Eight Crazy Nights Six (DA/SV, SV, SPN, FF/BtVS)
1. 
brownbetty: Max from DA finds a position as one of Lex Luthor's Girl Fridays. It's all fun and games until Alec shows up and tries to convince her Luthor's bent and she needs to book it.
“I’m telling you, Maxie, this is not a winning scenario for a self-respecting transgenic.” Alec chugged his drink and signaled the bartender for another for the both of them, smiling big, like he thought he was going to get lucky.
She shook her head, because of course Alec would think that a situation he hadn’t taken advantage of for himself was wrong. How had he even found her? He obviously thought she was being watched, what with his whole ‘pretend we’re strangers’ act. Either that, or he just wanted an excuse to mack on her. “Do you know the kind of money I’m sending back to Joshua and the others? This is gonna keep us going for years--”
“Yeah, and have you ever heard of Level 33.1?” Alec’s voice had dropped. He sounded as sincere as she’d ever heard him.
“No,” she said. Her stomach lurched as the adrenaline kicked in. She wasn’t stupid, no matter what Alec liked to imply. If Luthor had been on the up-and-up, he never would have hired her and her cat-burgling expertise. Sure, Luthor liked the eye candy of having bodyguards that most guys would’ve rather banged than fought, but he’d sent her on enough real jobs that she knew what he was: dictator in all but name, and not shy of blood. Metropolis was in a lot better shape than Seattle, so everyone pretended that the government and LuthorCorp were two different entities. But aside from the frequency of garbage collection, it was nothing she hadn’t seen before. Still, she’d thought she’d been on top of it, until Alec showed up.
“Level 33.1,” Alec said and drank again, like he needed it, “is where Luthor keeps his collection of metahumans. Transgenics, maybe some of those breeding cultists, some other people I don’t even know where they’re from, but apparently there are a whole bunch of ways to build yourself a better soldier, and Luthor’s collecting them all like he thinks there’s a bonus if he gets the set.”
Max didn’t ask how Alec knew. He wasn’t lying. “So how come I’m not locked up and getting sliced into my component parts?”
Alec pushed himself closer to her, leaning in, just another wasted guy hitting on the unattached girl. “Because you’ve played along so far. Step out of line, and there’s a cell waiting with your bar code on it.”
She moved her glass around, drawing condensation circles on the waxed wood of the bar. “Sounds like leaving could get dangerous.”
“It’s a big country, Max. As long as you were careful when you sent the money-”
That was the big question, wasn’t it? “He’s said some things-if I’m gonna bounce, we need to find out what he knows about us, and about White’s group,” she said. “You got a phone?”
Alec grinned, apparently sloppy-happy drunk, his eyes crinkled up as he traced the numbers with his finger on her palm.
****
Entering LuthorCorp Tower was no problem. They got past the perimeter on Lex’s secure floor with a little hacking and some gymnastics. They were in front of the file room when Max heard the sensor go on, a near-silent click a human would have missed. Alec’s head snapped up, too.
Max punched him.
She had him down, kicking him in the stomach to flip him against the wall, before the guards arrived.
Then there was a long uncomfortable wait, Max sitting on the floor with her back to the wall and her arms around her knees. Alec was curled up and occasionally groaning theatrically. They could’ve taken the first set of guards, no question, but the ones behind them would’ve just shot Max and Alec and called it a day, per Lex’s instructions. Max remembered getting them herself: nonlethal, but don’t be dumb about it, Lex had said. Protect yourself, then protect my property, then minimize the collateral damage.
Finally, the guards parted to let Lex through.
“What happened here?” He was dressed in a tux, very sharp, and he moved with the irritated grace of a shark.
“I recognized him,” Max said, “and I followed him to see what he was planning. I took him down as soon as I confirmed he was going for the vault.”
“That’s really good,” Lex said. “And I’d’ve wanted to believe it if I hadn’t been watching the full video feed before the alarm tripped. Points for realism, though.”
Alec raised his head and grimaced at Max.
“Why don’t you try again, this time with some tenuous connection to the truth?” Lex suggested silkily.
Max gritted her teeth-the messes Alec got her in (even if he’d only sped up the inevitable) were unbelievable; he’d so deserved that beatdown. Well, Lex always went on about how much he valued the truth. Maybe it was time to see if he was serious.
“What does the name Manticore mean to you?”
2.
ladydey: SV: Lex/Clark - Clark didn't realize (okay he might have been repressing it) how much he missed Lex, the real Lex. When Lex finally returned to Metropolis, Clark didn't know if he could ever stay away again.
“Clark,” Lex said, and in that moment Clark believed it: in Lex’s voice was all the wonder of their early years, and none of the hatred that had poisoned Lex later. Somehow, the cellular transfer from the clone to Lex’s own battered body had rewound his memories to the point at which the genetic material had been taken from him by Lionel.
Lex was still on the wrong path, but Clark had another chance to change it, and Lionel was gone. More important, Lex was back.
“Lex,” he said, pulling a chair up to the hospital bed, Lex still regal in his hospital gown, tubes and blinking lights around him instead of a crown and scepter. “What do you-what have they told you?”
He’d forgotten the weight of Lex’s gaze, the way those gray-blue eyes followed him like he was the only thing that mattered in the world. “Not nearly enough. Apparently I have a sister now.”
Clark blinked, because he hadn’t given a moment’s thought to Tess, even though he should have known-family was always at Lex’s core, no matter how much Lionel had done to make that core rot. “You’ve known Tess for a while, right?”
Lex shrugged. “As far as I can recall, we were just starting to work together on some of her more exotic environmental projects-I planned to make LexCorp a leader in environmental remediation technology-but I take it the relationship intensified.”
“I don’t really know how that happened,” Clark admitted.
Lex swallowed, looking almost fragile. “Then-I can’t ask anyone else, Clark-do you know if I-if Tess and I-”
Lex’s hesitance was uncharacteristic of any version of himself, and then Clark got it. Tess was entirely his type, beautiful and driven and deadly, and probably the only reason she hadn’t tried to kill Lex was that he hadn’t been around for her to make the attempt. Which meant that Lex had at least considered sleeping with her. “I really don’t think so, Lex. I never saw that, and it’s not the kind of thing either of you would’ve hidden, I mean, not knowing and all.”
Lex breathed out, almost inaudible. “Well, then, all I have to worry about is seven lost years, an intervening economic collapse, retrieving what’s left of my company from my sister and my prep-school tormentor, and whatever else I skipped. Honestly, Clark, if you’d said yes it wouldn’t have been the worst news I heard today.”
Clark gave in to impulse and took Lex’s hand in his. “Let me help, Lex. Whatever you need-a place to hide out, someone to talk to, anything.”
