WEEKEND FIC-A-THON.
So what did I do all weekend, you ask?
Well . . . this.
I saw that Underworld: Rise of the Lycans is out on video this week, and that got me thinking about my poor lonely Dean-is-a-vampire story.
So. Here we go.
Sam brings him clothes to replace the ones that were ruined in the alley fight.
The fisherman’s sweater is wonderfully warm in heavily cabled ivory wool, and the denim pants are lined in flannel. Sturdy, lug-soled boots are only a little too big, and with thick cotton socks, the fit is close enough to be comfortable.
It’s strange attire to be found in the home of what is clearly a warlock. In Dean’s experience, human mages in their bases of power-and that’s what this must be, he can *feel* the magic surrounding them-tend towards flowing robes and mystical symbols. Sam is clearly an anomaly, though, and it gives Dean a sense of kinship, as if he’s found another outsider.
Dean runs a hand over his face, feels the familiar prickle of stubble and decides against a request for shaving supplies. He doesn’t want to look into the mirror and see someone even stranger than usual gazing back at him. It’s odd enough to see his hands extend from creamy sweater sleeves instead of black leather or jewel-toned silk, and his fingers feel empty without a gun or a blade.
Sam finishes wolfing down another sandwich as Dean turns back towards the fire. He’d brought back half a dozen more along with the clothes, and now there’s only one left. Dean eyes it covetously, but reaches for the blood bag instead. He needs the nutrients in the artificial plasma, and although human food tastes good and won’t hurt him, the nourishment he can take from red meat is negligible at best.
He lets his fangs extend and sinks them through the plastic, draining the bag in a matter of seconds. Sam is watching when Dean finishes, and he flushes. Another faux pas: Dean is clearly just full of them. It’s simply not done, to feed in front of humans. They never understand, and the ones who are not outright disgusted are unhealthily fascinated. There’s something about Sam, though, that makes Dean forget all the rules of conduct that he learned so painstakingly.
Dean should really be trying to figure out how to get out of here and get back to the coven, not making nice with his captor in what was likely to be a vain effort to fill in some of the gaps in his memory.
But Sam, it seems, is only waiting for Dean to finish so that he can say, “Split the last burger with you?”
Dean blinks. “What?”
“Burger?” Sam gestures. Two neatly separated sandwich halves sit on the tray. “It’s the last one, but I’m willing to share.” Dean thinks that the food looks oddly forlorn, and he picks up one of the pieces, more to have something to do with his hands than for any other reason. He makes a point of eating it in eight small, neat bites, and thumbs juice from one corner of his mouth afterwards.
Sam practically inhales his portion, gulping it down in three ravenous mouthfuls, as if he hadn’t just devoured an entire platter’s worth of food already. It almost makes Dean feel better about his shameful lack of manners earlier.
The grin that spreads over Sam’s face *definitely* improves his spirits, and Dean can’t help but to smile in return.
“Come on,” Sam says cheerfully, and waves one long arm. “Let’s take a walk, and I’ll show you around some.”
Dean feels the smile slip away from his face at the thought. “I . . . I should go,” he says reluctantly. “There are people-I will be missed, by now.”
Sam frowns, brows drawing together, expressive mouth downturned at the corners. “But you need rest!” he protests. Then, lower, as if he doesn’t realize he’s speaking aloud, “I just got you back.”
Dean rubs his hand across the back of his neck. “I don’t-I can’t stay. I have to go.”
He’s starting to feel edgy, with the nervous twitch under his skin that means the dawn is coming. He needs to be in his rooms at the coven, discussing the Lycan threat with Kraven and drawing up plans for his next attack. Dean can’t . . . there’s no time for him to coddle this paltry human, no matter the nagging familiarity of his fox’s features.
But the sadness, the desolation in Sam’s eyes is Dean’s undoing, and he finds himself promising, “I’ll come back. I’ll meet you-tomorrow night? We’ll talk some more. Maybe I’ll remember something.”
Sam chews on his lower lip for a moment before agreeing. “I’ll be free after sunset,” he says finally.
Dean manages that meeting, and several others, before Kraven catches wind of it.
While Dean kneels on cold stone, awaiting the attentions of the coven leader, he silently promises himself that the vampire who sought to curry the lord Kraven’s favor by revealing Dean’s secret meetings will be chained in the sun at Dean’s earliest opportunity.
Kraven is furious, that much Dean can tell, though he has no idea why.
