The Sound of Your Own Wheels
Title: The Sound of Your Own Wheels
Pairing: Dean/Eliot
Warnings: none
Rating: PG-13
Summary: In which Dean breaks into the Leverage headquarters, Hardison is concerned, and Eliot doesn't want to talk about it. Supernatural/Leverage crossover.
The first time Dean Winchester breaks into his office, Eliot punches him in the face and doesn't feel bad about it even when he realizes who it is.
"Brought you something," Dean says. His nose is gushing blood and he's grinning, cocky as always. He's a good three inches taller than Eliot now, got more muscle than the last time they met, maybe even enough to make it a real contest if they tangled. Eliot's kind of torn between punching him again and kissing him, but he doesn't do either. "It's on the desk."
There's a newspaper-wrapped package on the corner of Eliot's desk. It might be a bomb. "You have ten seconds to get out of here," Eliot says. It's his most menacing voice, but that's never worked on Dean as well as it does on everybody else.
"Come on, man," Dean says.
"Nine."
"You always take everything so personally?"
"Eight."
"Okay, okay." Dean puts his hands up, rolls his eyes dramatically, and backs toward the window. "Christ, I'm going."
He's no Parker, but the brick exterior isn't that big a challenge for a reasonably competent cat-burglar, even one wearing steel-toe boots. Eliot leans against the windowframe, watching him descend, and very sportingly doesn't drop anything heavy on his head.
The package is a six-pack of microbrew, the fancy shit that Dean wouldn't drink if you had a gun to his head. It pisses Eliot off that he knows that.
***
"You look like shit," Dean says when Eliot unlocks his office door three days later. He's sitting in the dark with his feet up on the desk.
"If you don't stay out of my office, I'm going to kill you," Eliot says conversationally.
"Seriously." The asshole actually looks concerned. "I thought the whole point of a crew was having somebody to watch your back."
Eliot rubs the line of fresh stitches across the side of his face. "Like you would know."
"I have my brother," Dean says, with a bitter twist to his mouth that Eliot can't interpret. "Sam. He came back."
"The next time I find you in here, I'll shoot you."
"You don't like guns."
"I'll make an exception."
"Come on, it wasn't all bad, was it?" Dean's wearing the exact same type of smile that Sophie uses on marks, and it pisses Eliot off more than is reasonable. The fact that he's already got a splitting headache probably doesn't help.
"You used me as bait," he growls.
Dean winces. "Dude, it was one time! And you volunteered."
"Because I thought--" He stops. "Are you here for a reason?"
Dean rolls the chair back, stretches, stands. Eliot can count at least four weapons hidden on him even from here. Looks like the kid's been getting even more paranoid lately, although considering his line of work Eliot can't entirely blame him. "We're in town on a case. Just wanted to see how you were doing."
"Still breathing."
"Awesome," Dean says, and grins like he actually means it.
"Yeah, I thought so. You wanna scram now?"
Dean shrugs, awkward and more hesitant than Eliot can remember ever seeing him. He's skittish. Something must have happened to get him this way. Shit, it's been, what, five years now? Of course something happened. Not Eliot's damn problem. "Just wanted to--just wanted to make sure you were okay, man. It's been a while, and it's been--anyway. I'm glad you're not--I'm glad you're doing good. I'm gonna go now."
Eliot catches his arm as he tries to pass on the way out. "I don't want to see you again. I mean it."
Dean just smiles, squeezes his shoulder, and ducks out the door.
***
"You know I can do something about that guy who keeps breaking into your room," Hardison remarks over barbeque wings on movie night. "I know you're all old-school about locks and shit, but give me five minutes, a dremel, and a laptop--"
"No," Eliot says.
"Now," Hardison says, grin starting up. "Now, see, that makes me think you don't actually mind him breaking in."
"I like him," Parker announces. "He has a nice car."
Nate plops down onto the couch and passes the bowl of popcorn to Eliot. He eats a handful, irritably, and doesn't pass it on to Hardison. "Who has a nice car?"
"Eliot's ex-boyfriend."
"Parker, tell me you didn't steal his car," Eliot says, ignoring the second comment. He can feel Nate's gaze on the side of his face, and he steadfastly ignores it.
Parker pouts. "No."
"What did you take?"
