Winner - Round 9
Dean - Supernatural
Note: As this story is a series and resides in the same universe, I decided to post all the parts on the same thread. First part - Eat the Gun. Second part - Flash Powder.
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Title: Eat the Gun
Author: Robyn
Genre: Crossover with Supernatural
Pairing: Drifter
Rating: M
Warnings: Language.
Setting: Post canon for Roswell. Anytime Supernatural with no Cassie.
Summary: Dean is following Sam into a case, hesitant because it is reminiscent of something from his past, something better left dead and buried.
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The car coasted to a stop, the lights fading as Sam disengaged the key. Dean squinted, leaning towards the windshield to pick out any familiar shapes. There were none. The landscape was a background of points and black bulges. Wooded, that much he could discern. Nothing more. He sighed and pushed the door open, stepping onto softly padded ground. Great, he wasn’t in the mood for a hike.
“This should be it.” The driver’s side door slammed, leaves rustling as Sam walked from the car.
Dean paused a moment, his eyes flicking to the sky. The lighting was meager, the partial moon hidden behind clouds. He snagged a flashlight from behind his seat, and joined his brother. Sam wouldn’t hold it against him if he clobbered him over the head and dragged him away, right? He eyed the thick metal casing, tested its weight. Maybe Sam would mind a little bit.
“Tell me why we’re here again.”
“Bright lights. Three people dead.” He couldn’t see the frown in the dark, but he felt it. Sam was tired of arguing. “Seemed like our kind of problem, Dean.”
“Yeah.” Dean switched the light on, weaving a path across the trees with the beam. “Sure.”
Their problem? Maybe, but Dean wasn’t as certain as his brother. Something about it made him more inclined to tuck tail and run than reach out and help the helpless. He wasn’t scared, not of big nasties and possible death, but there was—
“There.”
A hand pointed across the light, indicating a trail into the brush. Sam dove onto the path, disappearing in dense foliage. Dean was forced to follow, or let his little brother get ambushed by whatever monster haunted the forest. He eyed his car, glanced to the woods. Sam was a big boy; he could—
“You coming?” The voice was hard, sharp, unfriendly.
Eyes rolling skyward, Dean mentally cursed at his brother and fell into step behind him. Braining Sam was getting more attractive by the minute. Yet he kept his fingers still, relinquishing the flashlight to Sam’s more eager hands. It was a job; he seriously needed to calm down. He touched the cool steel pressing into his back—that was better.
The light passed over clumps of grass, bushes, fallen logs; the shadows were long and devious, flickering wildly. He stared at the angry shapes, looking through them, listening intently for any sign of life. Or, really, unlife if the case may be. They really had no clue what could be out there; their source had been vague. Well, not so much vague as an idiot, but he’d said enough to get them halfway across the country. Strange lights in the middle of the night. Energy brownouts. Three experienced hikers discovered dead without a mark in June.
Sure, yeah, it looked like their kind of problem. But, if the feeling in Dean’s gut were true, it was someone else’s problem and they really shouldn’t get involved. Again.
“Stop where you are.”
The voice broke the silence, raising the hairs on Dean’s neck. His feet quit moving, his body suddenly tense and coiled with energy. In front of him, Sam mimicked his movements, the light falling from his hands. A large pair of feet emerged in the dim glow; they were spread wide, ready. Dean had never heard a sound.
Shit.
Leaves crackled at Dean’s size, another form approaching. There were at least two people, maybe more. He and Sam were at a serious disadvantage, and he had no idea what the others were packing or if there was a gun trained at his head. That made things a bit tricky; he couldn’t rush willy-nilly into the fray. Not that he would willy-nilly anything.
“Lift your arms.”
Dean pondered the order briefly. To obey or not to obey, that is the-- Sam’s tall form entered his vision, and any thoughts of disobedience quickly fled. His life he would risk for the satisfaction of a snappy rejoinder, but not his brother’s. Grudgingly, he lifted his arms, threading his fingers behind his head. He hoped Sam appreciated the restraint he was practicing. Himself, he wanted to flagellate for being such a pussy.
