Eight(ish) Crazy Nights: Eight (SPN, SPN/BtVS and Chuck)

[rivkat]

unbreakableburr: Buffy and Dean in a conversation about siblings and all that they bring, good and bad, to the table. Imagine a sort of crossover S8 for BtVS, if you will, and an indeterminate post-S5 time for SPN. Note: again, didn’t go where I planned, not so much with the parallels or even focusing on the siblings (to the extent that Dean can be said to exist without Sam).

“That’s messed up,” Dean said, like it was some sort of insight. “But you remember her, as a kid and everything?”

“All the details,” Buffy said. “I don’t care how it happened, she’s my sister.” It was important to make that clear to him, especially if they were going to be working together to catch this demon with its fixation on Dawn. Dean seemed like a guy who cared more about the killing than the saving.

He nodded. “I was feeling that when you talked about dying for her. I, uh, kinda been there myself. Doesn’t really matter what mystical shit went down, you’ve got to take care of your family. Sam and me, I raised that kid, I’m not gonna let him get hurt.”

Buffy smiled, even though the memories were a little achy. “My mom did the raising, mostly. She died when I was twenty.”

Dean’s face softened. He hesitated, then: “Was she a Slayer, too?”

“No, it doesn’t run in families.” Maybe when this was over she could have him sit down with Xander and do some serious comparing of notes. She wasn’t that interested in ghosts, but the demons—that sounded worth knowing about, even if they hadn’t been threatening Dawnie.

“My mom was a hunter,” he offered, looking down at his hands. “She—I think she would’ve done a better job with Sam than I did. A demon got her when we were little kids.”

Buffy felt bad for them, motherless kids in a world full of demons, and then she felt bad for herself—not that she wanted kids, not right now; she wasn’t sure about whether she ever wanted kids, but ‘wasn’t sure’ was different than ‘can’t because you might leave them horribly orphaned.’

“But anyway,” Dean said heartily, as if he realized how little they needed to be depressing the vim and vigor out of each other. “You wanna go check on how Sam and your friend are doing with that ritual?”

Buffy thought about it. Given how badly both guys had reacted to the whole ‘witch’ thing. It had been something of an effort to get Dean to leave his brother alone with Willow, but it had been obvious after ten minutes that Dean was aiming for the Oscar in ‘being distracting’ and Willow had practically sighed with relief when Buffy had dragged them away.

“Why don’t we leave them to it a little bit longer? You haven’t seen Dawn’s room yet, maybe there are some protective charms we missed.” She didn’t think for a second that Willow had fallen down on the job, but one thing she’d learned about magic was that everybody had their own special secrets, like it was baking or something, and Martha Stewart didn’t exactly do shows on HGTV explaining the best techniques.

Dean hesitated, clearly wondering whether this was some ruse to keep him away from his brother—honestly, they should just get surgically attached, though she saw how that would interfere with the whole fighting evil thing—then nodded.

“You guys do the demon hunting thing alone, hunh,” she said as she led him toward the living quarters. They weren’t much like Wesley in his Rogue Demon Hunter phase. She couldn’t imagine what it would be like, on her own with only Dawn in tow. Maybe she shouldn’t be so hard on Dean for being paranoid. Having only one person to love—that could really mess you up.

But: “I’m not alone,” Dean said, and she guessed that was a pretty good answer, after all.

jain: SPN, Sam/Dean, settling down. Note: came out emo porn gen, though I doubt Sam/Dean fans would be disappointed.

Bobby showed them the papers a week before the last battle.

“Bobby—” Sam began, but he was drowned out by Dean’s “Fuck no!”

“I’m not fixing to die,” Bobby said (the ‘idiot’ was implied). “I aim to retire after this. I done my time. I got a place out West—houses are cheaper ‘n dirt in this economy—and I plan to sit in the sun and warm my old bones when this is done.”

Dean was still looking rebellious. Sam tried to read through the details, figure out exactly what they’d have to do to keep the place going. Bobby had made some good investments, or engaged in some highly lucrative fraud, Sam wasn’t going to ask which, so with minimal caution they should be able to continue in Bobby’s stead, answering hunters’ questions and collecting resources—though other hunters might not be quite so willing to talk to them as to Bobby.

“You sure?” he asked Bobby when he’d gotten an idea of what was on offer.

Bobby rolled his eyes. “Only way I can get out is to leave. Otherwise you chuckleheads, not to mention all the other folks who knock on my door asking stupid questions, will just keep coming ‘round.”

