Delicious: Parts o3 & o4
Title: Delicious
Author: conclusivelead.
Pairing: Dean/Sam
Burton Movie: Charlie & the Chocolate Factory.
Rating: R - NC-17.
Category: Angst, drama, darkfic, romance
Word Count: o1 & o2 = 1,397.
Spoilers: None; AU.
Summary: “There is a smear of dark on the back of his hand and Sam wants nothing more than to lean forward and place his lips against that bronze and taste the bitter of chocolate and the sweet of skin.”
Warnings: AU, chocolate!Kink, introspection, vagueness, cursing, violence, death, frotting, UST, campiness
Notes: I know, it only took me forever. Sorry. @_@ Thanks to x_puppetstrings for betaing. <3
Disclaimer: Supernatural is the property of Kripke and the CW network. I do not own Supernatural and there is no profit being made from this fanfiction. I also own neither Charlie and the Chocolate Factory or Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory.
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DELICIOUS - Parts o3 & o4
A SPN/Charlie & the Chocolate Factory Crossover…of Sorts
o3
5…10…35…
Jingle, jingle.
The loose change in Sam’s pocket rattles sparsely against the threadbare cloth of his worn jeans. His fingers brush against the coins lightly, tallying the total sum. Is there enough? He glances up from where his long fingers are invisibly counting up the money and into the display window. Frost borders the glass and Sam’s breath is a transparent, swimming cloud of white.
WINCHESTER SCRUMPDIDLYUMPTIOUS BAR!
FIND THE FIFTH & FINAL GOLDEN TICKET &WIN A TOUR OF THE WORLD-FAMOUS WINCHESTER FACTORY!
LOWEST PRICE IN TOWN - ONLY 2.99!
75…80…$1.05? No, that’s a nickel. 85… now he has no idea what he’s counted and what he’s not. Sighing, Sam’s fingers stop rifling through the coins and instead pull them out and lay them flat across his palm.
Five…no, six quarters, four nickels, five dimes, and twelve pennies - $2.32.
Sam sighs and his fingers curl into a fist around the handful of coins. Wind blasts at his face, refreezing his already frozen skin and playing with the hair that has escaped his beanie and now tickles his forehead. He absentmindedly swipes at it, annoyed… $2.32.
Yellow and red and orange and white and black tease his gaze, the advertisement swirling together in a haze as Sam’s eyes tear up, the cold and the snow and the wind beginning to grow painful. He switches the coins from his left hand to his right and then back again and then switches once more, eying the off-center advertisement regretfully. Golden Tickets…the Winchester Factory…
Grandpa Bobby has been telling Sam stories about the Winchester Chocolate Factory since he was a child. His grandfather knows all about the factory and its mysterious owner, Dean Winchester, because he worked as a candy-wrapper there when Sam was young. He still remembers when Grandpa Bobby was fired, along with every other worker in the factory, about ten years ago. Grandpa Bobby had been crushed because he had loved his job, and Sam had been crushed for him.
Sam remembers how livid most people had been; Mr. Winchester is said to be a very young man, and many of the workers had been both offended and ashamed of losing their jobs all because of a ‘boy’s’ whimsy. To this day, very few people knew for sure just why Mr. Winchester had closed his factory to the public…Grandpa Bobby had told Sam that it was because Mr. Winchester had been tired of people trying to steal his candy recipes. Apparently there had been several attempts to send spies into the factories disguised as workers…needless to say, Mr. Winchester had found out and things hadn’t ended well. All of the public workers had been fired and the factory is now run entirely by private means.
Sam remembers walking to school every day for seven years and passing the shut, padlocked gates of the Winchester Factory. He remembers pausing every single morning for seven years and standing in front of the factory gates, fingers clenched about the bars of the gate and staring up at the quiet, impressive building. He remembers trying to open those gates time and time again, trying to get inside, get through - feeling as though he just had to get inside, as though there would always be something wrong with his world so long as he was outside those gates and…that hidden, enigmatic dream that he’d been having ever since Grandpa Bobby first began telling him stories about the factory and Mr. Winchester…remained inside them. He remembers staring up at the barred windows of the factory and hungering for something that wasn’t quite chocolate and wasn’t quite anything else, either.
