Delicious: Parts o9 & o1o - FINAL CHAPTER

[conclusivelead]

Title: Delicious
Author: conclusivelead.
Pairing: Dean/Sam
Burton Movie: Charlie & the Chocolate Factory.
Rating: R - NC-17.
Category: Angst, drama, darkfic, romance
Word Count: o9 & o10 - 4,725.
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: Yes, this is way, way behind. I'm sorry, real life interfered. This is the final installment of this story. I hope you enjoyed it, and please let me know what you though in your comments!

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 o9 & o10 - FINAL
A SPN/Charlie & the Chocolate Factory Crossover...of Sorts

o9

Sam checks the door again: Television & Advertisement Room.

Mr. Winchester and the Masters sisters stand just ahead of them inside the colorful room. Posters adorn the walls from ceiling to floor, advertising this brand of chocolate bar and that type of lollipop. There are lines of cardboard cutouts of Mr. Winchester’s infamous silhouette, racks of commercial scripts, and tables piled high with papers. There is an exact copy of the banner in the window of Jim’s candy shop hung above the doorway. Its bright oranges and reds and yellows draw Sam’s eye, and he grins.

“This is the TV and Advertisement Room,” Mr. Winchester announces, tapping his walking stick against the floor once. He still sounds a little breathless, but is obviously doing a better job of recovering than Sam. “This is where much of the planning for the factory’s advertising takes place.”

Meg says, “So this is where you come up with those jingles for the commercials?”

Mr. Winchester shoots her a slightly confused look. “Yes, that’s correct.”

She snickers, lips thinning and her little sister elbows her, eyes practically shooting out warning beams.

Mr. Winchester looks positively curious now. “If you’ve got something to say, Miss Masters…” He leaves it an open-ended statement, inviting her to continue.

Her younger sister elbows her again, but Meg’s eyes are sparking with the recognition of a challenge. “Honestly, Mr. Winchester? Your commercials can be annoying. The jingles are catchy, yeah, but they get stuck in my head and kind of eventually make want to take a screwdriver to my temple.” She smiles lightly, cocking her head to the side and crossing her arms, inviting witty repartee. Mr. Winchester just smiles back, though, and says nothing, allowing her words to sit heavily in the air between them. Meg’s sister looks like she could just curl up and die. Sam feels another pang of pity for the younger girl. It’s not her fault her sister’s such a bitch.

“Indeed, Miss Masters.” When Mr. Winchester does eventually speak, his tone is light, conversational, pleasant, even, and Sam is reminded again of just how frightening he can be. There is a short pause before he continues, “Well, everyone, take a good look around while you can, we don’t have much time to spend here.”

Meg stands absolutely still for a few more seconds, but then her sister begins to pull at her arm, inviting her to take a look around at the room’s posters and ads and the taller blonde eventually, and somewhat reluctantly, Sam thinks, goes. Grandpa Bobby nudges Sam with his shoulder and points up at the banner that hangs above the doorway, the one that looks exactly like the one in Jim’s store. “Isn’t there a banner like that hangin’ in the shop on Fifth Street, Sam?” Bobby asks, scratching his beard and squinting up at the bright colors.

Sam nods. “Yeah, in Jim’s store.”

Bobby gives him a strange look. “Who?”

Sam frowns, curly brown hair flopping into his eyes. “Jim. You know - Mom’s friend.” He pushes the hair out of his face.

Bobby’s expression is consternated. “Well, I sure ain’t ever heard of him.”

Something in the pit of Sam’s stomach drops just then, and he feel an odd tingle rush through his limbs similar to the weighty quiver that settles in his muscles after his leg has fallen asleep. He opens his mouth and then closes it, and then opens it again, searching for words and finding none. He doesn’t know what to say. He’s at a loss.

Grandpa Bobby doesn’t seem too bothered by anything, though, and he wanders off to look at posters and talk to Mr. Winchester, who is studying Sam’s taken aback expression out of the corner of his eye. Sam eyes are wide and there is a strange, vacant pounding in his ears. Who was Jim, then, if not his mother’s friend? How had he known Sam’s mother? How had he known Sam? Is this entire incident some strange coincidence? Suddenly, all too suddenly, Sam is lightheaded and there is too much going on in his mind -

“Well, I sure ain’t ever heard of him…”

“…I’ve been expecting you. Sammy, right?...”