“Bobby, this is—thanks,” Sam said, even though he was still too shocked to have any real reaction to Bobby’s gift. He knew it was the greatest sign of trust and respect Bobby could give, and that was amazing after all they’d been through. He just didn’t know how he felt. In a way, it was like a grim parody of his former hopes: stability, but only by way of settling into the life he’d fought so hard to leave, another refugee in Bobby’s junkyard.

On the other hand, it had been a long time since he’d seen any future for himself that didn’t involve hunting.

And Dean—

Dean looked to be having mixed emotions too, though probably different ones. Sam remembered how Dean had been when Dad had given him the keys to the Impala, full of piss and vinegar, seeing the car as a sign of manhood: Dad finally trusted him enough to go out on his own. That car had been his only home for decades, and Sam wasn’t sure Dean could switch to another one, might even see Bobby’s gift as an erasure of Dad’s, like Bobby was trying to take his place. Not to mention Dean’s itchy feet, that ball-bearing ankle he had that kept them moving from town to town even when there were no jobs pending.

“This what you want, Bobby?” Dean asked finally, staring at Bobby like they were having some sort of conversation Sam couldn’t hear.

Bobby thrust his chin up. “It is. Ask me if I want to take a wheelchair through another Dakota winter, boy.”

“All right then,” Dean said. He nodded at Sam, like he was waiting for something more. His eyes were forest-green, like something Sam might see on a distant hill as they sped by on the highway.

Sam hunched his shoulders and tried to smile. “Thank you, Bobby. Seriously.” He decided not to add ‘and thank you for pretending like we’re all going to survive this,’ because they were all enough on edge already.

“You’re comin’ to Arizona with me long enough to build a ramp and get the place set up proper,” Bobby grumped, looking away from them.

“With bells on, Bobby,” Dean promised, and now his voice was soft, the only gentleness either of them ever allowed themselves (and Sam was waiting for the moment he’d get to call them idiots for that).

Later, when Bobby had gone to bed, they sat at his kitchen table, working protective sigils into their clothes—which was to say, embroidering, but Sam had tormented Dean with that just about enough already, and the next time he mentioned it Dean was likely to stick a needle through his hand. Castiel had this theory that they could divert the attention of the minor demons and angels (how weird was it that there were minor angels? Sam’s life was very strange) with enough Enochian and Eredun mumbo-jumbo, but they were out of room on their bones and Sam had flat-out refused to undergo the scarification ritual Castiel had originally suggested. So, compromise: embroidery.

Sam was grateful that they were back to being able to exist in comfortable silence, or as close to silence as Dean ever got (grunts, other bodily noises, and curse words featuring prominently). Every once in a while Sam took a break to surreptitiously watch Dean, who was all focus, tongue just peeking out between his lips as he concentrated on rethreading a needle or putting the symbols in the proper order.

Then Sam looked up and found Dean staring back at him. Dean didn’t drop his eyes, though, just put the shirt he was holding down on the table.

“You don’t have to stay,” he told Sam, voice carefully controlled: Dean had been working on that line for a while.

“What are you talking about?” Dean couldn’t mean the upcoming apocalypse. Even if they hadn’t been in agreement on the proper course of action, Sam was pretty sure that the end of the world was an all-hands-on-deck event, RSVP or not.

“Just ‘cause your name’s on the deed with mine, I mean.”

Sam’s first impulse was to ask if they had to do this now, when they didn’t even know that they’d be breathing in a week’s time. But the answer was obviously yes, so he put his own work down and leaned back in his chair, considering Dean.

“My name wouldn’t have to be on the deed for me to stay, Dean.”

Dean squinted, like Sam was one of those maps Dean kept insisting he didn’t need glasses to read. Sam stared back at him, steady, and Dean slowly pinked, his eyes widening until he looked kind of like he’d just been concussed by a brick. But Dean, for all his complaining, needed to hear the words out loud a lot more than Sam did, so he drew a breath and said it. “Wherever you lodge, I will lodge.”

Dean’s mouth opened and closed a couple of times. “‘Lodge?’” he managed at last. “Seriously?”

“Look it up, jerk,” Sam suggested, and they grinned at each other until Dean got too embarrassed and picked up his needle again. Outside was cold and dark and getting darker. But Bobby’s kitchen had the basic necessities, and that meant that Sam could deal with the darkness.

ariadnes_string: Yiddishe!Dean--where did he learn all those words?

