"Unhappy the Land That Has No Heroes," Angel/Faith/Dean
Title: Unhappy the Land That Has No Heroes
Author: Alizarin
Fandoms: Buffy, Angel, Supernatural
Rating: NC-17 overall
Pairings: Angel/Dean, Angel/Dean/Faith, Faith/Dean
Words: 6,960
Written for: Oh god, just me. And maybe femmenerd and girlguidejones but only because they begged like shameless hussies.
Beta by: The awesomeness of poisontaster who not only read it, but endured the mighty morphin’ tenses of DOOM. She’s the hardest working girl in fandom. Thanks, gorgeous. That said, there were so many mistakes and still are and they are clearly ALL MINE.
PART I
Dean leans as far out as he can, nearly falling off his stool, in order to watch the swinging ass of a hot little number that just cruised by their table.
Sam rolls his eyes. Dean knows; it’s all so fucking predictable.
Dean is only doing it to hide the flaring, intense interest he has in the tall, dark and handsome type at the other end of the bar. He stares at the girl’s ass; he leers at her. It’s what he does, what he always does.
He doth protest too much. He knows it.
But Sam’s always bought it and it’s not like he has no interest in the fairer sex; that’s not it at all. It’s just that he’s not interested in every girl he looks at, and he’s not interested in the types he’s supposed to like. And he’s interested in men too, one more thing he’s not supposed to like - at least he thinks he’s interested.
Once they slay their proverbial dragon, Dean figures he’ll get his shit sorted out. After, he’ll be at liberty to decide who he really wants to be. When that time comes, Dean thinks, everything will fall into place.
The guy at the end of the bar turns around and pins him in place with a stare.
Busted.
This is so not good, Dean thinks, because now he can’t look away. The guy - a man, really - is breathtaking. He’s beautiful in a soulful way, not in a superfluous way.
And he’s making his way over to Dean.
“Shit,” Dean says.
“What?” Sam asks, looking up from his laptop, his beer and his cheese fries.
“Might be trouble; you let me handle it.” It looks like Sam acknowledges that there’s nothing too troublesome, maybe he assumes that Dean’s had five more beers than he ought to have had, and so he shrugs and goes back to his beer and his notes.
Dean steps up to the guy, meets his eyes. Better to let him know right away there’s been a miscommunication. He wasn’t looking at the guy that way. Or if he was, he’s certainly not interested in talking about it. No way.
But he’s underestimated the powerful pull of the guy and his own desperation.
There’s a few minutes of idle chit-chat, and Dean is doing most of it and the guy is just staring at him like he wants to eat him for breakfast - or maybe fuck him for same. He’s got a black t-shirt on, tight over his pecs and dark denim jeans pulled taut across his hips, accentuating what more than a few dive bar floozies have looked at hungrily in passing. Dark eyes, dark hair, a set jaw and a strong build - plus an unrelenting interest in every twitch and smirk Dean makes - fuck, this is going to be too good to pass up. Sam is here, but Dean can finesse this. He has to.
Turns out, he doesn’t have to.
The guy is quick and smooth and he’s got the waitress bringing shots and suddenly Sam has extra beers. Maybe Dean sees him crumple a bill into the waitress’ hand right before she and a girlfriend from the bar descend on Sam and suggest a drinking game. Dean winks at Sam so it’s all okay and then he and the mystery man are slipping outside, intentions clear as the inky black sky and there’s no hint of Sam burning a hole in Dean’s back with his curious stare.
Dean drops to his knees as soon as they’re out and around the back and his hand is braced against the wood-slatted wall, splinters digging in deep and sharp. The guy stares down, severe, no smile, this isn’t playful.
He’s here to get his fix and Dean’s both dealer and syringe.
He pulls Dean’s head back with one hand so he can really stare down, right into Dean’s eyes, and with his other hand he deftly undoes the fly of his jeans. Dean can’t look down, can’t move his head -- fuck this guy is all about control. The guy reels him in and he opens his mouth, eyes finally shutting in supplication as the guy’s cock moves in, shoving his lips aside and filling up the space inside. Thank God the guy’s not shoving, Dean could have gagged. The pressure of it on his tongue makes him crazy; makes him hot and he finds he’s opening his throat for more, licking around the full head, praying, hoping, wanting to hear the guy moan.
