(Fic) Chasing Lu - Thursday - sncross_bigbang
Title: Chasing Lu
Author(s): darkangelazure
Beta(s): popeiathehippo and mrstotten
Crossover: Supernatural/Constantine (movie)
Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters featured in this fic, it's just a bit of fun, don't sue me!
Type: Slash
Rating: NC-17
Word Count:
Characters/Pairings: Sam/Dean, John Constantine, Castiel, Lilith, Ruby, Papa Midnite, Angela Dodson, Chas Kramer, Ellen, Bobby, Beeman, Father Hennessy, Lu aka Lucifer.
Warnings: Strong Language, Consensual Incest, Sex, Violence, Gore, Death. Spoilers: Spoiler through Season 4
Artist:
davincis_girl
Link to Art: Master Art Post
Summary: The Winchester brothers are in LA, with another seal on the verge of breaking. Sam and Dean have to find out how a serious of demonic murders might point them on the right track and how Dean can finally realize his role.
Author’s Notes: Massive Thank you's to
davincis_girl for the brilliant and very breath taking art work she has done for this story, without her replies and her effort this wouldn't have been half the story I think it is right now. Thank you to popeiathehippo if she hadn't pulled out all her stops and devoted her valuable time there'd be so many typos and grammar mistakes nobody would be able to read! Thank you to mrstotten with her advise and suggestions I wouldn't have come up with most of my ideas thank you. This story was written for sncross_bigbang this has been a great way to get me back into my writing thank you.
Monday
Tuesday
Wednesday
Thursday
Friday
000
Thursday
“Something’s coming, John.” They’re by his grave, the grass wet with dew as the sprinklers turn themselves off, but they were both on time and he’s missed Earth.
“You going to tell me what it is?” The stone’s cold and the sky turns bright blue and dyes with pollution even in the cemetery, but the air still holds the night’s chill, biting at his fingers.
“Would if I could, John - I’m not that high up the ladder, you know.” There’s a smile on his lips, the lift of its bow and the cleanness of his skin radiating as much as his new eyes.
“So…something’s coming? I thought you’d leave the cryptic bullshit to the others. You disappoint me.” It’s soft and full of humor that John forgot he had, feeling his fingers dig around for the cigarettes he doesn’t have. He misses that lighter.
“If I was like them, would you even talk to me?” That’s when he produces the lighter, carved delicately with scripture and filthy gold, and watches as John scratches his chin.
“I thought so.” The birds start singing then, clacker and siren imitations bouncing of the sparse trees and cold stone.
“I’ve dealt with Lu before.”
“It’s not Lucifer.”
“Well, it looks like I’m going to be meeting a new asshole then.” He starts walking away.
“Something’s coming, John, just be careful.” And he can’t help but laugh as he turns but just meets a silent gravestone.
Chas Kramer
“You too, kid.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Sam, as much as I want Lilith’s head on a big fat silver plate, Papa Midnite’s is where the big rollers go. You go in there, you’ll see everything you don’t like. Hell, I have never even gone in.” They’re in the same motel, maybe the same room.
“Then make me a big roller, Ruby.” He just says it like he hates himself as he looms in the doorway. She doubts he’s told Dean yet, and she doesn’t blame him - she doesn’t want to die….again.
“As much as I’d like to, Sam, you can’t. I ain’t exactly the energizer bunny” Ruby jokes, but the way he looks at her, blank and angry, and the way his jaw ticks almost frightens her as he takes a step.
“I need it.” The way it resonates nearly makes her weak in the knees.
“Well I can’t give you it, not now.” It’s when she heads for the door that she feels something curl around the slim band of her arm, it’s like fingers but wider. Stranger and unattached.
“You wanna be that guy, Sam?” And he flinches, cloudy guilt of his eye shadowed as the band of power eases from her skin, the biting of her leather jacket fades.
“Here, I’ve got the address of the place. Like Castiel said, get in, scout and get out. And just some friendly information. Keep Dean on a fucking leash, you’re both no good dead.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The beat carries into the street, a few people spill out, laughing and clinging to each other but it’s something strikes Dean as wrong, the way they move, like click starting and eyes too wide, and then he realizes.
Demons.
Motor oil black eyes that glint in the night lights. The way they look at him and Sam, hungry and filled with gluttony as they pass. The faint hiccup of sulfur in their wake.
“Dean.” He can feel Sam’s hand on his shoulder, feel the heat of his palm and the warning of his grip through his suit jacket. ‘Something nice?’ he’d snapped when Sam had come back from his “informant” with Papa Midnite’s Club address.
“Yeah I know,’ just looking’.” Dean grinds it out like he’s chewing gristle. It feels like it, too; he feels every part of him lurch forward and stutter back from saying Christo and taking out his battered copy of the bible.
