in her ears, her nose, she's wearing multiple thin chains and bracelets, iron, silver, jade…not supernatural, just really unbelievably fucking hot. Maybe a little craft going on there too, but nothing harmful, he decides.
"I'm from somewhere else. Not sure how I got here, don’t care. Do you care? Looks like you're running the show here--you've got nothing to fear from me."
"Well, maybe not in the way you’re thinking. I don't know if my heart's safe," she says and splays her hand over her chest.
Dean presses his thumb against his mouth to hide a grin…he kinda likes it when a woman uses cheesy pickup lines on him, he likes a chick with a sense of humor. She smirks, and lays herself out on the couch, wide enough for two people--and all their friends. High enough that she had to step onto it from a footstool or something. Sitting up, she'd be at a real interesting height…a flash of Sam sitting on the end of the couch, smirking and blushing, whips through his mind. He squashes that thought ruthlessly.
"At this point," she says, "you're wondering who I am—or not." The curtains behind her billow suddenly, and Dean's attention jerks to them.
"I'm developing theories," he says, and the curtain jerks again. "Gotta say, from all the restrained activity back behind the curtains there, I'm probably about to plunge in over my head…"
"I'm the one who runs things in these parts—as in the Queen of the Floating City?" she said with a lop-sided grin.
"Ah. Yeah, okay…" fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. "So, over my head…unh…your Highness?"
"Ta-daa," she says. "And I'm bored. And you've got some reason to be on this trek, according to my seers, a hell of a fascinating reason and I want to know why that is."
"Unh, yeah…your Highness, Queen, unless this isn't a voluntary thing, I gotta get back to work." He's not about to talk to anyone about why he's there—no matter how great their tits are.
"Oh, it's voluntary…" she shrugs in a way that widens his eyes. It was a pretty sight and Dean was beginning to feel like it'd been centuries since he'd been anywhere near something like that. A little corner of his mind was yelling at him, but he paid it no mind. "I want you to come see me though…after work. Maybe I can help you…you can definitely help me," she purrs.
Dean kind of grins back. Looks like he's just been signed on to gigolo duty all voluntary-like…sure. Not that it'll be much of a hardship, just—why the hell pick him? What the fuck is so interesting about him?
He's dismissed and back on his way to Angel, dissecting the incident. The bitch was nuts. Dean knew, he talked a decent line of bullshit and there was always some loser who was going to fall for it, but he had no illusions about himself. He'd pulled one--maybe two--great, smart, too good for him chicks in his whole life…plus Sam. Brilliant, hot, sexy, all of them, and all of them with a big blind spot where Dean Winchester was concerned. Cassie came to her senses, Lisa never got a chance to know him well enough to dump him, and Sam…Dean bit his lip. Maybe the thing that was wrong about Sam, was Sam's big brother.
"Dean! Fuck, what a day. Domini, I thought I was going to put a knife through that fuck's head today. Head chef," he explains at Dean's quirked eyebrow. "Spent all day over the spit and hot!—those cook tents are hot. Hey, did I thank you again for saving me from broiling in the sun, thanks a fucking lot, it's so much better drowning in my own sweat."
He's carrying a bulging bag that he drops on a scrounged table pushed against one side of the tent. Jabbers away as he pulls wrapped bread and meat out of the bag, along with some pieces of fruit that he lays on a plate and proceeds to cut soft spots out of. He talks on a bit more before he finally realizes that Dean hasn't said a word, hasn't snagged anything from the table, and wasn't telling him to shut up. He puts down the knife, fixes Dean with his green-brown stare. "What?"
"Ah…Angel, dude…" Dean rubs the back of his neck. "How much longer we gotta stay here? I mean, when's that petition thing starting up? I'd kinda like to leave…soon, y'know…."
When Angel answers him, his voice is heavy with patience, sounds like he's just this side of leading off with 'You idiot'. "Dean. Give a week, maybe more, the petitioners' caravan will be heading to Chronopolis. From there, if we make it through Court, we go to Dys. It's the best way to avoid slavers, demons, pirates—we talked about this. It's the best way. Safest."
"I guess." A part of him rebels against the notion of fearing demons or plain old people—but part of him is reluctant to expose Angel to anything worse than what he's already dealt with…part of him needs to protect him. It irritates the hell out of him, the way this kid has crept under his skin like—like—a damn chigger. "Whatever. What's for dinner, kitchen bitch?"