The guy doesn’t make a single sound until he comes - later, much later, too long as Dean’s jaw is aching - and then it’s just a grunt almost like a sob. Dean hears him fasten his fly and expects him to walk away; he’s ready for that and it’s okay. He wipes his hand across his mouth, feeling thoroughly fucked, the way his lips are swollen and his throat is full of salt.
But no, the guy hauls him up by the lapels of his leather jacket, like Dean is a stuffed toy, and there’s the muffled press of a kiss before he spins Dean around and shoves him up against the wall with one hand, the other hand doing its duty at fly-opening.
Dean’s being held firm and fast, the shoulder of his jacket in one fist and his cock in the other fist. The guy is strong and unyielding - so firmly in control it makes Dean shudder and give, bend and break. He wants it to last, wants the guy to jack him off for many minutes more but it isn’t going to happen, not after his mouth was fucked and he got so hot from being held down, being hauled up, being swept along on a fierce tide of need as great as his own.
Dean splashes over the wood, hips thrusting into the guy’s fist, his head nearly banging against the wall, but he knows in the back of his mind he can’t go back into the bar with splinters in his forehead.
When he turns around, he sees those eyes go dark with lust again and he thinks for a second he's gonna be asked for another round. He looks down and sees that the guy’s fist is bloody, his knuckles scraped raw against the wood he had Dean pressed up against.
Dean doesn’t think.
“Hey,” he says softly, and brings the bruised and bloodied knuckles up to his lips and gently sucks them.
What happens next is so fast - almost too fast, except Dean has had a lifetime of training in timed reactions, split second decisions - but the guy jerks his hand away like lightning back into the sky. His face flashes, changes, contorts, and Dean sees fangs and yellow eyes and he hears “Don’t” and it sounds like a low growl, not even a voice, but an empty void that echoes back and creases its forehead and slits its pupils and…
Fuck. He’s a fucking vampire. Dean knows it even though its face flashes back to normal instantaneously. No one else would ever believe their eyes; they’d think it was a trick of the light. But Dean knows.
Dean knows.
Fast as he can, he’s running. He’s unarmed and he’s got nothing on him, but he’s got guns in the car and he can at the very least, give it some pepper, some salt in the wounds, a few bullets to pick out of its skin - and maybe put some distance between them while he regroups, warns Sam, hides, gathers his thoughts.
And fuck. Sam has the keys on him. Dean bangs on the trunk in frustration, hard, several times, sensing nothing behind him and he half-turns and the demon is gone, utterly vanished. And he is about ready to turn all the way around when he hears Sam.
“Dean? What the fuck is going on?”
“Taking a piss, little brother, give a man some privacy.” Dean’s a quick thinker. He pretends to shake, zips his fly, coughs a little, leans on the hood like he’s still drunk when he’s never been more sober.
“Get in the car, Sammy,” Dean says, straightening and putting on his don’t-fuck-around face that Sam will never - or rarely - argue with. “We need to go. Now.”
**
PART II
They converge on the tiny motel, arranged around a courtyard with a defunct fountain in the middle. Sam heads around the back and Dean goes straight through to the vampire’s front door. The vamp is sleeping; they got an eye-witness saw him go in around dawn and it's late afternoon and he hasn't been out. Bugs buzz lazily in the stagnant fountain water. It would otherwise be silent and Dean thinks of his last-night lover laid out on the motel bed, maybe drunk on some other victim's blood.
Too bad the best blow job of his life has to die.
Sam's shaggy head appears around the corner and affirms that there's no exit from the back window without serious sunburn and window breakage, and Dean isn't going to waste another second. He kicks in the door with a Timberland and his shotgun is lined up in perfect parallel with Sam's as they enter, near-military style, just like Daddy taught them.