The bass is already resonating in Dean’s ribcage, making his heart flutter as they descend the stairs. The red lighting makes everything look sleazy, shadows deepening.
The bouncer gives them a onceover, the gaze is calculating, but typical as he raises a Tarot card, two birds in a bush facing them.
Dean doesn’t even have a chance to say “What the fuck?” before Sam’s smooth voice cuts through. “A cat on a wall.” And the velvet rope is unhooked and lifted.
The bouncer’s meaty hand shoots out, pressing hard and strong against Dean’s chest.
“He’s with me.” Dean feels it then, the trap of air and the hot almost-pressure of Sam next to him, looming over him as they cut through the curtain and into the club.
“What the hell was that?!” Dean has to get onto his toes, the indignity nearly showing on his face, but it seems to fall away when Sam turns to him, his pupils just too wide.
“It has to show I’m the one you’re with.”
“You’re human, Dean, they’ll take one look at you and know it and then it’s just an open market.” And Dean feels the words lay heavy in his head.
“What does that even mean?!” Dean still feels a little indignant and fairly pissed at being described as some sort of saleable item as they come into the full room.
The tables are crowded and people are talking and dancing, but it’s disjointed, too fast and jagged as they bump and grind against each other, dark corners full of clamoring hands and bodies, it’s when Dean looks into one that he sees it.
Feeding.
He nearly tries to bolt to save the day, but that’s when Sam pulls him in and something else is working, a silent pressure that curls around Dean’s chest and he knows it’s Sam.
“We’re not here for that.” Sam’s voice carries over everything else somehow and Dean feels the bile in the back of throat as Sam tries to push his gaze to somewhere else, someplace where Dean can’t watch the monsters so freely.
“How can you say that?” Dean grinds out and he can’t remember how he ended up staring at Sam’s chest, the white cotton bleached red by the lights.
“Because there are bigger things to think about, Dean, you can’t just go off half-cocked. You could get yourself killed.” Sam’s voice breaks a little on the last word, his breath close and wet to Dean’s ear.
“That’s not the point!” Dean growls and feels futile, feeble as Sam drags them to an open table in a hidden corner, somewhere were the lights don’t reach.
“That’s exactly the point!” Sam snaps like a taut thread, fraying at the edges as Dean feels two angels take an interest in the noise between them, although it can barely be heard under the music.
He hates the way they look at him, hates this place where everything seems to spin and run at a pace he can’t match and the way Sam seems to slip into it like he’s made for it.
The lights strobe and most people get up and dance, the music running fast and harsh as Dean feels the silent pressure of Sam’s weight next to him, sitting just four inches away, the invisible tendrils of him chaining Dean to his seat.
If Dean could, he’d scream at Sam, he’d rage and shout until the whole room knew he wasn’t some fucking property, he’s not Sam’s, not in the way this place wants him to be.
He feels so fragile as well.
So breakable, so human. Sam isn’t, though, Sam blends a little and it’s Dean who shines like salvation and lunch in one as the lights come back to red and the dance floor empties after a few songs.
“I gonna get a drink.” Dean bites, he’s already frustrated watching things, demons and angels tangle, talk and even eat. It has his stomach turning to hot knots.
“No.” It’s a clear command and order that’s like cool steel in the humid, thick air of the club and Dean feels a little close to hating Sam for it, for being so cool and calm, for the unflinching features of his face as he scans the room.
“Where the fuck do you get off?” Dean is almost disgusted as Sam finally looks at him.
“We are on a job.” And it hits Dean that they really are here, doing a job. He feels like he’s betrayed himself and caved to Sam again.
“I need a drink.” The way Sam flinches at that, the way he looks down at the dried candle wax on the table and Dean’s fingernails making Dean think he might have hit a nerve.
“Fine, be quick, don’t talk to anyone and get your ass back here.” Sam’s jaw is set hard, the thin irritated line of his mouth only gives a little away at how angry he is.
“How am I supposed to get a drink if I can’t talk to anyone, retard?” It’s not really a well-placed insult, but he feels better for it when Sam just returns with a petulant “Jerk”.
There is no crowd at the bar, just a sparse few sitting on stools, some draped over each other talking and laughing and Dean would think it looked just like a normal place if he didn’t see their eyes.
Some glint like a cat’s eyes, gold and red, and some just don’t shine at all; they’re just too black and liquid, sucking up the light. But they all have a look at him and Dean would be having his ego stroked to perfection at that thought if it wasn’t creatures doing it.
That’s when he sees the Barman.
The pimp-like hat kinda suits him, his skin a dark coffee even in the dim red light and the glint of a golden scorpion in the V of his stylish, probably expensive, colored shirt - a bit flashy for a barman, if you ask Dean.
But he doesn’t seem to be seeing a paying customer, too engrossed in talking to a guy sitting at the end of the bar. Black suit, black hair, a bit of a nobody; but he holds himself aloof, smiles too little, hard-looking as his fingers fidget with a cocktail stick. Smoker.
“Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all of the world, you had to walk into mine.” It’s almost in his ear and he already knows who it is by the way his gut goes cold.
“You said the line wrong, bitch.” He hates the way his voice breaks a little, and now he really wishes he had that drink.
“Hello, Dean” He looks at her, the milky white of her eyes, the sharp edge of her smile; she’s wearing a blonde petite thing, white teeth and high cheekbones, but she’s allowed to show the real color of her eyes here.
“Lilith.” It tastes like ash on his tongue, the drumbeat of another song flooding the air and Dean can count three others crowding Lilith, leaning up against the bar by her side.
They eye Dean, greedy, smiling hungrily as they look and he can feel his skin crawl.
“He’s so pretty.” His dark, manicured hair and power suit are nothing compared to the killer smile, the drawl of his words as the rest of them laugh and stare.
“Now, Adam, I don’t think Sam would take kindly to that” Lilith points out as she strokes a hand through a blonde curl.
“I’m gonna-“
“What, Dean? What are you going to do, hm? I think you’re not playing with a full deck here. We’re on neutral ground, Dean, and none of your winged buddies are going to even touch me here. What chance do you have?” Dean grinds his teeth, feels the enamel creak.
“Dean.” A hand curls around his neck, big and long, and he feels fingers curl over his windpipe.
“Not so little, are you, Sam? I always knew I liked something about you boys.” It’s smooth and dark, the tone, as she licks her lips, plump and glossy.
“I see you’ve found your way to my little watering hole. I’m quite impressed, Sam, you’ve changed! How does it feel? Bet it’s as good as mother’s milk.” A breathy laugh from the others and her smile grows wide and proud.
Dean swallows and feels Sam flinch behind him, the warmth of his chest seeping though Dean’s suit and shirt.
Dean feels himself smirk at that as he reaches for the holy water in his jacket and the knuckle-duster, threading it through his fingers. “You know, the one thing I never got about you lot is the fact that you never know when to shut your mouth.” Dean’s smile is bitter as he takes a swing, connecting with her jaw and splashing a quick stream of water over the one on her left.
An almighty wail cracks through the music and Sam’s right there, pinning one of the others to the bar with his bare hands, the strobes coming back on as Dean boots the prone demon on the floor.
He doesn’t even see the third come up behind, the dark-haired one, breathing against his ear as he pulls Dean’s neck back. Dean scrabbles, bringing his arms up behind him in a flail to gouge at the guy’s eyes.
“Now I know why Alistair took such a sweetness to you, baby. Such a pretty meatsuit.” He laughs breathily and grinds against Dean and Dean panics as he feels the air go stale in his lungs.
But above the music, he hears it, he hears the scream and then a burn, smells sulfur and feels the grip wane as red and white light shines and stutters from the guy’s mouth and eyes. Dean ducks out the way quickly enough to see the corpse drop and Sam open his eyes.
The lights come back up and about six bouncers run towards him and Sam, big and burly, but their eyes shine black. He knows when he’s outnumbered, so he raises his hands. Sam follows, but Dean can’t take his eyes off him.
The bouncers grab them and Dean feels a fist connect with his stomach. Cheap shot, he thinks as the air gushes out of his mouth.
“Wait.” The voice is deep, the lilt of an accent resonating, and it’s the barman, his hands ringed in gold, braced on the bar as he takes Dean and Sam in. Tilting his head to the side, he looks them both in the eye, his own eyes dark, and as he juts his chin, the bouncers let go, standing closely behind as Dean rubs his stomach.
“My office.” It’s a simple command, and, in a strange way, one he and Sam can’t seem to refuse as they exchange looks. They walk to the back, passing the end of the bar and the guy in black stands, straightens his coat and smirks a little at the barman; follows right next to him.
“I’m impressed, Midnite” he jokes as he takes the toothpick from his teeth and follows them into the back room.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“People who come in to my house abide by the rules, and they know there are consequences when the balance is disturbed” he says, seating himself behind the desk, covered in trinkets. He picks up a cigar and clips the end; the flick of a light clicks and spirals of smoke frame his face.
“What balance?! It was self defen-“
“Not in my house!” Midnite roars over Dean, slamming a fist on the table, the items jiggling and bouncing on the surface and the room almost loses its heat.
“Look, we’re sorry it got out of hand. We were just trying to get some information.” Sam’s all imploring, big puppy dog eyes and you wouldn’t think that he’d fried a demon with his brain not five minutes before.
“They shouldn’t have started it!” Dean belts, seething as he turns to Sam.
“Dean, shut up!” Sam looks embarrassed as he hisses the words at Dean. Bitch doesn’t tell me to shut up, I’m still the eldest, he thinks, but doesn’t say anything.