He accepts the whipping that follows as his due, and leaves the lord’s rooms no wiser than before. It’s Erika who lets slip the name Selene, and worse, Michael.
Dean recklessly promises her that he will do everything in his power to see her queen at Kraven’s side, in exchange for what information she can provide. Dean is still the leader of Kraven’s Death Dealers; the disgrace of keeping company with a human will pass, and so will their lord’s anger.
Erika is a wealth of gossip, a storehouse of knowledge that Dean could never have accessed on his own. The fragility that keeps her on the fringes of coven politics hides a surprisingly sharp mind and a devotion to Kraven that borders on obsession. Dean has to tread more carefully than he ever expected with someone he had previously considered a useless fool, but he learns about the last war-ten years gone now-and about the hybrid and the traitor.
She knows little or nothing of Lucian, though, and Dean dares not reveal to her the few glimpses of memory that have returned.
Instead, he makes his obeisance to their coven leader, and earns his forgiveness with a truly spectacular body count when Dean goes alone into the city sewers and single-handedly destroys a formidable Lycan pack.
He is very, very careful to do everything he can to avoid detection when he meets with Sam again, now that he knows why Kraven has forbidden not only the presence of humans within coven walls, but has banned virtually all contact with them. The dangerous implications of keeping a closer relationship is not lost on Dean, but he enjoys his time with Sam too much to give it up.
Sam takes Dean to movies, to coffeehouses, and to loud, rowdy human taverns where they shoot pool and throw dice. They usually leave with their pockets heavy with the money of others, and more than once, the threat of violence hanging over them.
Dean has no fear on his own behalf, but he’s not sure about Sam’s ability to defend himself, and it doesn’t seem like an acceptable question to ask in human society. It seems easier to simply withdraw from the field before a battle becomes an issue, and Sam follows Dean’s lead easily enough.
Sam has been quiet, the last few times they met. Tonight, they’re at a restaurant, known city-wide for its steaks, and Dean has learned to keep himself sufficiently under control so that he can enjoy the human food as simply another pleasure to his senses. Sam seems to have had something on his mind all evening, though, and barely manages to finish his meal.
Once they’re outside and walking, Dean makes a tentative inquiry.
“It’s-there’s not really anything you can do about it,” Sam responds, sounding weary and deeply troubled. He sighs heavily, kicks at a glass bottle lying in the gutter, and winces at the shrill ringing sounds as it rolls across the cobblestones. One hand rises to his head in an abortive gesture, and Dean wonders if Sam is quite well. “Just . . . kind of a bad couple of weeks at work.”
Dean is nearly overcome by the sudden rush of emotion that floods him. He wants to find whoever it was that made Sam this unhappy, find them and drain the life from their feeble human bodies, rend their limbs and make them unrecognizable even to their own mothers.
He can’t prevent his fangs from lengthening and eyes flickering blue, but he can change the subject and try to make Sam more comfortable.
Before Dean can speak, though, Sam adds, “Do you mind if we call it a night? I don’t really feel like going anywhere.”
Dean swallows hard and shrugs. Sam’s never refused his company; in fact, he seems to crave it. It’s become more and more difficult for Dean to refuse his pleas and to leave each time they meet in time for his return to the coven house before the dawn.
To hear Sam request otherwise makes Dean’s stomach squirm unpleasantly.
“Sure thing, Sammy,” Dean agrees, though. Sam smiles sadly and says, “You’re the only who gets to call me that.”
He halts and turns to Dean. One big hand comes up and cups Dean’s cheek, thumb rubbing gently across the bone. “I miss you,” Sam says hoarsely. “I really, really miss you.”
Dean turns his head aside, uncomfortable as always with the depths of Sam’s grief. He can’t remember the relationship between them, or the reasons why the loss of that relationship would devastate Sam so strongly, but his pain is obvious.
Unable to offer anything more than his company, Dean catches Sam’s hand in his and presses a brief kiss to the knuckles. “I’ll see you tomorrow night,” he promises rashly, and departs before he has a chance to rethink his decision. Dean is pushing his luck in meeting Sam again so soon, but he can’t help himself.
He’s beginning to think that he needs Sam just as much as the other way around.
************************
Whatcha think? I actually know where I'm going with this, now . . . it's just a matter of getting there. I'm always curious as to if others see it the same way I do, so tell me-- what do you think happens next?
