Sweet Charity Fic: Adult: ATS/SPN XO: Ink

[crazywritinfool]

Title: Ink
Fandom(s): AtS/SPN XO
Pairing: Dean/Lindsey
Rating: Adult
Words: 9,800
Summary: Sam connives with Lindsey McDonald to renegotiate Dean's contract. Dean is Not Well Pleased.

Notes: Written for meredevachon for Sweet Charity. Beta and pre-writing brainstorm by way2busymom. This story would not be the story it is without her, as anything remotely resembling plot was pretty much her idea.

*********

"No." If there was one thing Dean was absolutely sure of, it was that no. He was not going to do this. No way in hell. Or out of hell, or on the way to hell, for that matter. Just no.



But Sammy had slapped on a bitchface and had his arms crossed angrily over his chest, which meant the situation was supposedly not open for argument. Not that Dean much cared about Sam's opinion.

"It's just to buy some time. We'll have everything settled and the deal will be off before they have any idea what's going on."

"And if you're wrong?" Dean didn't wait for an answer. "If you're wrong, they find out and you're dead."

"Dean--"

"Not acceptable, Sam." He could feel his voice growling in his throat, thought briefly that he sounded like Dad.

"Dean--"

"I said no, I meant no. End of discussion."

He could tell Sam was about to try to discuss it some more, anyway, so he wheeled and stalked out of the room.

Of course Sam followed.

"This guy knows what he's doing." He loomed deliberately over Dean, and Dean glared at him. He didn't like the looming. Little brothers shouldn't loom. It wasn't right.

"This guy works for about the most evil organization we've ever run across. Ever. I don't get how you can even think about trusting him."

"I have my reasons."

"You want to share?"

"Not really."

Dean shook his head. "It's not happening, Sam. Just forget about it."

Sam's fists clenched at his sides, and for a moment Dean thought he was going to go from looming to hitting. "Fine," he finally grated through clenched teeth. "Fucking fine."

"That's right. Fucking fine." Dean stood resolute, staring out the window, until Sam finally relented and stalked out of the room.

#

Lilah dropped the heavy stack of papers on the table in front of Sam and took a seat in the chair across from him. She was tall and slim and smirky, and Sam didn't like her. Plus the silk scarf tied around her neck completely creeped him out. Maybe if he hadn't known what lay under it, it would have seemed like an innocuous, feminine, even attractive fashion accessory. But knowing it helped keep her head on made him queasy.

"This is it?" he said, voice edged with sarcasm. "The full contract proposal?"

"Yep. Best get to reading."

Sam picked up the top part of the stack, shoving the rest back over to Lilah. "You, too. You said you'd help."

She quirked an eyebrow, acknowledging his successful ploy. "Fair enough. If keeping your brother out of hell gets me out of hell, then it's worth it."

"Not if this deal puts him someplace worse than hell."

Lilah chuckled. "I see you've been paying attention."

Sam gave her a firm, level look. He really didn't want to deal with any of her bullshit. Her gaze slipped sideways, not quite confident enough to hold his. Unfortunately, she didn’t stop talking.

"You know, you don't have a hell of a lot of time to work all this out. No pun intended."

"Yeah. I know." He glanced toward the door. "He'll be okay." Dean would be as safe as Sam could make him, for as long as Sam could manage it. There was no way he was letting his brother die, and he didn't believe in leaving anything to chance.

Her smirk returned as she played with the knot in her silk scarf with long, slim fingers. “You sure about that?”

"Read," he said sharply.

"Fine." Wary, she began to page through the massive contract, leaving Sam to think that maybe having everyone think he was the Antichrist wasn't such a bad deal after all.

#

Lindsey had everything ready. It had taken some finagling to assemble it all, but he'd managed it. Dead or not, he hadn’t lost his touch. Plus he was highly motivated.

If the Senior Partners wanted this contract, then he was going to get it for them. No way in hell would he let Lilah overtake him, not this time.

If there'd been anything but the perpetuity clause at stake, he might have let it go, stayed on the sidelines, thrown the old bitch a bone. But to be finally free of Wolfram and Hart... he'd do damn near anything or anybody for that.

He'd thought maybe his temporary separation from Wolfram and Hart might have severed those ties. He should have known better. There were binding contracts, and then there were Wolfram and Hart contracts. With the latter, not even death got you out of your company obligations. He'd been in a hell where his heart got ripped out every morning and put back every night. This hell, where he went from meeting to meeting to meeting, jockeying for position with the Senior Partners, with Lilah always one snipping, snarking, smirking step in front of or behind him, was worse.

He'd been working away ever since the day he'd died, the gunshot wound in his side a constant reminder of the humiliation of his death. It could have been worse, though. He could have been like Lilah--she couldn't spin her head around too fast for fear of it falling off. Still, it was a bit of a toss-up as to whether it was more humiliating to die at the hands of a demon-possessed cheerleader or a karaoke lounge-singing empath demon with horrific taste in clothes.

Lindsey didn't like to think about it. He liked to think about getting out, and these Winchester boys were his meal ticket.

Except Sam didn't look content and triumphant when he came back to tell Lindsey what had happened between him and his brother. Mostly he just looked pissed off.

"What happened?" Lindsey carefully slid the last of his tools into a large bag of butter-soft leather; the stuff had to be handled carefully or the magic would go askew.

Sam clenched and unclenched his teeth. "He said no."

Lindsey nodded. "And?"

"And we're doing it anyway."

Lindsey grinned, glad to know he'd judged Sam right. "We better get to it, then."

#

The bar was a couple of blocks away from the old, sprawling hotel Sam's Stanford friend Connor had put them up in. Dean didn't want to go back--he could practically smell the mystical crap all over the walls in there, plus that kid gave him the creeps. A little younger than Sam, and with a weird look to his eyes sometimes that made Dean think he had demon in him. Add the shaggy emo bangs, and Connor made all the hair on the back of Dean’s neck stand up.

So he went to the bar instead, to drink and cruise women and try not to think about how he was going to be in hell in a month.