When he sees the Queen next, it's a strange meeting. Her guard is behind her, and in front of her is a hunched little old woman, holding a tea cup in her hand. It's full of a dark liquid that doesn't look much like tea, or even coffee. She tilts the cup and the fluid thickly coats the sides like blood, or syrup. She's staring into it, so hard that even Dean feels a prick of expectation. After a long couple of breaths she says, "hunh." Looks back at the Queen. "Well, Willa, your Majesty, girl, I couldn't see a damn thing outta this boy 'cept he's come a long way to get here—and he's dangerous as fuck but you can jus' look at his ass and see that." She winks and shuffles past Dean, and in a low harsh whisper meant just for herself and Dean says, "Boy…you come on over Zonda, the Mistress of the Mysteries tent someday soon, hear? Do you one for free."
Dean shudders a bit at the innuendo in her cracked old voice, and channels Sammy's manners. "Yes ma'am, me and my friend will come on over."
"You got a friend?" she says, not sarcastic, just genuinely surprised. "Well. Wonder why I didn’t see that."
After she leaves, and they're alone, Dean asks Willa, Queen of the Floating City, "What the fuck was that about?"
"We had a suspicion, nothing major. Here." She gives him a tall, thick glass shaped like a test tube, and a zippo style lighter. "Warm it a little before you drink. You'll like it."
He hesitates, looks up into her eyes and there's something in them that makes his mouth go dry. He does as she says. He sips and gags a bit—it's truly foul. But he's swallowed worse in his life and just grimaces and finishes it off.
They sit on her couch, talking a bit and then she asks him, "Why are you here, rosebud, and tell me the truth."
Dean thinks it sounds like a wonderful idea, and proceeds to tell her everything he knows, about him, about Sam. About Cas. It's a wild looping tale and he's pretty sure he's leaving out bits and maybe adding bits, getting them confused. She leans forward, eyebrows climbing her forehead the more he speaks. When he finishes, she sits back and stares at him, so long that he tries to give her more, tells her about him and Sam as kids, and how—she stops him with a hand over his mouth. "Yeah, alright now. That's good, D, that's fine…so somehow or another, you were in the thick of something bad. Eh. Demons, angels, I try to keep out of stuff like that, but…" She twists her head to get a good look at him, and Dean smiles up at her. "You know, they say Hell's King will sometimes trade good things for just the right sort of tall, green-eyed boy with a mouth like yours. I wonder what he'd give for one who thinks that he's his brother?"
It's hysterically funny, what she says, and Dean can't stop laughing. Until her hot little hand slides into his pants and wraps around his dick, and then the laughing stops. Everything stops. He's not even aware he's got her wrist in his hand until he hears her voice, low and controlled, matter of fact, "D, you're hurting me. Let go."
Fuck! He snatches his hand back and she smiles, though even fucked up as he is he can see the smile stops right at her lips. "Don’t worry about it. Why don’t you go home and I'll have my boys bring you to see me tomorrow."
"Okay," he nods and his head just keeps bobbing and bobbing. "I had a great time. Can we do this again? I liked that drink—what was it? Can we put chocolate in it next time, it tastes like ass but it feels good wow, I really feel good, how about you?" he asks and this time when she smiles, her whole face is smiling…it reminds him of kids he'd sometimes run into growing up, the ones that liked to step on bugs, cut worms in half…but then she kisses his cheek and she smells so good, and she's warm and soft and everything he didn't know he was missing after years of flat, hard planes under his hands, hard muscle and knots of scar tissue…her skin is like cream, smooth under his hands…there's a tiny, soft voice deep, deep, inside his mind, crying no, no, no….
Dean blinks back tears, it takes too long for him to remember that he's in the tent of the Queen of the Floating City. "I—I gotta go—Angel—"
"Your Boy," she says, a slight bitter flavor to her words. "Sure, you. Go on then. We'll talk." He staggers to his feet and feels her eyes burning on the back of his neck all the way out.
One of the quartet that had led him to the Queen's tent leads him back to the Temporaries' Camp, and somehow he makes it back to his tent. Angel is sitting on one of the bags cross-legged, scarfing down a bowl of something that steams and smells good. He ignores Dean when he walks in.
"Got enough for me?" Dean asks, blinks when the floor starts dancing. "Oh man, are you doing that? Stop it if you are. Wow."
Angel sniffs, wrinkles his face at Dean and says, "Fuck you."
Dean snarls, "You really do remind me of my brother, you little shit. Now gimme." He snatches the bowl and fends Angel off with a hand planted in the middle of his face, chortling as Angel screams some really inventive and nasty things at him. Dean can't help but be impressed.
That night, in his sleep, Angel rolls over Dean and hooks a leg over his curls into a comma and presses his face into Dean's chest. Angel's breath puffs out in warm starts and fits against him, the kid snorts from time to time and rouses Dean from deep sleep, rubbing his nose against his chest. Dean says, "Ew, Sammy," but smiles and sinks right back down to sleep, stroking long paths up and down Angel's back as he drifts off.
He sleeps good, dreamless and wallowing in the feel of safe that night.
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(Anonymous) 2011-11-29 05:07 am (UTC)(link)I like her.
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