Solace
Title: Solace
Rating: M for Language
Genre: Roswell/Supernatural Crossover
Series: Standalone
Spoilers: All of Roswell; Season Two - In My Time of Dying of Supernatural
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Summary: A job goes awry, and Dean numbs the pain.
********
His eyes flicked up when the bench across from him was taken, but only barely. Long enough to register a modest rack and the word ‘Red’s’ in glittering crimson stretched across a white background. The waitress. She had been eyeballing him the whole night, and, if he’d been in any other mood, he would’ve worked it to his advantage, but as it was…
“Unless you’re here to give me a blowjob…” He paused, swallowing the last of his beer and grimacing at the warm, bitter dregs. “I suggest you find better company.”
“But you’re my only customer.”
Her voice was husky, colored by the nature of her job-shouting over the noise and smoke. Dean ignored the warmth it inspired, the pulse that began to pounding in his veins. He’d stopped in to drown his problems, not pick up tail.
“Amscray.”
The bench squelched as she shifted positions, shifted, but did not leave. Dean peered at her through the smudged glass of his empty pint. She was distorted, features wide, face a blur. He had barely noted her earlier, too intent on alcoholic numbness. Curves and a nice ass. Short skirt and a tight tank. What else was there for him to see? Just another girl in another town; it got old after a while.
“Parker.”
A male voice, it barked from the vicinity of the bar. Dean glanced at the man, sizing him up by rote. Tall, lean but muscled, his eyelids were narrow, his lips a tight, whitish line. He could take him, but there would be no edge. He was fairly certain they were evenly matched and any battle would end bloody on both sides.
“Your boyfriend’s calling you.”
The image wavered behind the glass, dark taking the place of pale flesh. Dean lowered his empty drink, dropping it dully to the table. She wasn’t looking at him, was glowering at the man leaning on the counter. He gazed wearily between the two, recognizing some unspoken conversation playing out by the subtle movements of muscles in their faces. A sigh passed from his lips, and he reached for his wallet, not wanting to be in the middle of a lover’s quarrel. He was dropping some bills on the table when the woman’s attention returned to him.
Eyes bored into him and Dean tried to look away, to complete the escape route he had initiated, but he couldn’t move. He was too tired, too mentally drained. Sam had nearly died, and it had been his fault. HIS fault. He thought maybe, just maybe, he deserved to have the girl’s boyfriend beat the shit out of him. Pain for pain. Bruise for bruise. Blood for blood. Justice.
“Michael?” She shrugged, her hair cascading around her face. Dark, like chocolate. “He’s not my boyfriend.”
Dean smirked; it was automatic. One analysis and he had known their relationship. “But you are fucking him.”
It wasn’t a question. Body language, attitude, the intense possessive vibes emanating from the man-it was obvious to anyone who knew where to look. Dean excelled in finding unattached women. If they weren’t fucking, they weren’t far from it. It was territory he seldom tread. The outcome was too unpredictable and he’d lost a few too many favorite jackets scrambling to escape jealous lovers.
“Of course.”
The smile that cracked her lips was genuine; the sparkle that entered her eyes giving away too much information. They had sex, frequently, and the man was good. Very good. Dean shifted uncomfortably, letting his gaze drop to his fingers splayed across the sticky tabletop. He wasn’t drunk enough for whatever game the girl was playing. Wasn’t drunk at all, actually.
“And that doesn’t make him your boyfriend?”
There was no curiosity to his question, only a need to fill the space. If they were talking, it distracted, kept him from plotting worst-case scenarios. Though he wondered if he should exacerbate the situation, quicken it. The intelligent plan would involve a hasty retreat, slamming doors, and tires squealing on asphalt. But he wasn’t feeling particularly smart.
“No.” He heard the irritation, but did not get a visual verification. “Apparently, being your dead brother’s wife merits a good fuck but no permanent attachment.”
Bitterness, she was rife with it, the tension seething and bubbling beneath her skin. It would take little to set her off, to learn the whole sordid tale, but Dean wasn’t interested. Her problems were hers. Not his. He would not make himself available as her savior. He’d had too much salvation on other people’s accounts. What he wanted right then, more than anything, was to be selfish and wallow in his misery. Alone.
“Did you want something?”