“How did you get into here?” Midnite takes a deep drag, the end flaring, and there’s a small crook to his lips. That grin that tells them that he already knows how they got in, that Sam got them in. “Yeah, how did these rednecks get in?” the guy in black interjects. He’s been leaning up against the wall, watching the whole thing with a fresh toothpick and a sardonic lilt to his lips.
“Did he-did that guy just call us rednecks?” Dean laughs a little at that, aiming the question at Sam and then turns to the guy, his black hair spiked up, his face sharp and pale. “See if you can call us rednecks when you’re chewing on ya teeth” Dean shoots back, rolling up a sleeve, but the guy just smirks as they both start advancing.
“Enough! Constantine, sit down!” Midnite barks as Sam grabs Dean by his bicep, coaxing him back.
“Dean, back off - this isn’t helping! We got in because of me, I got us in.” Sam answers, making Dean take a seat opposite Midnite’s desk as Constantine throws himself into the seat next to the door.
“I didn’t ask who, I asked how.” Midnite’s smooth tone brings the tension out of the room as he pyramids his hands, his cigar smoking in the ash tray as he stares up at Sam, straight into his eyes.
“It’s just something I can do” Sam answers as he straightens his back, gripping the back of Dean’s chair.
“You’re no half-breed and you’re not a psychic either, so what are you?” Constantine leans forward and pins Sam with his own calculating gaze.
“I’m not anything, I’m just human.” Sam answers, turning to look over his shoulder.
“I’ll grant you that, but it’s something else, I can see it.” He says it like he’s talking to himself as he slouches back into his seat, scrubbing against the five o-clock shadow on his chin.
There’s a click of a drawer, the hinges squealing and rolling as Midnite produces a wooden bowl. It’s carved out, symbols cut and patterns dark with age, the wood smooth.
“What about the balance, Midnite?” Constantine asks with a sarcastic smirk tilting his mouth, but Midnite answers “I see no violation in looking”, putting his hands into the bowl. Something clinks against the sides as he brings up a handful of bones and carved stones and throws them back in.
The bones and stones clank and skitter in the bowl and Midnite sets it down and looks.
It’s intent that lines his forehead, the way his eyes dart from bone to stone as his frown deepens, his lips moving in a awed gape, but closes them quickly. His brow gives a lift and he smirks a little. “Samael” he says, looking up from the bowl to Sam.
“That’s not his name” Dean bites, his eyes glazed as his breathing stutters. “That’s not his goddamned name.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
8 months earlier
“Dean, Dean, Dean. All you have to do is agree, it’ll all be over, the pain, the torture, everything, just say yes.” Alistair breathes it against his ear as Dean’s guts stitch back together.
He’s been here for what seems like forever and a lifetime as he flexes his fingers and it hurts like nothing else, the spikes through his palms pinning him there and the blood looking rusted as it dries against his skin.
“No” Dean mouths; it’s the only thing he can do, the only thing he can say after having his tongue cut out, it won’t grow back until what might seem like tonight as he smirks at Alistair through bloodied teeth.
“I thought you’d say that, and I actually came prepared. I know something you might like to know, too-“ he presses his lips up against the delicate shell of Dean’s ear “-your precious Sammy might be using old Azazel’s little gift.” What’s left of Dean’s heart shreds a little.
“I always thought it was a great maneuver of fate that he was called Sam. I mean, it’s been so long since I’ve seen Samael, not since the good old days, the bad days when rivers ran with blood” Alistair sighs and cuts away at the flesh of Dean’s tattoo with a nostalgic glint to his eye.
Dean breathes and grunts through the pain and twists his head from side to side, all the time screaming in his own mind It’s not true, it’s not true! Tears start to spill over the exposed marrow of his cheek bones.
“Oh, but Dean, it is true. But I’m offering you something that these years on the rack won’t get you. A chance.” It’s an almost gentle stroke across Dean’s cheekbones as Alistair sets down the knife. It should clank, but the tray’s too full of blood, congealing against everything as Dean cries freely.
“C’mon, Dean-o…you come work for me, learn the tricks of trade and you’ll be up there before you can click those heels of yours, protecting Sam, like you always do, like you were born to do.” Alistair combs a hand through Dean’s hair, fondly, and Dean can’t do this anymore.
“You can be my masterpiece” Alistair breathes against his ear, unhooking the spikes in Dean’s palms.
“You just have to say yes.” Long, skilled fingers frame Dean’s bloodied, gashed-up face as he collapses onto his knees. His bones are breaking, but he doesn’t feel it, his hands bleed, but he doesn’t recognize it.
“Yes” is all he mouths; swallows the accumulating pool of blood that he can’t taste.
“Good boy.” And he feels like he’s kissing at the crossroads again as he passes out.
He dreams that night, Sam in rapeseed fields in bloom.