A figure separated from the shadows beside his brother. It was small in stature, not even reaching Sam’s shoulders. The faint glow hinted at a woman—dark hair, dark clothes. Dean started forward when she placed her hands on Sam’s back, tracing them over the fabric of his denim jacket.
“Easy.”
Caution forgotten in an instant rained back down on Dean. He glared at the woman, not risking searching out the voice, the gruff male. Nimble hands worked over Sam, stripping the weapons hidden on his body—the gun, the knife, the holy water, all the little precautions Dean had forced him to take. The woman analyzed each one before tucking them on her person or chucking them into the dense foliage.
When Sam was properly cleaned of every weapon, the woman turned towards him. She stalked across the distance, hips swaying, arms dangling at her sides. The clouds chose that moment to part, clear, white moonlight shining through the treetops. Her face was uncovered, dark hair framing pale skin. Eyes flashed, irises glittering with anger, hesitation…recognition?
Dean blinked at the woman, noting the beguiling twist of her lips, the white gleam of teeth. He hadn’t seen that smile in a long time, had hoped to never see it again. It was beautiful, knowing, a cruel stab of pain to his abdomen. Liz.
Fuck. He should have beaten his brother senseless.
“Relax.” She purred into his ear, her hands rubbing across his chest. “I’ll be gentle.”
“I doubt that,” he grumbled.
Hands pressed against Dean’s flesh, cool through the denim of his jeans, the cotton of his T-shirt. They circled his back, trailed under his leather jacket. She pushed closer than necessary, the line of her body kissing his. Soft curves versus his hard lines, he sucked in an unsteady breath.
“That’s right.” Her mouth whispered against his neck, teeth nipping at his throat. “You liked it rough.”
Liz’s fingers dove down his body, cupping the fly of his pants. She squeezed, the flesh responding to the pressure, swelling, hardening. Dean groaned involuntarily. It had been a long time.
“Dean?”
Grimacing, Dean reigned in the lust Liz had initiated within his body. Or tried. She’d always been good at the…stuff, and he could not keep the images from flooding into his brain. The way she moved over him… The screams he elicited from her throat… How tight she was around him… The taste of her mouth…
“Dean?”
Damn it. Sam. There were more important things than getting laid. Namely, they had encountered unfriendly, ‘not quite human’ adversaries. Add in the knowledge they hadn’t parted ways on the best terms, and, well, Dean really needed to pay absolute attention. His cock be damned, he wasn’t going to let a good fuck get he or his brother killed.
“I’m fine, Sam.” Dean hissed when Liz unfastened the dagger strapped to his ankle. More quietly, he added, “I’m going to kill you.”
“Promise, promises.” Liz’s smile flashed up at him, her hands still busily raking over his body. “So that’s Sam, huh?” She circled around his back, and whispered into his neck. Fingers shoved his jacket from his shoulders and to the ground. She swept over the crotch of his pants once more. “Such wonderful similarities.”
Dean gritted his teeth, breathed heavily from his mouth. “You stay away from him.”
“Or you’ll what?” The weight of the gun lightened, shifted. Other than Dean’s mouth, it was his last defense against the world. “Wondered where this went.”
“That’s mi—“
“You finished yet? Or do you want to be alone?”
“Relax.” The heat of Liz’s skin dissipated as she stepped back. “They’re clean.”
Lust retreated with Liz, Dean’s desire transforming to anger. He could think clearly again, no longer clouded by memories and fantasies. Brain less fogged, he recognized the other man’s voice immediately. Michael.
“You done?” Dean spat.
He was done. Done with holding his tongue. Done with being the happy, compliant prison. He might have had a bad falling out with Michael and Liz, but he wasn’t afraid of them. Not much anyway. Unless they’d had a change of heart over the past few years, they wouldn’t kill him. He was just a little too human for that.