He barked the words and they came out much harsher than he’d planned, but he didn’t regret his tone. She was inconveniencing him, striking up a conversation when all he wanted to do was get blitzed and maybe drive his car into a tree. Sammy, he’d nearly gotten Sammy killed.
“It wasn’t your fault.”
A hand touched his, and Dean jerked away. His heart skittered in his chest, air rushing in a torrent from his lips. He stared at the woman, studying her more intently than before. Her face was smooth, but troubled, worry lines crinkling her mouth and eyes. She did not look at him, but past him, her gaze locked somewhere over his shoulder. There was a weight in her dark eyes, sadness and failure.
“What the fuck do you know?”
Dean scuttled from the booth, but halted when a hand claimed his wrist. He hung suspended from the edge of the bench, legs dangling, feet not quite touching the floor. If he tugged, he could escape, but it would be ungraceful and childish. He sucked in a deep breath of air and settled back into his seat.
Eyelids shut, the woman exhaled and released his arm. “I know a hell of a lot more than I ever asked to.”
He hesitated, but his curiosity had been piqued. She screamed sincerity-from the expression on her face to the breathily muttered answer. No explanation had been offered, but she had one. Dean was suspicious. She hinted at knowledge no one else should possess. She hinted she was aware of the accident that had caused him to seek refuge.
“Your brother… It wasn’t your fault.” She sighed and he averted his eyes. “You stopped the Barghest.”
More than hinted, that was a direct reference. Dean stopped breathing, a mass lodging in his throat. Barghest, demon dog-the girl knew his profession, knew the details of Sam’s wounds, knew at least a little of what transpired the previous night. It was unsettling to find someone who held so much information about him when he knew nothing about her. She was a mystery, a dangerous one.
“You don’t know anything about my brother.” Dean leaned over the table, his body a tight, threatening bundle of nerve and muscle. “You don’t even know I have a brother.”
For the woman’s part, she didn’t flinch or indicate fear. She stared at him unrepentantly, a silent acknowledgement of his distrust flashing in her eyes. It eased him more than it should, observing that acceptance flickering in the dark black wells. She had come to him knowing disbelief and anger would result, but she had come regardless. The offer was comfort not taunts, but Dean was too unfamiliar with the concept to trust it.
“I do too.” She smiled, a sad quirking of lips with no true amusement. “I saw what happened.”
I saw what happened. The phrase echoed in Dean’s head, reverberating until it became a high whine of sound. It implied she had been there, had seen he and his brother take on the Barghest. Impossible. He would have known.
“I didn’t see you.”
She paused, and Dean could read the debate plaguing her thoughts. How much to reveal? He felt her answer, knew that she’d already gone much farther than she was comfortable. Discomfited, but she had approached him, had offered up sympathy and facts. There were secrets involved, hazardous ones, and she wanted him aware of them.
After a moment, her face cleared, determination lighting every contour of flesh. “We take great pains not to be seen.”
Dean frowned. “We?”
“Me.” She sighed, eyes canting to the left. “Michael.”
Her. The bartender. They had been at the site, hidden in the dense foliage. They had watched the Barghest attack his brother, had watched it shred Sam’s flesh and rip at his abdomen. They had watched Dean’s gun click empty, had watched as he drew the demon’s attention away from Sam. They had watched everything. They had watched…
“Why didn’t you help?” His throat was raw, the words a scream. “Why didn’t you stop it? What the hell were you doing?” Dean grabbed her shoulders, shook them. “Having a quickie while my brother--?”
A hand forced him away, fist landing on his jaw, jarring his grip. Dean flew backwards, his head smacking the wall. He tried to breathe but couldn’t. A band of iron clamped around his throat, made swallowing difficult, inhalation impossible. His vision was fuzzy, sensation untrustworthy, but he knew the pressure, knew it by the hard fingertips and sweaty palms.
The force eased, air returning to his lungs, his brain. Dean glared at the man pinioning him to his seat, at the hand still wrapped around his neck. Michael, the bartender, the girl’s not-a-boyfriend fuckbuddy. He might not acknowledge his feelings for the girl, but it was obvious to Dean. Fuck with her, hurt her, and Dean would die.
Michael’s eyes glittered with warning, his cheeks a blotchy crimson. “Who says we didn’t?”
He choked on a breath, unheeding of any danger the man presented him. His lips curled wickedly and he licked at the dry flesh. “Fuck?”
