Delicious: Parts o5 & o6
Title: Delicious
Author: conclusivelead.
Pairing: Dean/Sam
Burton Movie: Charlie & the Chocolate Factory.
Rating: R - NC-17.
Category: Angst, drama, darkfic, romance
Word Count: o5 & o6 = 3,177.
Spoilers: None; AU.
Summary: “There is a smear of dark on the back of his hand and Sam wants nothing more than to lean forward and place his lips against that bronze and taste the bitter of chocolate and the sweet of skin.”
Warnings: AU, chocolate!Kink, introspection, vagueness, cursing, violence, death, frotting, UST, campiness
Notes: The next two parts, out on time today! ^0^ Thank you to everyone who continues to read, and thanks to x_puppetstrings for betaing. ♥
Disclaimer: Supernatural is the property of Kripke and the CW network. I do not own Supernatural and there is no profit being made from this fanfiction. I also own neither Charlie and the Chocolate Factory or Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory.
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DELICIOUS - Parts o5 & o6
A SPN/Charlie & the Chocolate Factory Crossover…of Sorts
o5
He already knows where he is going to take the group first. He has been planning it for months, ever since this idea began formulating inside his head. He leads them away from the pile of coats on the floor to the farthest door and pulls out his key ring, struggling to remain calm, struggling to play this entire farce off at face value, struggling not to turn back around and pull Sam Bucket away from the rest of the group and do to him all those things he saw running through the tall young man’s eyes.
The key slides in and the tumblers turn easily. He grips the knob and turns it, pushing the doors open wide to the amazed gasps of his awaiting ‘guests’. He is no longer quite so impressed by the sugar-spun grass and the licorice flowers and the chocolate river, but he realizes the effect it must be having on those who have never seen the room before. He leads them forward on the marshmallow path, his dark boots making no noise against the soft ground.
“This is a very important room,” he announces, gesturing with a grand sweep of a white-gloved hand. There is a shocked awe present in the faces of all those following behind him. Miss Carpenter is gripping her father’s arm, disbelief filling her eyes, and he feels a mixture of pride and self-satisfied smugness in squashing her composed air. In fact, there seems to be a common sense of disbelief in every person, save for Robert and Sam Bucket, who stand near the rear of the group. Of course, Robert Bucket has been here before and he seems mostly ecstatic to be seeing it all again, and Sam has probably been hearing stories about it since he was a child from his grandfather. He takes a moment to study Sam’s expression most especially, delighting in the wide eyes and parted lips. The hair at the back of his neck prickles and he shivers despite the room’s humidity. The tall teenager’s arms hang limply at his sides, fingers curled slackly into palms and shoulders sagging. The too-big overcoat hangs open to reveal a tan-and-brown plaid shirt buttoned loosely over old, holey cargo pants. Even so, he’s not sure he’s ever seen anything more…delicious in his entire life. Even as he realize he is staring, hazel eyes catch his own and electricity sparks. He knows that this façade…this joke, really…this game that he is playing, inviting these people to the factory…eventually his real motives for sending out those Golden Tickets are going to be uncovered, and if hazel eyes keep catching green, he and Sam won’t get to have half the fun they should.
“It’s beautiful,” Sam is saying.
His eyebrows lift, and he forces himself act as though he hasn’t heard as Robert Bucket turns to grin at his grandson.
“What?” he asks, turning and glancing back as though he hasn’t been staring at Sam the entire time. “Oh, yeah, it’s very beautiful.”
Soon.
“Please,” he says, “please be careful and don’t get too close to the river, as it is very easy to fall in, and I’m not much of a swimmer.”
He walks them all along the river, giving random facts and answering questions - mostly from Mr. Uriel Gregory, who seems to be completely in awe of the chocolate waterfall. The dark man’s eyes are glued the constant gush of melted chocolate and he shoots off endless questions, a new one coming as soon as the last one has been answered.
“What temperature does the chocolate have to be kept at in order for the river to stay-?”
“Chocolate melts at between 110° and 120°, so it’s necessary to keep the chocolate heated to at least 115° F, just to be safe,” he answers before Mr. Gregory is able to even complete his sentence. He continues to lead the trek alongside the river, using his polished walking stick to push aside hanging licorice branches from nearby trees.