His hands jerked to his sides and he stomped into the small clearing illuminated by the flashlight. Michael and Liz stood side by side; the former’s hands crossed over his chest, the latter with head tipped to the side, hands propped on hips. Amusement sparkled in Liz’s eyes, not so much in Michael’s. The other man recognized him immediately, if the snarl was any indication. The feeling was mutual.
Sam swiped at Dean’s coat as he passed his brother, but his fingers slid off the jacket. “Dean. What the hell are you doing?”
“I know what I’m doing, Sam.” Did he? No, but he could wing it. He’d talked his way out of worse.
“You’re gonna get us killed.”
Michael shifted, narrowing his eyes. His left hand uncurled and dropped to his side. Dean eyed it warily; he’d seen what Michael could do with it. “Better listen to your brother, Dean.”
Pushing all his emotions aside, Dean stood firm with his arms folded over his chest. “You know what—fuck you, Michael.”
Laughter spilled across the silence, and Dean’s gaze snapped to Liz. Her head was tossed back, her body rippling with amusement. He flashed to a time long ago, one where she writhed under his touch, her dark hair spilling across his bare legs. They’d been happy. <I>He’d</I> been happy. And Liz had destroyed that.
“How’s the husband, Liz?” Dean’s nostrils flared, his temper barely leashed behind gritted teeth. “Who keeps him warm at night when you’re gone?”
The humor drained from Liz’s face, a clean slate of alabaster taking its place. She shoved the knife a little deeper. “What’s the matter, Dean? Angry I cut you off?”
“You didn’t cut me off.” Dean closed the few remaining steps between he and Liz, his hands circling her wrists, biting into flesh. “I left.”
“Then why do you care who fucks me?” She glared up at him. Static crackled across her skin, and Dean knew he was pushing any luck that he had. Liz might not kill him outright, but she could make him hurt. A lot. “It’s my body, Winchester, I’ll fuck whomever I want.”
“I’ll fuck <I>whomever</I> I want.” Dean twisted her words, threw them back in a high-pitched nasal. “Christ, could you be more of a bitch.”
Dean really, really didn’t like the spark that lit Liz’s eyes. “Watch me.”
Regret was brief, and acute. Pain flared out from his palms, traveling through his bones, targeting rather sensitive areas. Dean had known Liz would reach her tolerance level—it happened more quickly than he’d thought. He must have hit a nerve. While some amount of satisfaction came from that knowledge, it was very small compared to the agony of his balls. Good God, she’d taken away his freedom to produce children.
Maybe she was still pissed.
Clutching at his reason for living, Dean was distantly aware of Sam’s yells, of Michael’s replies, of Liz’s choked apology. Apology? No, he was hallucinating.
“What the hell is going on?” A hand clapped over Dean’s back, struggling to roll him to the side. “What did you do to my brother?”
“Nothing he didn’t deserve,” Michael stated. Deep and stoic. Would Max’s enforcer be anything less? A fuzzy image of black squatted beside Dean. “I told you to stay away from her.”
“Wait.” The hand on Dean’s back tensed, gripped painfully tight. “You guys know each other?”
“Knew each other.” A deep sigh, a shake of the head, Dean’s vision was clearing, the pain ebbing. “Hoped I’d never see them again.”
“Feeling’s mutual, Winchester.” Michael, for some reason Liz was keeping quiet.
“Fuck off, Guerin.” Dean grumbled, shaking off Sam’s touch and crawling to his feet. If he stood just so, the damage to his goods wasn’t all that noticeable. Yeah, and he’d never masturbated in wee hours of the night to elicit photos on his brother’s laptop.
“Covered that already.” Michael looked at Liz, his face softened.
That was different. Curious even. Almost like watching a wall of stone melt. Dean turned his gaze on Liz, searched for any indication that may have caused Michael’s concern. There was nothing; her face was shaded, tight, an indifferent mask. With great reluctance he sought out her eyes, and there was a small trill of surprise she allowed him that privilege. The dark swirl of her irises was hypnotic, confusing, the pull as strong as it had been four years ago. Sadness. Pain. Anger. He blinked, looked away. She wasn’t his problem anymore.