Pressure tightened in the smallest of increments, then retreated entirely. Michael dropped his hand, leaning his weight onto the tabletop. His head drooped, long hair spilling over his face. “Help.”
“Yeah. Right.” Dean snorted, and brought his fingers up to his neck. He rubbed at the skin, found it bruised and tender. Michael had not endeared himself; Dean would hurt him if he got the chance. “I’m pretty sure I would’ve noticed if there’d been-“
“You were supposed to die.”
Quiet, Dean wasn’t certain of the words. One glance at the woman across the table and all doubt evaporated. A tear trickled from her eye, sliding over her cheek, spilling onto the table’s surface. Her sorrow was palpable; he felt it in the marrow of his bones. Their gazes collided, and she held him there, trapped in the shimmering darkness of her irises.
“Me?”
A part of him melted, falling into the peace she proffered. She gave absolution with her eyes, took away the pain and replaced it with the numbness he’d been seeking. Distance, objectivity; she had seen and passed judgment, had deemed him guilt free and innocent.
“Both of you.” She looked at Michael, folded her fingers around the larger fist pressing into the worn table. “We did what we could.”
We did what we could. She stated more implications with no verifiable evidence. Sam should be dead. HE should be dead. Dean wanted to accept the admission as a lie, but could not. The woman was too sincere, her story ringing too true. He had witnessed odder things in the course of his life, more peculiar than strangers saving his life. Hell, his entire career was devoted to rescuing people he did not know from things they could not understand. Still, he sensed there was more to the answer, that she wasn’t telling him everything.
Dean’s brow furrowed, his eyelashes filling his vision. “How can you know that?”
She looked puzzled, her lips twisted and nose scrunched. “What?”
Michael retained silence, and, for that, Dean was grateful. “That we would have died.”
“Doing what you do…” She paused, her hands spreading wide then falling into her lap. “…your brother being what he is, and you have to ask that question?”
Supernatural means, who would’ve guessed it? Right, very little in Dean’s life was normal or obeyed the rules of physics. The fact that he had stumbled upon two people who were different shouldn’t surprise him, and it didn’t. It was the only explanation, really, that the woman would have otherworldly talents.
“Yes.”
Lines wrinkled the corners of her eyes, her mouth. “Anyone ever tell you that you’re a pain in the ass?”
“It comes up on occasion.” A smirk tugged at Dean’s lips, but he restrained it. “You haven’t answered my question.”
“Hadn’t exactly planned to.” She twitched, a series of small movements that quivered through her body. “Figured with all those brains, you could do it on your own.”
Dean pursed his lips, but held his tongue. Instinct told him to lash out at the woman, throw some mean and degrading barbs her way, but he was intelligent enough to recognize how counterproductive such an action would be. The woman wouldn’t take kindly to verbal abuse, and the man would feel fit to maintain her honor. Instead, he watched the two strangers, observed their eyes collide, the silent conversation playing between them. Twice he’d seen them ‘talk’ that way, and twice it was just as eerie. They had spent a lot of time together, and knew each other well. In sync, they functioned as a team, not individuals. Like him and Sam amplified tenfold.
“Yeah, well…” The silence was broken, but her words were light and hesitant. “Your brother and I have some things in common.”
Michael watched Dean intently; he could feel the gaze heating his flesh, making his skin crawl. Dean only had eyes for the woman, though, her secret was forthcoming; he merely had to wait it out.
Of course, he’d never been particularly patient.
Scowling, Dean drummed his fingers on the table. “You’re both annoying and vague?”
Laughter trickled from Michael’s lips, and Dean’s gaze swung to him. The sound stiffened the woman’s back, and her eyes narrowed, nostrils flaring. It was a joke he was missing, but he was content to do so. Michael was invoking her wrath; Dean had no wish of transferring it to himself.
“No, Jackass.” She huffed, and blew heavily from her mouth. “We both have visions of the future.”
“Oh.” Simple, Dean accepted it without argument. If he had been on his game, he would have considered it earlier. “So you knew where to be, but-“
“Didn’t get there in time.”
Quiet settled over the table, regret and memory finding too comfortable a home in Dean’s brain. He and Sam had been too late too many times. Having knowledge was great and wonderful, but when it failed worthlessness and anger set in. It was especially hard for Sammy; he had the visions, he felt the deaths. Every time they were unsuccessful, he took it personally. For Dean, it was easier to shake off, but he never did, not entirely. One more person he couldn’t save. One more display of weakness and disappointment.
