[Nym] So a ghost-hunter and an alchemist go into a bar... (PG-13)
Title: So a ghost-hunter and an alchemist go into a bar...
Author: Nym, 'The Artist Formerly Known As Kaltia'
Rating: PG-13. DAMNIT
Fandom: Supernatural/Fullmetal Alchemist crossover.
Pairing: NONE. I TRIED.
Notes: Set pre-series for Supernatural, and post-movie for Fullmetal Alchemist.
Genre: Plotless, pointless crack. All blame can be directed to Wofl, who made me write more.
'I Have No Excuse'
by Nym
The boy was much younger than the type Dean usually went for - younger than Dean, definitely, and small. Probably younger than Sam, maybe about eighteen, max. His style of dress was, frankly, antique; if he hadn't been fucking hot, Dean would've dismissed him as some European oddball, playing around in America for the summer before returning to Das Homeland.
He had a German accent, and everything, but when he came up to the bar and asked Dean for the time, he sounded less like the fat kid off the Simpsons and more like... well, like some blond tanned German kid with a sexy accent.
He commented on the kid's accent, over the crowded hustle of the bar, and the boy shrugged. Now he was up close, he looked a lot older than sixteen; there was something cold and hard and sharp in his eyes that made him look so much older than himself. Sam had looked that way, right before he applied to fucking college, and Dean's heart ached slightly, missing his brother.
"Can I get you a beer?" he said, with his most charming smile, and the boy blushed and stammered and didn't say no. Dean ordered a Budweiser for the pair of them - he couldn't really afford it, he'd come to this bar to hustle some pool before he'd gotten distracted. The boy carefully settled on the barstool next to him, staring down at the scratched, splintered wood like if he took his eyes off it it'd bite him.
"Thank you," he said softly, when the bartender placed the bottle down next to him, and Dean leaned over a clinked their drinks together, eyes never leaving the smooth gold of the boy's hair. It was long, too, longer than Sammy's; looked kinda feminine, but even under the shapeless coat, he could tell this kid was ripped, and so he didn't bring it up.
"Long way away from home?" he offered, and the boy just chuckled bitterly and shook his head.
"You have no idea," he said, with a grimace, and curled gloved fingers around the neck of the beer bottle.
Dean could've challenged that - not that he really had a home, not since his life in Lawrence vanished in fire and pain - but he knew from experience the worst thing to do to lonely travellers you wanted sex with was counsel them, so he just shrugged calmly and took a sip of Bud. The boy took a sip and put the bottle back down, thumb of his left hand playing with the rim; Dean noticed then, with the part of his brain always open to small details, that the kid kept his right arm pressed against him, and the shift of his shoulders indicated that there was something wrong with it. If pressed, Dean would put his money on it being a prosthetic.
"What's your name?" the kid asked, slanting his head to look up at him through thick blond bangs. His eyes were a shade lighter than his hair, and disconcerting to look at; Dean automatically associated golden eyes with werewolves, but this kid seemed as human as they came. Mind you, so had that shape shifter in Denver, who broke several of Sammy's ribs before Dean plugged it full of iron.
"Herbet Newman," he said, because you should never give your real name to things you didn't trust, just in case.
The boy seemed to ponder this, then nodded. "I'm Edward Elric," he said quietly, and raised his beer again. "Can I... Can I ask you a question?" He glanced up, expression solemn, and those odd, ancient golden eyes fixed on Dean's.
"Only if I get to return the favour," Dean replied brightly, flashing a grin normally determined to detonate panties at fifty paces. Edward flushed slightly, and looked sharply back down at the bottle of Bud.
"... What year is it?" he asked, voice soft and tremulous, and Dean blinked. Of everything possible, he hadn't been expecting that one.
"2002," he replied, cautiously. "A.D, that is." He cocked his head, frowning, and Ed drummed the fingers of his right hand - awkwardly, in no particular sequence - against the bar top. "Must've been one hell of a party, huh?"
Ed blinked, startled into a laugh, and Dean noticed that he didn't look half bad when he wasn't moping. "I guess you could say it like that," he agreed, smoothly. "I'm trying to find a way to get back to my kid brother."
Dean paused, not sure why the image of Edward as an older brother just clicked in his head; the boy seemed to have more in common with Sam than he did with Dean. "Oh?" he said, spinning his beer in his hands. "You're a big brother?"