He didn't expect to see Lindsey there. The smarmy lawyer gave him a smarmy smile as he approached the bar. Sam had sent him, Dean was sure, to try to get him to change his mind. As if he'd believe a word that came out of this asshole's mouth.

"Have a seat, Mr. Winchester," Lindsey said cheerily, patting the bar stool next to him. "Been a long week."

Dean debated, then figured he'd best get it over with. He straddled the stool and gave Lindsey a once-over. Mr. McDonald needed to know that Mr. Winchester wasn't going to let anything hinky get past him.

Lindsey didn't look much like a lawyer. Long hair, earrings, callused hands. He didn't look right in the dark blue suit and tie. Blunt fingers curled around a shot of whiskey, then he tossed it back and set the empty glass on the table.

"What're you having?"

"Same as you," Dean answered. "And if Sam sent you to change my mind, might as well forget it."

Lindsey nodded, smiling a little. "Not even gonna try. You seem like the kinda man once he makes up his mind, he’s done."

Dean eyed him. The golly gosh, homeboy speech rhythm almost sounded natural, like he was just a little tipsy, down home talk coming out, that kind of thing. But Dean didn't trust it.

"You'd be right." He took his first shot of whiskey from the bartender and quaffed it, gestured for another.

"Anyway, the shit won't work if you're not willing. Know what I mean?"

Dean nodded. Good. "That kind of magic, huh?"

"Yep. That kind of magic."

Dean relaxed. If that was the case, he was fine. He didn’t think Sam would force anything on him, though little brother had been so out of hand lately it was hard to tell. He downed another shot. Lindsey ordered beers.

"So what's your story, anyway?" Dean ventured. He might as well know, just in case McDonald decided to pull some kind of shit later.

Lindsey shrugged. "The usual. Big corporation offers country boy a lot of money to be a lawyer, country boy finds out he's in the clutches of the biggest demon law firm in not only this dimension but a dozen other dimensions he had no idea even existed."

"You ever want out?"

"I tried. You don't get out. You just keep coming back, whether you want to or not."

"Stuck until you die, huh?"

Lindsey chuckled. "Son, I been dead--what, two years?" At Dean's astonished look, he lifted his shot in a toast. "If only it were that easy."

Dean just shook his head, flummoxed. Just when he thought things couldn't get any weirder. He drank half his mug of beer, another shot. And after a few minutes, Lindsey said, "Hell sucks, son. I know. I been there."

Dean didn't look at him, just stared down into his beer. It was dark and thick, a bit of a head still on it, tiny pale bubbles floating to the surface in little swarms.

"Sucks ass," Lindsey added. "Not just one, either. They come up with different versions. One doesn't suck ass enough for you, they'll send you to another one." He ducked his head a little, trying to get Dean to look at him. "What I'm saying, son, is maybe you ought to reconsider."

Dean shook his head once, firmly. "No."

"Yeah, I get it." Lindsey sipped at his own beer contemplatively. "Protecting your brother, all that. That's your deal, right? If you renege, he dies?"

"Yeah." Dean didn't want to talk about it, but the answer came out anyway, reflexive.

"Only dumbasses make deals with demons."

That got Dean to turn his head. "You talking about me or you?"

Lindsey chuckled. "Maybe both. Have another beer."

#

Lindsey had counted on Dean knowing his limits when it came to alcohol. He'd stop just shy of being shit-faced, if Lindsey judged him right. A few beers, a few shots, then he'd start to slow down, maybe stop before he was in the condition Lindsey needed him in. So he'd made allowances.

It's a little-known fact that there's beer in alternate dimensions. It's an even littler-known fact that beer from the dimension right next to yours is gonna taste just like the beer you're used to, but it's gonna knock you on your ass twice as fast. Lindsey knew this, because working for Wolfram and Hart exposes a guy to a good number of little-known facts, particularly those regarding alternate dimensions and underhanded ways to get another guy nine or ten sheets to the wind to ease the path of a contract negotiation.

So Dean was a drink or two away from what he probably considered his limit when he started to wobble.

"Sam's an idiot," he slurred, quaffing another whiskey shot. The whiskey was regular--expensive, and single malt, but from Scotland, not Pylea or whatever the fuck. It was the beer that was doing it. Something else Lindsey knew--a guy would be careful with hard liquor. Not so much with beer. So Dean was about to wobble right off his barstool, and in about five minutes Lindsey was going to have to carry his ass out of there.

"Let's get the hell outta here," Lindsey suggested, since he didn't much like the idea of trying to haul Dean bodily out of the bar and to his car, even though it was, not at all coincidentally, parked right outside.

"Good idea," said Dean blearily. He was sober enough to walk--barely--but not sober enough to think. Lindsey couldn't help chuckling at his slack-mouthed smile, the glassy look in his green eyes. Seriously, that beer shit? Better than roofies. "Where we goin'?"

"Back to my place." Lindsey tossed a handful of cash onto the bar while Dean made a face.

"Dude, I don't swing that way."

"Yeah, yeah, that's what they all say." He grabbed Dean's elbow, steering him toward the door. "You'll be fine. Get you some coffee, maybe a cold shower. I sure don't want to send you back to your brother looking like this. He'd kill me for getting you this plastered."

"Snot-nosed kid," was all the answer Dean had, and then he shut up, which was fine with Lindsey.

They didn't go back to Lindsey's place. Lindsey didn't have a "place," per se, since he was pretty much stuck in hell these days. But he was pretty sure Dean was too far gone to be suspicious when they pulled up in front of the Hyperion.

"Huh," Dean said, taking in the dark, looming hotel. "This isn't your place. This is my place." And then he cackled drunkenly. God, the kid was stoned. This was going to work out just fine.

Lindsey steered him up the sidewalk, into the hotel, and up the stairs to the room where he'd set up his things. Angel’s old room, point of fact. It still smelled like him. Lindsey wished Sam hadn’t picked that room, but it was the biggest one available, so to Sam it had been a logical choice. To Lindsey it was too much a reminder of too many things that still rubbed him raw.

All his equipment was laid out on a table next to the wide bed. He should be able to finish this up well before Dean got over his heavy-duty buzz. Then he could consult with Sam about the next step.