“I don’t understand,” Meg Masters says from somewhere behind him. “What’s the point of having a chocolate waterfall? It’s completely ridiculous.”
He ignores her, cocking his head slightly to the side and placing his left hand on the top of his hat in order to keep in safely on his head. “What was that, Miss? You really shouldn’t mumble, I’m afraid I didn’t catch that.”
“Mr. Winchester, I’ve another question for you,” says Mr. Gregory, pushing past Miss Masters, who gasps with outrage but doesn’t say anything, to come up beside him. “Where does the river go exactly?”
“Ah! A wonderful question, Mr. Gregory.” He stops in place and spins about, eggplant-colored tailcoats flaring dramatically. He gives the group an awkward smile and points up at the ceiling of the room with his forefinger. There is a strange system of clear pipes there. “Every hour or so, those pipes will descend and suck up several gallons of melted chocolate. Each pipe has an assigned destination. The pipe carries the melted chocolate away to its destination so quickly that the chocolate arrives in its assigned place before it has the chance to solidify.”
Mr. Gregory looks absolutely fascinated.
“And when is the next pipe scheduled to descend?” he asks, staring up at the ceiling.
Mr. Winchester shrugs one velvet-clad shoulder nonchalantly. “I’ve no idea. I really don’t keep track of these things, you know.”
The other man looks more than slightly disappointed, but if the chocolatier notices it, he says nothing and instead smiles that same awkward, out-of-place smile at the rest of his guests, green eyes impatient and manner restless and thoughts straying. “Shall we move on?”
They do move on, away toward the far end of the river, where a large, colorful boat awaits them.
No one notices that Mr. Uriel Gregory stays behind, or that he leans in to inspect the chocolate river a little more closely for himself despite Mr. Winchester’s warning.
No one notices that the delicate, fragile sugar-spun grass lining the riverside begins to crumble away and then gives beneath his bulky, bent frame.
No one notices him fall in.
No one notices that Mr. Uriel Gregory can’t swim.
o6
The boat is just large enough for their group and is colorfully painted and floats motionlessly atop the melted chocolate. Sam isn’t sure how it’s powered at first, but then he sees four oars resting in square notches along the wood of each side - two at the very front of the boat and two at the rear. Four benches rest horizontally in the center and are wide enough to seat perhaps three people on each. Mr. Carpenter waits for no invitation and instead helps his daughter onto the boat immediately, mindful of her uncomfortable-looking high-heeled shoes and the two take their seats in the very middle of the boat, on one of the benches without oars. Sam isn’t surprised. He turns to see Grandpa Bobby giving him the exact same sort of look that he is about to give him and they both chuckle softly.
“Yes, yes, on you go,” says Mr. Winchester, and Sam is sure he hears an amused note in the chocolatier’s throaty tone, and…oh, there’s that expected shiver of pleasure. He closes his eyes for a moment, reveling in it, before he is being bumped into by Miss Masters and her sister as they make their way onto the boat. “Don’t give mind to the oars, they are simply for decoration. The boat has been motor-powered for quite some months, now.” Upon hearing this, the sisters somehow maneuver around the Carpenters to sit at the bow of the boat. Sam’s mouth twists into a grin.
Mrs. Cast takes her young daughter into her arms and allows Grandpa Bobby to assist her into the boat. She sits on the left side of the boat and then places her daughter in the middle. Almost as an afterthought, she turns to Sam’s grandfather and asks, “Sir, I don’t suppose you’d mind sitting on the other side of Lilith just to be safe, would you?”
Bobby is a gentleman and he loves children. He agrees kindly, but the little girl does not look pleased. “But Mommy, I wanted to sit on the outside,” she whines. Mrs. Cast ignores her, and Grandpa Bobby takes his seat, trying his best to appease the little girl by patting her in between her blonde pigtails. She frowns at him and Sam feels badly for his grandfather. He begins to offer to change places with him, but then there is a light touch on his shoulder -
“Mr. Bucket, if you will…”
- and Sam realizes just who he will be sitting next to at the very back of the boat. Grandpa Bobby will just have to suffer. Mr. Winchester is standing just beside him. He is close enough that same can see the light dusting of freckles across the bridge of his nose and smell the strange, sweet scent of his cologne. The chocolatier’s left hand rests lightly on Sam’s shoulder, but those green eyes are dark, smoldering, promising. Sam is vaguely aware of Ruby Carpenter striking up inane conversation with Meg Master’s sister and of Lilith Cast complaining about something or other as Mr. Winchester moves ever-so-slightly closer.