Ed shot him a suspicious look, jaw working, and said, "Look, even if I knew where Al was, he's not participating in any of your sex games, or whatever the fuck you're fantasising about now." There was a sharp, hard edge in his voice, like if Dean insisted Ed would simply deck him, and while Dean probably didn't have much to fear from a kid with a false limb, he didn't feel in the mood to push it anyway.
"Wasn't even thinking about it," he promised, and he wasn't. While the thought of getting in bed with a pair of sisters was enough to enervate his downstairs brain most days, doing it with brothers would be... it would be fucking weird. Like if Sam and he ever shared the same girl, and they never would since Sam had packed his bags and fucked off. "I'm an older brother, too. Or, I was."
"Was? What happened?" Ed tilted his head, face carefully blank, and Dean sighed and leaned back slightly in the barstool, raising his beer and polishing the rest of it off. Fuck, he didn't want counselling, Jesus. He'd just wanted to hustle some pool, then maybe take Ed back to the motel and fuck him into the mattress, and only because the kid was prettier than all of the women around here tonight.
"Doesn't matter," he said gruffly, because it wasn't anybody else's concern if Sam wanted to abandon his family. "Do I get my question now?"
"You already had your question," Ed pointed out smoothly, fine golden eyebrows rising. His face was a hell of a lot more expressive than it should be. "You asked me about my brother, I told you... all right, all right! Stop glaring at me like that, jeez. Fine, go ahead."
Dean smirked at him, leaning against the counter; Ed met his gaze levelly. "So," he said, and the words 'top or bottom' were almost on his lips before he changed his mind. "What happened to your arm?"
Ed's face quirked slightly, puzzled, and he shrugged. Dean didn't miss the brief shadow that passed over his face, however, before he looked back down at his beer - half-empty, the kid was savouring the damn thing - and said, "I lost it in an accident. My leg, too."
"Ouch," Dean said, and with a genuine wince. The boy was too young to be a double-amputee. He was kind of grateful nothing anywhere near as bad had happened to his family, although he did recall that time that spirit possessed dad's old truck and crashed them into a wall; he'd dislocated his shoulder, then, and the pain of that had been bad enough. He remembered Sam kneeling over him, sobbing, as he tried to pull Dean out of the wreckage.
Ed sighed and pulled off his gloves, scrunching them up and stuffing them in one pocket of his ancient brown coat. True to Dean's guess, the right hand was paler than the left, and looked slightly waxy under the bar's gleam. He glanced up at the boy, and Ed shrugged; ran a hand through his hair and said, voice flat and monotone, "I only wear the things to cover up the fake. Back... back where I come from, they don't take too kindly to cripples."
Dean frowned, but dismissed the comment; they were all weird over in Europe, everybody knew that. Ed raised his bottle to his mouth with the prosthetic, which seemed to function just fine - better than Dean had thought possible with modern medicine, but maybe the kid came from a wealthy family.
To his surprise, when Ed put the empty beer bottle down, he summoned the bartender and asked for two more. Dean didn't question this generosity, just wrapped his fingers around his new bottle and glanced over at the blond, who seemed to have sunk into that mournful brooding thing Sam did so well. Dean wasn't quite sure what to do about it, since he doubted that putting salt in Edward's drink was going to work the way it had on Sammy. "So," Dean said pleasantly, and was about to add 'Are you legal?' when Ed cut him off with a sharp, "How old are you, Herbert?"
"Twenty three," Dean replied, nonplussed, and Ed sighed softly. "What's wrong?"
"You remind me of my brother," Ed murmured, closing his eyes and pressing the heels of his hands into them, as if he were suddenly exhausted. "You look a bit like him. I'm sorry, it's been a month since I turned up here, and I... I really miss him."
He was not going to mention Sammy, Dean thought, because he didn't miss the lanky bastard. Okay, so he missed having someone to prank, and someone to talk to, and someone who was his best friend, but... oh, damn.
"Do you know where he is?" he offered, despite himself. "Maybe if you know where he is you could call him, or something. That might help a bit." If he answers. If he doesn't let his answering machine pick up, every time you call. Thirty times in a day, and didn't the kid believe in answering his phone on his birthday?
"No," Ed said quietly, "I don't know where he is. I'm looking for him. I've been looking for him all my life, and then I found him again, and I..." He paused, then shook his head, and seemed to huddle himself into his coat; Dean caught the bartender's eye, and pointed to a large bottle of cheap-looking vodka on the shelf behind him. He still had one credit card not completely maxed-out.
What happened to the whole 'no counselling' thing? he couldn't help but wonder, the thought tinged with bitter amusement, and shrugged it off. There was time enough for sex later.