The bright colors of the advertisement bring him back to reality and he stares, wide-eyed, at the poster. Sam is utterly enthralled with the idea of winning, but Sam is also smart. Five Golden Tickets worldwide and four already have been found.
Jingle, jingle as he shifts in place, one foot to the other and then back again. He thinks about checking the time, but then banishes the thought from his mind. It’s only been an hour…unlikely that his mom will be worrying where he is just yet.
Sam blinks to comfort his irritated eyes and looks back up into the display. The advertisement has been scotch-taped to the window. The tape holding up the top left corner has been peeled away by some bored pedestrian and curls down over a good portion of the poster, blocking something just from Sam’s view. Just barely, he sees what looks to be the silhouette of a profile…
He blinks again and the wind blows and sends a shiver down Sam’s back. The cold air rubs against chaffed ears and burns. He reaches out to push back the corner of the poster, curious. In all the stories he’s ever been told of the chocolate factory, he has only heard vague descriptions of Mr. Winchester himself, as though Grandpa Bobby barely knew his employer or for some reason couldn’t remember just what he was like…
A silhouetted profile is stamped in the upper left corner - a sharp, straight nose, strong chin, smooth forehead. It is simple and absent of detail, but Sam is…captivated. He fills in the face himself, mind putting together a mesh of faces into one face, his face.
A beautiful face to fit that perfect profile and fill in the spaces of Grandpa Bobby’s stories.
Sam stands there, hand pressing the edge flat against the glass and eyes fixated on that simple profile, for how long he’s not sure. When he takes his hand away, though, the corner falls, the poster curling in on itself again. His fingers are numb.
Sam shifts the change back and forth one last time and shoves his hands into his pockets. He uncurls the fingers of his right hand, allowing the change to fall down into the cloth and his pointer finger brushes against paper.
He pauses, frozen.
Fingers clench again and Sam’s hand is out of his pocket and he is staring at a one dollar bill…
…$3.32.
Sam glances up at the banner once again.
WINCHESTER SCRUMPDIDLYUMPTIOUS BAR!
FIND THE FIFTH & FINAL GOLDEN TICKET &WIN A TOUR OF THE WORLD-FAMOUS WINCHESTER FACTORY!
LOWEST PRICE IN TOWN - ONLY 2.99!
He enters the store without hesitancy and drops the various coins onto the counter before laying the dollar on top. Candy bars line the walls and lollipops hang in bunches from the ceiling, but Sam’s eye is drawn to a small ad that has been taped onto the counter near the cash register. SALE! WINCHESTER WHIPPLE-SCRUMPTIOUS FUDEMALLOW DELIGHT BARS, ONLY 1.25 FOR A LIMITED TIME!
For a moment, Sam contemplates buying a Scrumpdidylumptious Bar anyway. They are his favorite, and he never really has the money to buy them, but reconsiders quickly. With $3.32, he can buy two Whipple-Scrumptious Fudgemallow Delight Bars and take one back to Grandpa Bobby. Fudgemallow Delights were Bobby’s favorite.
The man at the counter gives Sam an assessing look as the young man pushes the loose change forward across the chilled glass counter, and then smiles. “I’ve seen you before,” the man says, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck. “You’re Ellen’s boy. I’ve been expecting you.”
Sam doesn’t recognize him, but smiles. “Yeah, that’s right.”
“Sammy, right?”
“Actually, it’s just Sam.”
The man reaches out a hand and they shake. “Nice to meet you, Sam, I’m Jim. Me and your ma are friends.”
He hasn’t ever heard of Jim, but the man seems friendly enough and has no reason to lie about such things. Besides, how else would he have known who Sam was? “What can I do for you, Sam Bucket?”