“Young man!”

Dean turned, already tensing against what sounded like the average of all his high school teachers. The woman standing ten feet away from him was maybe four foot ten on tiptoes, wearing a pink cardigan over a black dress.

“Young man, could you possibly carry some groceries for me? The elevator isn’t working.”

As far as Dean knew, the elevator hadn’t worked for the two weeks they’d been staying here—not that he minded; it was good training, up and down four flights, and Sammy couldn’t weasel out of it if he wanted to get to school and back. But she did look little, and old, and it wouldn’t hurt him any to add some weight. “Sure,” he said.

Bonus, Mrs. Gold (Mr. Gold was in the black-and-white pictures scattered around her apartment, but not the color ones) fed him some of her Pepperidge Farm cookies when he’d brought the last bag up. He even remembered to thank her and everything.

That evening, while Sam was working on his calculus, Dean went down to the basement and broke into the elevator box. He’d never done one of them before, but it wasn’t that hard to figure out, and he tested it himself so that he’d know it wasn’t going to trap anyone.

He figured that was the end of Mrs. Gold, except that two nights later she knocked on his door and asked if he’d mind replacing some bulbs for her. “My hands aren’t what they used to be,” she said, holding up fingers swollen at the joints like knotted strings.

Dean had never actually met a Jewish lady before, as far as he knew anyway, and it was kind of fun listening to her dish on all the neighbors, like watching a soap opera up to and including all the insults. Except that she used a bunch of words he’d never heard before. “Is that Hebrew?” he finally asked. It didn’t sound much like what he knew from the basic rituals, but then Dean wasn’t exactly the world’s best student in any language.

“Hebrew?” She laughed. “It’s Yiddish, God’s own language for curses.”

“Really?” he asked, because that could be useful.

Turned out she didn’t mean real curses, more like ‘may you grow like a turnip with your head in the ground,’ which was funny but not an actual weapon. Still, Dean thought it was hilarious to hear this little old lady say the meanest goddamn things he’d ever heard, and Yiddish just sounded better when you had something sassy to say. Once he told her that, she sat him down and taught him a bunch of the good ones, and in return he fixed the wiggly leg of her end table and moved a couple of pieces of furniture.

He was going to rehang a bunch of her pictures that she wanted to move around, promised to come back Monday night after he got off at the grocery store. But Dad came back early, hunt finished, and they hadn’t paid the month’s rent so they had to leave in the middle of the night.

Dean didn’t think much about her, just another person they pinballed off of when they were kids, but he kind of loved the words, the way they just had attitude without even trying. Sam looked at him like he was from another planet when he used them, but that had been Sam’s SOP for a while, so Dean just let Sam’s eyerolling encourage him.

Anyway, if there was a planet where all the words were as awesome as schlemeil and schlemazel, he totally wanted to be from there.

raveninthewind: I'd love something Casey/Chuck, but I don't know what exactly. There's always "undercover as a couple"? Cliche, but evergreen.

“Remember,” Sarah said, “Tarasov is insanely jealous and protective. If you pay even the slightest attention to his wife or his daughter, he’ll have you slaughtered.”

Chuck remembered the pictures he’d seen in his flash and gulped. “Uh, that might be a little difficult.”

“We got you covered, Bartowski,” Casey said cheerfully. “I’m going in with you as your partner.”

Chuck could see Charles Carmichael as Casey’s partner, sort of a good secret agent/bad secret agent thing, but he didn’t see how Casey would help him keep his eyes off of the assets that both Genevieve and Vivian Tarasova possessed and (judging by the photos) enjoyed showing off.

Sarah read his confusion: “Your intimate partner, Chuck.”

“Oh. Oh! You know, you guys are lucky I’m secure in my masculinity,” he pointed out.

Casey sneered at him. “Shut up or we’ll see just how securely you’re attached to your masculinity.” He checked his clip, then slid it back into his gun, which added a layer of symbolism that Chuck didn’t feel was entirely appropriate.

Of course Casey was okay with this. Chuck had noticed long ago that Casey either actually loved his covers, the more extreme the better, or just was so committed to his job that his enthusiasm spilled over. At least it wouldn’t be much of a reach for Casey to play butch.

“Ready?” Sarah asked.

Chuck gulped and nodded.