Author: Nym, 'The Artist Formerly Known As Kaltia'
Rating: PG-13. DAMNIT
Fandom: Supernatural/Fullmetal Alchemist crossover.
Pairing: NONE. I TRIED.
Notes: Set pre-series for Supernatural, and post-movie for Fullmetal Alchemist.
Genre: Plotless, pointless crack. All blame can be directed to Wofl, who made me write more.
'I Have No Excuse'
by Nym
The boy was much younger than the type Dean usually went for - younger than Dean, definitely, and small. Probably younger than Sam, maybe about eighteen, max. His style of dress was, frankly, antique; if he hadn't been fucking hot, Dean would've dismissed him as some European oddball, playing around in America for the summer before returning to Das Homeland.
He had a German accent, and everything, but when he came up to the bar and asked Dean for the time, he sounded less like the fat kid off the Simpsons and more like... well, like some blond tanned German kid with a sexy accent.
He commented on the kid's accent, over the crowded hustle of the bar, and the boy shrugged. Now he was up close, he looked a lot older than sixteen; there was something cold and hard and sharp in his eyes that made him look so much older than himself. Sam had looked that way, right before he applied to fucking college, and Dean's heart ached slightly, missing his brother.
"Can I get you a beer?" he said, with his most charming smile, and the boy blushed and stammered and didn't say no. Dean ordered a Budweiser for the pair of them - he couldn't really afford it, he'd come to this bar to hustle some pool before he'd gotten distracted. The boy carefully settled on the barstool next to him, staring down at the scratched, splintered wood like if he took his eyes off it it'd bite him.
"Thank you," he said softly, when the bartender placed the bottle down next to him, and Dean leaned over a clinked their drinks together, eyes never leaving the smooth gold of the boy's hair. It was long, too, longer than Sammy's; looked kinda feminine, but even under the shapeless coat, he could tell this kid was ripped, and so he didn't bring it up.
"Long way away from home?" he offered, and the boy just chuckled bitterly and shook his head.
"You have no idea," he said, with a grimace, and curled gloved fingers around the neck of the beer bottle.
Dean could've challenged that - not that he really had a home, not since his life in Lawrence vanished in fire and pain - but he knew from experience the worst thing to do to lonely travellers you wanted sex with was counsel them, so he just shrugged calmly and took a sip of Bud. The boy took a sip and put the bottle back down, thumb of his left hand playing with the rim; Dean noticed then, with the part of his brain always open to small details, that the kid kept his right arm pressed against him, and the shift of his shoulders indicated that there was something wrong with it. If pressed, Dean would put his money on it being a prosthetic.
"What's your name?" the kid asked, slanting his head to look up at him through thick blond bangs. His eyes were a shade lighter than his hair, and disconcerting to look at; Dean automatically associated golden eyes with werewolves, but this kid seemed as human as they came. Mind you, so had that shape shifter in Denver, who broke several of Sammy's ribs before Dean plugged it full of iron.
"Herbet Newman," he said, because you should never give your real name to things you didn't trust, just in case.
The boy seemed to ponder this, then nodded. "I'm Edward Elric," he said quietly, and raised his beer again. "Can I... Can I ask you a question?" He glanced up, expression solemn, and those odd, ancient golden eyes fixed on Dean's.
"Only if I get to return the favour," Dean replied brightly, flashing a grin normally determined to detonate panties at fifty paces. Edward flushed slightly, and looked sharply back down at the bottle of Bud.
"... What year is it?" he asked, voice soft and tremulous, and Dean blinked. Of everything possible, he hadn't been expecting that one.
"2002," he replied, cautiously. "A.D, that is." He cocked his head, frowning, and Ed drummed the fingers of his right hand - awkwardly, in no particular sequence - against the bar top. "Must've been one hell of a party, huh?"
Ed blinked, startled into a laugh, and Dean noticed that he didn't look half bad when he wasn't moping. "I guess you could say it like that," he agreed, smoothly. "I'm trying to find a way to get back to my kid brother."
Dean paused, not sure why the image of Edward as an older brother just clicked in his head; the boy seemed to have more in common with Sam than he did with Dean. "Oh?" he said, spinning his beer in his hands. "You're a big brother?"
Ed shot him a suspicious look, jaw working, and said, "Look, even if I knew where Al was, he's not participating in any of your sex games, or whatever the fuck you're fantasising about now." There was a sharp, hard edge in his voice, like if Dean insisted Ed would simply deck him, and while Dean probably didn't have much to fear from a kid with a false limb, he didn't feel in the mood to push it anyway.