He let Dean drop onto the bed, where he sprawled himself out spread-eagled, staring up at the ceiling with a stupid grin on his face. Lindsey moved to the wet bar and poured another shot of whiskey, passing it to Dean.

"Nightcap?" he said.

"Sure," said Dean, and tossed it back, awkward from his current position, but he managed it without spilling. Lindsey was impressed. He shifted to the table and began to lay out his equipment, quietly and nonchalantly, hoping Dean wouldn't register anything he was doing as unusual.

"Enjoying your stay here?" Lindsey asked. "This place used to belong to a friend of mine, you know." Well, loose interpretation of the word "friend," but close enough.

"Place is comfortable enough," Dean drawled. "Kid creeps me out, though."

"Yeah?" He laid the small, silver tools in a neat line. He was going to have to get things underway in a few minutes. He'd hoped Dean would be pretty much passed out by now. "His dad was a vampire. His mom, too, for that matter."

"Really? How does that work?"

"They fucked."

"Ah." Dean seemed to mull that. Lindsey heard him make a low, incoherent noise, then his breathing roughened, then evened out into a slow, rattling rhythm only a half decibel or so away from a snore.

"That's my boy," Lindsey said, with relief and approval. About time the damn beer really kicked in. He slid a finger along the sharp edge of the long, slim silver tool and sat carefully down on the bed next to Dean's sprawled body.

"Here we go," he muttered. He pulled the table with the tools a bit closer, then settled in to prepare Dean.

He had to be stripped first. Lindsey had a few yards of skin to work over before he could declare this mission a success. Dean would be damn pissed when he woke up, but that wasn't Lindsey's concern. His deal was with Sam.

He unbuttoned the flannel shirt, eased Dean's arms out of it. The T-shirt was more problematic. But if Dean couldn't stay unconscious while Lindsey pulled his soft cotton shirt off over his head, he sure as hell wasn’t going to be able to stay out for the rest of it. He'd had enough of the cross-dimensional alcohol, though, that he should be out for a good long time, and out hard.

Sure enough, he lolled limply against Lindsey while Lindsey worked his arms out of his shirt, then eased him back to the mattress and started on his pants.

Lindsey wanted to pretend that nothing was wrong at that point. Wanted desperately to pretend that. More, wanted it to be true. But it wasn't. Because this was the prettiest man he'd seen naked since...

Well.

Since Angel. Not that he really cared much to remember that. Not unless he needed a mental image that would get him off nice and fast, anyway.

He'd noticed Dean was good-looking before, of course. It was hard to miss that both the Winchester boys were good-looking sons of bitches. But noticing it obliquely while negotiating with them was far different from having one of them spread out buck naked on a bed and unconscious.

He didn't have time to fuck around, though, literally or figuratively. And given what he needed to do to the boy, he'd get plenty of opportunity to touch him, if nothing else.

He laid out all the equipment--the numerous slim needles, the silver hammer, the small pans of black powder that had to be mixed immediately before use and used quickly, before the magic degraded and made the ink deadly.

The powder shimmered when he whipped the distilled water into it with the small silver rod. He'd had someone else do his own tattoos--how long ago had that been now? Two years? Longer? It was hard to keep track of time when you were dead. The shimmering held his attention for a few moments; it was fascinating, alluring.

Well, shit. It was magic, and he'd better stop letting it suck him in.

With the ink ready, the silver needles sitting in the small dish, he returned his attention to Dean. The younger man still lay sprawled in a deathlike stupor over the mattress. Lindsey adjusted his legs, then his arms, spreading him out more. He picked up a wet cloth from the table--all the water had to be purified, distilled, and bespelled before it touched skin--and washed him down, neck to wrists to heels.

The kid was built solid, broad shoulders, trim waist, marked with scars that ranged from small, white and barely visible to wicked, knotty ropes. Lindsey traced one of the larger ones, thinking about how it might affect the patterns he had to apply. Most of the marks wouldn't be an issue, but there were a few he'd have to maneuver around.

His fingers trailed along a warm curve of shoulder, turning against the skin so his nail could trace a scar along the shoulder blade. He pictured where the first runes would go, the mental image of the kid's tattooed back clear to him. He vaguely felt the slow rise and fall of Dean's breathing. The soft shake of his heartbeat. He lifted the inked needle, the small silver hammer, tuning out everything but the imagined shape of the first rune.

The shape came to life beneath his hands, one small patch of ink after another. There were yards and yards of skin to engrave, weeks worth of work for a regular tattoo artist. But the runes were magic. As soon as they had materialized enough to know what they were, they filled themselves in the rest of the way. Which was why accuracy, order, and proper bespelling were so important. If the rune misinterpreted itself at a crucial stage, and finished off as the wrong shape, things could go very, very wrong without the intervention of a high-level spell-caster.

Lindsey wasn't a high-level spell-caster, but years of experience with Wolfram and Hart had taught him to be fast, well prepared, and above all accurate. The first rune fell neatly into place. About fifteen minutes of tattooing on his part, then the skin beneath his hands rose in a low welter, shaping the rest of the rune in red, like a hive, then filling in black. He leaned back to check it from a distance. Perfect. Next...

He leaned sideways to refill the needle with ink. No point looking at the clock now; he'd get done when he got done, and no hurrying in the world would do him any good right now. It was much better to take it slow and steady, pushing constantly forward but not allowing urgency to interfere with accuracy.

The second rune formed more quickly, as it took part of its shape from a curve of the first. He leaned back as soon as the magic took over, watching the pattern rise on the scarred skin, then fill in with color. He was sweating, and pressed droplets from his forehead with the back of his wrist. He needed a nurse to dry his forehead; this work was every bit as demanding and exacting as surgery.

One rune, another, another. Once Dean dragged in a shuddering breath, making Lindsey lean back, needle poised, waiting for his canvas to settle down again. When he had eased back into quiet, regular breathing, Lindsey set back to work.

The back of the neck was tricky--maneuvering the needle around the knob of bone at the base of the neck, making sure its curve didn't distort the proper curve of the rune. Equally tricky was the small of the back, the shallow curve down, then up again into the roundness of the buttocks. Runes sprawled like dark hands, fingers curving around Dean's ass. Lindsey finished another thick, solid line. Watching the ink fill in its shapes there, he realized he had another problem.