Dead man’s blood coats the bullets. They’ve got knives in their boots to finish the job.
The demon isn't lying on the bed. The bedsheets are twisted like white snakes, but empty of a body. Sam clears the bathroom and that's when Dean starts to get nervous. A bead of sweat drips down from his forehead and he can feel the damn thing slip down, drop, and land on the carpet. In the same second, he sees the silhouetted form lounging in the junky leather chair near the window. The vamp is as still as the furniture he’s sitting in.
He's about to blow its head off when his gun gets kicked from his grip and knocked up against the ceiling. It doesn't go off, but hits the ceiling with some serious force and plaster spills down, covering the guy's dark hair in white. He's a vampire, so yeah, he moves fast.
Sam -- Sam has got a gun, and Dean turns and leans back to give him a clear shot. There's someone else, though, a tiny form standing in the open doorway. She spins Sam around, and his gun pops up and snaps right into her hands.
"What. The. Fuck." The girl is spitting and hissing and she elbows Sam right in the face. Dean hears a crack and Sam goes down. The vamp pulls his arm around Dean's throat and he's squeezing, but not too hard. The girl doesn't know that they're friends, obviously, and she kicks Dean in the gut. His vision goes blurry and then blank for a few minutes.
When Dean gets his bearings again, he's tied -- fucking tied -- to a chair, Sam next to him, with his head still nodding to the side. Their knives and guns are tossed aside, out of reach.
"Let me go, fucking bloodsuckers!"
The girl laughs, heartily. She's got a denim miniskirt on and a pair of cowboy boots with steel on the heel. Long silky legs reach up and up; she's wearing a wife-beater, like the vampire, his is white, hers is black. His hangs loose on him, hers is tight. Her hair is pinned up off her long neck and dark lashes frame brown eyes and if Dean knew for a fact he wasn't going to date demons or their demon-loving friends, he'd certainly let her fuck with his preference.
"Okay," the vamp says, running a hand over his hair, rubbing his face, "What are you doing here, Faith?"
"Clearly I'm here to save your sorry ass from getting dusted by small-town amateurs," she says.
"I'm not happy to see you," he says.
"Stop flirting with me, Angel, you know you never gonna get some."
"Cleveland not able to cool your heels, Faith?"
"That bureaucratic bullshit isn't my scene, you know it. I’m more in line with the bureaucratic bribes."
"Smells like Wolfram and Hart all over."
Apparently, the two of them aren't even going to acknowledge Dean and Sam's presence. They're so wrapped up in something of their own making that they don't even care that two guys are tied up in the motel room they're in, shotguns scattered on the floor.
"I run by my own rules, Angel."
"Pay for play, am I right Faith? Does Buffy know you're doing this? Does the Council?" At this Faith seems to change tactics. She digs the toe of her boot into the rough, cheap carpet. She avoids his gaze and casts hers over Dean and Sam.
"Pay, yes. Play, maybe. I'm well beyond trusting Lilah, but I recall I wasn't the only one who trusted Wesley." Now it's the vamp’s turn to stare holes in the carpet. Dean sees his face twist with pain, like Faith has stabbed him in the chest.
"Wesley's dead."
"Wes is as dead as Lilah, Angel. You knew this would happen; you arranged it. Gunn had the smarts to fix his legacy. Wes…not so much."
"Hey," Dean's got his wind back; it's time to stake a claim to this conversation. "You guys gonna kill us or just bore us to death with your drama?"
The vampire doesn't move. Faith does. Quick as a bunny, she straddles him, licks her finger and runs it along the sweat dripping down his face. Then she runs her tongue back along her finger and clenches her thighs as Dean struggles. "Oh, you're a fiery piece of ass, aren't you? Pretty for a redneck, too. And your little boyfriend."
"Faith, leave him alone," the vampire says.
"Angel. These guys tried to waste you. Bullets, not even stakes. Rank amateurs. I watched them stalk you, waited outside to give you a hand. Can't we scare the piss out of 'em before we let 'em go?" Angel and Faith, nice names for demons. Dean can't wait to see what reindeer games they've got in store.