Lex’s mouth twitched in that little smile he had. It felt almost like being punched with Kryptonite. Clark hadn’t let himself know how much he’d missed having even scraps of Lex’s trust, all Lex ever really had to give. “It seems that we’ve drifted apart.”
“We did,” Clark said. He braced himself to say it. “You made some mistakes, Lex. And so did I. But I never stopped seeing the good in you, and I see it right now. I don’t want to lose you again.” Lex’s hand was so cool in his, below a normal human temperature. Whatever his Frankensteinian technology had done, Lex was still weak, and Clark couldn’t help thinking of all the other times he’d seen Lex assaulted and invaded.
“As I recall,” Lex said, so lightly that Clark would’ve thought he was trying to deny that Clark’s friendship meant anything to him, if his fingers hadn’t clamped down on Clark’s, “the couch at the farmhouse just about fits me.”
Clark wanted to tell him that he could sleep in Mom’s room, but there were a lot of reasons that was too touchy a subject even with most of the last decade erased. Anyway, once he had Lex to himself, there were all kinds of things they could talk about. Especially with Tess around to show Lex that being a Luthor didn’t make evil inevitable, Clark wasn’t going to let Lex make the same mistakes again. “Sounds like a plan,” Clark said. He leaned down for the world’s most awkward but most rewarding hug, and didn’t pull away even when all the machines in the room beeped angrily at him.
“You have to let me go now,” Lex said after a moment.
“No,” Clark told him. “I really don’t.”
3. maraceles: I would die for more of the Captured by the Game universe--well, actually, a continuation of that story but an AU of the sequel. (Sam gets killed somehow during the final battle with Azazel, and Dean still makes his deal to get him back, still goes to Hell and is resurrected by Castiel, still starts up the Apocalypse.) Basically, I'd LOVE to see that Sam deal with the season four situation: Having lost Dean. Dealing with angels. Would Game!Sam and Game!Dean fare better then their canon versions? *g* Note: part but not all of the prompt. Maybe I’ll get to the angels later?
“I gave you one simple deliverable,” Sam said, “and you fucked it up. What are you doing here, Ruby?”
She offered some line about revenge against Lilith, as if Sam could be satisfied with revenge. As soon as she told him he could power up if he was man enough, he understood that she’d never been on his side at all, because she hadn’t offered that when it would’ve done some good. Drink demon blood to save Dean? He’d have drunk babies’ blood. Yeah, they’d only had a month between Dean’s deal and its due date, but Sam could’ve consumed a swimming pool’s worth in that time if he’d known.
That was assuming that the demon blood worked, which he was willing to try.
As it turned out, after he drank, pulling demons hurt some, but no more than the average lesson from Azazel. Ruby promised it would get easier, at the same time as she offered only dribs and drabs-okay, pints, but clearly insufficient. The great thing about demon blood: it was a completely renewable resource. And Ruby wasn’t the only possessed game in town.
Dean’s pal Bobby Singer trusted him, Sam guessed because of how Sam had flipped out when they’d buried Dean together, so Sam dropped by for a pass at his books. Unfortunately, Bobby’s books couldn’t tell him how to translate ripping demons to shreds into ripping the walls between Hell and Earth to shreds, but he knew he’d get there.
He didn’t stay in South Dakota long. Bobby knew too well how to detect signs of demonic activity, and Ruby was likely to force the issue if she thought Sam was turning elsewhere for advice. Plus, crossing all those wards around Bobby’s place stung like a motherfucker.
He stopped in Pennsylvania to do some summoning. Stuff a demon into a host, take a blood donation, exorcise; lather, rinse, repeat. Kind of like catch and release, only without the release (except for the poor host, who Sam always made sure was left cleaned up and safely asleep in a separate room; he often wondered if any of them reported their lost time to the police as a strange kidnapping, or if they ended up in therapy). It was weird how the demons held more juice than was required to exorcise them; that seemed like a violation of the first law of thermodynamics. It bugged Sam. Not that magic had to be the same as physics, but he had the niggling suspicion that he was missing something important.
Then there was some nonsense with the Colt-Sam had to get pretty forceful with the thief who thought she could take it from him. He wasn’t going to open Sam Colt’s Devil’s Gate again until he had a good idea of how to find Dean once he was inside, but that didn’t mean anyone else was allowed to play.
It took him a couple more months to figure out that what he really needed was to question the demons before he drained them. This proved complicated, because crossing the Devil’s Trap was getting more and more difficult-one time, he had to crack the floor to get free, and that made his nose bleed-and, worse, he had to listen to them gloat about who was doing what to Dean in Hell, which made it hard to sleep afterwards. Also there was Ruby to distract, pretending that he was practicing through the pain, pretending that he was weakening to her oh-so-compassionate advances (Dean was going to be so mad-he could already imagine the fight about how Sam shouldn’t’ve let her kiss him).
Finally, he was pretty sure what he was looking for, and he couldn’t wait any longer. Dean had been in Hell four months, longer than a season, longer than it took for Persephone to be condemned to spend half her years in the underworld.
With any luck, when he opened the gate, the demons would be too busy enjoying their newfound freedom to interfere with someone dumb enough to want to go the other way.
Ruby came to see him in his Carson City motel room just after he’d finished settling in. “What are you doing here, Sam?” she demanded, stalking past him and sitting down on his bed like she thought that was at all okay with him.
He shrugged. “Is there a better place I should be? Lilith isn’t exactly running a national ad campaign about where to find her.”
“She’s not gonna be near the Devil’s Gate.” Ruby shuddered. “I don’t even like being near it. Any demon walking free’s going to give that thing a pass.”
“Well, when you get better information, you just let me know,” Sam bit out. It didn’t help that he could smell what he wanted from her, more like codeine cough syrup than plain old sulfur, overly sweet but with an underlying charcoal bitterness. “Are you really here to talk?”
Yeah, he was going to top off with four or five more summonings later-there had to be a bar with some useless drunks nearby-but she was right there.
Ruby still had her shirt off when someone pounded on the door.
4.
thefourthvine: SV, the axiom of choice! (And if you'd like a pairing with your prompt, Clark/Lex.)
“The Axiom of Choice is necessary to select a set from an infinite number of socks, but not an infinite number of shoes.”
“That’s very nice, Lex, but even you don’t have an infinite number of socks.”
Lex turned away from his closet-which, with the reflections from the mirrors on the doors, did at the moment appear infinite. “It’s an important principle, Clark.”
“And yet not one that’s going to make us get to the holiday party any faster.”
Lex only raised one eyebrow in response. Clark supposed that Lex had a point: Clark wasn’t particularly excited to go either. The only real amusement was counting whether subtle digs on his status as Lex’s boy-toy would outnumber the not-so-subtle ones, or vice versa.
Over the years, Clark had developed a metaphorically bulletproof skin to go with his literal one, but running the holiday party gauntlet was another reminder of the ambitions Lex had put aside for him, and that always put Lex in a delicate mood for a few days.
