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nilchanceTitle: Lock
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
nilchance
Rating: Adult
A/N: Dark Angel/Supernatural X-Over. Gen. John arrives.
As soon as Dean touches the door, he knows. He feels it, a shiver of tension down his spine, the memory-taste of blood in his mouth.
Threat. Weak. Protect. Kill.
Dad.
The growl boils up his throat, and he shoves his fist against his mouth to muffle it. He's stronger than this enemy instinct, even if the stolen vials rattle in his pockets as he shakes. He's stronger, and Alec needs some fucking medicine to bring his fever down, and Sam expects better of him.
He opens the door, grasping the knob hard to keep himself from lunging into the dark. His knuckles go white when he sees his father, hunched shoulders and shaggy hair, sitting on the end of Alec's bed. John has his journal open in front of him, the sheets tugged down around Alec's hips. It takes Dean a second to realize what John's doing: writing down scars, calculating source and pattern. Like Alec is some cadaver in a morgue, some case they're cracking. Dean shouldn't expect anything else, but it still pisses him off.
Sam's between them, sprawled on the bed nearest the door with his laptop fired up. Sam reads him in a second, sitting up a little. His glance is a warning: no, Dean, not here. No fighting.
Moving slow, John looks up at Dean. He guards his throat. He's not stupid. His expression is wide open, vulnerability gutted wide for Dean to see. He wants things Dean can't give him anymore. With a crooked smile, John says, "Hey, boy."
Despite everything, something wounded uncurls in Dean's belly. He wants to go over and let John hold him. He wants to tear out his fucking throat. Dean tosses Sam the vials and a wrapped pack of sterile needles. Sam catches them and starts to go to work, unbending Alec's arm from its protective curl. Alec jerks against the restraints, trying to get away. Like every time Dean gets near John, the feral instincts are all cranked up to eleven, including the urge to crawl on the bed next to Alec and soothe him down.
Sam accepts Alec, and so Dean accepts him. It's easy.
John puts the pen down and rests his hand on Alec's ankle. Steadying. Alec twitches a few more times, but Sam can get the needle in, and in a minute Alec subsides again. Dean picked up more sedatives, too.
"Is he yours?" Dean asks John. The words come out ugly.
John doesn't flinch. "Maybe. I didn't know about him, if that's what you're asking."
Yeah. Dean doesn't believe him, but there's no saying that, not with Sam giving him the stinkeye. He shoves his hands in his pockets. "We're not killing him."
John shrugs, like your funeral, but he rubs the kid's ankle before letting go. He's tolling up the kid's scars like he's going to take them out of somebody's hide.
It makes Dean's chest hurt, makes him want things he's grown out of. He can't stay here with this war going on in his head, kill or embrace. He kicks the bed to get Sam's attention and says, "I need some air."
"Figured," Sam says, sorrow in his eyes, but Dean's already out the door.
There's a bar. There's always a bar.
There's a girl. There's always a girl. This time she's a plump little thing, sweet handfuls of her thighs and hips. She smells like cigarette smoke and girly perfume, something sweet instead of the sweat and gunpowder world Dean lives in. Her skirt rides up high as she climbs in the backseat, her hair dragging over his cheek. Her eyes are dark.
They kiss, messy drugging kisses. The inside of her mouth tastes like beer and lime until it wears away, leaving the flavor of spit and heat. He backs her against the steaming window, his hand cupped behind her head to protect her. Her skirt slides a little more, scalding heat along his belly, and he smells her salty-thick as blood. His hands are sweating, shaking, and she croons to him like he needs comfort. She cups his face, brings him down into the half-moon arch of her throat. She's hot there, damp with sweat, and she gasps when he licks her skin. She smells good, so good, climbing up in his head. He licks, and then he bites. Bites until he can feel her bruising, bites until he can feel the drumming of her veins. Her blood. Her blood...
Staccato tap on the window, and then the car door opens. Dean's head snaps up, and he lets go of her. Of course he lets go of her, because she's as scared as she is hot, and Sam is in the driver's seat, looking back at them. Knowing.
"You should go," Sam says, the worn voice he uses on normal people.
The girl looks between them. Dean meets her eyes; he owes her that much. Then he sits back to let her up. He almost reaches past her to open the car door, but he doesn't trust himself that much.
She goes, clutching her purse, looking back over her shoulder once. There's a dark blossom of bruise on her throat.
Dean leans forward and rests his forehead on the front seat. He's shaking a little, part near miss, part because he wants to open the car door and run her to ground. After a few minutes, Sam's hand comes to rest on his nape. He should ask who's watching the kid, whether the fever's down, where Dad stayed. He should do a lot of things.
"Dean," Sam starts to say. "We could-"
"Don't."
Sam doesn't. They sit in the car until the girl's scent is nearly gone.
Author:
nilchanceRating: Adult
A/N: Dark Angel/Supernatural X-Over. Gen. John arrives.
As soon as Dean touches the door, he knows. He feels it, a shiver of tension down his spine, the memory-taste of blood in his mouth.
Threat. Weak. Protect. Kill.
Dad.
The growl boils up his throat, and he shoves his fist against his mouth to muffle it. He's stronger than this enemy instinct, even if the stolen vials rattle in his pockets as he shakes. He's stronger, and Alec needs some fucking medicine to bring his fever down, and Sam expects better of him.