Thursday-Part 2
Author(s): darkangelazure
Beta(s): popeiathehippo and mrstotten
Crossover: Supernatural/Constantine (movie)
Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters featured in this fic, it's just a bit of fun, don't sue me!
Type: Slash
Rating: NC-17
Word Count:
Characters/Pairings: Sam/Dean, John Constantine, Castiel, Lilith, Ruby, Papa Midnite, Angela Dodson, Chas Kramer, Ellen, Bobby, Beeman, Father Hennessy, Lu aka Lucifer.
Warnings: Strong Language, Consensual Incest, Sex, Violence, Gore, Death. Spoilers: Spoiler through Season 4
Artist:
davincis_girl
Link to Art: Master Art Post
Summary: The Winchester brothers are in LA, with another seal on the verge of breaking. Sam and Dean have to find out how a serious of demonic murders might point them on the right track and how Dean can finally realize his role.
Author’s Notes: Massive Thank you's to
davincis_girl for the brilliant and very breath taking art work she has done for this story, without her replies and her effort this wouldn't have been half the story I think it is right now. Thank you to popeiathehippo if she hadn't pulled out all her stops and devoted her valuable time there'd be so many typos and grammar mistakes nobody would be able to read! Thank you to mrstotten with her advise and suggestions I wouldn't have come up with most of my ideas thank you. This story was written for sncross_bigbang this has been a great way to get me back into my writing thank you.
Monday
Tuesday
Wednesday
Thursday
Friday
000
Thursday
“Something’s coming, John.” They’re by his grave, the grass wet with dew as the sprinklers turn themselves off, but they were both on time and he’s missed Earth.
“You going to tell me what it is?” The stone’s cold and the sky turns bright blue and dyes with pollution even in the cemetery, but the air still holds the night’s chill, biting at his fingers.
“Would if I could, John - I’m not that high up the ladder, you know.” There’s a smile on his lips, the lift of its bow and the cleanness of his skin radiating as much as his new eyes.
“So…something’s coming? I thought you’d leave the cryptic bullshit to the others. You disappoint me.” It’s soft and full of humor that John forgot he had, feeling his fingers dig around for the cigarettes he doesn’t have. He misses that lighter.
“If I was like them, would you even talk to me?” That’s when he produces the lighter, carved delicately with scripture and filthy gold, and watches as John scratches his chin.
“I thought so.” The birds start singing then, clacker and siren imitations bouncing of the sparse trees and cold stone.
“I’ve dealt with Lu before.”
“It’s not Lucifer.”
“Well, it looks like I’m going to be meeting a new asshole then.” He starts walking away.
“Something’s coming, John, just be careful.” And he can’t help but laugh as he turns but just meets a silent gravestone.
Chas Kramer
“You too, kid.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Sam, as much as I want Lilith’s head on a big fat silver plate, Papa Midnite’s is where the big rollers go. You go in there, you’ll see everything you don’t like. Hell, I have never even gone in.” They’re in the same motel, maybe the same room.
“Then make me a big roller, Ruby.” He just says it like he hates himself as he looms in the doorway. She doubts he’s told Dean yet, and she doesn’t blame him - she doesn’t want to die….again.
“As much as I’d like to, Sam, you can’t. I ain’t exactly the energizer bunny” Ruby jokes, but the way he looks at her, blank and angry, and the way his jaw ticks almost frightens her as he takes a step.
“I need it.” The way it resonates nearly makes her weak in the knees.
“Well I can’t give you it, not now.” It’s when she heads for the door that she feels something curl around the slim band of her arm, it’s like fingers but wider. Stranger and unattached.
“You wanna be that guy, Sam?” And he flinches, cloudy guilt of his eye shadowed as the band of power eases from her skin, the biting of her leather jacket fades.
“Here, I’ve got the address of the place. Like Castiel said, get in, scout and get out. And just some friendly information. Keep Dean on a fucking leash, you’re both no good dead.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The beat carries into the street, a few people spill out, laughing and clinging to each other but it’s something strikes Dean as wrong, the way they move, like click starting and eyes too wide, and then he realizes.
Demons.
Motor oil black eyes that glint in the night lights. The way they look at him and Sam, hungry and filled with gluttony as they pass. The faint hiccup of sulfur in their wake.
“Dean.” He can feel Sam’s hand on his shoulder, feel the heat of his palm and the warning of his grip through his suit jacket. ‘Something nice?’ he’d snapped when Sam had come back from his “informant” with Papa Midnite’s Club address.
“Yeah I know,’ just looking’.” Dean grinds it out like he’s chewing gristle. It feels like it, too; he feels every part of him lurch forward and stutter back from saying Christo and taking out his battered copy of the bible.
The bass is already resonating in Dean’s ribcage, making his heart flutter as they descend the stairs. The red lighting makes everything look sleazy, shadows deepening.