He’d made the mistake once of telling Lex that the country was ready for a major gay politician. Lex had smiled and broken out the brandy, even knowing how much Clark hated that. “You’re right,” he’d said, three glasses in. “What they’re not ready for is a gay politician who met his life partner at fourteen. It’s Romeo and Juliet, not Romeo and Julian. And they’re not going to forgive and forget. Woody Allen’s the director who slept with his stepdaughter, and he will be until the end of time.”
Clark hadn’t said he was sorry, and Lex hadn’t said that Clark was worth it. They’d gotten that out of the way years ago.
Lex ruled the corporate world; his money talked too loudly for it to be otherwise. But Clark wondered, sometimes, about what might have been different if Clark-and all the products of Krypton--hadn’t come into Lex’s life.
5.
kiezh: Smallville future: Lex and Clark mutual voyeurism, undiscussed but known to both. (One's got x-ray vision, the other has spy devices! It's a stalker match made in heaven!) Note: NC-17; various pairings.
In January, Lex beds the head of the English department at Met U, after quoting Shakespeare’s Sonnet 124 to her and composing a sestina apparently on the fly at dinner. Knowing Lex, the sestina was not as spontaneous as he claimed, but Clark couldn’t deny that either way it was seductive.
Lex turns the lights out, but since he’s at her apartment, there are no lead shutters, so it’s not even symbolic.
In February, Clark notices something funny about the spiderweb in the corner of his bedroom. It’s not spider silk, but a superfine fiber. The things that look like curled-up insect husks are cameras and microphones, transmitting on a frequency so low that Clark had never had occasion to listen in. They’re biobased; probably the only person capable of reverse engineering them outside of LexCorp is Bruce, and Clark is not going to bring them to Bruce.
He leaves the spiderweb hanging for a few weeks, then has to get rid of it when his mom comes over and tells him that she taught him to clean better than that.
In March, Lex fucks a waiter, not even in the bathroom of the expensive restaurant, just pushed into the back hallway, the guy with his cheap black pants around his ankles, crisp white shirt and black vest bunching with every one of Lex’s thrusts. The wallpaper is flocked red velvet; the waiter’s hair is shiny and dark and cut just above his collar, and Lex positions his hands up and out, pale and clenching against the nearly bloody wall. Lex zips up and is circulating among the tables in thirty seconds while the waiter pulls his pants up, hands still trembling, and tries to catch his breath.
Clark waits until the waiter picks up another tray of champagne glasses before he leaves.
In April, Clark goes home to Smallville. He pulls the cover off of the couch in the barn-a human would be coughing from all the dust-and stretches out. He puts his hand down his jeans, unbuttoned just enough to let himself work, and closes his eyes as he strokes himself. Up in the rafters, a motion-activated motor whirs, rough with disuse.
Clark arches his back and sighs, loud, when he comes.
In May, Lex lies back and lets the reporter from Vogue do all the work. He watches her with a detached interest that would have made Clark furious enough to stop the encounter entirely (that does, in fact, make Clark furious when it’s directed at him, as Superman, when he shows up to interrupt one of Lex’s schemes). The reporter seems fine with it, and to be scrupulously honest Lex’s fingers seem dextrous enough to more than make up for any emotional distance, given what anyone could reasonably expect from a one-plane-flight stand.
In June, Clark nearly spends the night with Lois. They’re breaking a story that’s going to send at least one U.S. Representative to jail, and possibly drop the Dow Jones average five percent, and they are giddy with success. Lois drinks just enough to lean on him and carry her shoes in her free hand as she lets him guide her down her hallway. He could lean down and kiss her. He could ask her if he could stay, and she would let him.
But when Clark scans for surveillance, the way he does automatically these days, he doesn’t find anything. Clark doesn’t know what it means, that he’s keeping Lois out of this, but in any event it stops him cold.
He pours Lois a glass of water, kisses her on the cheek, and goes home. When he jerks off in the shower, he isn’t imagining anyone.
In July, Lex goes down on a scientist who works for him. She’s not a conventional stunner like Lex’s more usual companions, but they’ve been working closely together on genetically altered triticale for two solid weeks. When they get the positive results from the latest test, she squeals and hugs him before she realizes who she’s just grabbed. Clark can see her skin heat and she staggers a little with the terrified rush of blood.
Lex steadies her, though, and then, tilting his head, makes a carefully worded offer, no strings attached on either side. She’s still close to fainting from exhilaration and embarrassment, but (as evidenced by her present employment) she’s very far from a fool. She watches, amazed, as Lex pushes up her skirt and pulls down her hose and underwear, dragging her hips to the edge of the chair he’s settled her into, and eats her out with undeniable enthusiasm.
When he pulls back, three orgasms later, she manages to raise her head and stammer out a question, an offer. Lex pulls out a handkerchief and wipes his mouth, shaking his head politely. She doesn’t even seem worried when he ushers her out of the office; probably not enough fuses have reset in her head for her to wonder what that meant.
Lex promotes her that week, but doesn’t work closely with her again.
In August, Clark gets out his old photo books. Lex hated having pictures taken-Clark had thought it was strange, since he was so used to paparazzi following him around-but Clark had been able to talk him into posing for a couple. He still looks almost exactly the same (Kryptonite being almost better than a portrait in the attic when it came to granting dangerous wishes), a few more frown lines, more breadth in the shoulders, other changes underneath the skin.
Clark leaves the pictures out while he strips and plants himself in the middle of his bed, no sheets to cover him. He uses one hand on his dick and the other on his balls, going slow.
In September, Lex makes out with Selina Kyle for nearly an hour. She’s in blue sequins, which leave fast-fading red marks on Lex’s skin where they touch. He’s in a dark gray suit with a dark purple tie. They sit on Lex’s leather couch and just trade kisses. His hands tease through her hair, pulling out the pins until it’s loose around her face. Her hands smooth over his shoulders as she moves away from his lips and over his jaw, nibbling at his earlobe. They pause every couple of minutes to joke and gossip-Lex nearly loses his cool when she tells one particular story about the Penguin-and then they go back to their lazy necking. Both of them seem quite satisfied by the end of the night.
After extended reflection, Clark doesn’t say anything to Bruce.
In October, Clark has sex with Obsidian, in Watchtower. It’s a spur of the moment thing; Obsidian has been flirting for years, but Clark’s always worried that hero worship would turn sour. Even though Obsidian’s strong enough to make the League, the gap between their powers would be a problem in a relationship, if Clark even wanted one. But that night, they’ve just finished a big flood cleanup, most of the Leaguers have dispersed to their homes and families, and Clark is feeling a little restless. Obsidian’s just finished a discussion with Zatanna about disposable men, and when she leaves Clark asks if he really believes that. “Not always,” Obsidian says. “But some guys, yeah, you know why they’re there and it’s all good.” Clark watches him, keeping eye contact well past the point of plausible deniability.