He could not blame the strangers across from him for Sammy’s injuries. It could have been worse. Much worse.
Dean’s head bowed, but he kept his eyes locked with the woman’s. “I owe you an apology.”
“No.” She shrugged, and shook her head. “You don’t.”
His forehead crinkled, his teeth grinding. Apologies were seldom heard from Dean, he would not let her dismiss one so real and grateful. He planned to argue, but she cut him off.
“I didn’t expect a warm reaction. It’s not why I approached you.”
Her eyes glazed, became hard. Dean realized, in that moment, that she expected nothing from anyone. Disenchantment, harsh reaction, denial-it shined in her dark irises. Life had let her down. People had let her down. She was alone in her talents, in her curse, and she had long ago accepted it. Like Cassandra, she was never believed, sentenced to watch events unfold, their consequences rain down around her. Gratification was unessential. She did what she did because she could not live with herself otherwise.
“Then why did you?” Dean wet his lips, swallowed hard. “It wasn’t for sex.”
A growl sounded to Dean’s side, a deep vibration of masculine ownership. He hadn’t intended the comment to be so crude; it had been factual. Women did not approach him with thoughts less than bedding him for a night or two. Seldom, but not uncommon, was the woman who wanted to hire him, sometimes kill him. Friendship or help were unique, nearly unheard-of. He didn’t know how to classify the stranger, but he didn’t want to piss off her partner.
The growl tapered to a purr. Dean noted the soft stroking of the woman’s fingers across Michael’s skin, the flush filling his pale cheeks. His eyes were riveted on his lover, his profile bared. The feelings he had guarded feebly throughout the dialogue were exposed. Dean shifted uncomfortably, veering his gaze in another direction. To watch them was too intimate, too intrusive. Love, it spilled from every pore, radiating like some live, hot energy. It licked and burned; it devoured. He had never experienced something so total, so real.
“I can help your brother.”
The voice cut through Dean’s thoughts, and he severed all ties to them. Reflection brought pain, he felt too intensely already.
“Teach him to control the visions.”
Dean balled his hands into fists and slammed them to the table. Kindness occurred, but he never trusted it, knew it did not come without a trade. The only question on his mind was the cost-Sam needed help, but could they afford it?
“And what do you want in return?”
The man answered, his voice steely and gruff. “A ride.”
Easy. They had given rides to less identified persons.
“Where?”
Michael smiled, and Dean knew he wouldn’t like the answer. “Don’t know yet.”
It was not as easy as he had originally hoped. The two could be with him and Sam for days or weeks or even months. To pickup hitchhikers was one thing, to pick up a couple bumming around the United States was another. They would be together night and day. They would face the same risks. They would have to learn to work together. He would be putting him and Sammy’s lives in their hands. His, he would risk in a heartbeat if it meant finding some solace for his brother, but Sam…
“You can do this?” He grimaced, squeezing his lips into a tight bow. “Help Sammy?”
No indecision. She was confident. “Yes.”
Her confidence Dean believed. There was another, more important issue that troubled him. “I don’t trust you.”
“We know.” They shared a glance. “It’s not a problem.”
“It is for me.” Dean exhaled slowly, shakily. “He’s all I have.”
Nude. He had been stripped many times, by many hands, but he had never felt it so deeply. It was exposure, sharing that tiny insight into his soul. Dangerous. Fully clothed and he felt more raw and naked than any time in his past.
“I won’t hurt him.” She spoke softly, her hand leaving her lover’s to graze Dean’s knuckle. “Michael won’t either. That’s not how we work.”
The touch grounded him, made the air flow into his lungs. It was real; they were real. Dean had made a decision; they were coming with him. Sam was all that mattered, and if the woman could aid him in anyway, it was worth the peril.
“You have names?”
She breathed more freely, a grin lighting every feature of her face. “Liz. Michael.”
Dean frowned, reflecting on an earlier appellation. “He called you Parker.”
“And he’d be the only one allowed that informality.” She chewed her lip, and glared at Michael. “You’ll call me Liz.”
She held out her hand. “And you are?”
“Dean.” He stared at the small hand, and then took it in his larger grip. “Winchester.”