He can smell the sweet on the shorter man’s breath.
“Get on the boat, Sammy.”
It’s there again, that heaviness that makes Sam’s throat close up and his cheeks go hot. He forgets about the people in the boat, he forgets about the room made of candy. He wants to lean forward and press his face into Mr. Winchester’s neck and inhale, breathe in the smell of sugar and sweat and cologne. He wants to drag his tongue along the pulse point of the other man’s throat, he wants to slide his hands up the other man’s legs, he wants to do things that he shouldn’t want to do at all. There is an unspoken familiarity in that nickname - Sammy. Sam doesn’t understand how there is so much between them and yet nothing between them. He doesn’t understand how he knows what is to come and yet how he feels so completely lost.
Regardless, he inhales deeply once more before he steps away slowly, and settles himself onto the bench at the back of that boat, waiting for Mr. Winchester to join him and for those tacit promises to come to pass. Time no longer stands still, and the other man does join him, settling down with a surprising sort of grace. The tails of the man’s purple coat swish down behind him, trailing down to the floor of the boat and reminding Sam of Lilith’s pigtails.
Sam struggles to find a comfortable position, one where his long legs are not completely bent in half, but fails. He settles for sliding back to the very back of the bench seat and then placing the bottoms of his feet under the bench. His legs are cramped and his knees are painfully pressed against the back of the Casts’ bench, but it is his only solution. He feels clumsy, all long limbs and awkward height, but Mr. Winchester is still looking at him with that burning in his gaze.
He watches as the formally-dressed man leans over and fiddles with a set of controls situated on the back of the bench ahead of them that Sam has not previously seen. Mr. Winchester presses a series of buttons, pulls a lever, and then suddenly the boat is moving forward - slowly at first, and then a bit more quickly, until they are gliding along the chocolate river at a comfortable pace. There is a strange box attached to Mr. Winchester’s side of the bench. He opens it and withdraws a purple ladle the same shade as his jacket. Sam observes as the white glove is stripped from his left hand quickly before the man dips the ladle into the melted chocolate on the over side of the boat and turns back toward Sam. When he speaks, his tone is light, conversational. It doesn’t match the burning in his bright green eyes.
“Here, try some of this. It’ll do you good.”
There is a smear of dark on the back of his hand and Sam wants nothing more than to lean forward and place his lips against that bronze and taste the bitter of chocolate and the sweet of skin. He squelches the overwhelming desire and instead accepts the ladle, bringing the brim of it to his lips and sipping the warm, melted chocolate. It is sweet on his tongue, and it slides down his throat smoothly. Mr. Winchester is watching him, half-lidded, lips parted, breath coming silent but shallow when suddenly Lilith says from just ahead of them, “Mommy, what happened to the black man?”.
Seven words are all it takes to send the boat into a curious frenzy. Where is Mr. Gregory? Have they left him behind? Why haven’t they noticed until just now?
“Settle down,” says Mr. Winchester smoothly, tugging his glove back onto his hand, voice calm even as the boat begins to rock back and forth a bit. “I’ll send word to my workers that we have a guest missing. In the meantime, let’s just continue with the tour, shall we?”
It takes little convincing. Everyone here is strangers, really, and Mr. Gregory seems to know how to take care of himself. Just as everyone begins to calm down again and Mr. Winchester is speaking into a handheld radio, the boat glides into a tunnel, and the party is plunged into near-darkness. Lilith screams and begins to cry. “Mommy, I’m scared!” she whines. Sam’s brow furrows, but the depth of the darkness slowly shallows and his eyes adjust and he realizes they are simply in a series of tunnels. The chocolate river continues to flow past a series of doors, each differently labeled: Coffee Cream, Candy-coated Pencils for Sucking, Fizzy Lifting Drinks.
“Pay attention, everyone, we’re passing some very important rooms,” Mr. Winchester says. He sounds bored; his eyes are on Sam again. Sam is for the first time embarrassed by the scrutiny of that unwavering stare and instead tries to concentrate on the variety of doors on either side.