His dick was hard.

He should have expected that. He hadn't been in close proximity to another, living human being since they'd tossed him into Wolfram and Hart's idea of hell, the never-ending circle of corporate meetings. And while there was intimacy to be had in his circle of hell, it was with other folks in similar circumstances to his own, which wasn't usually conducive to a pleasant encounter. And if there was one thing he'd learned from two years in hell, it was that you took your comfort, your pleasure, whenever and wherever you could get it.

Dean was unconscious still, though, and Lindsey wasn't sure he'd be willing if he were awake. If he'd been sure the boy wouldn't freak out if he found out Lindsey had had his way with him, he'd do just that. But he didn't need the hassle of having Dean pissed off at him because he'd taken liberties.

Still, his dick was straining against his zipper, and Lindsey wouldn’t have a chance for relief until well after he finished tattooing Dean.

He slid an open palm over the rounded curve of Dean's buttock, hand sliding over the dark marks on his skin. He could feel nothing--only the smooth curve of Dean's ass, his warm skin, the rough texture of hair. He tried not to think about it too much, but if he bent too close, he could smell Dean's skin.

Forget about it. He frowned, narrowing his focus again to Dean's body. The back looked good--all clean lines and runic shapes, winding over Dean's body in ancient patterns of protection. He wasn't done, though. Lindsey still needed to do the front.

He grasped Dean's shoulder. Dean mumbled vaguely, and Lindsey jerked his hand back, startled, then chuckled wryly at himself.

Hard not to be edgy, under the circumstances. He grasped Dean's shoulder again and turned him over.

Dean settled to his back as Lindsey rolled him, shifting a little on the mattress, hips nestling, head rolling, shoulders easing. Waiting for him to stop wiggling, Lindsey turned to prepare another needle.

When he turned back, Dean was looking at him.

It wasn't a keen, evaluating look. Far from it. Rather it was a bleary, barely-conscious look, the kind of look you got from a guy who was painfully drunk, had swum his way almost to consciousness, and was about to pass right the hell back out again. Lindsey paused, making no attempt to hide the needle. Moving it too quickly would just bring Dean's attention to it.

"Dean?" he said quietly.

Dean blinked at him, no recognition in his eyes, then gave a lax smile. "Whoozit?"

Lindsey wasn't sure what Dean meant, but took the incomprehensible word as reassurance that Dean was still pretty much out of it.

"Close your eyes," he said quietly. "Just relax. It's almost done."

Dean nodded vaguely and closed his eyes. Lindsey waited a second or two, then bent over him and applied the needle to his shoulder.

Dean flinched. Lindsey froze, afraid the movement would send the needle off-track. Slowly, he drew the sharp point away from Dean's flesh.

"You need to hold still," he said quietly, hoping the kid was still buzzed enough to be complacent.

"The fuck?" Dean replied, but his tone remained bleary, with no force behind it.

"Still," Lindsey repeated. He pressed the heel of his hand against Dean's hipbone, pinning that side of his body to the bed. It would be harder to wield the needle properly with one hand, harder to get the ink deep enough under the skin without the tiny silver hammer, but he could do it.

Dean made an inarticulate noise and held still, only slow, even breathing stirring his body. Lindsey watched his face until the green eyes shuttered again, then pressed needle back to flesh.

This time Dean made a low noise in his throat, but didn't move. He was in a between stage, Lindsey thought, awake enough to be aware of what was happening to him, but not awake enough to register whether he wanted it to happen. Lindsey had been there; sometimes he remembered it later. It wasn't a pleasant thing. Well, sometimes it was. Dean would be responding to pure physical sensation, with no real ability to process any of it. He pressed on, doing what had to be done. Another rune hit critical mass and he leaned back as the rest of the mark filled itself out, black stain creeping, then rushing, over and under Dean's pale skin.

Something touched his other hand, the one holding Dean's hip down against the mattress. He moved his head to look, expecting to see Dean's hand pushing at his wrist. But it wasn't. It was Dean's cock, hard and needy, the round head pressed against the tendon on the inside of Lindsey's wrist. It twitched, leaving a wet trail on his skin.

Lindsey swallowed. He couldn't afford to be distracted right now. Especially not this distracted. Everything in him wanted to press down into the wide body on the bed and just take.

He bit his lower lip hard and focused back on the needle. Another rune came to easy life under his hands, while Dean's cock drew trails on his wrist.

And Dean was making noises now. Noises that didn't sound like they had anything to do with pain. It figured he'd get off on the feel of the needle violating his skin. The moaning was damned distracting. Helpful, though, at the same time, because Dean was relaxing into the bed rather than twitching at the prick of the needle. His eyes stood at half-mast, his mouth open and needy.

Just right to suck down a guy's cock. Lindsey pushed the thought back, but once he'd thought it, it wouldn't go away. He would dream tonight of getting sucked off by Dean Winchester.

He let go of Dean's hip, leaning back to mix a new batch of ink. He stirred the water in quickly, not wanting to take any more time than he had to.

When he turned back around, Dean was jacking off.

"Shit." Lindsey muttered it aloud, unable to help himself. Dean had curled his own fingers around his cock and was lazily stroking himself. Nothing energetic about it, but it still had to stop--the movement shifted his body back and forth, and Lindsey needed him to be still.

Dean's gaze rolled glassily toward him, the lush mouth curved into a smile.

"You need to hold still," Lindsey told him.

"Mmmm," Dean answered, sliding his fingers down his erection in a slow glide.

Lindsey sighed and shook his head. Time to be direct. He clasped Dean's wrist and held him still, quickly working the needle in at another point, starting the next series of runes.

At the penetration of the needle, Dean made that thick sound again. Holy God, he was making this hard. Making Lindsey harder, and he’d thought he’d hit his limit in that area quite a while back. Dean jerked again under him, and Lindsey drew back immediately, barely managing to keep from marring the rune.

"You have got to hold still," he said, his voice tight. He turned to see huge, limpid green eyes regarding him, pink tongue sliding over a swollen lower lip.