The bouncer gives them a onceover, the gaze is calculating, but typical as he raises a Tarot card, two birds in a bush facing them.
Dean doesn’t even have a chance to say “What the fuck?” before Sam’s smooth voice cuts through. “A cat on a wall.” And the velvet rope is unhooked and lifted.
The bouncer’s meaty hand shoots out, pressing hard and strong against Dean’s chest.
“He’s with me.” Dean feels it then, the trap of air and the hot almost-pressure of Sam next to him, looming over him as they cut through the curtain and into the club.
“What the hell was that?!” Dean has to get onto his toes, the indignity nearly showing on his face, but it seems to fall away when Sam turns to him, his pupils just too wide.
“It has to show I’m the one you’re with.”
“You’re human, Dean, they’ll take one look at you and know it and then it’s just an open market.” And Dean feels the words lay heavy in his head.
“What does that even mean?!” Dean still feels a little indignant and fairly pissed at being described as some sort of saleable item as they come into the full room.
The tables are crowded and people are talking and dancing, but it’s disjointed, too fast and jagged as they bump and grind against each other, dark corners full of clamoring hands and bodies, it’s when Dean looks into one that he sees it.
Feeding.
He nearly tries to bolt to save the day, but that’s when Sam pulls him in and something else is working, a silent pressure that curls around Dean’s chest and he knows it’s Sam.
“We’re not here for that.” Sam’s voice carries over everything else somehow and Dean feels the bile in the back of throat as Sam tries to push his gaze to somewhere else, someplace where Dean can’t watch the monsters so freely.
“How can you say that?” Dean grinds out and he can’t remember how he ended up staring at Sam’s chest, the white cotton bleached red by the lights.
“Because there are bigger things to think about, Dean, you can’t just go off half-cocked. You could get yourself killed.” Sam’s voice breaks a little on the last word, his breath close and wet to Dean’s ear.
“That’s not the point!” Dean growls and feels futile, feeble as Sam drags them to an open table in a hidden corner, somewhere were the lights don’t reach.
“That’s exactly the point!” Sam snaps like a taut thread, fraying at the edges as Dean feels two angels take an interest in the noise between them, although it can barely be heard under the music.
He hates the way they look at him, hates this place where everything seems to spin and run at a pace he can’t match and the way Sam seems to slip into it like he’s made for it.
The lights strobe and most people get up and dance, the music running fast and harsh as Dean feels the silent pressure of Sam’s weight next to him, sitting just four inches away, the invisible tendrils of him chaining Dean to his seat.
If Dean could, he’d scream at Sam, he’d rage and shout until the whole room knew he wasn’t some fucking property, he’s not Sam’s, not in the way this place wants him to be.
He feels so fragile as well.
So breakable, so human. Sam isn’t, though, Sam blends a little and it’s Dean who shines like salvation and lunch in one as the lights come back to red and the dance floor empties after a few songs.
“I gonna get a drink.” Dean bites, he’s already frustrated watching things, demons and angels tangle, talk and even eat. It has his stomach turning to hot knots.
“No.” It’s a clear command and order that’s like cool steel in the humid, thick air of the club and Dean feels a little close to hating Sam for it, for being so cool and calm, for the unflinching features of his face as he scans the room.
“Where the fuck do you get off?” Dean is almost disgusted as Sam finally looks at him.
“We are on a job.” And it hits Dean that they really are here, doing a job. He feels like he’s betrayed himself and caved to Sam again.
“I need a drink.” The way Sam flinches at that, the way he looks down at the dried candle wax on the table and Dean’s fingernails making Dean think he might have hit a nerve.
“Fine, be quick, don’t talk to anyone and get your ass back here.” Sam’s jaw is set hard, the thin irritated line of his mouth only gives a little away at how angry he is.
“How am I supposed to get a drink if I can’t talk to anyone, retard?” It’s not really a well-placed insult, but he feels better for it when Sam just returns with a petulant “Jerk”.
There is no crowd at the bar, just a sparse few sitting on stools, some draped over each other talking and laughing and Dean would think it looked just like a normal place if he didn’t see their eyes.
Some glint like a cat’s eyes, gold and red, and some just don’t shine at all; they’re just too black and liquid, sucking up the light. But they all have a look at him and Dean would be having his ego stroked to perfection at that thought if it wasn’t creatures doing it.
That’s when he sees the Barman.
The pimp-like hat kinda suits him, his skin a dark coffee even in the dim red light and the glint of a golden scorpion in the V of his stylish, probably expensive, colored shirt - a bit flashy for a barman, if you ask Dean.
But he doesn’t seem to be seeing a paying customer, too engrossed in talking to a guy sitting at the end of the bar. Black suit, black hair, a bit of a nobody; but he holds himself aloof, smiles too little, hard-looking as his fingers fidget with a cocktail stick. Smoker.
“Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all of the world, you had to walk into mine.” It’s almost in his ear and he already knows who it is by the way his gut goes cold.
“You said the line wrong, bitch.” He hates the way his voice breaks a little, and now he really wishes he had that drink.
“Hello, Dean” He looks at her, the milky white of her eyes, the sharp edge of her smile; she’s wearing a blonde petite thing, white teeth and high cheekbones, but she’s allowed to show the real color of her eyes here.
“Lilith.” It tastes like ash on his tongue, the drumbeat of another song flooding the air and Dean can count three others crowding Lilith, leaning up against the bar by her side.
They eye Dean, greedy, smiling hungrily as they look and he can feel his skin crawl.
“He’s so pretty.” His dark, manicured hair and power suit are nothing compared to the killer smile, the drawl of his words as the rest of them laugh and stare.
“Now, Adam, I don’t think Sam would take kindly to that” Lilith points out as she strokes a hand through a blonde curl.
“I’m gonna-“
“What, Dean? What are you going to do, hm? I think you’re not playing with a full deck here. We’re on neutral ground, Dean, and none of your winged buddies are going to even touch me here. What chance do you have?” Dean grinds his teeth, feels the enamel creak.
“Dean.” A hand curls around his neck, big and long, and he feels fingers curl over his windpipe.
“Not so little, are you, Sam? I always knew I liked something about you boys.” It’s smooth and dark, the tone, as she licks her lips, plump and glossy.
“I see you’ve found your way to my little watering hole. I’m quite impressed, Sam, you’ve changed! How does it feel? Bet it’s as good as mother’s milk.” A breathy laugh from the others and her smile grows wide and proud.
Dean swallows and feels Sam flinch behind him, the warmth of his chest seeping though Dean’s suit and shirt.
Dean feels himself smirk at that as he reaches for the holy water in his jacket and the knuckle-duster, threading it through his fingers. “You know, the one thing I never got about you lot is the fact that you never know when to shut your mouth.” Dean’s smile is bitter as he takes a swing, connecting with her jaw and splashing a quick stream of water over the one on her left.
An almighty wail cracks through the music and Sam’s right there, pinning one of the others to the bar with his bare hands, the strobes coming back on as Dean boots the prone demon on the floor.
He doesn’t even see the third come up behind, the dark-haired one, breathing against his ear as he pulls Dean’s neck back. Dean scrabbles, bringing his arms up behind him in a flail to gouge at the guy’s eyes.
“Now I know why Alistair took such a sweetness to you, baby. Such a pretty meatsuit.” He laughs breathily and grinds against Dean and Dean panics as he feels the air go stale in his lungs.
But above the music, he hears it, he hears the scream and then a burn, smells sulfur and feels the grip wane as red and white light shines and stutters from the guy’s mouth and eyes. Dean ducks out the way quickly enough to see the corpse drop and Sam open his eyes.
The lights come back up and about six bouncers run towards him and Sam, big and burly, but their eyes shine black. He knows when he’s outnumbered, so he raises his hands. Sam follows, but Dean can’t take his eyes off him.
The bouncers grab them and Dean feels a fist connect with his stomach. Cheap shot, he thinks as the air gushes out of his mouth.
“Wait.” The voice is deep, the lilt of an accent resonating, and it’s the barman, his hands ringed in gold, braced on the bar as he takes Dean and Sam in. Tilting his head to the side, he looks them both in the eye, his own eyes dark, and as he juts his chin, the bouncers let go, standing closely behind as Dean rubs his stomach.
“My office.” It’s a simple command, and, in a strange way, one he and Sam can’t seem to refuse as they exchange looks. They walk to the back, passing the end of the bar and the guy in black stands, straightens his coat and smirks a little at the barman; follows right next to him.
“I’m impressed, Midnite” he jokes as he takes the toothpick from his teeth and follows them into the back room.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“People who come in to my house abide by the rules, and they know there are consequences when the balance is disturbed” he says, seating himself behind the desk, covered in trinkets. He picks up a cigar and clips the end; the flick of a light clicks and spirals of smoke frame his face.
“What balance?! It was self defen-“
“Not in my house!” Midnite roars over Dean, slamming a fist on the table, the items jiggling and bouncing on the surface and the room almost loses its heat.
“Look, we’re sorry it got out of hand. We were just trying to get some information.” Sam’s all imploring, big puppy dog eyes and you wouldn’t think that he’d fried a demon with his brain not five minutes before.
“They shouldn’t have started it!” Dean belts, seething as he turns to Sam.
“Dean, shut up!” Sam looks embarrassed as he hisses the words at Dean. Bitch doesn’t tell me to shut up, I’m still the eldest, he thinks, but doesn’t say anything.