--------
The End
Rating: M for Language
Genre: Roswell/Supernatural Crossover
Series: Standalone
Spoilers: All of Roswell; Season Two - In My Time of Dying of Supernatural
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Summary: A job goes awry, and Dean numbs the pain.
********
His eyes flicked up when the bench across from him was taken, but only barely. Long enough to register a modest rack and the word ‘Red’s’ in glittering crimson stretched across a white background. The waitress. She had been eyeballing him the whole night, and, if he’d been in any other mood, he would’ve worked it to his advantage, but as it was…
“Unless you’re here to give me a blowjob…” He paused, swallowing the last of his beer and grimacing at the warm, bitter dregs. “I suggest you find better company.”
“But you’re my only customer.”
Her voice was husky, colored by the nature of her job-shouting over the noise and smoke. Dean ignored the warmth it inspired, the pulse that began to pounding in his veins. He’d stopped in to drown his problems, not pick up tail.
“Amscray.”
The bench squelched as she shifted positions, shifted, but did not leave. Dean peered at her through the smudged glass of his empty pint. She was distorted, features wide, face a blur. He had barely noted her earlier, too intent on alcoholic numbness. Curves and a nice ass. Short skirt and a tight tank. What else was there for him to see? Just another girl in another town; it got old after a while.
“Parker.”
A male voice, it barked from the vicinity of the bar. Dean glanced at the man, sizing him up by rote. Tall, lean but muscled, his eyelids were narrow, his lips a tight, whitish line. He could take him, but there would be no edge. He was fairly certain they were evenly matched and any battle would end bloody on both sides.
“Your boyfriend’s calling you.”
The image wavered behind the glass, dark taking the place of pale flesh. Dean lowered his empty drink, dropping it dully to the table. She wasn’t looking at him, was glowering at the man leaning on the counter. He gazed wearily between the two, recognizing some unspoken conversation playing out by the subtle movements of muscles in their faces. A sigh passed from his lips, and he reached for his wallet, not wanting to be in the middle of a lover’s quarrel. He was dropping some bills on the table when the woman’s attention returned to him.
Eyes bored into him and Dean tried to look away, to complete the escape route he had initiated, but he couldn’t move. He was too tired, too mentally drained. Sam had nearly died, and it had been his fault. HIS fault. He thought maybe, just maybe, he deserved to have the girl’s boyfriend beat the shit out of him. Pain for pain. Bruise for bruise. Blood for blood. Justice.
“Michael?” She shrugged, her hair cascading around her face. Dark, like chocolate. “He’s not my boyfriend.”
Dean smirked; it was automatic. One analysis and he had known their relationship. “But you are fucking him.”
It wasn’t a question. Body language, attitude, the intense possessive vibes emanating from the man-it was obvious to anyone who knew where to look. Dean excelled in finding unattached women. If they weren’t fucking, they weren’t far from it. It was territory he seldom tread. The outcome was too unpredictable and he’d lost a few too many favorite jackets scrambling to escape jealous lovers.
“Of course.”
The smile that cracked her lips was genuine; the sparkle that entered her eyes giving away too much information. They had sex, frequently, and the man was good. Very good. Dean shifted uncomfortably, letting his gaze drop to his fingers splayed across the sticky tabletop. He wasn’t drunk enough for whatever game the girl was playing. Wasn’t drunk at all, actually.
“And that doesn’t make him your boyfriend?”
There was no curiosity to his question, only a need to fill the space. If they were talking, it distracted, kept him from plotting worst-case scenarios. Though he wondered if he should exacerbate the situation, quicken it. The intelligent plan would involve a hasty retreat, slamming doors, and tires squealing on asphalt. But he wasn’t feeling particularly smart.
“No.” He heard the irritation, but did not get a visual verification. “Apparently, being your dead brother’s wife merits a good fuck but no permanent attachment.”
Bitterness, she was rife with it, the tension seething and bubbling beneath her skin. It would take little to set her off, to learn the whole sordid tale, but Dean wasn’t interested. Her problems were hers. Not his. He would not make himself available as her savior. He’d had too much salvation on other people’s accounts. What he wanted right then, more than anything, was to be selfish and wallow in his misery. Alone.
“Did you want something?”