"Make me."

Lindsey clenched his teeth. "Fine."

If there was a quick way to keep the kid still, then fine. Lindsey was damned near done--only about three more big runes to lay in, on either side of Dean's abdomen. He'd still have to do them one-handed, but whatever.

He reached down and wrapped his hand around Dean's cock.

It was long and thick and hard and fit into his grasp just about perfectly. He stroked it a few times, just to be sure the attention would make Dean hold still. Dean let his head fall back to the pillows and made a happy noise. Thank God.

As quickly as he could without losing accuracy, Lindsey laid in the ink for the next rune, at the same time moving his thumb over the head of Dean's cock, along the ridge, just enough movement to keep him content. Then, leaning back on his heels to watch the rune finish itself, he tugged a bit, fisted the hard shaft more thoroughly, and let Dean fuck his hand a few times before leaning back over him.

"Shh," he said. "Quiet again. Just for a minute." He started into the next rune--this one, then one more and he was done--again letting his thumb do the work of keeping Dean still.

When that rune reached critical mass, he again leaned back. His whole body was going stiff, his back hurting from leaning over, a nasty crick developing in his neck. But he jacked Dean dutifully, letting him writhe a little, feeling his belly tauten and his hips rock. Then he eased back.

"Couple more minutes," he said. "Almost done. Hush."

And Dean stilled obediently, content to have the head of his cock stroked for a few more minutes while Lindsey finished the last rune.

Finally, finally, it was done. And Lindsey found himself sitting on the bed with his hand wrapped around Dean Winchester's dick, and no idea what he should do next.

Dean decided it for him. His hips tilted back and he stroked his cock through the curve of Lindsey's hand.

"Done yet?" he asked.

"Yeah," Lindsey confirmed. "All done."

"Then finish it." His head lolled back, everything about him begging Lindsey to fuck him senseless.

Lindsey hesitated. He couldn’t afford to get on Sam’s bad side. Sam was a wild card--even the Senior Partners didn’t seem to know quite what he was. And it seemed to Lindsey like fucking the Antichrist’s brother was a reckless move, even for him.

So he wouldn't fuck him. Not a problem. Get him off, make him happy, let him pass out afterwards. Then Lindsey could take care of himself. Not like he hadn’t jacked himself off a thousand times before. He let his fingers move back along Dean’s erection, to press against his balls.

But Dean's hand rose from the mattress and, instead of reaching for his own dick this time, snaked forward to clasp Lindsey's crotch. "Yeah," he said in a low, throaty voice. "You want it."

Surprised, Lindsey looked down at the big, square hand folded around his fly. He hadn’t figured on Dean reciprocating. But Dean was right. He did want it.

"You want it," he told Dean. "Help yourself."

Dean gave him the wickedest shit-eating grin Lindsey had ever seen on a man. "Think I will."

The heel of his hand pressed against Lindsey's dick, then his fingers traced the hard line. Lindsey drew in an involuntary breath, clenching his teeth. He hadn't realized how far gone he was until now, when it wasn't so vital to keep it under control anymore. He could have come from the brush of Dean's fingers against his fly, but he took a slow breath and held it back.

As it turned out, Dean's fingers had more tricks. They eased his fly open, pulled cotton out of the way, let Lindsey's dick spring free. Then he grasped Lindsey's hip and pulled him half on top of him. Naked cock pressed against naked cock, and Dean rutted against him.

"God." Lindsey couldn't hold back the word. He closed his eyes and drove himself hard against Dean's erection, against his taut stomach. Dean reached between them, wrapping his hand around both shafts, his thumb sliding over the head of Lindsey's cock.

There was no point fighting it. Though Lindsey never would have figured it of him, Dean knew what he was doing. Eyes at half-mast, teeth biting that full lower lip, he pulsed against Lindsey, harder and faster, until finally Lindsey grabbed onto his shoulders, back arching, and came all over him, hot and sticky. Dean followed a moment later. Come splattered Lindsey's chin.

He was still catching his breath when Dean made a satisfied sound and went limp under him. Startled, Lindsey lurched quickly half-upright to check him. But he was fine, still breathing, face lax, unconscious again in a post coital stupor.

"Fine," Lindsey mumbled. He grabbed one of the damp cloths from the tray of tools and cleaned the come from Dean's stomach, then zipped up his own pants. Quietly, he gathered his tools together, trying not to dwell on what had just happened. No harm, no foul, the way he figured it.

Needles rolled up in their padded cloth carrying case, everything else settled into place in the big leather bag, he settled into the chair next to the bed. He needed to stick around to be sure everything was okay, but Dean wouldn't be happy when he woke up.

#

In spite of his pre-law background, and stellar scores on his LSATs, Sam found himself lost in the convolutions of the contract. Of course, it would have helped if they’d been in English; Wolfram and Hart seemed to prefer Latin for particularly complex agreements, and for contracts dealing primarily with demons, they used languages Sam didn’t even recognize.

He knew enough Latin to muddle through, but it took a great deal of concentration. Muttering to himself and making notes in a pad as he progressed, he made slow progress through the proposed offer from the Senior Partners.

Next to him, Lilah leaned back in her chair, her stiletto pump-clad feet crossed at the ankles on the table. She was paging through another stack of papers, looking for relevant passages Sam might be able to use for comparison to assess the Wolfram and Hart deal, as well as the papers outlining Dean’s bargain with the underworld. She played absently with her scarf as she read. Sam hoped she didn’t accidentally untie it. He had no desire to see how nearly headless she was.

He glanced at the magical tracker on the table. He’d told Lilah they needed to keep an eye on it, and that it was keeping track of Dean, but he hadn’t told her about his arrangement with Lindsey. Lilah seemed touchy about Lindsey. And he didn’t trust her. At all. Not that he trusted Lindsey, but Lilah seemed like more of a wild card. More cutthroat. No pun intended.

She glanced at the tracker a moment after he did, then gave him a smile. “All’s well,” she said.

He managed a tight smile back. “Yep. Looks like.”