Angel moves over to Faith and drags her off Dean bodily. She blows a kiss and winks at him as she lets herself be hauled over to the bed.
"It's fine, Faith. I'm moving on. No one will believe the stories they'll try to tell - and these guys have a special book full of stories, so don't worry." Fuck, so the guy knew about their research, about Dad's book. "Plus, I fucked him last night."
Faith's mouth drops open.
Dean's mouth drops open. Then he quickly looks over to Sam to make sure he hasn't heard. His priorities are so screwed up. Sam's head is moving side to side, but he's groggy still.
"Thought you were waiting for me, Angel," Faith pretends to pout, but it's got a touch of hurt in it.
"Let's go our separate ways, Faith. I'm not interested in Wolfram and Hart, their zombies, or anything you, they, the Council or anyone else has to offer."
"I get it. Let me come with you."
"No."
"Rogue Demon Hunters. You and me. We'll take the Brothers Grimm as our apprentices."
"Go ahead Faith,” Angel is laughing, but not in amusement. His face is twisted up by the smile. “My journey is over. This is the living end. I'm not saving anyone, not fighting, not living. It's over."
"Drama queen," Faith retorts, and rolls her eyes at Dean as if they’re co-conspirators.
Angel has clearly has enough with the company and the banter, because he drags Dean and Sam still tied in their chairs and shoves them out into the courtyard, then hauls Faith out the door and dumps her next to them. Dean can hear him moving the motel dresser up against the busted door.
“Open this door,” Faith shouts. She begs, pleads and whines. Dean has never seen a woman pull out all the stops like this. He knows that if he were on the other side of the door, he’d be opening it. What happened to make this vampire want to give up on his immortal lifestyle and the likes of a hot woman like Faith?
Faith shouts herself hoarse, bangs her fists against the door until they bleed. She realizes Dean and Sam are still sitting in the courtyard so she stops to cut them loose with one of their knives before she stalks off.
“Hey! Hey!” Dean wants more, wants to see what this chick is all about, what she knows, but she’s making a beeline and not looking back. “That’s my knife, bitch!”
Dean finds he's almost pleased to see she's human; the sun glints off pieces of her dark hair as he watches her storm off. He wants to chase her down so bad he can taste it. But he's got Sam to worry about and so they limp off in the other direction.
He promises himself he'll get the answers he wants.
**
PART III
Faith smokes Marlboro Reds. That’s the color of choice for the world-weary Slayer.
Little bitty cutey-pie slayerettes rule the day with Buffy -- now that she’s CEO, goddess and big sis all rolled into one. They’d never been that close, she and B., so Faith doesn’t feel slighted in the least. Really.
Her and Angel on the other hand. She always thought he’d have time for her one day, but this running away and slamming door in her face like some rebel teen on smack - well, it just wasn’t like him.
Once he calms down and lets her back into his room, she flops onto the bed and pretends that he isn’t ignoring her. She asks him about the guys that stormed his room. She asks about the one he claimed he fucked.
“Not both of them, huh?” Faith asks.
“Just the prettier one,” Angel says.
“Always did like ‘em fair,” she replies. She’s down to three Reds, seeing as Angel’s taken up smoking again. He hears what she says and grips the edges of his chair. He stubs out his cigarette with vehemence. She watches his face shift, the vampire just underneath, like a fish swimming near the surface of a lake. But it looks like grief and that frightens her more than his game face ever could.
“Sure you’re not Angelus?” Hey, it’s a fair question.
“And you’d be clothed and in one piece if I were?”
“Good point.” Faith fingers the Red, drawing her lighter near after a practiced flick. “I bet Angelus is a righteous good fuck.”
“Nothing righteous about it.” Angel bogarts another Red without asking. He grins at Faith but it’s devoid of humor, completely without charm. Faith hides a small shudder. She doesn’t like the vibe she’s getting from him. “It’s only good if you’re suicidal. Or immortal.” His grin turns wolfish and Faith has to look away.