“I’d like two Whipple-Scrumptious Fudgemallow Delight Bars, please.” Sam pushes the loose change that he has placed on the counter forward and indicates the ad taped to the glass with his finger. “So long as they’re still on sale.”
“They are,” Jim says, collecting the money and dumping it into the register. He slams the drawer shut and gives Sam a wide grin. “They’re in the back. Just got a new shipment in and haven’t restocked yet; lemme run back and get you a pair.”
Sam nods and watches as Jim disappears through a door behind the counter. Sam taps his fingers against the glass of the counter in time with the ambient music playing over the store’s stereo system - some one-hit wonder from a decade ago. The door swings open again, and Jim appears again, carefully considering the two candy bars in his hand. He approaches the counter and hesitates a moment before reaching across and placing them in Sam’s eager, waiting hands. Sam excitedly glances over the two candy bars for a moment, trying to be careful not to crush them in his eagerness.
“Sammy.”
The brunet looks up, a little surprised and also a little annoyed at the repeated mistake in his name, and Jim slides Sam’s change across the counter before lifting a finger and tapping at his temple, winking slyly. He then reaches forward again and points at the uppermost chocolate bar.
“I’d go with that one, if I were you.”
Sam grins, that same wide, excited grin, and laughs. “Yeah, sounds good.” He doesn’t even really think about it…not really. He just pinches the top left corner of the bar’s wrapper between his forefinger and thumb and pulls back and there is a flash of gold and very suddenly, Sam’s world is rocked on its axis.
o4
The clock tower that stands just to the left of the factory is crumbling and old, but still working, and it chimes out loudly ten times as the big arm slides slowly home, pointing directly upward at the large twelve.
The others stand nearby with their guests, holding their tickets in their hands, so that they are visible and it is easy to identify the group. Everyone stands as close to the gate of the factory’s property as they can get - a shivering mass of strangers, all cold and all willing to stand a little closer than would be considered normal in view of the almost unbearably wintry weather.
About ten feet behind the group is the waiting throng of anxious reporters, microphones extended and cameras at the ready. They have already made several attempts to get the Golden Ticket-winners to give interviews, but after a short talk with Ruby Carpenter and her artist father and a failed attempt to get Uriel Gregory to give all the juicy details of his ticket-discovery, the reporters have pretty much fallen into stillness.
Grandpa Bobby, who stands next to a broad, incredibly intimidating man with dark skin and an imposing aura, holds the Golden Ticket for him. Sam grips the bars of the gate with numb, gloveless fingers, just as he has been doing every morning for as long as he can remember. The metal is smooth and freezing and it feels familiar beneath his skin. The cold of the steel is something of an anchor in the tumult of anxiety and nervousness that is welling up inside of Sam, threatening to turn that strange heaviness in his stomach to nausea. The back of his throat is burning. Sam swallows loudly, attempting to soothe his throat and only irritating it further.
A hand lands on his shoulder. Sam pulls his gaze from the factory, where it has been firmly pinned since they arrived, and looks down into Bobby’s eyes.
“You okay there, kiddo?” Grandpa Bobby’s face is concerned. He squeezes Sam’s shoulder once and then shakes him a little. “You look like you’re gonna be sick.”
Sam shrugs a little and then shakes his head. “No, I’m…I’m fine. Just a little overexcited, I think.”
Bobby smiles. “It’s understandable, Sam. Even as a kid, you were always askin’ questions about this place, wanting to know more and more and more, and now you’ve finally got a chance to have that endless curiosity of yours quenched.”
The tall young man nods, fingers clenching ever tighter around the bars of the gate. He doesn’t really know what to say to that, and so instead stays silent. There is a moment when everything is silent except for the shuffle of feet in snow and then there is a creaking noise, sudden and loud as thunder. The gate bars begin to move beneath Sam’s fingers. He lets go, but remains frozen in place even as the rest of the group backs away a little to avoid the flurry of snow that flies up as the gates begin their slow swing inward. Sam’s pant legs are soaked through with snow, but he doesn’t even notice…
…the gates are open.