“How did you get into here?” Midnite takes a deep drag, the end flaring, and there’s a small crook to his lips. That grin that tells them that he already knows how they got in, that Sam got them in. “Yeah, how did these rednecks get in?” the guy in black interjects. He’s been leaning up against the wall, watching the whole thing with a fresh toothpick and a sardonic lilt to his lips.
“Did he-did that guy just call us rednecks?” Dean laughs a little at that, aiming the question at Sam and then turns to the guy, his black hair spiked up, his face sharp and pale. “See if you can call us rednecks when you’re chewing on ya teeth” Dean shoots back, rolling up a sleeve, but the guy just smirks as they both start advancing.
“Enough! Constantine, sit down!” Midnite barks as Sam grabs Dean by his bicep, coaxing him back.
“Dean, back off - this isn’t helping! We got in because of me, I got us in.” Sam answers, making Dean take a seat opposite Midnite’s desk as Constantine throws himself into the seat next to the door.
“I didn’t ask who, I asked how.” Midnite’s smooth tone brings the tension out of the room as he pyramids his hands, his cigar smoking in the ash tray as he stares up at Sam, straight into his eyes.
“It’s just something I can do” Sam answers as he straightens his back, gripping the back of Dean’s chair.
“You’re no half-breed and you’re not a psychic either, so what are you?” Constantine leans forward and pins Sam with his own calculating gaze.
“I’m not anything, I’m just human.” Sam answers, turning to look over his shoulder.
“I’ll grant you that, but it’s something else, I can see it.” He says it like he’s talking to himself as he slouches back into his seat, scrubbing against the five o-clock shadow on his chin.
There’s a click of a drawer, the hinges squealing and rolling as Midnite produces a wooden bowl. It’s carved out, symbols cut and patterns dark with age, the wood smooth.
“What about the balance, Midnite?” Constantine asks with a sarcastic smirk tilting his mouth, but Midnite answers “I see no violation in looking”, putting his hands into the bowl. Something clinks against the sides as he brings up a handful of bones and carved stones and throws them back in.
The bones and stones clank and skitter in the bowl and Midnite sets it down and looks.
It’s intent that lines his forehead, the way his eyes dart from bone to stone as his frown deepens, his lips moving in a awed gape, but closes them quickly. His brow gives a lift and he smirks a little. “Samael” he says, looking up from the bowl to Sam.
“That’s not his name” Dean bites, his eyes glazed as his breathing stutters. “That’s not his goddamned name.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
8 months earlier
“Dean, Dean, Dean. All you have to do is agree, it’ll all be over, the pain, the torture, everything, just say yes.” Alistair breathes it against his ear as Dean’s guts stitch back together.
He’s been here for what seems like forever and a lifetime as he flexes his fingers and it hurts like nothing else, the spikes through his palms pinning him there and the blood looking rusted as it dries against his skin.
“No” Dean mouths; it’s the only thing he can do, the only thing he can say after having his tongue cut out, it won’t grow back until what might seem like tonight as he smirks at Alistair through bloodied teeth.
“I thought you’d say that, and I actually came prepared. I know something you might like to know, too-“ he presses his lips up against the delicate shell of Dean’s ear “-your precious Sammy might be using old Azazel’s little gift.” What’s left of Dean’s heart shreds a little.
“I always thought it was a great maneuver of fate that he was called Sam. I mean, it’s been so long since I’ve seen Samael, not since the good old days, the bad days when rivers ran with blood” Alistair sighs and cuts away at the flesh of Dean’s tattoo with a nostalgic glint to his eye.
Dean breathes and grunts through the pain and twists his head from side to side, all the time screaming in his own mind It’s not true, it’s not true! Tears start to spill over the exposed marrow of his cheek bones.
“Oh, but Dean, it is true. But I’m offering you something that these years on the rack won’t get you. A chance.” It’s an almost gentle stroke across Dean’s cheekbones as Alistair sets down the knife. It should clank, but the tray’s too full of blood, congealing against everything as Dean cries freely.
“C’mon, Dean-o…you come work for me, learn the tricks of trade and you’ll be up there before you can click those heels of yours, protecting Sam, like you always do, like you were born to do.” Alistair combs a hand through Dean’s hair, fondly, and Dean can’t do this anymore.
“You can be my masterpiece” Alistair breathes against his ear, unhooking the spikes in Dean’s palms.
“You just have to say yes.” Long, skilled fingers frame Dean’s bloodied, gashed-up face as he collapses onto his knees. His bones are breaking, but he doesn’t feel it, his hands bleed, but he doesn’t recognize it.
“Yes” is all he mouths; swallows the accumulating pool of blood that he can’t taste.
“Good boy.” And he feels like he’s kissing at the crossroads again as he passes out.
He dreams that night, Sam in rapeseed fields in bloom.
Thursday-Part 2