"Wait, wait, wait," Hardison says. "Boyfriend? Seriously? Man, you just made my whole night." He claps his hands together violently, grin getting big enough to split his face in half. "I knew there was something going on!"
"He's not my--" Eliot begins, then gives up. "Parker, what did you take?"
"It wasn't anything big."
"Parker."
"Just a knife. And some old books."
"So all this macho bullshit really is an act," Hardison says gleefully. "I knew you had a soft and chewy center way deep down. Just had to do some digging."
Eliot pins him with a glare, and he quails. It's vaguely gratifying to see that he can still shut Hardison up, at least. "Keep talking, Hardison."
Hardison holds his hands up, conciliatory. "Okay, okay. Just trying to be, you know...supportive."
"Thanks a lot," Eliot says flatly, and Nate leans forward, waves a hand in front of them.
"Hello? Hey. Guys. Who are we talking about here? Who's been getting into headquarters?"
"I told you," Parker says. "It's Eliot's ex--"
"It's Dean Winchester," Eliot interrupts.
Nate's eyebrows shoot up to his hairline. He cracks his knuckles together, then sinks back against the couch cushions with a sigh, putting up a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. "Parker, you're going to get whatever you took and bring it back here. I don't want to hear any arguments," he adds without looking up.
Parker's mouth snaps shut. She stands up, slamming the TV remote on the coffee table, and hurls herself out the kitchen window without a backward glance.
"I hate when she does that," Hardison mutters. He glances back and forth between Eliot and Nate. "So...you know this guy, Nate?"
"I know of him," Nate says wearily. "Unlike Eliot, here, I don't know him."
"We crossed paths when I was working a job down in Tijuana a few years back," Eliot says reluctantly. "It's a long story."
"Crossed paths here having the meaning of hooked up," Hardison says.
"Do you want me to break your face? 'Cause I can do that."
"He just talks to me like that because he loves me," Hardison whispers loudly at Nate. Eliot used to get respect, damn it. Not anymore, and the worst part is that he can't quite remember when or how he lost it. Or even why it's so important.
"Is this going to be a problem?" Nate asks.
"It won't be a problem."
"Because if it is, I'd rather find out now than a week from today when the Feds are breaking down my door."
"I said it won't be a problem," Eliot repeats. "He's on a case. It isn't anything to do with us."
"Wait," Hardison says. "Case? Feds? Eliot, man, who the hell you been hanging around with?"
"It's a long story," Eliot repeats, reaching for another handful of popcorn. "Can we please just watch the damn movie?"
***
The worst thing about Mexico is the heat. Eliot's got nothing against sunshine, but when the temperature hits the triple-digits, he likes to retreat as far north as he can get. Still, a job's a job, and Tijuana in August is a long way from the worst place he's worked.
It should have been a quick and easy gig. Make the drop, break some heads, get his ass back to the States before the Border Patrol regrouped. Of course, if things always went the way they should, Eliot would be out of a job, so he doesn't get too riled about unexpected speed-bumps.
Getting chased up a cliff by a pack of critters that look like an unholy hybrid of hunting dog and viper, though--that's a little much.
"Chupacabras," says the younger of the two guys who just rushed in, guns blazing, to the rescue. He nudges one of the corpses with the toe of his boot. "Nasty fuckers. You alright, man? Gonna puke or anything?"
"I'm fine," says Eliot, offended. The guy's looking at him like he's expecting Eliot to have a panic attack at any minute. "Who the hell are you?"
"I'm Dean Winchester, this is my dad, John," the guy says, wiping his bloody hand on his jeans and holding it out.
"Eliot Spencer." Dean Winchester has a broad, calloused hand and the grin that finds its way onto his face is blinding, and yeah, okay, Eliot might just be in a little bit of trouble after all.
***
"So," says Hardison, dropping onto Eliot's desk like a ton of bricks. The problem with working with professional thieves is how they have no sense of personal boundaries.
"Next time, knock," Eliot grumbles.
"So," Hardison repeats. "I ran a little background check on your boy Dean. Interesting stuff."
Eliot folds his arms and leans against his bookcase, projecting get the hell out of my office with all his might. He isn't all that surprised that Hardison ignores it. That's just the way his luck's been going lately.
"Nobody I ever worked with has heard of him. And, granted, I am a lone wolf, but--"
"Hardison, is there a point to this?"