“Spike,” Faith says, trying out the word, seeing what effect it might have. He’s talking about Spike. He really always did like them fair. Blondes. Cocky, self-assured, loving him, resisting him, playing light to his dark and matching him strike for strike. Faith isn’t an expert on Angel like maybe Wesley was, or Buffy even, but she’s learned a lot by watching. She’s learned a lot by living.
Now Faith wishes she had the name back in her mouth because Spike brings the cloud cover to Angel’s face.
“He’s… gone.”
“Gunn,” She says.
“Dead.”
“Fred.”
“Burned out of her body by an Old One. But you’d have known that I assume.”
“Old One,” Faith repeats. “I got the so-called ‘report,’ dry as a bone from Watcherville, but I prefer to hear your story from you.”
“My list of dead loved ones turns you on?” Angel’s voice is flat, his eyes expressionless. “You want the gory B-movie horror of it all? I sent Wesley to die, and he did. Lorne was chased down and tied up by demons who then dragged him behind a truck for miles until he was nothing but pulp. Gunn bled out in the alley and dogs licked up the blood. You want to hear how they put my girlfriend in a cage just her size and stuck her out under a full moon, and then when she changed into a werewolf, she was crushed? Every bone in her body, broken. And Spike.”
He stops at Spike.
“I had no idea,” Faith says, and moves over to where Angel sits in the leather chair. She reaches for him. He slaps her hand away.
Faith was never very good with the notion of comfort, giving or receiving.
“So.” She speaks softly, still afraid of bringing his horror back to life. “You won’t come with me, won’t let me come with you. You don’t want to hear Wes and Lilah’s offer - I can assure you it’s astounding - you won’t acknowledge Buffy or the Council. What is it you want, Angel?”
“Time away from pain,” Angel says. “Just time.”
“Well, I didn’t come all this way just to leave empty-handed. There’s a convenient nest of nasty vamps 30 miles out, on an abandoned farm. Ride with me, kill with me. Let’s let loose a little. We can take the pretty along if you want, teach them a few new tricks. Do that for me, Angel, before Wes and Lilah ruin my fun.”
Angel’s head bows, the shape making a shadow as the afternoon light goes soft and turns to gold. Faith can feel time stopping and slipping as her friend and quarry battles his inner hordes.
“Angel?” She finally asks, brushing his forearm with her fingertips.
He looks at her and she knows she’s won this terribly small, terribly meaningless victory. She’s won one night.
**
PART IV
“That’s her,” Dean says, nodding to the end of the bar.
“She’s pretending not to notice you,” Sam notices, “But she’s aware you’re here.”
“We,” Dean corrects him. “We’re here. You were in that motel room same as I was.”
“But I wasn’t talking about films with the vampire last night, here in this very bar.”
“What?” How did Sam know that when Dean barely remembered any of their conversation?
“You told him you really liked ‘My Own Private Idaho,’” Sam smirks. Dean’s breath catches but he stays focused. He has his worries and his hang-ups carefully prioritized.
“Since when did you become such a keen observer of humanity,” Dean tries to make light, but Sam is wary, seeming to suspect something. Damn. His little brother has grown into a total smartass. Still, he really does fucking love the kid.
It’s a little like a replay of the night before when the girl turns around, levels her eyes on him, and saunters over to their table. It’s a Friday night and the place is crowded, but most of the eyes in the place are on her. Faith.
She’s got a skin-tight bustier top on that makes Dean drool a little. Black leather jeans are slung low on her hips. She looks like a hunter, what Dean imagines a chick hunter would look like. And she looks ready for action, too.
Dean can’t help his curiosity. He toes the bag of ammo at his feet and curls a fist around the handful of dead man’s blood-bullets in his jacket pocket, just in case.
“We weren’t properly introduced earlier,” she says, sticking out a hand with black nail polish flashing at the tips. Sam stares and Dean kicks him under the table to get him to snap his mouth shut.
“I’m Dean, this is my little brother Sammy.”