“…Actually, it’s just Sam….”

“…Sammy.” 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.”…

…That green gaze captures his, and that same dark, unspoken hunger is there, tangible and alive and growing between them. “Sammy…”

“…Sammy…”

Sam looks up into watchful, possessive olive eyes and knows.

There is too much going on in Sam’s head. He smells chocolate and old paper and dust and his skull is pounding. All the anticipation leading up to arriving here at the chocolate factory hadn’t left him as breathless and nervous as he is now. This entire thing…this situation - the tour; there are no coincidences involved here, Sam’s sure, but he isn’t sure how to explain everything that is happening.

He tries to clear his mind, tries to think it through, orders events in his mind, tries to explain just why Mr. Winchester would want him here…how he would know who Sam is in the first place…there is too much, too much going on inside of him. There is certainty, explanation, floating somewhere around his subconscious, but he can’t grasp it, can’t get a firm enough hold on it. It’s elusive, smoke drifting through his psyche, indefinable and vague and teasing.

Sam’s head pounds, blood in his ears and thumping his heart against his chest - bumbum-bumbum-bumbum - until there is very little he can hear but the thud of his heart, the rush of blood in his veins, the ringing in his ears.

And beyond that ringing, Sam digs through it all, searching for answers and finding none willing to reveal themselves.

After everything that has already happened, Sam and Bobby really aren’t too surprised when Meg’s sister returns alone and claims that her sister wandered off alone and has seemingly disappeared. Mr. Winchester doesn’t seem shocked himself. In fact, he radiates a strange combination of both excited and tired. Meg’s sister just looks terrified, and Sam tries to give her a sympathetic pat on the shoulder, pushing his own problems to the back of his mind, but she jerks away from the contact, eyes wide and arms wrapped around herself protectively. He sighs and rubs his eyes. It can’t be later than two or three in the afternoon, but he feels like he’s been awake for days.

“Alright, Miss Masters,” says Mr. Winchester, pulling out the now-familiar handheld radio. “I’m radioing for-”

“No!” says the young blonde, shaking her head wildly. “No, no, no! I want out of here! I want my sister back and I want out of here now!”

The green-eyed man sighs, and Sam notices that he has a light etching of crow’s feet at the corner of his eyes. He is surprised: Dean Winchester seems ageless, caught up in a sort of eternal state of not-one and not-the-other.

“I’m sorry, Miss Masters, but if you couldn’t find your sister then I sincerely doubt that any of us are going to do any better. You’ve got two options: wait here for the assistance of some of my employees, who will help you look for her, or you can simply take that door over there-” He points with his walking stick to a door at the other side of the room. “-and leave the factory.”

His full mouth is firmly set as he waits for the slight blonde to reply. She looks torn, and stares longingly at the door. Sam’s eyes are wide, and for a moment he wonders if she’s actually considering staying in the factory and waiting for Meg, even after everything that’s already happened. He thinks back over every room they’ve been to, over the people who have disappeared, one by one as they proceeded through the factory, and hopes that Meg’s sister will just leave, will just be selfish, will just…

“I’m staying here.” Meg’s little sister is wavering. Her eyes are filled with tears and her lips are trembling and she reminds Sam of a child.

Mr. Winchester looks satisfied. “Very well.” And he raises the radio and presses a button. There is a gargle of static before he begins to speak into the microphone, addressing whomever might be on the other side with unquestionable authority: “Television Room; Miss Master has gone missing; please come here and assist the other Miss Masters in discovering her whereabouts.” He is looking at Sam as he says this. There is an excited gleam in the man’s brilliant eyes that sends those damned fingers caressing up and down Sam’s spine one final time, and Sam knows that the tension between them, the palpable lust and desire and need and want and hunger are about to come to a head.