"So, looks like he was involved in some credit card scams, strictly small-time stuff, and--look, you know I am all about the criminal lifestyle, but this is some seriously messed-up shit they're after him for. What kind of thief is this dude?"
"I never said he was a thief."
"Okay, well, what the hell is he? I got grave desecration, arson, kidnapping, aggravated assault, murder--not to mention the fact that he's supposedly dead two times over."
"He's a specialist," Eliot says in a measured voice.
"In what?" Before Eliot can even answer, Hardison shakes his head sharply, holds up a hand. "You know what? I don't even want to know. Just--man, just be careful, okay?"
He stands up and claps Eliot on the shoulder, and the expression of open concern on his face is startling enough that Eliot doesn't even think to slap his hand away.
***
The Red Spike Inn is the type of place that rents out by the hour. Financial concerns aside, Dean likes those kind of motels because they're more likely to have Magic Fingers.
Goddamn, but Eliot has the worst taste in men.
Dean opens the door in boxer shorts and bedhead, gun in one hand, and he blinks at Eliot for a couple of minutes. "Eliot. What are you--"
Eliot holds out the paper bag containing two dusty books and a heavily engraved hunting knife. "One of my associates lifted these off of you."
Dean sets the gun on the dresser and takes the bag, peers inside. "These were in my car."
"Yeah," says Eliot.
"That cute little blond chick broke into my car."
Eliot shrugs. "If it makes you feel better, she breaks into my kitchen and steals my cooking utensils at least once a week."
He doesn't notice until the words are out of his mouth that his tone is friendly rather than combative, and by then it's already too late. Dean grins, and it's that same grin from back in Mexico, that same exact grin that had him volunteering to play bait for a pack of flesh-eating monsters, and damn it, Eliot used to be more professional than this.
"Anyway," he says. "I'm gonna--"
Dean cocks his head, still smiling, but his voice is a little quieter, more hesitant, when he speaks. "Sam's gone. If you wanna--you could come in for a while."
Oh, hell with it. "Yeah," Eliot says, smiling back, and he is seriously so fucked. "Yeah, I'd like that."
***
A/N: I don't even know. This is all dauntdraws fault. If you liked this story, please take a minute to let me know.
Pairing: Dean/Eliot
Warnings: none
Rating: PG-13
Summary: In which Dean breaks into the Leverage headquarters, Hardison is concerned, and Eliot doesn't want to talk about it. Supernatural/Leverage crossover.
The first time Dean Winchester breaks into his office, Eliot punches him in the face and doesn't feel bad about it even when he realizes who it is.
"Brought you something," Dean says. His nose is gushing blood and he's grinning, cocky as always. He's a good three inches taller than Eliot now, got more muscle than the last time they met, maybe even enough to make it a real contest if they tangled. Eliot's kind of torn between punching him again and kissing him, but he doesn't do either. "It's on the desk."
There's a newspaper-wrapped package on the corner of Eliot's desk. It might be a bomb. "You have ten seconds to get out of here," Eliot says. It's his most menacing voice, but that's never worked on Dean as well as it does on everybody else.
"Come on, man," Dean says.
"Nine."
"You always take everything so personally?"
"Eight."
"Okay, okay." Dean puts his hands up, rolls his eyes dramatically, and backs toward the window. "Christ, I'm going."
He's no Parker, but the brick exterior isn't that big a challenge for a reasonably competent cat-burglar, even one wearing steel-toe boots. Eliot leans against the windowframe, watching him descend, and very sportingly doesn't drop anything heavy on his head.
The package is a six-pack of microbrew, the fancy shit that Dean wouldn't drink if you had a gun to his head. It pisses Eliot off that he knows that.
***
"You look like shit," Dean says when Eliot unlocks his office door three days later. He's sitting in the dark with his feet up on the desk.
"If you don't stay out of my office, I'm going to kill you," Eliot says conversationally.
"Seriously." The asshole actually looks concerned. "I thought the whole point of a crew was having somebody to watch your back."
Eliot rubs the line of fresh stitches across the side of his face. "Like you would know."
"I have my brother," Dean says, with a bitter twist to his mouth that Eliot can't interpret. "Sam. He came back."
"The next time I find you in here, I'll shoot you."
"You don't like guns."
"I'll make an exception."