I'd do a poll, but I'm a freebie user. Sigh. Maybe someday.
Well . . . this.
I saw that Underworld: Rise of the Lycans is out on video this week, and that got me thinking about my poor lonely Dean-is-a-vampire story.
So. Here we go.
Sam brings him clothes to replace the ones that were ruined in the alley fight.
The fisherman’s sweater is wonderfully warm in heavily cabled ivory wool, and the denim pants are lined in flannel. Sturdy, lug-soled boots are only a little too big, and with thick cotton socks, the fit is close enough to be comfortable.
It’s strange attire to be found in the home of what is clearly a warlock. In Dean’s experience, human mages in their bases of power-and that’s what this must be, he can *feel* the magic surrounding them-tend towards flowing robes and mystical symbols. Sam is clearly an anomaly, though, and it gives Dean a sense of kinship, as if he’s found another outsider.
Dean runs a hand over his face, feels the familiar prickle of stubble and decides against a request for shaving supplies. He doesn’t want to look into the mirror and see someone even stranger than usual gazing back at him. It’s odd enough to see his hands extend from creamy sweater sleeves instead of black leather or jewel-toned silk, and his fingers feel empty without a gun or a blade.
Sam finishes wolfing down another sandwich as Dean turns back towards the fire. He’d brought back half a dozen more along with the clothes, and now there’s only one left. Dean eyes it covetously, but reaches for the blood bag instead. He needs the nutrients in the artificial plasma, and although human food tastes good and won’t hurt him, the nourishment he can take from red meat is negligible at best.
He lets his fangs extend and sinks them through the plastic, draining the bag in a matter of seconds. Sam is watching when Dean finishes, and he flushes. Another faux pas: Dean is clearly just full of them. It’s simply not done, to feed in front of humans. They never understand, and the ones who are not outright disgusted are unhealthily fascinated. There’s something about Sam, though, that makes Dean forget all the rules of conduct that he learned so painstakingly.
Dean should really be trying to figure out how to get out of here and get back to the coven, not making nice with his captor in what was likely to be a vain effort to fill in some of the gaps in his memory.
But Sam, it seems, is only waiting for Dean to finish so that he can say, “Split the last burger with you?”
Dean blinks. “What?”
“Burger?” Sam gestures. Two neatly separated sandwich halves sit on the tray. “It’s the last one, but I’m willing to share.” Dean thinks that the food looks oddly forlorn, and he picks up one of the pieces, more to have something to do with his hands than for any other reason. He makes a point of eating it in eight small, neat bites, and thumbs juice from one corner of his mouth afterwards.
Sam practically inhales his portion, gulping it down in three ravenous mouthfuls, as if he hadn’t just devoured an entire platter’s worth of food already. It almost makes Dean feel better about his shameful lack of manners earlier.
The grin that spreads over Sam’s face *definitely* improves his spirits, and Dean can’t help but to smile in return.
“Come on,” Sam says cheerfully, and waves one long arm. “Let’s take a walk, and I’ll show you around some.”
Dean feels the smile slip away from his face at the thought. “I . . . I should go,” he says reluctantly. “There are people-I will be missed, by now.”
Sam frowns, brows drawing together, expressive mouth downturned at the corners. “But you need rest!” he protests. Then, lower, as if he doesn’t realize he’s speaking aloud, “I just got you back.”
Dean rubs his hand across the back of his neck. “I don’t-I can’t stay. I have to go.”
He’s starting to feel edgy, with the nervous twitch under his skin that means the dawn is coming. He needs to be in his rooms at the coven, discussing the Lycan threat with Kraven and drawing up plans for his next attack. Dean can’t . . . there’s no time for him to coddle this paltry human, no matter the nagging familiarity of his fox’s features.
But the sadness, the desolation in Sam’s eyes is Dean’s undoing, and he finds himself promising, “I’ll come back. I’ll meet you-tomorrow night? We’ll talk some more. Maybe I’ll remember something.”
Sam chews on his lower lip for a moment before agreeing. “I’ll be free after sunset,” he says finally.
Dean manages that meeting, and several others, before Kraven catches wind of it.
While Dean kneels on cold stone, awaiting the attentions of the coven leader, he silently promises himself that the vampire who sought to curry the lord Kraven’s favor by revealing Dean’s secret meetings will be chained in the sun at Dean’s earliest opportunity.
Kraven is furious, that much Dean can tell, though he has no idea why.