Sam is disturbed. He doesn’t feel right. There is something so wrong about all of this. The tension, yes, but more importantly, the tour itself. Whatever nagging feelings have been bothering him are finally starting to pry past his desire for Mr. Winchester. He is anxious.

How could it be coincidence that they’d lost a person in every room they visited? It couldn’t be - just couldn’t be.

Then the radio is clicked off and tucked back into the pocket of his purple blazer and Mr. Winchester musters up a kind smile for the frightened girl. “Don’t worry, Miss Masters,” he says, already beginning to move in Sam’s direction. His restlessness is gone, his frustrated-polite mask dissipated, and all that is left is craving. “I promise that nothing will happen to you. I give you my word.”

There is a strange sort of sincerity in his voice when he says this. Sam is reminded of a few hours ago when Mr. Winchester greeted him at the front gates with tenderness and earnestness in his voice. There’s almost a facet of that in his tone now, as though he, too, pities the younger Masters sister. Sam is left with little time to contemplate just what else may be lying beneath that sincere tone. Mr. Winchester’s gloved hand lands on his shoulder and he beckons to Grandpa Bobby excitedly, grin stretching his handsome face.

“Come on, Mr. Bucket, now is the time for the good news!”

They leave the younger Miss Masters standing in the middle of the room, arms wrapped tight around her shoulders and eyes wet with frightened tears. True to Mr. Winchester’s word, workers do show up and help her search for her sister; nothing befalls the upset young lady…

…but they never do find her sister.

As soon as they are back in the hall, Mr. Winchester turns to Grandpa Bobby, and Sam knows what is coming next. Sam anticipates what is coming next. Sam wants what is coming next. Mr. Winchester turns to Sam’s grandfather and says, “Sam is the winner of my contest, Mr. Bucket.”

Grandpa Bobby looks astounded. Sam doesn’t. “Contest? What contest?” he asks, eyebrows practically disappearing into his hairline. The older man pushes at his forehead, perplexed. Sam loves his grandfather in that instant, with a strangely-timed swell of affection.

Mr. Winchester looks impatient again, but manages to do an impressive job keeping his temper under control. He is not more than three feet away from Sam. He gloved hands clutch his walking stick with a deadly grip, straining not to reach out and take, take, take NOW. Sam’s hands are thrust into his pockets and his eyes are half-lidded. His breath is already coming heavily. “I’m afraid this entire tour was a ruse,” Mr. Winchester explains quickly, tongue darting out to wet his lips. Sam bites back a moan. “I devised this in order to randomly choose an heir for my factory. I sent out the Golden Tickets in the hopes that…” His gaze slides to Sam and Sam can see the amusement in those eyes. “…that at least one admirable, decent person would win and I’d have the opportunity to both ensure my factory stays in good hands and grant one lucky person a fortune.”

Bobby looks stunned, shocked, disbelieving.

Sam wants to laugh.

“Yes, it’s rather harebrained,” Mr. Winchester continues, “but it all worked out relatively well in the end, so I’d say all’s well that ends well, wouldn’t you?”

Sam grins at his grandfather nervously, hands fidgeting restlessly in his pockets. “Isn’t this great, Grandpa?” he asks, having a difficult time pretending that he doesn’t want to tell his grandfather to go the hell away so he can find out just what Mr. Winchester’s game is. And then hopefully get fucked into the nearest surface.

Bobby looks a little doubtful, and Sam doesn’t really blame him, but then Mr. Winchester breaks the silence by saying, “Actually, Sam and I should really go up to my office to peruse the paperwork. Perhaps you should go home and tell his mother the good news?” Mr. Winchester is slipping that mask back on again, pretending he isn’t restless and ready to drive his tongue down Sam’s throat now, now, NOW.

“Go, Grandpa,” Sam says, more assertively than he actually meant. Bobby still looks unconvinced, but then he glances away from his grandson and at Mr. Winchester again and sees that his ex-employer is looking at Sam. And then he looks back at Sam and sees that Sam is looking at Mr. Winchester. And he understands the looks on their faces, even if they think they’re doing a damn good job hiding the lust and want and need.

And Bobby is not stupid. He is not stupid at all.