If it was any other situation, Sam might plead shock, but he isn’t really sure just what he is feeling - uncertainty, excitement, confusion. All these things have taken hold of his mind and sort of bled together into one large mass of fuddled emotion and left Sam blank - and waiting.
A strange, ringing noise filled the courtyard of the factory, followed by a short static, and then -
“Please step forward.”
The voice is mechanical and inhuman and it’s harsh on Sam’s ears, but he is the first person through those gates and into that courtyard. His feet move of their own accord, carrying him forward past the steel that has kept him out for so very long, and onto the snow-covered stone that spans the entire width of the courtyard. The other winners follow soon after, but he is nonetheless the first person there, and for a moment his footsteps are the only ones marring the perfect white curtain of snow on the ground. Grandpa Bobby is at his side soon, and then the gates are closing again behind them, shutting them in and keeping the eager reporters from joining the group inside the courtyard.
“Welcome. Mr. Winchester will be with you momentarily.”
The grating, robotic voice rings out once more, this time with less static. The final word is followed by a strange clanking noise, similar to a line being disconnected.
“It’s freezing,” grumbles one of the ladies nearby. She holds a Golden Ticket in a satin-gloved hand and a sumptuous fur coat is draped across her shoulders. Sam thinks he recognizes her as Ruby Carpenter, the rich heiress. “Son of a bitch can’t just let us in already?”
Sam’s mouth twitches at her tone, but he doesn’t say anything, just pulls the dingy collar of his jacket up around his neck and ears, trying to ward off the cold. He isn’t sure whether to be amused or insulted on Mr. Winchester’s behalf. He settles on somewhere in between.
“He’s already ten minutes late,” says a loud voice, annoyance evident. The speaker is female, and Sam glances away from the factory and over toward the group. He is surprised to see that the whole party looks rather annoyed; he can’t imagine why - they’re about to enter the most famous chocolate factory in the country…probably the world. Who knows just what they will see inside? “I don’t understand why we had to be here half an hour early if he was just going to keep us waiting.”
The woman who is speaking is tall, with shoulder-length blonde hair and a pinched mouth. She is holding hands with a young girl who has the same blonde hair and impatient expression. Sam guesses that this must be Lilith Cast, the eight-year-old who found the fourth Ticket, and, judging by the similarity, her mother.
At Sam’s side, Grandpa Bobby is shaking his head. He crosses his arms and shifts from foot to foot, trying to keep his blood circulating and his body warm. “Be patient, ma’am. I’m sure it won’t be too much longer.”
As though these words of assurance are some kind of catalyst, suddenly the front doors of the factory are swinging open - much more quickly than the rusted-over gates had - and there is a figure silhouetted against the light bursting forth from the factory. Sam is vaguely aware of the sound of flashbulbs bursting and cameras clicking and reporters shouting out questions, but for the most part he isn’t aware of anything but that familiar, familiar silhouette and the profile of the man who he has been obsessively curious about ever since he was a child.
The figure is still at first, and then it is moving, and Mr. Dean Winchester is stepping forward into the courtyard, all purple velvet and gray satin and tall top hat and green, green eyes and Sam is staring, understanding…
Sam suddenly knows just what it is that has been eating at his insides for so many years, and he knows just what…who…it is that will make that emptiness finally dissipate.
“Hello.” The voice is quiet but it resonates throughout the courtyard, somehow managing to bounce off stone and snow and reach the ears of all. Those reporters are now intently silent, waiting breathlessly for a sound bite. Sam is breathless, too, but for a completely different reason. Mr. Winchester’s voice is low and rough, and it gives him shivers that make him think about fingers on skin and lips against lips. He tries not to make noise when he gasps softly, hazel eyes wide and lips trembling slightly. “My name is Dean Winchester.” The chocolatier’s words are hesitant - almost as though he is unsure of their order or their meaning, as though he has rehearsed a speech that someone else wrote and is now reciting it after much practice. “And this is my chocolate factory.” His smile is hesitant, too - cautious, but blinding and bright and beautiful. “Welcome. I hope you’ll all join me inside; it’s quite cold, and I realize that I may have kept you waiting longer than I intended.” His green gaze settles on Miss Carpenter and then slides to Mrs. Cast as he says this.