“Really?” Obsidian asks, grinning like he just saved a city. “Way to make a good day end better!” He’s enthusiastic and doesn’t seem like he’s judging Clark’s prowess, which is a real thing with Superman and why Clark so rarely dates people who know his secret. Clark’s a little annoyed in general that Batman has every square inch of the Watchtower wired for security, not least because he’s confident that Lex has a hack in place, but this time it’s working for him, as he lets his head thunk back against the reinforced titanium wall and spreads his legs for Obsidian.
The next day Lex explodes a research facility, almost certainly by accident.
In November, Lex fucks Todd Rice, who’s working as a helicopter pilot. He takes his time about it.
Obsidian reports the encounter, as per League rules, though Clark’s pretty sure that he didn’t need to include quite as much detail. “Will you be seeing him again?” Bruce asks repressively, arms folded.
Obsidian shrugs. “Got the feeling he was just looking for a quickie. Well, a one-shot. Well-”
“We get it,” Clark says, rather desperately.
In December, Clark blows out every surveillance device Lex has installed, except one: the camera in Clark’s bedroom, now disguised as the bottom of the light fixture. It’s really impressive, completely opaque in the visible spectrum from the outside.
He doesn’t undress this time, just lies down, one hand behind his head and the other on his stomach, the way he might’ve splayed himself out once upon a time in Smallville, before he’d really known what he’d been offering.
“Why don’t you tell me what you want to see,” he says to the air.
After a minute, the phone begins to ring.
6.
meret: I have a theory that Spike would fall head over heels in love with River Tam if they were to meet. She's part Drusilla, part Buffy, and part Fred.
Transcript #21179
ETW(V)8: Hey, pet. Hey, don’t-don’t cry. It’s all right.
BHP168: It’s not all right. My crew is gone. And I’m talking to a monster.
ETW(V)8: Oh, now. I’m a mite offended.
BHP168: You’re a liar.
ETW(V)8: That too. Now, listen, I’ve been here longer and I know how not to get hurt. There are bits you can fight ‘em on and bits you can’t.
[pause]
ETW(V)8: Pet?
BHP168: Does it hurt?
ETW(V)8: Every time.
[pause]
ETW(V)8: What’s your name? Can’t be calling you pet forever.
BHP168: The world is too blue.
ETW(V)8: Can’t say as I have an opinion on that. Far as I’m concerned, the world is too bright. I’m Spike.
BHP168: Spike, called William. Thought you left that name behind, didn’t you?
ETW(V)8: Guess I needn’t ask why they brought you here. You got any superpowers that’ll get us out? And I still don’t know your name.
BHP168: River.
ETW(V)8: River. That’s a pretty name. Listen, River, in about half an hour some men are going to come through that door.
BHP168: Please! Don’t let them take me. You don’t know what they do-
ETW(V)8: Hush, hush.
[humming, ref. ETW #58798 (class: lullaby)]
Hush now, River. I need to ask you something. If I was to get us out of this room, d’you think you can use that sight of yours to tell us which way to go?
BHP168: She trusted you.
ETW(V)8: What?
BHP168: She trusted you and the room was white and you hurt her.
ETW(V)8: Yes, I did, River. But that was a long time ago. I won’t hurt you, I promise.
[untranscribable; screams and crooning]
ETW(V)8: You okay now?
BHP168: I want Simon.
ETW(V)8: And I’m sure he’s quite the treat. So, what do you think? Can you help us out?
BHP168: Simon can help. Mal can help too, but he probably won’t. Starlight on your skin-doesn’t burn. Strange place to be, tin can, nowhere to hide during the day.
ETW(V)8: Yeah, well, that’s my lookout. Better in one of your flying tin cans than this place.
BHP168: When I tell you to.
[pause]
ETW(V)8: What?
BHP168: Get ready to run.
7.
fandomfan: Supernatural: if you happened to snag any ideas from this set of photos, I'd be a happy camper. Yes, they're on set photos (from S3), but I would love and adore you for any scenario that could get Dean (rather than Jensen) in a bathrobe and slippers on a mini-scooter.
Once Dean believed that the resort owner was sincere about thanking them, he instantly accepted her offer of a free week. After all, he reasoned, it was only because of him and Sam that they could even open the place at all, since nobody found running from were-bears all that relaxing.
Plus, free spa treatments.
He had to wait until Sam decided to go out for a walk, communing with nature and reconnecting with his soul, before he could sneak over to the spa. Sam gave him enough shit about using product in his hair, as if looking good wasn’t part of the job (yeah, Sam could pretend he did all those situps because he wanted to be fight-ready, but Dean had yet to see a fight won with a six-pack). Anyway, Dean didn’t plan to give Sam any more ammunition, but they had a seaweed wrap, and he’d always wondered what that was like.
The wrap was awesome, as was the berry smoothie they gave him while he was wrapped, and the massage after, even absent a happy ending. Dean got the vibe from at least two of the girls that he could work out a mutually satisfactory arrangement outside the spa, if he tried, though at the moment he was feeling too relaxed even for that.
Unfortunately, the super-helpful staff had taken one look at his discarded clothes and decided that they really needed washing. Not that this was mistaken-the jeans still had were-bear blood on them and Dean had been wearing that shirt for a couple of days too long even before they started their trip into the woods-but that left him with jack and squat by way of covering himself up.
The girls were real nice about it, at least, with plenty of giggling. He ended up with an embarrassingly pink towel wrapped around his waist, combined with a bathrobe that he could at least tie in front, although it only went a bit past his elbow and he wasn’t even going to talk about how much thigh he’d have been flashing without the towel. Because his boots had been whisked away with the rest of the clothes, they also gave him a pair of sheepskin slippers.
Sighing, and hoping like hell that the staff would make good on the promise to return his clothes to their room as soon as possible, Dean got ready for the hike across the facility. And then realized-“I don’t think I can walk all that way in these.”
So that was how he ended up on the mini-scooter. The guys with the golf carts were all busy transporting other guests, the spa manager told him, and if Dean wanted any chance of beating Sam back to the room and digging out another set of indifferently clean clothes, then mini-scooter it was.
Still pink from the wrap (and still, though he’d never admit it out loud, thinking the experience was worth the hassle), he trundled off.
Naturally Sam was already there, and naturally Sam nearly pissed himself laughing at Dean.
But Dean got his revenge the very next day, signing Sam up for a senior citizen bridge tournament and promising three little old ladies that Sam was way too nice a guy to let them down. While Sam sat on the tiny chairs in the tea garden, shoulders hunched and eyes widening every time those cutthroat little old ladies pulled some vicious card trick or other, Dean was off having a mud wrap for variety, and making plans for a hot stone massage.