He returned his attention to the contracts, backing up a few paragraphs to reread. The phrasing was like a series of concentric circles, each successive layer adding more complexity, more restriction, and more confusion.

On the fourth read-through, he thought he had it, and picked up the pencil to note down the translation. As he looked up, he glanced at the tracker again.

The light had stopped blinking.

“When did that stop?” he snapped, pointing at it with his pencil. Lilah jumped.

“What?”

“The tracker.” Sam stood. “When did the light go off?”

“I… Just now, I guess.”

“You weren’t watching.” He glared at her. “Thanks for the help.”

She gave him a narrow look. “Reading here. Trying to help you with your contract negotiations, remember?”

“Yeah. Whatever.” Panic lurched in his chest. Dean could have gone off the radar because Lindsey’s ploy had worked, but…

They wouldn’t take him early. They couldn’t. The deal said that if Dean tried to renege, they’d take Sam, not drag Dean down ahead of schedule. He had to be safe.

But Sam had to know for sure.

“You keep doing that, then,” he told Lilah tightly. “I’m going to go check on my brother.”

#

Somewhere between not quite awake and deeply unconscious, Dean rolled over. The sheets under his face were red. That wasn’t right. Slowly, he sat up. He was naked and in an unfamiliar bed. An unfamiliar room. Well, not quite unfamiliar. It looked like he was probably back at the hotel.

The last thing he remembered was tossing back beer and whiskey with Lindsey in the bar around the corner. Now he ached all over, head throbbing, every muscle in his body protesting whatever he’d done last night. His skin burned, as if someone had scalded him with hot water.

What the hell had happened to him? Why did he hurt? Looking down, he rubbed a hand over the ache. And froze. Black lines wound around his arm. He jerked the other arm up, then looked down at his chest.

"The fuck?" Then, "God dammit." They'd done it. Sam and Lindsey had gone behind his back and put the runes on him, even though he'd told them not to. "Shit!" He shot to his feet, spinning, trying to look at his own back. "Shit! Fuck! Sam, you stupid asshole!"

“You’re gonna hurt yourself.” The half-laughing voice came from behind him. Dean wheeled to see Lindsey leaning indolently against the wall by the bathroom door.

"Take them off," Dean demanded. Maybe if they reversed the process quickly enough, Sam wouldn’t be in danger.

"Can't."

"They're put on magically--they have to be able to come off magically."

"Yeah, it can be done." He scratched his shoulder absently. "I can't do it. And I don't think you want to throw down with the folks who can."

“Where the hell is Sam?”

Lindsey shrugged. “Dunno.”

“Fuck you,” Dean snarled. He grabbed a pair of jeans from the floor and struggled into them. Half-zipped and unbuttoned, ignoring the pain crawling under his skin, he plowed out the door to find Sam.

"Now don't be going off half-cocked, son." Lindsey's voice followed Dean down the hall. Idiot didn't know when to leave well enough alone, obviously. Dean started to shoot off a pointless and likely obscene comeback, but he heard a familiar tread on the stairs.

As far as he knew, Sam was the only person in the hotel who could take those stairs three at a time. Dean's own stride quickened. "Sam!"

"Dean?"

The familiar voice washed the last of the panic off Dean, and he broke into a half-run to meet Sam at the head of the stairs. He grabbed his brother by the shoulders.

"Sam. You're okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. You fell off the tracker." He peered at Dean, gaze following the lines of the runes and markings snaking over Dean's torso.

And just like that, the adrenaline rush starting to ease out of Dean's system changed from panic to anger. "Yeah. I told you not to do this, Sam. Get them off me."

Sam's relieved look changed, too, his mouth flattening into a thin, stubborn line. "They're not coming off. They're there to keep you safe while I negotiate this deal. I've got you covered, Dean--"

"Bullshit! You're just asking them to kill you. How is this not backing out of the deal, Sam? Goddammit, I told you--"

"Go," Sam snapped. "It's buying you time.” His gaze drifted over Dean’s shoulder. “Get him to the safe room."

"Safe room?" Dean wheeled, hearing Lindsey right behind him. "You little fucker. The both of you. I didn't ask for this--"

"Dean." Dean had never heard Sam's voice so clipped and authoritative. "For once in your life shut the fuck up and do what you're told."

Dean couldn't help it--he took a swing. But it didn't connect; arms grabbed him from behind, dragging him back. Lindsey. Little shit was damn strong for a dead guy.

"Hey, hey," Lindsey soothed. "Let's take it easy."

"Get your goddamn hands off me." Dean jerked at his elbows, but Lindsey had a firm hold.

"You're going to the safe room," Sam said levelly. He turned and headed back down the stairs.

“Get your ass back here, Sam!” Dean bellowed.

Sam calmly flipped him off and continued down the stairs.

"Shit, you always talk to the Antichrist like that?" Lindsey swung Dean around, pointing him back in the opposite direction.

"He is not the Antichrist he is my stupid bitch little brother." He wrenched at Lindsey's arms again, and this time the other man loosened his grip. "And he's gonna get his stupid bitch self killed after I--" He broke off.

"After you made your halfass deal to bring him back," Lindsey finished. "Now you going with me willingly or am I gonna have to pop you unconscious?"

"Like to see you try," Dean grumbled, but he let Lindsey push him on down the hallway. There was no point fighting now. Later. Let Lindsey get his guard down...

"Don't be getting any bright ideas," Lindsey said. He loosened his grip, guiding Dean more than steering him now as they made their way down another staircase to the second floor and another suite of rooms.

Dean scanned the room as Lindsey shut the door behind them. "How the hell is this a safe room?"

Lindsey gestured toward the walls. Runes framed the doorframe and windows, matching the marks on his body. He fought back another surge of panic, feeling his heartbeat and his breath speed up. If the runes on his body didn't do the trick, how the hell would more runes on the walls make a difference?

God. He couldn't do this. Wouldn't. Every second he let himself be hidden, Sam was in that much more danger. It was only a matter of time before the demons who held his contract figured out what was going on. There had to be some way...