Jelly Bean Room.
Cows that Give Chocolate Milk.
Hot Ice Creams for Cold Days.
There is a strange whirring sound just beneath Sam’s feet that sends vibrations up through the soles of his shoes. The boat comes to a surprisingly fast halt. “Here we are - our next stop.” Mr. Winchester’s voice is still bored and he is still looking at Sam, but Sam is reading the printed letters on the large door before them with interest and does not notice this time:
Inventing Room.
They disembark quickly and it seems like one moment they’re on the boat and the next they’re inside.
The room is huge, with impossibly tall, vaulted ceilings that reach higher than Sam’s eye can see and tables, dozens and dozens and wide, chrome tables that hold beakers and bottles full of strangely colored liquids and bubbling chocolate. Strange machines stand here and there, one with glass pipes funneling chocolate from this tank to that tank and another with ovens that seem to making marshmallow pies that are shaped like birds and rabbits and other, more ambiguous things.
“Now this is the most important room in the entire factory,” says Mr. Winchester in his low but reverberant voice from where he stands near the strange machine with glass pipes that Sam noticed earlier. “Feel free to look around. Enjoy yourselves, but please don’t touch anything.” He is polite, much as he was when he first greeted everyone earlier at the gates, but the constant restlessness is still present, and he does not dwell on giving an exuberant explanation of any of the machines, deciding instead to wait for questions. They come quickly enough. Miss Carpenter points curiously at a large tank of blue liquid, the bottom of which is littered with strange, red candies that look somewhat like overlarge gumdrops.
“Mr. Winchester, do tell. What are these?”
The chocolatier approaches the tank and rests a hand on its rim. “Let me show you.” After removing his gloves, he retrieves a long-handled device from a porcelain urn at the tank’s side and uses it to grab a candy from the bottom of the tank. Holding the red candy between his thumb and forefinger, he says, “This is an Everlasting Gobstopper.” The corner of the man’s mouth upturns ever-so-slightly and his gaze slide to Sam as he adds, “You can suck on it all year and it will never get any smaller.” His tongue darts out to wet his lips and then he looks away, holding the Gobstopper out to Mrs. Cast. “Here, a gift. But be careful, it’s still in the experimental stage.”
Sam’s throat constricts and he turns away to study the strange machines and bubbling experiments, trying to force the flush from his cheeks. “Look at this, Sam,” Grandpa Bobby says from his side, pointing at a beaker filled with an odd vermillion liquid. The teenage boy nods, pretending to be interested.
“Alright, everyone, let’s move on,” Mr. Winchester announces. He begins to move away from the huge steel tank filled with the blue liquid and the Everlasting Gobstoppers. Lilith’s mother inspects her gift with a cursory glance before passing the candy into her daughter’s small hand with a quick smile.
“Mommy, can I eat it now?” Lilith asks, already raising the candy to her mouth.
Mrs. Cast gives her daughter a terse nod, already stepping away with the intention of asking Mr. Winchester a question about a machine that catches her eye. “Of course, dear, go right ahead. Now, I’ll be just ahead. Mind you remember what Mr. Winchester said and don’t touch anything, sweetie.” She leaves her daughter by the Everlasting Gobstopper tank. Lilith watches her mother go with unconcerned blue eyes, the candy pinched between two fingers and lips open around it. An opaque, silvery mist begins falling from a nearby table’s invention and causes Lilith’s eyes to sting. She blinks rapidly and takes a few steps after her mother, shoving the Everlasting Gobstopper completely into her mouth and taking a few good sucks at it. The mist thickens, rising up about Lilith’s face and getting into her eyes. She coughs around the Gobstopper, eyes squinting and nose running. Growing panicked, she tries to speak, but the candy is in her way and when she opens her mouth, mist enters her parted lips and thickens her saliva. She coughs again; the mist is too thick now. She cannot see.
She runs into something (a table, a machine?) and falls down, jarred. The Gobstopper pushes down the back of her tongue and slides down her throat until it can’t slide any further. She can’t breathe, she can’t move, and her mother is too far away to hear her struggle beneath the mist.
True to Mr. Winchester’s word, the Everlasting Gobstopper never shrinks.
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