Once in a very, very long while, Dean’s life was actually kind of awesome.
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brownbetty: Max from DA finds a position as one of Lex Luthor's Girl Fridays. It's all fun and games until Alec shows up and tries to convince her Luthor's bent and she needs to book it.
“I’m telling you, Maxie, this is not a winning scenario for a self-respecting transgenic.” Alec chugged his drink and signaled the bartender for another for the both of them, smiling big, like he thought he was going to get lucky.
She shook her head, because of course Alec would think that a situation he hadn’t taken advantage of for himself was wrong. How had he even found her? He obviously thought she was being watched, what with his whole ‘pretend we’re strangers’ act. Either that, or he just wanted an excuse to mack on her. “Do you know the kind of money I’m sending back to Joshua and the others? This is gonna keep us going for years--”
“Yeah, and have you ever heard of Level 33.1?” Alec’s voice had dropped. He sounded as sincere as she’d ever heard him.
“No,” she said. Her stomach lurched as the adrenaline kicked in. She wasn’t stupid, no matter what Alec liked to imply. If Luthor had been on the up-and-up, he never would have hired her and her cat-burgling expertise. Sure, Luthor liked the eye candy of having bodyguards that most guys would’ve rather banged than fought, but he’d sent her on enough real jobs that she knew what he was: dictator in all but name, and not shy of blood. Metropolis was in a lot better shape than Seattle, so everyone pretended that the government and LuthorCorp were two different entities. But aside from the frequency of garbage collection, it was nothing she hadn’t seen before. Still, she’d thought she’d been on top of it, until Alec showed up.
“Level 33.1,” Alec said and drank again, like he needed it, “is where Luthor keeps his collection of metahumans. Transgenics, maybe some of those breeding cultists, some other people I don’t even know where they’re from, but apparently there are a whole bunch of ways to build yourself a better soldier, and Luthor’s collecting them all like he thinks there’s a bonus if he gets the set.”
Max didn’t ask how Alec knew. He wasn’t lying. “So how come I’m not locked up and getting sliced into my component parts?”
Alec pushed himself closer to her, leaning in, just another wasted guy hitting on the unattached girl. “Because you’ve played along so far. Step out of line, and there’s a cell waiting with your bar code on it.”
She moved her glass around, drawing condensation circles on the waxed wood of the bar. “Sounds like leaving could get dangerous.”
“It’s a big country, Max. As long as you were careful when you sent the money-”
That was the big question, wasn’t it? “He’s said some things-if I’m gonna bounce, we need to find out what he knows about us, and about White’s group,” she said. “You got a phone?”
Alec grinned, apparently sloppy-happy drunk, his eyes crinkled up as he traced the numbers with his finger on her palm.
****
Entering LuthorCorp Tower was no problem. They got past the perimeter on Lex’s secure floor with a little hacking and some gymnastics. They were in front of the file room when Max heard the sensor go on, a near-silent click a human would have missed. Alec’s head snapped up, too.
Max punched him.
She had him down, kicking him in the stomach to flip him against the wall, before the guards arrived.
Then there was a long uncomfortable wait, Max sitting on the floor with her back to the wall and her arms around her knees. Alec was curled up and occasionally groaning theatrically. They could’ve taken the first set of guards, no question, but the ones behind them would’ve just shot Max and Alec and called it a day, per Lex’s instructions. Max remembered getting them herself: nonlethal, but don’t be dumb about it, Lex had said. Protect yourself, then protect my property, then minimize the collateral damage.
Finally, the guards parted to let Lex through.
“What happened here?” He was dressed in a tux, very sharp, and he moved with the irritated grace of a shark.
“I recognized him,” Max said, “and I followed him to see what he was planning. I took him down as soon as I confirmed he was going for the vault.”
“That’s really good,” Lex said. “And I’d’ve wanted to believe it if I hadn’t been watching the full video feed before the alarm tripped. Points for realism, though.”
Alec raised his head and grimaced at Max.
“Why don’t you try again, this time with some tenuous connection to the truth?” Lex suggested silkily.
Max gritted her teeth-the messes Alec got her in (even if he’d only sped up the inevitable) were unbelievable; he’d so deserved that beatdown. Well, Lex always went on about how much he valued the truth. Maybe it was time to see if he was serious.
“What does the name Manticore mean to you?”
2.
ladydey: SV: Lex/Clark - Clark didn't realize (okay he might have been repressing it) how much he missed Lex, the real Lex. When Lex finally returned to Metropolis, Clark didn't know if he could ever stay away again.
“Clark,” Lex said, and in that moment Clark believed it: in Lex’s voice was all the wonder of their early years, and none of the hatred that had poisoned Lex later. Somehow, the cellular transfer from the clone to Lex’s own battered body had rewound his memories to the point at which the genetic material had been taken from him by Lionel.
Lex was still on the wrong path, but Clark had another chance to change it, and Lionel was gone. More important, Lex was back.
“Lex,” he said, pulling a chair up to the hospital bed, Lex still regal in his hospital gown, tubes and blinking lights around him instead of a crown and scepter. “What do you-what have they told you?”
He’d forgotten the weight of Lex’s gaze, the way those gray-blue eyes followed him like he was the only thing that mattered in the world. “Not nearly enough. Apparently I have a sister now.”
Clark blinked, because he hadn’t given a moment’s thought to Tess, even though he should have known-family was always at Lex’s core, no matter how much Lionel had done to make that core rot. “You’ve known Tess for a while, right?”
Lex shrugged. “As far as I can recall, we were just starting to work together on some of her more exotic environmental projects-I planned to make LexCorp a leader in environmental remediation technology-but I take it the relationship intensified.”
“I don’t really know how that happened,” Clark admitted.
Lex swallowed, looking almost fragile. “Then-I can’t ask anyone else, Clark-do you know if I-if Tess and I-”
Lex’s hesitance was uncharacteristic of any version of himself, and then Clark got it. Tess was entirely his type, beautiful and driven and deadly, and probably the only reason she hadn’t tried to kill Lex was that he hadn’t been around for her to make the attempt. Which meant that Lex had at least considered sleeping with her. “I really don’t think so, Lex. I never saw that, and it’s not the kind of thing either of you would’ve hidden, I mean, not knowing and all.”
Lex breathed out, almost inaudible. “Well, then, all I have to worry about is seven lost years, an intervening economic collapse, retrieving what’s left of my company from my sister and my prep-school tormentor, and whatever else I skipped. Honestly, Clark, if you’d said yes it wouldn’t have been the worst news I heard today.”
Clark gave in to impulse and took Lex’s hand in his. “Let me help, Lex. Whatever you need-a place to hide out, someone to talk to, anything.”
Lex’s mouth twitched in that little smile he had. It felt almost like being punched with Kryptonite. Clark hadn’t let himself know how much he’d missed having even scraps of Lex’s trust, all Lex ever really had to give. “It seems that we’ve drifted apart.”