"Wasn't even thinking about it," he promised, and he wasn't. While the thought of getting in bed with a pair of sisters was enough to enervate his downstairs brain most days, doing it with brothers would be... it would be fucking weird. Like if Sam and he ever shared the same girl, and they never would since Sam had packed his bags and fucked off. "I'm an older brother, too. Or, I was."
"Was? What happened?" Ed tilted his head, face carefully blank, and Dean sighed and leaned back slightly in the barstool, raising his beer and polishing the rest of it off. Fuck, he didn't want counselling, Jesus. He'd just wanted to hustle some pool, then maybe take Ed back to the motel and fuck him into the mattress, and only because the kid was prettier than all of the women around here tonight.
"Doesn't matter," he said gruffly, because it wasn't anybody else's concern if Sam wanted to abandon his family. "Do I get my question now?"
"You already had your question," Ed pointed out smoothly, fine golden eyebrows rising. His face was a hell of a lot more expressive than it should be. "You asked me about my brother, I told you... all right, all right! Stop glaring at me like that, jeez. Fine, go ahead."
Dean smirked at him, leaning against the counter; Ed met his gaze levelly. "So," he said, and the words 'top or bottom' were almost on his lips before he changed his mind. "What happened to your arm?"
Ed's face quirked slightly, puzzled, and he shrugged. Dean didn't miss the brief shadow that passed over his face, however, before he looked back down at his beer - half-empty, the kid was savouring the damn thing - and said, "I lost it in an accident. My leg, too."
"Ouch," Dean said, and with a genuine wince. The boy was too young to be a double-amputee. He was kind of grateful nothing anywhere near as bad had happened to his family, although he did recall that time that spirit possessed dad's old truck and crashed them into a wall; he'd dislocated his shoulder, then, and the pain of that had been bad enough. He remembered Sam kneeling over him, sobbing, as he tried to pull Dean out of the wreckage.
Ed sighed and pulled off his gloves, scrunching them up and stuffing them in one pocket of his ancient brown coat. True to Dean's guess, the right hand was paler than the left, and looked slightly waxy under the bar's gleam. He glanced up at the boy, and Ed shrugged; ran a hand through his hair and said, voice flat and monotone, "I only wear the things to cover up the fake. Back... back where I come from, they don't take too kindly to cripples."
Dean frowned, but dismissed the comment; they were all weird over in Europe, everybody knew that. Ed raised his bottle to his mouth with the prosthetic, which seemed to function just fine - better than Dean had thought possible with modern medicine, but maybe the kid came from a wealthy family.
To his surprise, when Ed put the empty beer bottle down, he summoned the bartender and asked for two more. Dean didn't question this generosity, just wrapped his fingers around his new bottle and glanced over at the blond, who seemed to have sunk into that mournful brooding thing Sam did so well. Dean wasn't quite sure what to do about it, since he doubted that putting salt in Edward's drink was going to work the way it had on Sammy. "So," Dean said pleasantly, and was about to add 'Are you legal?' when Ed cut him off with a sharp, "How old are you, Herbert?"
"Twenty three," Dean replied, nonplussed, and Ed sighed softly. "What's wrong?"
"You remind me of my brother," Ed murmured, closing his eyes and pressing the heels of his hands into them, as if he were suddenly exhausted. "You look a bit like him. I'm sorry, it's been a month since I turned up here, and I... I really miss him."
He was not going to mention Sammy, Dean thought, because he didn't miss the lanky bastard. Okay, so he missed having someone to prank, and someone to talk to, and someone who was his best friend, but... oh, damn.
"Do you know where he is?" he offered, despite himself. "Maybe if you know where he is you could call him, or something. That might help a bit." If he answers. If he doesn't let his answering machine pick up, every time you call. Thirty times in a day, and didn't the kid believe in answering his phone on his birthday?
"No," Ed said quietly, "I don't know where he is. I'm looking for him. I've been looking for him all my life, and then I found him again, and I..." He paused, then shook his head, and seemed to huddle himself into his coat; Dean caught the bartender's eye, and pointed to a large bottle of cheap-looking vodka on the shelf behind him. He still had one credit card not completely maxed-out.
What happened to the whole 'no counselling' thing? he couldn't help but wonder, the thought tinged with bitter amusement, and shrugged it off. There was time enough for sex later.