Tension spilled across Dean’s skin, the frantic tingle of building energy, static. His eyes skated across the distance, lighting on Michael. Rough ridges of flesh decorated his forehead; his mouth was pinched unhappily. The voice reverberated in his skull, throbbing in time with his pulse. ‘Stay away from her.’
Unconsciously, Dean took a step back. Four words were enough of a reminder—he didn’t want to fuck with Michael. He’d done it once, and the reward had been three weeks holed up in nowhere South Dakota. He didn’t want a repeat. His head tipped to acknowledge Michael, to show that he wasn’t a threat, but Sam interrupted, his questions more pressing than any potential danger.
Sam was oblivious to the subtle nuances of the ‘not a conversation.’ “Dean, who are they? How do you know them?”
“Drop it, Sam.” Dean glared at his brother, standing a little straighter. His groin no longer throbbed; he didn’t think there would be lasting damage. Didn’t mean he wouldn’t throttle Liz if he got the chance. “Let’s just go.”
“Not until—“
“Listen to him, Sam.” Michael was stern, rough, but not his usual self. He just didn’t have the heart in his warning. Again. Curious.
“Listen, we’re leaving.” Dean turned, but twisted back towards Liz on a memory. “Gonna have to take my gun, though.”
Liz’s body jerked upright, like a puppeteer had shaken her strings. It was strange, disconcerting. Dean hadn’t realized she’d been so out of it, so lost in her thoughts. He was missing something, which, really, wasn’t all that big of a surprise. The problem was, he couldn’t sort out whether or not he cared.
“Bite me.”
Ouch. Guess he had that particular matter sorted out. He definitely did not care.
“Sorry, Sweetheart,” Dean growled. He ogled her from head to toe. “Can’t say I want another taste. You’re damaged goods.”
Lips thinning, Liz curled them over sharp teeth; the smile was tight and forced. “Yet, another satisfied customer. You didn’t complain too much when your mouth was—“
“Liz, enough,” Michael barked. He directed a scathing glance in her direction. “I’m not going to listen to this all night. Give him the gun so we can get out of here.”
“It’s not his,” she argued. Liz pulled the gun from her waistband, caressed the black metal between her hands. “He gave it to me.”
“I thought you were someone else.” The words ripped from his mouth, scathing with acid.
Dean had intended to hurt, to maybe even destroy the last bit of attraction that pulled at him. It was uncontrollable, the urge he had to cross the distance and crash his mouth to hers. Fight and frustration had been key in their relationship, and things hadn’t changed over the years. Her fire, her anger fueled the emotions he’d long thought buried and abandoned. And it made him mad, irate, that being near her for such a small amount of time had him emotionally unstable, right back where he’d been four years ago. The pain was still fresh, the anger still palpable. He wanted her bleeding—just like him.
“Dean…” Sam hissed in warning, but Dean was too hot, too lost to the storm washing over him.
“Then I realized,” he paused, raking his eyes over Liz, “you were just another lay in one more town.” He smirked. “A spectacular lay, but nothing special.”
Mission accomplished. Liz’s face cracked, tears spilling forth. A surge of heartbreaking sadness washed over Dean, a typhoon of raw emotion. He’d gone too far, but the damage was done. He’d gotten his revenge; he’d broken her. The victory wasn’t as sweet as he’d thought it would be.
“You bastard.”
The gun landed at his feet, the clip a second later. Dean winced at the sound, at the sight; he didn’t want it, not anymore, didn’t think he’d be able to touch the weapon again. His head snapped back when her palm struck his cheek, but he didn’t feel it. He was numb, nauseous.
What had he done?
Dean didn’t anticipate the smack on the back of his head or the simultaneous fist in his gut. He dropped to his knees, crossing the thin line from nausea to heaving. The contents of his stomach spilled out on the ground. He was aware of Michael, of Sam, of arguing, but little else. Pain consumed him, and he deserved every ounce he got. He <I>was</I> a bastard, and had destroyed any chance he ever had at happiness.