He barked the words and they came out much harsher than he’d planned, but he didn’t regret his tone. She was inconveniencing him, striking up a conversation when all he wanted to do was get blitzed and maybe drive his car into a tree. Sammy, he’d nearly gotten Sammy killed.
“It wasn’t your fault.”
A hand touched his, and Dean jerked away. His heart skittered in his chest, air rushing in a torrent from his lips. He stared at the woman, studying her more intently than before. Her face was smooth, but troubled, worry lines crinkling her mouth and eyes. She did not look at him, but past him, her gaze locked somewhere over his shoulder. There was a weight in her dark eyes, sadness and failure.
“What the fuck do you know?”
Dean scuttled from the booth, but halted when a hand claimed his wrist. He hung suspended from the edge of the bench, legs dangling, feet not quite touching the floor. If he tugged, he could escape, but it would be ungraceful and childish. He sucked in a deep breath of air and settled back into his seat.
Eyelids shut, the woman exhaled and released his arm. “I know a hell of a lot more than I ever asked to.”
He hesitated, but his curiosity had been piqued. She screamed sincerity-from the expression on her face to the breathily muttered answer. No explanation had been offered, but she had one. Dean was suspicious. She hinted at knowledge no one else should possess. She hinted she was aware of the accident that had caused him to seek refuge.
“Your brother… It wasn’t your fault.” She sighed and he averted his eyes. “You stopped the Barghest.”
More than hinted, that was a direct reference. Dean stopped breathing, a mass lodging in his throat. Barghest, demon dog-the girl knew his profession, knew the details of Sam’s wounds, knew at least a little of what transpired the previous night. It was unsettling to find someone who held so much information about him when he knew nothing about her. She was a mystery, a dangerous one.
“You don’t know anything about my brother.” Dean leaned over the table, his body a tight, threatening bundle of nerve and muscle. “You don’t even know I have a brother.”
For the woman’s part, she didn’t flinch or indicate fear. She stared at him unrepentantly, a silent acknowledgement of his distrust flashing in her eyes. It eased him more than it should, observing that acceptance flickering in the dark black wells. She had come to him knowing disbelief and anger would result, but she had come regardless. The offer was comfort not taunts, but Dean was too unfamiliar with the concept to trust it.
“I do too.” She smiled, a sad quirking of lips with no true amusement. “I saw what happened.”
I saw what happened. The phrase echoed in Dean’s head, reverberating until it became a high whine of sound. It implied she had been there, had seen he and his brother take on the Barghest. Impossible. He would have known.
“I didn’t see you.”
She paused, and Dean could read the debate plaguing her thoughts. How much to reveal? He felt her answer, knew that she’d already gone much farther than she was comfortable. Discomfited, but she had approached him, had offered up sympathy and facts. There were secrets involved, hazardous ones, and she wanted him aware of them.
After a moment, her face cleared, determination lighting every contour of flesh. “We take great pains not to be seen.”
Dean frowned. “We?”
“Me.” She sighed, eyes canting to the left. “Michael.”
Her. The bartender. They had been at the site, hidden in the dense foliage. They had watched the Barghest attack his brother, had watched it shred Sam’s flesh and rip at his abdomen. They had watched Dean’s gun click empty, had watched as he drew the demon’s attention away from Sam. They had watched everything. They had watched…
“Why didn’t you help?” His throat was raw, the words a scream. “Why didn’t you stop it? What the hell were you doing?” Dean grabbed her shoulders, shook them. “Having a quickie while my brother--?”
A hand forced him away, fist landing on his jaw, jarring his grip. Dean flew backwards, his head smacking the wall. He tried to breathe but couldn’t. A band of iron clamped around his throat, made swallowing difficult, inhalation impossible. His vision was fuzzy, sensation untrustworthy, but he knew the pressure, knew it by the hard fingertips and sweaty palms.
The force eased, air returning to his lungs, his brain. Dean glared at the man pinioning him to his seat, at the hand still wrapped around his neck. Michael, the bartender, the girl’s not-a-boyfriend fuckbuddy. He might not acknowledge his feelings for the girl, but it was obvious to Dean. Fuck with her, hurt her, and Dean would die.
Michael’s eyes glittered with warning, his cheeks a blotchy crimson. “Who says we didn’t?”
He choked on a breath, unheeding of any danger the man presented him. His lips curled wickedly and he licked at the dry flesh. “Fuck?”