"Come on, it wasn't all bad, was it?" Dean's wearing the exact same type of smile that Sophie uses on marks, and it pisses Eliot off more than is reasonable. The fact that he's already got a splitting headache probably doesn't help.
"You used me as bait," he growls.
Dean winces. "Dude, it was one time! And you volunteered."
"Because I thought--" He stops. "Are you here for a reason?"
Dean rolls the chair back, stretches, stands. Eliot can count at least four weapons hidden on him even from here. Looks like the kid's been getting even more paranoid lately, although considering his line of work Eliot can't entirely blame him. "We're in town on a case. Just wanted to see how you were doing."
"Still breathing."
"Awesome," Dean says, and grins like he actually means it.
"Yeah, I thought so. You wanna scram now?"
Dean shrugs, awkward and more hesitant than Eliot can remember ever seeing him. He's skittish. Something must have happened to get him this way. Shit, it's been, what, five years now? Of course something happened. Not Eliot's damn problem. "Just wanted to--just wanted to make sure you were okay, man. It's been a while, and it's been--anyway. I'm glad you're not--I'm glad you're doing good. I'm gonna go now."
Eliot catches his arm as he tries to pass on the way out. "I don't want to see you again. I mean it."
Dean just smiles, squeezes his shoulder, and ducks out the door.
***
"You know I can do something about that guy who keeps breaking into your room," Hardison remarks over barbeque wings on movie night. "I know you're all old-school about locks and shit, but give me five minutes, a dremel, and a laptop--"
"No," Eliot says.
"Now," Hardison says, grin starting up. "Now, see, that makes me think you don't actually mind him breaking in."
"I like him," Parker announces. "He has a nice car."
Nate plops down onto the couch and passes the bowl of popcorn to Eliot. He eats a handful, irritably, and doesn't pass it on to Hardison. "Who has a nice car?"
"Eliot's ex-boyfriend."
"Parker, tell me you didn't steal his car," Eliot says, ignoring the second comment. He can feel Nate's gaze on the side of his face, and he steadfastly ignores it.
Parker pouts. "No."
"What did you take?"
"Wait, wait, wait," Hardison says. "Boyfriend? Seriously? Man, you just made my whole night." He claps his hands together violently, grin getting big enough to split his face in half. "I knew there was something going on!"
"He's not my--" Eliot begins, then gives up. "Parker, what did you take?"
"It wasn't anything big."
"Parker."
"Just a knife. And some old books."
"So all this macho bullshit really is an act," Hardison says gleefully. "I knew you had a soft and chewy center way deep down. Just had to do some digging."
Eliot pins him with a glare, and he quails. It's vaguely gratifying to see that he can still shut Hardison up, at least. "Keep talking, Hardison."
Hardison holds his hands up, conciliatory. "Okay, okay. Just trying to be, you know...supportive."
"Thanks a lot," Eliot says flatly, and Nate leans forward, waves a hand in front of them.
"Hello? Hey. Guys. Who are we talking about here? Who's been getting into headquarters?"
"I told you," Parker says. "It's Eliot's ex--"
"It's Dean Winchester," Eliot interrupts.
Nate's eyebrows shoot up to his hairline. He cracks his knuckles together, then sinks back against the couch cushions with a sigh, putting up a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. "Parker, you're going to get whatever you took and bring it back here. I don't want to hear any arguments," he adds without looking up.
Parker's mouth snaps shut. She stands up, slamming the TV remote on the coffee table, and hurls herself out the kitchen window without a backward glance.
"I hate when she does that," Hardison mutters. He glances back and forth between Eliot and Nate. "So...you know this guy, Nate?"
"I know of him," Nate says wearily. "Unlike Eliot, here, I don't know him."
"We crossed paths when I was working a job down in Tijuana a few years back," Eliot says reluctantly. "It's a long story."
"Crossed paths here having the meaning of hooked up," Hardison says.
"Do you want me to break your face? 'Cause I can do that."
"He just talks to me like that because he loves me," Hardison whispers loudly at Nate. Eliot used to get respect, damn it. Not anymore, and the worst part is that he can't quite remember when or how he lost it. Or even why it's so important.
"Is this going to be a problem?" Nate asks.
"It won't be a problem."
"Because if it is, I'd rather find out now than a week from today when the Feds are breaking down my door."