He sees it, shining in Sam’s gaze as he just barely avoids tracing the lines of Mr. Winchester’s body with his eyes. He sees it in the tightening of Mr. Winchester’s mouth and the painful grip the glove-clad hands have on his walking stick.

Mr. Winchester pulls out his radio for a final time and makes a quick call to workers, who appear almost immediately out of nowhere, it seems - an escort.

Bobby looks over at his grandson one last time and sees that Sam is…well, no longer a child. Somewhere, sometime, Sam has grown up and Bobby could try all he wanted to tell him what to do, but - there is an angularity to Sam’s jaw and a glint in Sam’s eyes that tells Bobby it would be futile.

Whatever’s really going on here - Sam’s on his own.

He follows the escort down the hallway to the elevator and leaves.

o1o

Sam waits until he’s sure that Bobby’s gone, really gone. All he wants to do is turn around and pounce, but he refuses to let in and instead runs a hand through his hair. His lips part to speak and he’s ready to say it, ready to ask, “What’s really going on here?” but there are fingers on the side of his neck and he is being jerked sideways. There is a fire being lit inside him at the touch of that hand. That fire nearly silences his rational side completely, but there remains some part of Sam that is doubtful and scared even as his senses explode.

“Sammy…” Mr. Winchester’s voice is dark, trembling, raspy, filled with that gripping, almost-satisfying thing that drives Sam positively wild. The teenager’s Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows thickly. Mr. Winchester’s eyes follow the movement and the fingers on Sam’s neck tighten slightly.

“I-I need…we need to talk,” Sam manages to get out despite it all.

Mr. Winchester’s eyes are blazing. “About what exactly, Sam Bucket?”

“About…” Sam searches for the right words, but falls short and instead lifts both arms, gesturing at the hall around them. “About all this, about everything: the ticket, the factory, the tour, the-”

“-the inexplicable, irrefutable attraction between me and you?” Mr. Winchester finishes, grinning wickedly. Light glints off his incisors. His gloved fingers slide a shiver-inducing caress down Sam’s back.

“Y-yeah.” Sam swallows again. “Is there somewhere we can go to talk?”

The chocolatier’s eyebrows rise up about an inch before settling back in place above his eyes. “Yes.” His hand settles in the arch of Sam’s lower back, possessive but soothing, too. “Yes, there’s somewhere we can go.”

-

The room is spacious, decorated in sophisticated reds and browns and golds. Mr. Winchester gestures for Sam to take a seat and Sam does. He scans the study with a considerate gaze - tall bookshelves, a wide mahogany desk…a window sends beams of failing light across the wood grain of the desktop, and then it’s sending beams of light across eggplant fabric, white gloves, dark blond hair, and full lips. Mr. Winchester’s eyes are closed as he settles into place on top of the desk. His legs cross at the ankles and then he is still for a careful moment. Silence fills the room, and the chocolatier tugs at the wrists of his gloves, pulling them more snugly onto his hands.

The man’s eyes remain closed as he sighs and says, “Alright, Sam.” He seems resigned, and for the first time since Sam met him there is a noticeable absence of strength - no artificial composure, no fake smile or false affability. He is empty of everything except the tiredness that casts shadows beneath his closed olive eyes. Sam wants nothing more than to reach out and smooth his fingertips through those shadows, banish them.

The tall young man rubs at his eyes in an effort to placate the urge, but his hand just tingles, nerves sizzling beneath his skin. “The tour?” He doesn’t know what to say or where to start, and so just begins where his frazzled mind can begin.

“All a hoax, set up as a means to an end.”

The directness of the other man’s answer surprises Sam a little. He’d expected - well, he wasn’t really sure what he’d expected, actually. “The other guests who disappeared? I don’t…” He struggles for words. His fingers dig into the soft leather of the armchair.

“Take your time,” Mr. Winchester advises softly, arms crossed and eyes still closed. His face is dark, expectant, as though he is bracing himself.

“I’m not sure I can believe that all the disappearances are just a coincidence. There…” Conflict swims in Sam’s hazel eyes and he wants to cry. “…what really happened here today? Do I even want to know?” His breath catches as he struggles to stay calm. He’s so angry at himself for getting upset about this, about something that may be nothing.