Pressure tightened in the smallest of increments, then retreated entirely. Michael dropped his hand, leaning his weight onto the tabletop. His head drooped, long hair spilling over his face. “Help.”
“Yeah. Right.” Dean snorted, and brought his fingers up to his neck. He rubbed at the skin, found it bruised and tender. Michael had not endeared himself; Dean would hurt him if he got the chance. “I’m pretty sure I would’ve noticed if there’d been-“
“You were supposed to die.”
Quiet, Dean wasn’t certain of the words. One glance at the woman across the table and all doubt evaporated. A tear trickled from her eye, sliding over her cheek, spilling onto the table’s surface. Her sorrow was palpable; he felt it in the marrow of his bones. Their gazes collided, and she held him there, trapped in the shimmering darkness of her irises.
“Me?”
A part of him melted, falling into the peace she proffered. She gave absolution with her eyes, took away the pain and replaced it with the numbness he’d been seeking. Distance, objectivity; she had seen and passed judgment, had deemed him guilt free and innocent.
“Both of you.” She looked at Michael, folded her fingers around the larger fist pressing into the worn table. “We did what we could.”
We did what we could. She stated more implications with no verifiable evidence. Sam should be dead. HE should be dead. Dean wanted to accept the admission as a lie, but could not. The woman was too sincere, her story ringing too true. He had witnessed odder things in the course of his life, more peculiar than strangers saving his life. Hell, his entire career was devoted to rescuing people he did not know from things they could not understand. Still, he sensed there was more to the answer, that she wasn’t telling him everything.
Dean’s brow furrowed, his eyelashes filling his vision. “How can you know that?”
She looked puzzled, her lips twisted and nose scrunched. “What?”
Michael retained silence, and, for that, Dean was grateful. “That we would have died.”
“Doing what you do…” She paused, her hands spreading wide then falling into her lap. “…your brother being what he is, and you have to ask that question?”
Supernatural means, who would’ve guessed it? Right, very little in Dean’s life was normal or obeyed the rules of physics. The fact that he had stumbled upon two people who were different shouldn’t surprise him, and it didn’t. It was the only explanation, really, that the woman would have otherworldly talents.
“Yes.”
Lines wrinkled the corners of her eyes, her mouth. “Anyone ever tell you that you’re a pain in the ass?”
“It comes up on occasion.” A smirk tugged at Dean’s lips, but he restrained it. “You haven’t answered my question.”
“Hadn’t exactly planned to.” She twitched, a series of small movements that quivered through her body. “Figured with all those brains, you could do it on your own.”
Dean pursed his lips, but held his tongue. Instinct told him to lash out at the woman, throw some mean and degrading barbs her way, but he was intelligent enough to recognize how counterproductive such an action would be. The woman wouldn’t take kindly to verbal abuse, and the man would feel fit to maintain her honor. Instead, he watched the two strangers, observed their eyes collide, the silent conversation playing between them. Twice he’d seen them ‘talk’ that way, and twice it was just as eerie. They had spent a lot of time together, and knew each other well. In sync, they functioned as a team, not individuals. Like him and Sam amplified tenfold.
“Yeah, well…” The silence was broken, but her words were light and hesitant. “Your brother and I have some things in common.”
Michael watched Dean intently; he could feel the gaze heating his flesh, making his skin crawl. Dean only had eyes for the woman, though, her secret was forthcoming; he merely had to wait it out.
Of course, he’d never been particularly patient.
Scowling, Dean drummed his fingers on the table. “You’re both annoying and vague?”
Laughter trickled from Michael’s lips, and Dean’s gaze swung to him. The sound stiffened the woman’s back, and her eyes narrowed, nostrils flaring. It was a joke he was missing, but he was content to do so. Michael was invoking her wrath; Dean had no wish of transferring it to himself.
“No, Jackass.” She huffed, and blew heavily from her mouth. “We both have visions of the future.”
“Oh.” Simple, Dean accepted it without argument. If he had been on his game, he would have considered it earlier. “So you knew where to be, but-“
“Didn’t get there in time.”
Quiet settled over the table, regret and memory finding too comfortable a home in Dean’s brain. He and Sam had been too late too many times. Having knowledge was great and wonderful, but when it failed worthlessness and anger set in. It was especially hard for Sammy; he had the visions, he felt the deaths. Every time they were unsuccessful, he took it personally. For Dean, it was easier to shake off, but he never did, not entirely. One more person he couldn’t save. One more display of weakness and disappointment.