Mrs. Cast has the decency to blush, but Ruby Carpenter simply pulls her furs closer and steps forward. She smiles blindingly, teeth even and dark eyes flashing. “Well, then, Mr. Winchester. Do lead the way.”
Mr. Winchester turns around once more and walks back up the steps of the factory to the large, wooden doors, where he stands and beckons toward the crowd. Eager to escape the snow and the wind and the cold, everyone immediately begins to move toward the welcoming, open doors and that bright, warm interior. Sam, however, feels as though the snow at his feet has melted and congealed into ice and frozen him to the spot. He is momentarily motionless, in awe and, yes, he now knows, perhaps in shock.
Grandpa Bobby pulls at his sleeve though, and the spell is broken and Sam takes a step. The assorted winners and their escorts have lined up before the door and Mr. Winchester. Sam and Grandpa Bobby are at the back of the line.
Ruby Carpenter and her father are first. Mr. Winchester addresses them politely: “Hello. You must be Miss Ruby Carpenter…and guest.” He gives Ruby’s father a strange, almost fearful look before returning his gaze to the sultry heiress. His green eyes are still blank and wide, but there is a tic in his cheek that was not there before. “Welcome to my factory, Miss Carpenter. I do hope you enjoy chocolate.”
Miss Carpenter simpers and smiles and replies, but Sam doesn’t hear what she has to say. From what Sam can see, though, she is flirtation incarnate. Whatever she says, Mr. Winchester looks almost intimidated, but he is all politeness, smiling and bowing and ushering the young woman and her father forward through the doors and into the factory. “Please feel free to toss your coats where available,” he calls after them before turning to face the remaining guests.
Mrs. Cast and her young daughter Lilith step forward next; the look on Mr. Winchester’s face this time is clearly one of dislike, but Mrs. Cast doesn’t seem put off at all by the chocolatier’s expression. “Hello, Mr. Winchester, it’s an honor, truly,” she exclaims, reaching forward and laying a gloved hand on his velvet coat. He flinches back almost visibly, mouth twisting, but she is undeterred and pulls her daughter forward by her hand. The young girl looks almost bored, but allows her mother to push her forward. She stares up at Mr. Winchester and Mr. Winchester stares back down at Lilith with a twin look of uncertainty and restlessness, as though this entire ordeal is a waste of his time. He breaks the staring contest and glances up above Lilith’s blonde head. For one rousing second, Sam’s eyes meet those of the chocolatier and he loses the ability to think, to breathe. The spell is broken when Mrs. Cast chooses to touch him again. Mr. Winchester is positively jarred this time, and he takes a step back and away from the woman and her child until his shoulders are pressed against one of the open doors. The second Mr. Winchester’s gaze falters, Sam is unsure their eyes ever met in the first place. “This is my daughter Lilith; she’s the one that found your lovely Golden Ticket. We’re absolutely thrilled to be here, Mr. Winchester, just thrilled!”
Mr. Winchester nods at the woman, smiling forcedly and then herds Mrs. Cast and her uninterested daughter forward after the Carpenters. The next person in line steps forward quickly. A strange, dark smile graces his features and makes his imposing figure that much more imposing. “Hello, Mr. Winchester; my name is Uriel Gregory, from Seattle.”
The dark-skinned man makes no effort to shake Mr. Winchester’s hand and he looks almost grateful for this. “I am pleased to meet you, Mr. Gregory. Welcome to my chocolate factory. I hear you are quite the enthusiast.” Mr. Gregory enters the factory without much encouragement and without accompaniment. He has come guestless, it seems.
Meg Masters, the journalism student, is just ahead of Sam and Grandpa Bobby. She steps forward with an intent gleam in her eye. A young woman at her side has a similar look in her eyes. They both have short blonde hair and brown eyes and are about the same height. Sam guesses that they are sisters.