“It’s Sam. And I’m his younger brother, but also, taller.” Faith looks like she wants to eat Sam up. Dean would rather she kept her eyes on him.
“We don’t want trouble,” Faith continues. “You two know a little about what’s what. Enough to get yourselves in trouble if you want to. I’m thinking we all agree to let sleeping dogs lie.”
“Don’t know about dogs,” Dean says. “We’re not in the habit of letting vampires roam the streets killing people when we can do something about it.”
Faith looks at him like he’s lost his motherfucking mind. “Have your bro fill you in on what a Slayer is. Angel may be a little tepid in the living area, but he’s got soul.” She did a little groove right then to illustrate the word. Dean may have felt his mouth go dry, even though he was trying hard to concentrate on what she was saying. Sam’s fingers were flying over his laptop and seriously who brought a goddamn laptop into a bar on a Friday night?
“No can do, my pretty little lady, we don’t just walk away from a fight.”
“Well, maybe you can join in on one and see what a real fight is like,” Faith says. She’s looking him up and down, sizing him up and hey, he’s got two eyes too, he can surely see that she’s a fairly formidable force tucked together in a compact body.
“Drinks?” she asks. It’s not a question, it’s a statement. He nods.
He’s in. He is so in.
An hour later they’re reaching maximum sloshitude and the bartender actually cuts them off from the tequila and makes them drink something else so he doesn’t run dry. Dean’s got a good buzz going, but he’s not opposed to beer.
“Lissen, I gotta get my fight on or I’ll want to fuck soon instead.”
She smiles the slowest, sultriest smile he’s ever seen and he thinks it’s going to go that way but no.
Sam and Dean grab their gear and follow her out the door. Once they’re outside, he sees the outline of Angel against the streetlamp. He doesn’t recoil, not even close. Sam stops, stutters, but Dean grabs his arm, steadies him, and says, “Okay, show us something.” It’s as much to Angel as it is to Faith and he’s fueled with his buzz and his sense of something dangerous and new going on with these two. “Curiosity killed the cat,” he mutters to himself.
Sam climbs courteously into the back of Angel’s pick up. It’s a fucking vampire pick up, with the windows blacked out and everything. He and Sam need the fresh air, and with Faith sitting back there with them and the guns, it doesn’t even feel like the risk it probably is. Sam is convinced his Slayer research is on target and Dean really hopes he’s right.
“We’re getting up in the grill of a big nest,” Faith informs them casually. “Werewolves and vamps, and these Kene'chogue fuckers. Demons. Ugly fuckers, I hate them. They like to gather up weres and vamps and screw with ‘em, make ‘em really pissed and rabid and then set them loose all over town.”
“How do you know this stuff?” Sam’s enquiring mind wants to know.
They've reached a deserted clearing a mile outside of town. Faith shrugs off Sam’s question. “Instinct. Other ways.”
Angel doesn’t say much, just hands some wooden stakes to Dean.
“Don’t need those, got dead man’s blood on my bullets here.” There's something about Angel’s look, the rough brush of calloused hand against Dean’s that acknowledges the night before without anything overt. Dean tries not to be happy about that.
“Messy,” Angel says, gesturing to Dean’s knife and rifle. “And if they’re not Initiative hybrids, the blood won’t slow them down.”
Dean doesn’t know what he's talking about but Dad would never steer them wrong. Never. That's the end of that.
Sam moves off toward the edge of the forest, scouting the bare bones of trees skirting the clearing. “We’ll find out for sure, soon enough,” he calls out. “Vamps headed this way.”
Dean immediately regrets his tequila haze as seven rabid, yellow-eyed, multi-fanged, hillbilly vamps start making their way to the gathering in the clearing. Dean’s eyes fill with smoke as he and Sam lay down rifle-fire. Faith and Angel haven’t yet moved and Dean thinks suddenly, a trap, we’re fucked, I let Sam right into it, following my dick, oh God…
Before he can get his head sorted out, Faith sprints forward, knocks the head of one of the vamps back with her fist, spins around and drives a stake into his chest. There’s an explosion of dust.