He opens the door, grasping the knob hard to keep himself from lunging into the dark. His knuckles go white when he sees his father, hunched shoulders and shaggy hair, sitting on the end of Alec's bed. John has his journal open in front of him, the sheets tugged down around Alec's hips. It takes Dean a second to realize what John's doing: writing down scars, calculating source and pattern. Like Alec is some cadaver in a morgue, some case they're cracking. Dean shouldn't expect anything else, but it still pisses him off.
Sam's between them, sprawled on the bed nearest the door with his laptop fired up. Sam reads him in a second, sitting up a little. His glance is a warning: no, Dean, not here. No fighting.
Moving slow, John looks up at Dean. He guards his throat. He's not stupid. His expression is wide open, vulnerability gutted wide for Dean to see. He wants things Dean can't give him anymore. With a crooked smile, John says, "Hey, boy."
Despite everything, something wounded uncurls in Dean's belly. He wants to go over and let John hold him. He wants to tear out his fucking throat. Dean tosses Sam the vials and a wrapped pack of sterile needles. Sam catches them and starts to go to work, unbending Alec's arm from its protective curl. Alec jerks against the restraints, trying to get away. Like every time Dean gets near John, the feral instincts are all cranked up to eleven, including the urge to crawl on the bed next to Alec and soothe him down.
Sam accepts Alec, and so Dean accepts him. It's easy.
John puts the pen down and rests his hand on Alec's ankle. Steadying. Alec twitches a few more times, but Sam can get the needle in, and in a minute Alec subsides again. Dean picked up more sedatives, too.
"Is he yours?" Dean asks John. The words come out ugly.
John doesn't flinch. "Maybe. I didn't know about him, if that's what you're asking."
Yeah. Dean doesn't believe him, but there's no saying that, not with Sam giving him the stinkeye. He shoves his hands in his pockets. "We're not killing him."
John shrugs, like your funeral, but he rubs the kid's ankle before letting go. He's tolling up the kid's scars like he's going to take them out of somebody's hide.
It makes Dean's chest hurt, makes him want things he's grown out of. He can't stay here with this war going on in his head, kill or embrace. He kicks the bed to get Sam's attention and says, "I need some air."
"Figured," Sam says, sorrow in his eyes, but Dean's already out the door.
There's a bar. There's always a bar.
There's a girl. There's always a girl. This time she's a plump little thing, sweet handfuls of her thighs and hips. She smells like cigarette smoke and girly perfume, something sweet instead of the sweat and gunpowder world Dean lives in. Her skirt rides up high as she climbs in the backseat, her hair dragging over his cheek. Her eyes are dark.
They kiss, messy drugging kisses. The inside of her mouth tastes like beer and lime until it wears away, leaving the flavor of spit and heat. He backs her against the steaming window, his hand cupped behind her head to protect her. Her skirt slides a little more, scalding heat along his belly, and he smells her salty-thick as blood. His hands are sweating, shaking, and she croons to him like he needs comfort. She cups his face, brings him down into the half-moon arch of her throat. She's hot there, damp with sweat, and she gasps when he licks her skin. She smells good, so good, climbing up in his head. He licks, and then he bites. Bites until he can feel her bruising, bites until he can feel the drumming of her veins. Her blood. Her blood...
Staccato tap on the window, and then the car door opens. Dean's head snaps up, and he lets go of her. Of course he lets go of her, because she's as scared as she is hot, and Sam is in the driver's seat, looking back at them. Knowing.
"You should go," Sam says, the worn voice he uses on normal people.
The girl looks between them. Dean meets her eyes; he owes her that much. Then he sits back to let her up. He almost reaches past her to open the car door, but he doesn't trust himself that much.
She goes, clutching her purse, looking back over her shoulder once. There's a dark blossom of bruise on her throat.
Dean leans forward and rests his forehead on the front seat. He's shaking a little, part near miss, part because he wants to open the car door and run her to ground. After a few minutes, Sam's hand comes to rest on his nape. He should ask who's watching the kid, whether the fever's down, where Dad stayed. He should do a lot of things.
"Dean," Sam starts to say. "We could-"
"Don't."
Sam doesn't. They sit in the car until the girl's scent is nearly gone.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2008-09-22 08:11 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-09-22 08:29 pm (UTC)Poor Dean ... I know they're all broken in their own way but Dean ... oh
no subject
Date: 2008-09-22 08:42 pm (UTC)I love little moments like Dean putting his hand behind the girl's head so she won't bang the glass, and John soothing Alec with a grip on his ankle. Oh and John cataloging all of Alec's scars gave me a chill. I can see why he'd do it. For a man like John (and Sam), they have to know... but it's Dean's description of the cadaver that had my stomach clenching.
I absolutely adore you for writing a Supernatural/Dark Angel crossover. That concept has always facinated me and you write it so WELL. It makes me gleefully happy to see it. *g*
no subject
Date: 2008-09-22 08:50 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-09-22 09:05 pm (UTC)that is shivery-good stuff.
no subject
Date: 2008-09-22 09:50 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-09-22 10:11 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-09-22 10:39 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-09-23 12:11 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-09-23 02:14 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-09-23 07:09 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-09-23 07:47 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-09-23 12:24 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-09-28 06:19 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-29 05:28 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-03-06 10:38 pm (UTC)"Dean meets her eyes; he owes her that much. "
Thank you for that. I really needed the reassurance. Poor girl, poor Dean and thank heavens for Sam. I love Sam's strength here, to be what they need from him.
That's umm...Despite the bazillionty of backstory I'm not getting (missed fic? can't find any, maybe I missed a whole verse? sorry!)
no subject
Date: 2010-05-07 07:54 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-10-15 04:20 am (UTC)