“Great to meet you, Mr. Winchester,” Miss Masters greets, raising her hand in an awkward sort of wave. “Just great. Name’s Meg Masters. This is my little sister.”
Mr. Winchester nods at them both, but doesn’t seem to be paying much attention. He seems almost impatient now, the restlessness that had become apparent when he was greeting the Casts now nearly a tangible presence in his expression. His eyes are looking through Meg Masters - past her. Sam feels ghostly fingers against the base of his spine when he realizes that those green eyes are looking at him…again. He hadn’t imagined it before. Meg Masters is quick to realize that the chocolatier’s attention isn’t exactly focused on her and her eyes narrow before her head turns slightly and she begins to follow his line of sight. But then Mr. Winchester is reaching out and tapping her on the shoulder. “Pleased to meet you, Misses Masters; this way, if you please.” And he beckons them forward and they go.
Grandpa Bobby is nearly jumping up and down in excitement at Sam’s side, but Sam doesn’t think that his grandfather could be nearly as excited as he is. The burning at the back of his throat has returned and he swallows once, twice, trying to soothe it, trying to force himself into calmness. What if I say something stupid? he wonders, stepping up and into the place where Meg Masters was just seconds prior. What if…if…
His fears disappear. He is drowning in green eyes.
“Mr. Robert Bucket.” Mr. Winchester’s voice is kind and friendly, lacking any of the nervousness or disinterestedness of his earlier greetings.
Grandpa Bobby is grinning and wiping his hands against his trousers as he is wont to do when he is nervous. He begins chattering away - “Mr. Winchester, sir, it’s been at least ten years since we last saw each other, sir, so I don’t quite expect you to remember, but-”
Mr. Winchester stops Grandpa’s Bobby’s nervous chatter with one raised, glove-encased hand. His eyes (are framed in thick, black lashes…are the most nameless shade of green that Sam has ever encountered) never leave Sam’s. “Of course I remember you, Mr. Bucket. You worked in my factory once.”
For the first time in Sam’s memory, Bobby blushes. Pleased and embarrassed, he lifts a hand to rub at the back of his neck and ducks his head, rushing forward ahead of his grandson into the factory in order to escape.
The silence is awkward and short, but it feels monumental.
“Hello, Sam Bucket.”
His voice is still rough and quiet and reverberating, but there is something else there now, something that wasn’t there before. It is something deep and subtle and meant for Sam and it turns those light, ghostly touches against his spine into caresses. He shudders.
“H…hello.” Sam’s voice cracks and his face reddens. It’s not from the cold.
“Welcome to my factory.” It’s the same greeting he has given to all the others, but there is sincerity beneath the words this time that changes the burning at the back of his throat to a tingling. He feels almost near tears with relief, with gratefulness, with appreciation, with yearning, with longing, with…
“Thank you. I’m very…very…” Sam does not have the words. He simply looks at Mr. Winchester, studying the other man’s face (full, pink mouth that is somehow still masculine…golden-bronze skin with a smattering of freckles…straight, Grecian nose…dark blond hair, short sideburns, and dark blonde slashes of eyebrows above piercing green eyes…) and pleading with his eyes for him to understand his wordlessness.
“I know.” Mr. Winchester’s voice is even quieter this time, throaty and full of a heavy, dark, scary emotion that causes a twisting of something just as dark at the bottom of Sam’s stomach. It makes Sam think of things he really shouldn’t - entwined legs and sweaty skin and flushed faces. There is a rush of blood to his groin and he is glad for the first time that his jacket is too big for him. “I…I know, Sam.” Sam immediately is in love with the way that Mr. Winchester says his name. He speaks it as though he hasn’t just met him. He speaks it as though he has known about him for years and has been waiting and waiting and waiting for this one chance to finally…finally say the word aloud. Sam thinks back on all the days that he has stood before the gate and looked up at the windows of the factory, looking for a shadow, for a profile, for a face. He wonders, for the first time…was there ever anyone looking back?
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