“We did,” Clark said. He braced himself to say it. “You made some mistakes, Lex. And so did I. But I never stopped seeing the good in you, and I see it right now. I don’t want to lose you again.” Lex’s hand was so cool in his, below a normal human temperature. Whatever his Frankensteinian technology had done, Lex was still weak, and Clark couldn’t help thinking of all the other times he’d seen Lex assaulted and invaded.
“As I recall,” Lex said, so lightly that Clark would’ve thought he was trying to deny that Clark’s friendship meant anything to him, if his fingers hadn’t clamped down on Clark’s, “the couch at the farmhouse just about fits me.”
Clark wanted to tell him that he could sleep in Mom’s room, but there were a lot of reasons that was too touchy a subject even with most of the last decade erased. Anyway, once he had Lex to himself, there were all kinds of things they could talk about. Especially with Tess around to show Lex that being a Luthor didn’t make evil inevitable, Clark wasn’t going to let Lex make the same mistakes again. “Sounds like a plan,” Clark said. He leaned down for the world’s most awkward but most rewarding hug, and didn’t pull away even when all the machines in the room beeped angrily at him.
“You have to let me go now,” Lex said after a moment.
“No,” Clark told him. “I really don’t.”
3. maraceles: I would die for more of the Captured by the Game universe--well, actually, a continuation of that story but an AU of the sequel. (Sam gets killed somehow during the final battle with Azazel, and Dean still makes his deal to get him back, still goes to Hell and is resurrected by Castiel, still starts up the Apocalypse.) Basically, I'd LOVE to see that Sam deal with the season four situation: Having lost Dean. Dealing with angels. Would Game!Sam and Game!Dean fare better then their canon versions? *g* Note: part but not all of the prompt. Maybe I’ll get to the angels later?
“I gave you one simple deliverable,” Sam said, “and you fucked it up. What are you doing here, Ruby?”
She offered some line about revenge against Lilith, as if Sam could be satisfied with revenge. As soon as she told him he could power up if he was man enough, he understood that she’d never been on his side at all, because she hadn’t offered that when it would’ve done some good. Drink demon blood to save Dean? He’d have drunk babies’ blood. Yeah, they’d only had a month between Dean’s deal and its due date, but Sam could’ve consumed a swimming pool’s worth in that time if he’d known.
That was assuming that the demon blood worked, which he was willing to try.
As it turned out, after he drank, pulling demons hurt some, but no more than the average lesson from Azazel. Ruby promised it would get easier, at the same time as she offered only dribs and drabs-okay, pints, but clearly insufficient. The great thing about demon blood: it was a completely renewable resource. And Ruby wasn’t the only possessed game in town.
Dean’s pal Bobby Singer trusted him, Sam guessed because of how Sam had flipped out when they’d buried Dean together, so Sam dropped by for a pass at his books. Unfortunately, Bobby’s books couldn’t tell him how to translate ripping demons to shreds into ripping the walls between Hell and Earth to shreds, but he knew he’d get there.
He didn’t stay in South Dakota long. Bobby knew too well how to detect signs of demonic activity, and Ruby was likely to force the issue if she thought Sam was turning elsewhere for advice. Plus, crossing all those wards around Bobby’s place stung like a motherfucker.
He stopped in Pennsylvania to do some summoning. Stuff a demon into a host, take a blood donation, exorcise; lather, rinse, repeat. Kind of like catch and release, only without the release (except for the poor host, who Sam always made sure was left cleaned up and safely asleep in a separate room; he often wondered if any of them reported their lost time to the police as a strange kidnapping, or if they ended up in therapy). It was weird how the demons held more juice than was required to exorcise them; that seemed like a violation of the first law of thermodynamics. It bugged Sam. Not that magic had to be the same as physics, but he had the niggling suspicion that he was missing something important.
Then there was some nonsense with the Colt-Sam had to get pretty forceful with the thief who thought she could take it from him. He wasn’t going to open Sam Colt’s Devil’s Gate again until he had a good idea of how to find Dean once he was inside, but that didn’t mean anyone else was allowed to play.
It took him a couple more months to figure out that what he really needed was to question the demons before he drained them. This proved complicated, because crossing the Devil’s Trap was getting more and more difficult-one time, he had to crack the floor to get free, and that made his nose bleed-and, worse, he had to listen to them gloat about who was doing what to Dean in Hell, which made it hard to sleep afterwards. Also there was Ruby to distract, pretending that he was practicing through the pain, pretending that he was weakening to her oh-so-compassionate advances (Dean was going to be so mad-he could already imagine the fight about how Sam shouldn’t’ve let her kiss him).
Finally, he was pretty sure what he was looking for, and he couldn’t wait any longer. Dean had been in Hell four months, longer than a season, longer than it took for Persephone to be condemned to spend half her years in the underworld.
With any luck, when he opened the gate, the demons would be too busy enjoying their newfound freedom to interfere with someone dumb enough to want to go the other way.
Ruby came to see him in his Carson City motel room just after he’d finished settling in. “What are you doing here, Sam?” she demanded, stalking past him and sitting down on his bed like she thought that was at all okay with him.
He shrugged. “Is there a better place I should be? Lilith isn’t exactly running a national ad campaign about where to find her.”
“She’s not gonna be near the Devil’s Gate.” Ruby shuddered. “I don’t even like being near it. Any demon walking free’s going to give that thing a pass.”
“Well, when you get better information, you just let me know,” Sam bit out. It didn’t help that he could smell what he wanted from her, more like codeine cough syrup than plain old sulfur, overly sweet but with an underlying charcoal bitterness. “Are you really here to talk?”
Yeah, he was going to top off with four or five more summonings later-there had to be a bar with some useless drunks nearby-but she was right there.
Ruby still had her shirt off when someone pounded on the door.
4.
thefourthvine: SV, the axiom of choice! (And if you'd like a pairing with your prompt, Clark/Lex.)
“The Axiom of Choice is necessary to select a set from an infinite number of socks, but not an infinite number of shoes.”
“That’s very nice, Lex, but even you don’t have an infinite number of socks.”
Lex turned away from his closet-which, with the reflections from the mirrors on the doors, did at the moment appear infinite. “It’s an important principle, Clark.”
“And yet not one that’s going to make us get to the holiday party any faster.”
Lex only raised one eyebrow in response. Clark supposed that Lex had a point: Clark wasn’t particularly excited to go either. The only real amusement was counting whether subtle digs on his status as Lex’s boy-toy would outnumber the not-so-subtle ones, or vice versa.
Over the years, Clark had developed a metaphorically bulletproof skin to go with his literal one, but running the holiday party gauntlet was another reminder of the ambitions Lex had put aside for him, and that always put Lex in a delicate mood for a few days.