He could not blame the strangers across from him for Sammy’s injuries. It could have been worse. Much worse.
Dean’s head bowed, but he kept his eyes locked with the woman’s. “I owe you an apology.”
“No.” She shrugged, and shook her head. “You don’t.”
His forehead crinkled, his teeth grinding. Apologies were seldom heard from Dean, he would not let her dismiss one so real and grateful. He planned to argue, but she cut him off.
“I didn’t expect a warm reaction. It’s not why I approached you.”
Her eyes glazed, became hard. Dean realized, in that moment, that she expected nothing from anyone. Disenchantment, harsh reaction, denial-it shined in her dark irises. Life had let her down. People had let her down. She was alone in her talents, in her curse, and she had long ago accepted it. Like Cassandra, she was never believed, sentenced to watch events unfold, their consequences rain down around her. Gratification was unessential. She did what she did because she could not live with herself otherwise.
“Then why did you?” Dean wet his lips, swallowed hard. “It wasn’t for sex.”
A growl sounded to Dean’s side, a deep vibration of masculine ownership. He hadn’t intended the comment to be so crude; it had been factual. Women did not approach him with thoughts less than bedding him for a night or two. Seldom, but not uncommon, was the woman who wanted to hire him, sometimes kill him. Friendship or help were unique, nearly unheard-of. He didn’t know how to classify the stranger, but he didn’t want to piss off her partner.
The growl tapered to a purr. Dean noted the soft stroking of the woman’s fingers across Michael’s skin, the flush filling his pale cheeks. His eyes were riveted on his lover, his profile bared. The feelings he had guarded feebly throughout the dialogue were exposed. Dean shifted uncomfortably, veering his gaze in another direction. To watch them was too intimate, too intrusive. Love, it spilled from every pore, radiating like some live, hot energy. It licked and burned; it devoured. He had never experienced something so total, so real.
“I can help your brother.”
The voice cut through Dean’s thoughts, and he severed all ties to them. Reflection brought pain, he felt too intensely already.
“Teach him to control the visions.”
Dean balled his hands into fists and slammed them to the table. Kindness occurred, but he never trusted it, knew it did not come without a trade. The only question on his mind was the cost-Sam needed help, but could they afford it?
“And what do you want in return?”
The man answered, his voice steely and gruff. “A ride.”
Easy. They had given rides to less identified persons.
“Where?”
Michael smiled, and Dean knew he wouldn’t like the answer. “Don’t know yet.”
It was not as easy as he had originally hoped. The two could be with him and Sam for days or weeks or even months. To pickup hitchhikers was one thing, to pick up a couple bumming around the United States was another. They would be together night and day. They would face the same risks. They would have to learn to work together. He would be putting him and Sammy’s lives in their hands. His, he would risk in a heartbeat if it meant finding some solace for his brother, but Sam…
“You can do this?” He grimaced, squeezing his lips into a tight bow. “Help Sammy?”
No indecision. She was confident. “Yes.”
Her confidence Dean believed. There was another, more important issue that troubled him. “I don’t trust you.”
“We know.” They shared a glance. “It’s not a problem.”
“It is for me.” Dean exhaled slowly, shakily. “He’s all I have.”
Nude. He had been stripped many times, by many hands, but he had never felt it so deeply. It was exposure, sharing that tiny insight into his soul. Dangerous. Fully clothed and he felt more raw and naked than any time in his past.
“I won’t hurt him.” She spoke softly, her hand leaving her lover’s to graze Dean’s knuckle. “Michael won’t either. That’s not how we work.”
The touch grounded him, made the air flow into his lungs. It was real; they were real. Dean had made a decision; they were coming with him. Sam was all that mattered, and if the woman could aid him in anyway, it was worth the peril.
“You have names?”
She breathed more freely, a grin lighting every feature of her face. “Liz. Michael.”
Dean frowned, reflecting on an earlier appellation. “He called you Parker.”
“And he’d be the only one allowed that informality.” She chewed her lip, and glared at Michael. “You’ll call me Liz.”
She held out her hand. “And you are?”
“Dean.” He stared at the small hand, and then took it in his larger grip. “Winchester.”
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The End