He accepts the whipping that follows as his due, and leaves the lord’s rooms no wiser than before. It’s Erika who lets slip the name Selene, and worse, Michael.
Dean recklessly promises her that he will do everything in his power to see her queen at Kraven’s side, in exchange for what information she can provide. Dean is still the leader of Kraven’s Death Dealers; the disgrace of keeping company with a human will pass, and so will their lord’s anger.
Erika is a wealth of gossip, a storehouse of knowledge that Dean could never have accessed on his own. The fragility that keeps her on the fringes of coven politics hides a surprisingly sharp mind and a devotion to Kraven that borders on obsession. Dean has to tread more carefully than he ever expected with someone he had previously considered a useless fool, but he learns about the last war-ten years gone now-and about the hybrid and the traitor.
She knows little or nothing of Lucian, though, and Dean dares not reveal to her the few glimpses of memory that have returned.
Instead, he makes his obeisance to their coven leader, and earns his forgiveness with a truly spectacular body count when Dean goes alone into the city sewers and single-handedly destroys a formidable Lycan pack.
He is very, very careful to do everything he can to avoid detection when he meets with Sam again, now that he knows why Kraven has forbidden not only the presence of humans within coven walls, but has banned virtually all contact with them. The dangerous implications of keeping a closer relationship is not lost on Dean, but he enjoys his time with Sam too much to give it up.
Sam takes Dean to movies, to coffeehouses, and to loud, rowdy human taverns where they shoot pool and throw dice. They usually leave with their pockets heavy with the money of others, and more than once, the threat of violence hanging over them.
Dean has no fear on his own behalf, but he’s not sure about Sam’s ability to defend himself, and it doesn’t seem like an acceptable question to ask in human society. It seems easier to simply withdraw from the field before a battle becomes an issue, and Sam follows Dean’s lead easily enough.
Sam has been quiet, the last few times they met. Tonight, they’re at a restaurant, known city-wide for its steaks, and Dean has learned to keep himself sufficiently under control so that he can enjoy the human food as simply another pleasure to his senses. Sam seems to have had something on his mind all evening, though, and barely manages to finish his meal.
Once they’re outside and walking, Dean makes a tentative inquiry.
“It’s-there’s not really anything you can do about it,” Sam responds, sounding weary and deeply troubled. He sighs heavily, kicks at a glass bottle lying in the gutter, and winces at the shrill ringing sounds as it rolls across the cobblestones. One hand rises to his head in an abortive gesture, and Dean wonders if Sam is quite well. “Just . . . kind of a bad couple of weeks at work.”
Dean is nearly overcome by the sudden rush of emotion that floods him. He wants to find whoever it was that made Sam this unhappy, find them and drain the life from their feeble human bodies, rend their limbs and make them unrecognizable even to their own mothers.
He can’t prevent his fangs from lengthening and eyes flickering blue, but he can change the subject and try to make Sam more comfortable.
Before Dean can speak, though, Sam adds, “Do you mind if we call it a night? I don’t really feel like going anywhere.”
Dean swallows hard and shrugs. Sam’s never refused his company; in fact, he seems to crave it. It’s become more and more difficult for Dean to refuse his pleas and to leave each time they meet in time for his return to the coven house before the dawn.
To hear Sam request otherwise makes Dean’s stomach squirm unpleasantly.
“Sure thing, Sammy,” Dean agrees, though. Sam smiles sadly and says, “You’re the only who gets to call me that.”
He halts and turns to Dean. One big hand comes up and cups Dean’s cheek, thumb rubbing gently across the bone. “I miss you,” Sam says hoarsely. “I really, really miss you.”
Dean turns his head aside, uncomfortable as always with the depths of Sam’s grief. He can’t remember the relationship between them, or the reasons why the loss of that relationship would devastate Sam so strongly, but his pain is obvious.
Unable to offer anything more than his company, Dean catches Sam’s hand in his and presses a brief kiss to the knuckles. “I’ll see you tomorrow night,” he promises rashly, and departs before he has a chance to rethink his decision. Dean is pushing his luck in meeting Sam again so soon, but he can’t help himself.
He’s beginning to think that he needs Sam just as much as the other way around.
************************
Whatcha think? I actually know where I'm going with this, now . . . it's just a matter of getting there. I'm always curious as to if others see it the same way I do, so tell me-- what do you think happens next?
I'd do a poll, but I'm a freebie user. Sigh. Maybe someday.