Mr. Winchester stays quiet for a long, long moment. Then he sighs and anxiety is apparent in the crinkling of his forehead. “All those people - Uriel Gregory, Ruby Carpenter, Meg Masters, all of them - they were bad people, Sam. Selfish fools who cared for nothing but money and materialistic…” His frustration is obvious. He is the one searching for the right words now. “I don’t know what to say that would explain to you just what those people were like.”

There is anger and maybe even hate in his tone as he describes the way Miss Masters cheated and paid her way through her first years of college and how Ruby Carpenter and her father were rich, yes, but at others’ expense. There is more explanation about all of the others, but Sam is overwhelmed. He should be taken aback, should be scared shitless, but he isn’t.

Once the rant is over and it’s Sam’s turn, all he can say is, “Do I want to know the truth?”

And he can’t lie to him. “No.”

There is a certain amount of trust in the older man’s admittance of this. Hearing that he doesn’t want to know the truth is all Sam needs to know just what the truth is. This is it, he realizes as the last of the light disappears from the window. This is his chance to escape, to return to his house, kiss his mother, go to bed, and continue on with the life he’d been leading. Somehow this entire day feels like an out-of-body experience. The last twenty-four hours are almost like something from a dream, like a day he lived in a past life or in a dimension that exists outside the restrictions of time. Sam thinks about yesterday and the day before that and the day before that and realizes that there is very little to distinguish yesterday from a day five years ago. His life has been nothing but monotony and work and anxious anticipation of something better…

Sam looks up into the face of the man a few feet away and studies the faint laugh lines that frame those perfect lips.

Something better.

“Jim?” Sam knows what to say finally, and he suspects he knows what he’ll hear. He watches Mr. Winchester’s throat move as he swallows and when the older man exhales, the breath is shaky with relief and contentment.

“Hmm.” It’s not quite a laugh, but it’s not quite anything else, either - a strange combination of worn-out amusement and something like pride. “A friend of mine - of my father’s really, but a friend all the same.”

“You told him to give me the ticket, told him which chocolate bar to give me.” It isn’t a question; just a statement of what Sam knows now is fact.

“I don’t tell Jim anything,” he corrects, chuckling a little. “I asked him to do me this one thing, this…favor.” Mr. Winchester’s mouth twists in his face, as though the word ‘favor’ isn’t right, like it doesn’t fit what he wants to say but he can’t decide on a word that’s better. “I needed his help getting…” His eyes open now, and they are automatically focused on Sam, who fidgets under that direct green gaze. “I needed his help getting you here.”

Their eyes lock for a brief moment and then Mr. Winchester looks away. The intensity is back, and it’s overwhelming. The chocolatier reaches for his walking stick, which rests beside him on the desk. He plays with it, moving it from one hand to the other and then back again. It is a simple distraction, but Sam is tired of distractions and he is tired of sorting through reality. In this place, with this man, reality is suspended and Sam wants to take the plunge.

Mr. Winchester’s walking stick is thrown to the ground and his hands are sliding down the back of Sam’s pants and Sam’s lips are in danger of becoming permanently attached to Mr. Winchester’s throat when Sam breathes, “Dean…” and just like that, Mr. Winchester isn’t Mr. Winchester anymore. He is no longer an unreachable goal; he is here, in Sam’s hands and mouth and deeper than that, too.

Dean’s tongue traces the shell of Sam’s ear and he laughs when Sam gasps. He pulls the tall young man out of the armchair. Sam stumbles to his feet clumsily and the two nearly fall, laughing as Sam’s long legs get tangled with Dean’s.

Sam pushes Dean’s velvet blazer from his shoulders, delighting more in the breadth of his shoulders than in the feel of the velvet against his calloused fingers. Dean fumbles with the buttons on Sam’s button-up flannel, gloves and lust making his fingers clumsy and slow. Sam stops him, reaching down and carefully peeling the gloves off his hands. Once the gloves are gone, Sam pauses, staring at the golden skin, the long fingers, the well-kept nails. He catches Dean’s gaze with his own and draws the left hand up to his mouth, kissing each and every finger softy, gently. His tongue slips out from between his lips and ever-so-lightly touches the very center of Dean’s palm, drawing out a moan from the shorter man.