When the physical pain had retreated enough for Dean to stand, he did, and found himself alone with Michael. Sparks flickered in the other man’s eyes, restraint not being a thing Michael did well.
“I should kill you for what you’ve done.” Michael’s fingers flexed, the air shimmering around them.
Jaw set, Dean stared back at Michael, head sagging. He raked a hand through his hair. “Get in line.”
Michael shook his head, talked through clenched teeth. “Hell, Liz has made some mistakes, but she didn’t deserve that.”
“I know that,” Dean bit out. His breath caught, the memory of Liz’s face…the expression <I>he’d</I> put there. He shook himself, met Michael’s eyes. “Isn’t this the part where you threaten my life?”
“Empty threat.” Michael waved his hands, the light bending and breaking around them. “We both know I won’t kill you.”
“We do?” Said with an attempt at levity, but Dean’s voice cracked.
“If you’d pull your head out of your ass, you’d know that.” Michael scowled, and looked away, his eyes following the path that Liz must have taken. “Liz would never forgive me.”
Yet another reminder that he’d made a mistake, done something unforgivable. Sure, Dean had noted the attraction, but had dismissed it as lingering sentiment. They’d parted on such a harsh note; it was impossible she’d still felt something towards him.
No, not impossible, improbable, and he’d never been one to go by the odds. Fuck. The thing that he was missing, the thing he’d been so clueless about, the thing that Michael wasn’t saying…Liz loved him. Or had. He’d demolished that, ran right through her heart with a bulldozer.
“Well…thanks.” Dean shifted uneasily, and shoved his hands into his pockets.
Michael stared at him, scratched at his eyebrow. “Just…you know…stay the hell out of her life.”
It was an order, the final nail pounding in place. Stay away from Liz… It had been so easy…before. After that night, after everything he had learned… He didn’t know if he could do it. Could he leave her again? It had been so difficult the first time.
“Don’t.” Michael glared, his mouth a firm line. “Just don’t.”
Surprise exploded across Dean’s face. He had the sneaking suspicion that Michael was reading him. “What?”
“Chase after her and tell her everything’s going to be alright.” Michael stepped closer, crowding into Dean’s space. “You had your chance and you fucked it up.”
“It doesn’t have to—“
An erratic wave of hand stilled Dean’s lips. “Fuck, man.” Michael spread his arms wide, and breathed deep, grimacing. “Can’t you feel it?” He pushed at the air, as if something heavy pressed in on him. “You’re killing her.”
Frowning, Dean squinted at Michael, looking for something, anything. “I didn’t do anything.”
Michael’s gaze jerked to Dean’s. He pursed his lips. “You left.”
“You told me to.” Dean sighed, his fingers balling into fists inside his pockets.
“And what kind of a man does that make you?” Michael sneered, and dropped backwards a step. “She needed a white knight and you disappeared.”
“What was I supposed to do?” Dean’s voice was rising, an edge of hysteria creeping in. He’d done what he needed to do—he’d fled, consequences be damned. Liz had been too much trouble to stick around and fight for. Besides, she had a husband, and he knew the outcome of any dogfight where they were concerned. “You threatened to kill me.”
“Max threatened to kill you.” Soft and matter-of-fact, Michael offered no apologies for what he’d taken part in.
Dean snorted and rolled his eyes. “Same difference.”
“No, it’s not.” Michael’s lip curled, irritation flashing unbidden in his eyes. He shrugged. “I wanted Liz happy.”
“And you thought I could do that?” His face smoothed, his jaw dropping. If Michael was telling the truth, he’d seriously misjudged things in the past. Wouldn’t be the first time.
“I didn’t know, but I gave you a chance.” Michael fixed him with a steady glare, and Dean wriggled under the intensity. “Now I do. You make her miserable.”
There was no arguing that. Dean had a knack for preempting attacks, for initiating battles that may or may not have existed. He’d been hurting, but that was no excuse—so had Liz. He’d been too ignorant to see it before it was too late.
“So what now?” He clicked his teeth, knowing what Michael would say.
Michael grinned, tipped his head to the side. “You and your brother get in your car and move on.”