****

Later that night, in Volkov’s elegantly appointed guest room, Chuck made sure to get under the covers before Casey came out of the bathroom. He pulled the blankets up to his chin, closed his eyes, and then turned over a couple of times. Should he stay on his back? Or maybe turn to his side, facing the edge of the bed? Or would that look too weird and he should face towards Casey?

When Casey came out, dressed only in a pair of boxer-briefs that didn’t look better on the underwear models, Chuck made a sound—maybe it was an eep—and Casey shot him a look suggesting that Chuck had better man the heck up. He strode over to the lightswitch and then the world went black, not a hint of moonlight bleeding through the bulletproof curtains. Chuck strained his ears listening for Casey’s approach.

The mattress was so soft that Chuck actually rolled a little towards Casey when his weight bore it down. He heard Casey arrange himself, and then oh holy Jesus Casey’s fingers were in his mouth. Chuck almost bit down just out of shock, but managed to hold himself still. Then Casey’s mouth brushed his ear.

“Infrared camera,” Casey rumbled, just at the edge of his hearing. “Gotta put on a show.”

Then Casey rolled on top of him, breathing hot onto Chuck’s face. His hand was between them, and he began to roll his hips, slow and dirty. “Relax, baby,” he said, loud enough for any listener to hear. “Let me take care of you.”

“C—” Chuck began, and Casey put his mouth over Chuck’s, swallowing the rest of his name, mashing Chuck’s lips against his teeth. And the agony of it was, Chuck was incredibly turned on by that, along with the bulk of Casey. They were the same height but Casey must’ve outweighed him by fifty pounds, and for some reason Chuck’s dick thought that was the most amazing thing ever, which Chuck considered a nearly unconscionable betrayal. Okay, he thought Casey was gorgeous in an objective way, and okay, he’d kissed the guy, but—hunh, maybe this wasn’t entirely unexpected.

Casey stopped for a second when he felt the press of Chuck’s erection, then continued moving with the same rhythm, but lifted his hips slightly so that their groins were no longer rubbing up against each other. “Oh, yeah,” he said. “That’s it, that’s my boy.”

Chuck had thought he’d known that it was impossible to die from humiliation—there’d been enough of it in his life—but apparently he’d reached a new low, and he half prayed for his heart to stop. At least that might drive his stubborn dick down.

And then Casey did the most amazing thing. Simultaneously, he bit down on Chuck’s jaw, just hard enough to make Chuck yelp, and he stuck his hand down Chuck’s boxers and wrapped his hand around Chuck’s dick. Even without any lubricant, his grip was perfect, like this was just another physical skill he’d mastered.

After that it was all over. Chuck came in about thirty seconds. Maybe less. At that point, there wasn’t really any percentage in being embarrassed, so Chuck didn’t bother. Also, his brain was kind of sending TILT TILT TILT signals.

Casey groaned, sounding exactly like a guy getting his rocks off, and after a long moment rolled off of Chuck, leaving him with a big wet patch soaking his shirt and a very troubled mind.

Chuck panted for a couple of minutes before Casey leaned back in, nuzzling his ear. “I don’t do on-camera shows,” Casey whispered, ignoring the fact that Chuck was shuddering like Casey’d just put his hand back on Chuck’s dick. “But I’ll let you make it up to me later.”

Comments

[ariadnes_string]

OMG, you didn't have to do both prompts! That is beyond generous--thank you!

And God's own language for cursing? Perfect! Of course Dean would love that! Mrs. Gold is absolutely my canon now!

The curtain!fic is wonderful too, especially the embroidery--heee!

Thanks!

[rivkat]

I'm glad you liked them! Possibly I should have had them embroidering curtains, but I couldn't quite get there.

[jain]

Sorry for the late response; end-of-the-year fests have been keeping me busy. I absolutely love it, and, yes, this Sam/Dean fan is very happy with their interaction. :-) So many wonderful things: the embroidery, and Bobby being awesomely acerbic, and the emo porn, which you do so very well. Also, the line Bobby had made some good investments, or engaged in some highly lucrative fraud, Sam wasn’t going to ask which, made me laugh out loud. Thank you so much!

Oh, and also, the Yiddishe!Dean ficlet is hilarious and very sweet.

[rivkat]

I'm so glad you liked it! I was reading a book about needlecrafts and embroidery seemed like a good addition to their domesticity.

I wish I could do more with Dean's Jewish roots, but I just couldn't figure it out.