He clenched his teeth, trying to hide his panic from Lindsey. The lawyer was yammering something about going back to the other room to get Dean's clothes, something about making meals in the kitchen--

Kitchen. There was a kitchen. He took in the rest of the room, dragging his gaze away from the runes on the walls. There was a counter, a sink, drawers. He moved toward the kitchenette, trying to make the movement look casual.

"How long do you think we'll be stuck here?" he asked.

Lindsey shrugged. "Not long. Few days, maybe."

Dean nodded. He opened a few drawers, just nosing around, no reason Lindsey should worry about him at all--

And there were the kitchen knives, nestled in a drawer next to the sink. He glanced up at Lindsey, who was watching him, but Lindsey wouldn't be able to see what Dean was doing because the counter was between them. He withdrew the sharpest-looking knife and, fast and smooth, ran the blade across his arm, through the ring of runes that circled his forearm.

The blade was honed so sharp that he didn't feel the pain at first, then it crashed over him in a hot wave. Lindsey dove toward him. He grabbed Dean's wrist and wrenched it back, making him drop the knife.

"Your brother's right," he said. "You are a fucking idiot."

Dean grinned as best he could with his teeth clenched against the pain. "Worked though, didn't it?"

"No, it didn't."

"What?" Dean looked down at his arm. It still hurt, but not as much. The gash still lay red across his forearm, except where the runes lay. There, the skin had knitted itself back together, making the magical markings whole again. "You have got to be kidding me." The panic ripped through him again, and he grabbed at another knife in the drawer. "Fine. What if I just cut off my arm? What happens then?"

He wasn't sure he could cut off his own arm, but dammit, if it would save Sammy he'd do it. But Lindsey grabbed him again before he could find out, once again wrenching the knife loose. This time it clattered to the floor while Lindsey twisted Dean's hands behind his back and pinned them.

"You are not cutting off your own arm," he stated. "You are going to sit your ass down and get yourself under control."

"This is your fault," Dean snarled. "You did this to me. Sammy's gonna die because of you."

"Sam is not going to die. The people--well, not so much people but you get the drift--anyway my employers are so far up in the cosmic hierarchy they eat your demons for breakfast. Not even breakfast. Casual midday snacks." He pushed Dean toward the other side of the suite, heading for a chair that Dean had no intention of sitting his ass in. He waited until he felt Lindsey's grip loosen a bit, then spun and decked him in the face.

Lindsey's jaw gave a gratifying snap back, and he staggered off-balance.

"Son of a bitch," the lawyer grated. Dean went after him again, but he regained his feet fast, spitting blood into Dean's face. "You do not want to throw down with me, son."

"Yeah," Dean said. "Yeah, I think I do." He backhanded Lindsey's blood from his face.

Lindsey just shook his head. "Yeah, whatever." He started to turn away. Dean cocked his fist, prepared to hit Lindsey again, but just as he was about to let fly, Lindsey whipped back around and clocked him hard in the jaw.

Dean staggered back. Dean had fifteen pounds on the other man, easily, but Lindsey had put every ounce of his weight behind that punch. His vision went black for a heartbeat; when it came back, Lindsey was shoving him back against the wall. Dean's head bounced off the wallpaper with a thunk.

"You done?" Lindsey asked, his breath hot in Dean's face. He still smelled of whiskey and smoke and… His dick stiffened. And while he often found himself miserably erect in the middle of a fight, this was something else. Something to do with a square hand on his hip, holding him still against the bed...

Gritting his teeth against the memory--was it a memory?--Dean headbutted him.

"Shit..." Lindsey staggered back, clutching his bleeding nose. Dean went after him, grabbed him while he was still off-balance. Hand around Lindsey’s neck, he slammed the smaller man up against the wall and held him there. Again, tautness in his belly, lust spreading through his groin. He could swear he smelled come.

Lindsey clawed at Dean's hands, his fingers surprisingly strong. Dean hung on, focusing on holding the lawyer still. When he spoke, his voice came deadly calm. "You have no idea how pissed off I am."

Lindsey swallowed, his Adam's apple lurching against Dean's palm. "Yeah, got an idea."

Dean squeezed harder. "I oughtta kill you."

"Like to see you try." Lindsey was staring at Dean, his expression strange now, strained in a way that hinted at something other than violence. Lindsey was getting off on this. What the fuck?

But Dean was getting off on it, too, and suddenly the traces of memory came together in his mind.

Lindsey had done more than tattoo him last night.

"Oh, hell no." The shock was enough to make his grip loosen, and the next thing he knew Lindsey had reversed their positions again, pinning Dean to the wall with a hand on his throat. Oh, that's just wrong, Dean thought. Sam's the one always getting choked.

Then he couldn't think at all, because Lindsey leaned forward and bit him hard on the lip.

"You remember last night?" Lindsey purred, and Dean couldn't make himself fight. His brain flooded with images now, of Lindsey's hand stroking his cock, of warm come spurting over his own chest.

"Son of a fucking bitch," Dean spat. "You had no right to touch me, you bastard."

"Sorry, son, but you didn't give me much choice."

Lindsey knew from the look on Dean's face that he was in for a reckoning. Not that he didn't deserve it. He shouldn't have touched Dean last night. He should have figured out another way. But at the time it had seemed expedient, and he'd hoped Dean wouldn't remember. No such luck.

"You--" Dean broke off, the anger in his eyes changing to something next door to panic. He was freaking. About everything. Sam, the tats, the sex. Mostly Sam, though. And he was going to take it all out on Lindsey, because Lindsey was here. And Lindsey had put the needle to him.

He tightened his grip on Dean's neck, holding him hard against the wall. He didn't want him breaking free until he was damn good and ready.

"Did what I got paid to do," Lindsey drawled.

Dean lurched in his firm grip. “I don’t think he paid you to do that,” he choked out.

Lindsey just grinned at him. “Yeah, well, I guess you got me there.”

And loosened his hand.

Dean lunged at him, shoving him sideways. "See how you like it, you fucking bastard."

He shoved again, and Lindsey let him. Dean was big, as big as Angel if not as broad through the shoulders. And he was pissed as hell and good God, about the prettiest thing Lindsey had seen since he'd died. And the mad just made him prettier.