“And what?” Dean grunted. “You and Liz head back to camp? Report to command and round up the troops?”
“No.” Michael blinked at him—annoyance or curiosity, Dean didn’t know. “We head to the next town.”
Dean breathed deeply, wondering how far he could push Michael before he murdered him outright. “What about Max?”
Sniffing, Michael folded his arms over his chest. “What about him?”
“Don’t you have to scurry home?” He grinned at the image of Michael hurrying back to Max; such a manly man under the command of such a pansy.
Although it had been a pansy that had gotten Dean to leave. Max had been enough to shake Dean, to make him run away. The smile faltered, the light air shattering.
“Liz is my home.”
“Wait.” Whoa. Dean gaped at Michael, words sputtering from his mouth. Unexpected. “Oh. Ooooh. So you and Liz…” He motioned with his hands, a crude interlacing of fingers.
“Christ, are you a complete moron?” Michael’s arm twitched, and Dean knew he’d been close to another beating. The other man’s face crinkled, a fair example of disgust. “Liz is like a sister, Man.”
Mental sigh. Panic attack avoided. As it were, Dean rated a serious smackdown. He was certain insulting the man’s girlfriend was a step above. Although insulting his sister might just top that.
“Max know about that?”
Why couldn’t he shut up? Did he really have to ferret out every fragment of Liz’s life? It cut, it ripped, it hurt. Yet he kept at it. Shredding, lacerating his heart. When had he become a fucking masochist?
“Could you shut the hell up about Max?” Michael flinched, his hands clenching. The first traces of rage were resurfacing. “I don’t care if he knows. Stopped caring a long time ago. Hell, I don’t even know where he is. Couldn’t care less.”
“It’s just you and Liz? No one else?” Dean watched Michael, his lack of response. A smile grew on his lips, knowledge sparking to life. “And you’re not together?”
Michael’s eyes tightened, a slightly wild look trespassing his face. He stepped forward, took Dean by the shoulders. “Leave her alone.”
Hands fell away, footsteps retreating into the brush. Michael was gone; he was leaving with Liz. That fact was solid, crushing—Liz had been in Dean’s life for another brief moment. He hurt; the words he’d said had been cruel and punishing. Liz was scarred, wounded, her heart broken and ripped by love. Time had not mended it, her, him. Those wounds were raw and gaping, unfathomable, and he’d scoured them with salt.
Terrific, Dean. Well played. Way to be the bigger man.
“I can’t believe you, Dean. I know you’re an ass, but I’ve never—“
“Shut it, Sam.” Dean’s neck snapped to his brother. “I don’t wanna hear it.”
Sam shook his head, silently condemning Dean with his eyes. “Did you stop to think that you might need to hear it?”
Grimacing, Dean stared Sam down. “I’ve got things under control.”
“Yeah,” Sam agreed. He threw his hands wide. “You’re doing a bang up job.”
“What do you want from me, Sam?” Dean lifted his eyebrows, pursed his lips. “You want me to say I’m sorry? Well, I am.” He took a breath, pushed away the doubt crowding his brain. It was easy to pretend, to fall with tradition. Too easy. “I’m sorry I’m not the sticking kind. I’m sorry I fucked her and left. But I’m not doing Liz any favors by lying to her.”
Sam wasn’t fooled; Dean hadn’t really thought he would be. Years of separation didn’t make it less difficult for his younger brother to read him. “It’s not her you’re lying to.”
“Fuck you, Sam.”
Sam’s face hardened, and he walked closer, stooping to palm the gun at Dean’s feet. He studied the pistol, flipping it over in his hands, stopping at the hastily etched words on the butt. Dean cursed, even if his feelings towards Liz hadn’t been obvious to Sam, they would be. He didn’t desecrate weaponry without due cause. ‘Love yous’ weren’t exactly brash reactions either.
“You know what, Dean? Fuck yourself.” A gentle whoosh of air exploded from Dean’s lungs as Sam thrust the gun into his stomach. “You’re good at that.”
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The End