"I said it won't be a problem," Eliot repeats. "He's on a case. It isn't anything to do with us."
"Wait," Hardison says. "Case? Feds? Eliot, man, who the hell you been hanging around with?"
"It's a long story," Eliot repeats, reaching for another handful of popcorn. "Can we please just watch the damn movie?"
***
The worst thing about Mexico is the heat. Eliot's got nothing against sunshine, but when the temperature hits the triple-digits, he likes to retreat as far north as he can get. Still, a job's a job, and Tijuana in August is a long way from the worst place he's worked.
It should have been a quick and easy gig. Make the drop, break some heads, get his ass back to the States before the Border Patrol regrouped. Of course, if things always went the way they should, Eliot would be out of a job, so he doesn't get too riled about unexpected speed-bumps.
Getting chased up a cliff by a pack of critters that look like an unholy hybrid of hunting dog and viper, though--that's a little much.
"Chupacabras," says the younger of the two guys who just rushed in, guns blazing, to the rescue. He nudges one of the corpses with the toe of his boot. "Nasty fuckers. You alright, man? Gonna puke or anything?"
"I'm fine," says Eliot, offended. The guy's looking at him like he's expecting Eliot to have a panic attack at any minute. "Who the hell are you?"
"I'm Dean Winchester, this is my dad, John," the guy says, wiping his bloody hand on his jeans and holding it out.
"Eliot Spencer." Dean Winchester has a broad, calloused hand and the grin that finds its way onto his face is blinding, and yeah, okay, Eliot might just be in a little bit of trouble after all.
***
"So," says Hardison, dropping onto Eliot's desk like a ton of bricks. The problem with working with professional thieves is how they have no sense of personal boundaries.
"Next time, knock," Eliot grumbles.
"So," Hardison repeats. "I ran a little background check on your boy Dean. Interesting stuff."
Eliot folds his arms and leans against his bookcase, projecting get the hell out of my office with all his might. He isn't all that surprised that Hardison ignores it. That's just the way his luck's been going lately.
"Nobody I ever worked with has heard of him. And, granted, I am a lone wolf, but--"
"Hardison, is there a point to this?"
"So, looks like he was involved in some credit card scams, strictly small-time stuff, and--look, you know I am all about the criminal lifestyle, but this is some seriously messed-up shit they're after him for. What kind of thief is this dude?"
"I never said he was a thief."
"Okay, well, what the hell is he? I got grave desecration, arson, kidnapping, aggravated assault, murder--not to mention the fact that he's supposedly dead two times over."
"He's a specialist," Eliot says in a measured voice.
"In what?" Before Eliot can even answer, Hardison shakes his head sharply, holds up a hand. "You know what? I don't even want to know. Just--man, just be careful, okay?"
He stands up and claps Eliot on the shoulder, and the expression of open concern on his face is startling enough that Eliot doesn't even think to slap his hand away.
***
The Red Spike Inn is the type of place that rents out by the hour. Financial concerns aside, Dean likes those kind of motels because they're more likely to have Magic Fingers.
Goddamn, but Eliot has the worst taste in men.
Dean opens the door in boxer shorts and bedhead, gun in one hand, and he blinks at Eliot for a couple of minutes. "Eliot. What are you--"
Eliot holds out the paper bag containing two dusty books and a heavily engraved hunting knife. "One of my associates lifted these off of you."
Dean sets the gun on the dresser and takes the bag, peers inside. "These were in my car."
"Yeah," says Eliot.
"That cute little blond chick broke into my car."
Eliot shrugs. "If it makes you feel better, she breaks into my kitchen and steals my cooking utensils at least once a week."
He doesn't notice until the words are out of his mouth that his tone is friendly rather than combative, and by then it's already too late. Dean grins, and it's that same grin from back in Mexico, that same exact grin that had him volunteering to play bait for a pack of flesh-eating monsters, and damn it, Eliot used to be more professional than this.
"Anyway," he says. "I'm gonna--"
Dean cocks his head, still smiling, but his voice is a little quieter, more hesitant, when he speaks. "Sam's gone. If you wanna--you could come in for a while."
Oh, hell with it. "Yeah," Eliot says, smiling back, and he is seriously so fucked. "Yeah, I'd like that."
***
A/N: I don't even know. This is all dauntdraws fault. If you liked this story, please take a minute to let me know.