Dean’s hat is gone, disappeared somewhere in the hallway. Sam wraps his hand around the back of his neck and pulls him forward to finally taste that full mouth. Lips cling and Sam eagerly sucks at Dean’s lower lip, taking control of the kiss quickly. Dean swipes his tongue across Sam’s mouth and Sam gasps, lips parting. The older man delves his tongue inside, dragging the muscle along every obtainable surface, taking delight in the taste and the feel and the texture. Sam is breathing heavily through his nose and Dean is now completely in control. He pulls back a little, biting at Sam’s lips playfully and mouthing at his chin. He pulls his lips across Sam’s jaw, down to Sam’s neck. Sam arches back, granting access.

For a moment, Dean’s mouth disappears, and then there is suddenly something warm and solid being spread across Sam’s neck. He knows without asking.

Dean drags his tongue through the half-melted chocolate with sinful delight, the low murmur at the back of his throat almost a purr. Sam is backed against the door now, and he is sliding, sliding down, knees weak. Dean keeps licking, keeps sucking, keeps using lips and tongue and teeth to scrape and slick away that chocolate trail.

He grins against Sam’s skin, teeth dragging. “Delicious…”

It’s gone far too soon, and Sam is unbuttoning his shirt the rest of the way, revealing sleek, browned skin that asks for attention.

But Sam is pushing Dean down and taking the chocolate from his hands and peeling back the wrapper. He tears away the starched confines of Dean’s dress shirt and uses his free hand to tear off a piece of the candy bar. He crumbles it in his fingers and then smears it across Dean’s chest and neck. His fingers rub at the sensitive nubs of flesh that are Dean’s nipples, and the chocolatier makes a loud noise that is somewhere between a gasp and a groan, and all Sam knows is that he really wants to hear him do that again.

He bends over and wraps his lips around the hardened nub of Dean’s left nipple, sucking lightly at first, and then biting and tugging. He worries it with teeth and then soothes it with tongue, repeating the process over and over as Dean writhes beneath him and his right hand imitates the act on the other side.

“Sammy…” Sam tugs at the sensitized flesh once, twice, and Dean’s hips buck up. “Saaaam….”

Sam’s hand finds Dean’s cock and rests on the fabric just above it, lightly teasing with the barest of touches. His hips buck again, and Sam growls, feeling dominant and possessive and hungry. He wedges his thigh between Dean’s and begins a slow, rocking rhythm. Sam’s groin grinds directly against Dean’s as the two work toward the inevitable. There is chocolate in Sam’s hair and chocolate all over Dean’s face, and there is chocolate in their mouths as tongue meets tongue and the inevitable is reached.

It’s over too quickly, far too quickly, and Sam rests his head just below Dean’s collarbone, careless of the sticky mess in his pants or the saliva and chocolate all over the chest he is using as a pillow. Dean combs his messy fingers through Sam’s curly, damp hair and breathes in the sweet, familiar smell.

Chocolate.

Streams and streams and cascades and cascades of pure, melted chocolate, and it’s…all theirs.

“I wasn’t lying when I said that I want you to inherit the factory.”

Sam isn’t sure how to reply to this, so he just arches his neck up and plants a slow, soft kiss on Dean’s mouth. When it’s over he lowers his face into the crook of Dean’s neck.

“I watched for you,” Sam says.

“I know,” Dean replies, green eyes half-lidded. It’s been a long day. “I watched for you, too.”

There is so much to say, so much to tell.

Sam wants to ask just how Dean had known who he was, how he’d figured out that Sam had been dreaming about him his entire life; he wants to talk about his family and sports and his favorite flavor of ice cream. Dean wants to talk about his father, wants to talk about chocolate, wants to talk about his need for Sam, but he doesn’t say a word and neither does Sam.

There will be time for all that later.

They have all the time in the world.

[END]

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