He’d made the mistake once of telling Lex that the country was ready for a major gay politician. Lex had smiled and broken out the brandy, even knowing how much Clark hated that. “You’re right,” he’d said, three glasses in. “What they’re not ready for is a gay politician who met his life partner at fourteen. It’s Romeo and Juliet, not Romeo and Julian. And they’re not going to forgive and forget. Woody Allen’s the director who slept with his stepdaughter, and he will be until the end of time.”
Clark hadn’t said he was sorry, and Lex hadn’t said that Clark was worth it. They’d gotten that out of the way years ago.
Lex ruled the corporate world; his money talked too loudly for it to be otherwise. But Clark wondered, sometimes, about what might have been different if Clark-and all the products of Krypton--hadn’t come into Lex’s life.
5.
kiezh: Smallville future: Lex and Clark mutual voyeurism, undiscussed but known to both. (One's got x-ray vision, the other has spy devices! It's a stalker match made in heaven!) Note: NC-17; various pairings.
In January, Lex beds the head of the English department at Met U, after quoting Shakespeare’s Sonnet 124 to her and composing a sestina apparently on the fly at dinner. Knowing Lex, the sestina was not as spontaneous as he claimed, but Clark couldn’t deny that either way it was seductive.
Lex turns the lights out, but since he’s at her apartment, there are no lead shutters, so it’s not even symbolic.
In February, Clark notices something funny about the spiderweb in the corner of his bedroom. It’s not spider silk, but a superfine fiber. The things that look like curled-up insect husks are cameras and microphones, transmitting on a frequency so low that Clark had never had occasion to listen in. They’re biobased; probably the only person capable of reverse engineering them outside of LexCorp is Bruce, and Clark is not going to bring them to Bruce.
He leaves the spiderweb hanging for a few weeks, then has to get rid of it when his mom comes over and tells him that she taught him to clean better than that.
In March, Lex fucks a waiter, not even in the bathroom of the expensive restaurant, just pushed into the back hallway, the guy with his cheap black pants around his ankles, crisp white shirt and black vest bunching with every one of Lex’s thrusts. The wallpaper is flocked red velvet; the waiter’s hair is shiny and dark and cut just above his collar, and Lex positions his hands up and out, pale and clenching against the nearly bloody wall. Lex zips up and is circulating among the tables in thirty seconds while the waiter pulls his pants up, hands still trembling, and tries to catch his breath.
Clark waits until the waiter picks up another tray of champagne glasses before he leaves.
In April, Clark goes home to Smallville. He pulls the cover off of the couch in the barn-a human would be coughing from all the dust-and stretches out. He puts his hand down his jeans, unbuttoned just enough to let himself work, and closes his eyes as he strokes himself. Up in the rafters, a motion-activated motor whirs, rough with disuse.
Clark arches his back and sighs, loud, when he comes.
In May, Lex lies back and lets the reporter from Vogue do all the work. He watches her with a detached interest that would have made Clark furious enough to stop the encounter entirely (that does, in fact, make Clark furious when it’s directed at him, as Superman, when he shows up to interrupt one of Lex’s schemes). The reporter seems fine with it, and to be scrupulously honest Lex’s fingers seem dextrous enough to more than make up for any emotional distance, given what anyone could reasonably expect from a one-plane-flight stand.
In June, Clark nearly spends the night with Lois. They’re breaking a story that’s going to send at least one U.S. Representative to jail, and possibly drop the Dow Jones average five percent, and they are giddy with success. Lois drinks just enough to lean on him and carry her shoes in her free hand as she lets him guide her down her hallway. He could lean down and kiss her. He could ask her if he could stay, and she would let him.
But when Clark scans for surveillance, the way he does automatically these days, he doesn’t find anything. Clark doesn’t know what it means, that he’s keeping Lois out of this, but in any event it stops him cold.
He pours Lois a glass of water, kisses her on the cheek, and goes home. When he jerks off in the shower, he isn’t imagining anyone.
In July, Lex goes down on a scientist who works for him. She’s not a conventional stunner like Lex’s more usual companions, but they’ve been working closely together on genetically altered triticale for two solid weeks. When they get the positive results from the latest test, she squeals and hugs him before she realizes who she’s just grabbed. Clark can see her skin heat and she staggers a little with the terrified rush of blood.
Lex steadies her, though, and then, tilting his head, makes a carefully worded offer, no strings attached on either side. She’s still close to fainting from exhilaration and embarrassment, but (as evidenced by her present employment) she’s very far from a fool. She watches, amazed, as Lex pushes up her skirt and pulls down her hose and underwear, dragging her hips to the edge of the chair he’s settled her into, and eats her out with undeniable enthusiasm.
When he pulls back, three orgasms later, she manages to raise her head and stammer out a question, an offer. Lex pulls out a handkerchief and wipes his mouth, shaking his head politely. She doesn’t even seem worried when he ushers her out of the office; probably not enough fuses have reset in her head for her to wonder what that meant.
Lex promotes her that week, but doesn’t work closely with her again.
In August, Clark gets out his old photo books. Lex hated having pictures taken-Clark had thought it was strange, since he was so used to paparazzi following him around-but Clark had been able to talk him into posing for a couple. He still looks almost exactly the same (Kryptonite being almost better than a portrait in the attic when it came to granting dangerous wishes), a few more frown lines, more breadth in the shoulders, other changes underneath the skin.
Clark leaves the pictures out while he strips and plants himself in the middle of his bed, no sheets to cover him. He uses one hand on his dick and the other on his balls, going slow.
In September, Lex makes out with Selina Kyle for nearly an hour. She’s in blue sequins, which leave fast-fading red marks on Lex’s skin where they touch. He’s in a dark gray suit with a dark purple tie. They sit on Lex’s leather couch and just trade kisses. His hands tease through her hair, pulling out the pins until it’s loose around her face. Her hands smooth over his shoulders as she moves away from his lips and over his jaw, nibbling at his earlobe. They pause every couple of minutes to joke and gossip-Lex nearly loses his cool when she tells one particular story about the Penguin-and then they go back to their lazy necking. Both of them seem quite satisfied by the end of the night.
After extended reflection, Clark doesn’t say anything to Bruce.
In October, Clark has sex with Obsidian, in Watchtower. It’s a spur of the moment thing; Obsidian has been flirting for years, but Clark’s always worried that hero worship would turn sour. Even though Obsidian’s strong enough to make the League, the gap between their powers would be a problem in a relationship, if Clark even wanted one. But that night, they’ve just finished a big flood cleanup, most of the Leaguers have dispersed to their homes and families, and Clark is feeling a little restless. Obsidian’s just finished a discussion with Zatanna about disposable men, and when she leaves Clark asks if he really believes that. “Not always,” Obsidian says. “But some guys, yeah, you know why they’re there and it’s all good.” Clark watches him, keeping eye contact well past the point of plausible deniability.