"Now, just calm down, son." He got his feet back under him and backed toward the main room, hands spread in appeasement. There was a bit more swinging room there, if it came to it.

Dean didn't seem interested in swinging. Nor did he seem interested in calming down. Instead he flung himself at Lindsey again, this time bearing him right down to the carpet.

The carpet in this place was crap. Trust Angel to be cheapass enough to not replace it with something from this century. The rough fiber burned Lindsey’s back right through his shirt. He winced, struggling under the taut, wide body pinning him to the floor, panic flashing through him. Dean was angry. Dean was beyond angry. Dean was going to kill him, maybe. He saw nothing but fury in that face, the green eyes flaming with rage. A big hand, the wrist wrapped in black runes, clamped Lindsey's forearm to the floor, the grip hard enough to bruise. Dean glared down into his face, teeth clenched.

And then bit him. Hard. On the neck.

Lindsey's back arched, and his head wrenched to the side, baring his throat to the assault while a torrent of pure lust poured down his body. He felt Dean's teeth break the skin, the pain ragged and harsh, not the smooth, sleek, stiletto-sharp burn of vampire fangs, but it lit Lindsey's every nerve like a flame shooting along a fuse. His hips pumped up, grinding his rock-hard cock into Dean’s stomach.

Dean pulled his head back and stared down at Lindsey, still holding him immobile. Confusion flicked over his face, and he started to draw back.

“No,” Lindsey bit out. He grabbed a handful of Dean’s short-cropped hair and dragged him back down. "Do it. Just fucking do it."

Again, the moment of confusion, of doubt. Lindsey ground his hips up against Dean again, just to make it that much clearer. Finally, finally, Dean got it. His teeth clenched again and rough hands flipped Lindsey onto his stomach.

Dean jerked at Lindsey's pants, hauling them down his hips with the fly still fastened. The rough cotton caught between his body and the carpet, jerked at his rock-hard dick, and he tried to roll his hips to let it move down his body, but Dean wasn't slowing and there was no way to keep it from hurting. But Lindsey knew how to get off on pain. Angel had taught him that, long before they'd ever fucked each other.

Something ripped audibly as Dean manhandled the pants out of his way. Expensive goddamn suit, Lindsey thought fleetingly, then he heard Dean spit, and then a finger shoved into his ass and there was no room for coherent thought in his head anymore.

"You want it?" Dean growled behind him.

"Yeah, I want it," Lindsey shot back. "Gonna make me beg for it like you did last night?"

That worked. Lindsey could feel the rage tighten Dean's body again, then another finger pushed inside him. More spit came with it--he could feel the slick--but not enough. It burned like hell. He wanted more. Wanted it harder, deeper. He shifted as well as he could under Dean's weight, loosening his thighs and trying to get his own weight off his erection. That was worse than the invading fingers up his ass.

He got his knees under him a bit and pressed back toward Dean, bringing the fingers deeper. His hair was in his face, and when he turned his head to breathe against the carpet, his earrings dug into his skull behind his ears hard enough to ache. And Dean jerked back, pulling his fingers free.

You better not stop, you fucker. He was about to repeat the thought out loud when he heard Dean spit again. He had a moment to shift his weight, just enough to get his hand under his hips to protect his dick, before Dean came at him again. This time with his cock.

The blunt head pressed against him, insistent. His body clenched automatically, protesting the invasion. He made himself loosen, open. Surprisingly, Dean waited. Not quite long enough, but he did wait. So Lindsey was almost ready for him when he speared him.

Lindsey clenched, made himself unclench in almost the same breath. He knew he could take whatever Dean needed to dish out, but the first, long stroke of penetration tore into him like a hot iron. The noise it wrenched out of him was half pain, half strangled need.

Dean paused at the height of the stroke, buried not quite to the hilt in Lindsey's ass. He didn't say anything, didn't ask if Lindsey was all right, but he paused. His hand shifted to clasp Lindsey's shoulder, holding him still and holding him down but also gentle, the grip more reassuring than controlling. Dean shifted his hips, squaring them against Lindsey's buttocks. In a movement slower and smoother than his initial invasion, he slid back. Lindsey waited. His body was ready, needy. Dean's face pressed into the curve of Lindsey's shoulder, and he began to fuck him. Hard and firm, not quite fast but with a deep, determined rhythm that pushed him along the carpet with every thrust. Lindsey clenched his teeth and took it. This was the hardest he'd been ridden in a long, long time. It hurt like hell, and god, but it felt good.

Dean's thrusts quickened, shallower, then deep. Lindsey felt him shift yet again. This time a hand touched his hipbone. Lindsey tilted his hips to let Dean's hand under. He was surprised; like before, he hadn't thought Dean was all that interested in whether Lindsey got off or not. But the hand came under him and eased his own hand aside, long fingers curling around his erect shaft, thumb pushing against his balls. He let Lindsey fuck his hand while he fucked Lindsey's ass, and his fingers were warm and magic.

Lindsey didn't last much longer after that. The hand grasping his cock moved just right, just so, and before he could grasp any control, he had spilled over the long fingers, over the carpet. Dean tipped over the edge into orgasm a moment later; Lindsey felt the pulsing contractions of his cock inside him, the warm come filling him up.

Dean was taut for several long seconds past the completion of his orgasm, one hand still firm on Lindsey's shoulder, the other curled around his cock. Finally he drew back, drew out, and rolled to his back on the carpet, staring at the ceiling.

Lindsey regarded him, too spent to move much. "You feel any better?"

Dean didn't even look at him, just shook his head and sat up, jerking his jeans back into place.

Lindsey chuckled. "Yeah, well, what I did is gonna keep you alive for a few days, so you just deal with that one."

Dean's jaw clenched and loosened. “If anything happens to my brother because of this..." He finally turned his head, gifting Lindsey with a green glare so venomous Lindsey was surprised his face didn't melt off. "I will kill you."

"I don't doubt that, son." He adjusted his own clothes, pulling the torn trousers up as best he could, and rolled over, peering with chagrin at the wet spot on the carpet. "You want a beer?"

Dean was silent a moment, then, to Lindsey's surprise, he laughed. "Sure. Why the fuck not?"