“Really?” Obsidian asks, grinning like he just saved a city. “Way to make a good day end better!” He’s enthusiastic and doesn’t seem like he’s judging Clark’s prowess, which is a real thing with Superman and why Clark so rarely dates people who know his secret. Clark’s a little annoyed in general that Batman has every square inch of the Watchtower wired for security, not least because he’s confident that Lex has a hack in place, but this time it’s working for him, as he lets his head thunk back against the reinforced titanium wall and spreads his legs for Obsidian.
The next day Lex explodes a research facility, almost certainly by accident.
In November, Lex fucks Todd Rice, who’s working as a helicopter pilot. He takes his time about it.
Obsidian reports the encounter, as per League rules, though Clark’s pretty sure that he didn’t need to include quite as much detail. “Will you be seeing him again?” Bruce asks repressively, arms folded.
Obsidian shrugs. “Got the feeling he was just looking for a quickie. Well, a one-shot. Well-”
“We get it,” Clark says, rather desperately.
In December, Clark blows out every surveillance device Lex has installed, except one: the camera in Clark’s bedroom, now disguised as the bottom of the light fixture. It’s really impressive, completely opaque in the visible spectrum from the outside.
He doesn’t undress this time, just lies down, one hand behind his head and the other on his stomach, the way he might’ve splayed himself out once upon a time in Smallville, before he’d really known what he’d been offering.
“Why don’t you tell me what you want to see,” he says to the air.
After a minute, the phone begins to ring.
6.
meret: I have a theory that Spike would fall head over heels in love with River Tam if they were to meet. She's part Drusilla, part Buffy, and part Fred.
Transcript #21179
ETW(V)8: Hey, pet. Hey, don’t-don’t cry. It’s all right.
BHP168: It’s not all right. My crew is gone. And I’m talking to a monster.
ETW(V)8: Oh, now. I’m a mite offended.
BHP168: You’re a liar.
ETW(V)8: That too. Now, listen, I’ve been here longer and I know how not to get hurt. There are bits you can fight ‘em on and bits you can’t.
[pause]
ETW(V)8: Pet?
BHP168: Does it hurt?
ETW(V)8: Every time.
[pause]
ETW(V)8: What’s your name? Can’t be calling you pet forever.
BHP168: The world is too blue.
ETW(V)8: Can’t say as I have an opinion on that. Far as I’m concerned, the world is too bright. I’m Spike.
BHP168: Spike, called William. Thought you left that name behind, didn’t you?
ETW(V)8: Guess I needn’t ask why they brought you here. You got any superpowers that’ll get us out? And I still don’t know your name.
BHP168: River.
ETW(V)8: River. That’s a pretty name. Listen, River, in about half an hour some men are going to come through that door.
BHP168: Please! Don’t let them take me. You don’t know what they do-
ETW(V)8: Hush, hush.
[humming, ref. ETW #58798 (class: lullaby)]
Hush now, River. I need to ask you something. If I was to get us out of this room, d’you think you can use that sight of yours to tell us which way to go?
BHP168: She trusted you.
ETW(V)8: What?
BHP168: She trusted you and the room was white and you hurt her.
ETW(V)8: Yes, I did, River. But that was a long time ago. I won’t hurt you, I promise.
[untranscribable; screams and crooning]
ETW(V)8: You okay now?
BHP168: I want Simon.
ETW(V)8: And I’m sure he’s quite the treat. So, what do you think? Can you help us out?
BHP168: Simon can help. Mal can help too, but he probably won’t. Starlight on your skin-doesn’t burn. Strange place to be, tin can, nowhere to hide during the day.
ETW(V)8: Yeah, well, that’s my lookout. Better in one of your flying tin cans than this place.
BHP168: When I tell you to.
[pause]
ETW(V)8: What?
BHP168: Get ready to run.
7.
fandomfan: Supernatural: if you happened to snag any ideas from this set of photos, I'd be a happy camper. Yes, they're on set photos (from S3), but I would love and adore you for any scenario that could get Dean (rather than Jensen) in a bathrobe and slippers on a mini-scooter.
Once Dean believed that the resort owner was sincere about thanking them, he instantly accepted her offer of a free week. After all, he reasoned, it was only because of him and Sam that they could even open the place at all, since nobody found running from were-bears all that relaxing.
Plus, free spa treatments.
He had to wait until Sam decided to go out for a walk, communing with nature and reconnecting with his soul, before he could sneak over to the spa. Sam gave him enough shit about using product in his hair, as if looking good wasn’t part of the job (yeah, Sam could pretend he did all those situps because he wanted to be fight-ready, but Dean had yet to see a fight won with a six-pack). Anyway, Dean didn’t plan to give Sam any more ammunition, but they had a seaweed wrap, and he’d always wondered what that was like.
The wrap was awesome, as was the berry smoothie they gave him while he was wrapped, and the massage after, even absent a happy ending. Dean got the vibe from at least two of the girls that he could work out a mutually satisfactory arrangement outside the spa, if he tried, though at the moment he was feeling too relaxed even for that.
Unfortunately, the super-helpful staff had taken one look at his discarded clothes and decided that they really needed washing. Not that this was mistaken-the jeans still had were-bear blood on them and Dean had been wearing that shirt for a couple of days too long even before they started their trip into the woods-but that left him with jack and squat by way of covering himself up.
The girls were real nice about it, at least, with plenty of giggling. He ended up with an embarrassingly pink towel wrapped around his waist, combined with a bathrobe that he could at least tie in front, although it only went a bit past his elbow and he wasn’t even going to talk about how much thigh he’d have been flashing without the towel. Because his boots had been whisked away with the rest of the clothes, they also gave him a pair of sheepskin slippers.
Sighing, and hoping like hell that the staff would make good on the promise to return his clothes to their room as soon as possible, Dean got ready for the hike across the facility. And then realized-“I don’t think I can walk all that way in these.”
So that was how he ended up on the mini-scooter. The guys with the golf carts were all busy transporting other guests, the spa manager told him, and if Dean wanted any chance of beating Sam back to the room and digging out another set of indifferently clean clothes, then mini-scooter it was.
Still pink from the wrap (and still, though he’d never admit it out loud, thinking the experience was worth the hassle), he trundled off.
Naturally Sam was already there, and naturally Sam nearly pissed himself laughing at Dean.
But Dean got his revenge the very next day, signing Sam up for a senior citizen bridge tournament and promising three little old ladies that Sam was way too nice a guy to let them down. While Sam sat on the tiny chairs in the tea garden, shoulders hunched and eyes widening every time those cutthroat little old ladies pulled some vicious card trick or other, Dean was off having a mud wrap for variety, and making plans for a hot stone massage.
Once in a very, very long while, Dean’s life was actually kind of awesome.
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