“Told y’all,” she smiles wickedly. “I like wood.”
“Fuck,” Dean says. Unbelievable, this whole scene. Not one of the vamps even stumbled after the dead man’s blood ripped into them. And Angel and Faith are clearly protecting him and Sam, yet leaving them room to do what they came here to do. They had a kind of military precision. They were strong, fast - unbelievably so.
Faith spins and kicks and Angel just stands solid, taking out whatever comes his way with what seems like a flick of his wrist.
A werewolf bounds out of the woods, heading for Sam. Angel steps in front of it, snatches it out of the air and twists its neck. A strangled yelp and it’s toast. Dean stabs a vamp in the gut and the thing grins up at him, evilly. He should have taken the wooden stakes when he had the chance. Faith tosses him one and after two, okay, three stabs at the thing, it explodes. He meets Sam’s eyes then and they both realize: this is the real deal. A Slayer and a vampire with a soul.
He and Sam aren’t alone, after all, not at all.
**
PART V
The killing was done, it was over and done, and it was good.
Dean loves the hunt and the kill, what’s not to love? Sam does too, much as he would never admit. And Angel, whatever he was thinking, it wasn’t that he hated killing. He was clearly so damn good at it.
They drop Sam off at the motel. Dean mumbles something about wanting to decompress, have some more drinks, and Sam is eager to get off the hook on that, but he fights the idea of Dean just going off with a couple of strangers, one of them a vamp.
“I’m going, Sam, don’t baby me,” Dean says, knowing his brother needs the reassurance. “I need to work off the energy. I’ll be fine. Look, I have my cell phone. You can call me. I’ll call you if I run into trouble but I won’t. I just wanna get laid.”
Sam gives in with a quiet frown. He’s too tired to fight Dean knows that Sam will flop down on his twin bed and be out before Angel guns the motor, taking him and Faith away, free in the wind in the back of the truck, hollering at the top of their lungs with bloodlust.
She tastes like earth.
Back at Angel’s shoddy motel room, Angel sits in the leather chair near the window and smokes a cigarette, just watching. Dean takes Faith’s clothes off slowly. He’s spinning, like the room, and therefore clumsy. Plus, he’s not used to having an audience. Condoms are spread out on the bedspread, like colorful confetti.
Faith isn’t just some bimbo, and this makes him a little nervous, too. If the tequila hadn’t dulled his inhibitions, he’d have to really rethink this. Faith isn’t ready to worship his pretty eyes and his smooth talk, she’s got his number, and she could break his face as well. Her hair is loose and wild from the ride and there are dried bits of leaves in it. Dean wants to worship every inch of her. Angel’s approval and possible arousal at the two of them is a bonus. He’ll think about the rest tomorrow.
There’s no light but the glow of the cigarette butt and a slanting streetlight through the ratty curtains. Angel is the biggest presence in the room. Dean tries hard to block him out and just do his thing. He preens as Faith strips him down to his boxers and lets her admire him. He takes strength from it. He kisses her as languidly as she allows. He caresses the underside of her arm, kisses her wrist, licks the side of her neck before fingering the thin line of her underwear. She encourages him with several moans and he can feel that she’s wet already.
When he finally has her naked, she arches back down on the bed and spreads herself out. He sucks each nipple in turn before moving down to tongue between her legs, perfect French kisses that end with his tongue delving inside. Faith’s gasps are supremely gratifying. Her fingers clench in his hair and he lifts his head. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Angel, his fly undone, stroking himself hard.
Dean swallows a smile.
Faith pulls him up and yanks his boxers down, hooking her foot in them to bring them deftly off over his feet. Then she reaches out for Angel. Angel stands and pulls off his shirt. Dean turns to look and to admire the pale, solid chest. He can’t see anything of Angel’s eyes but a shadowed smudge.
There’s a tense moment then, as Angel and Faith communicate something, negotiate their positions with stares. Angel ignores her outstretched hand and runs his own hand along Dean’s back. Dean shudders.
Angel whispers in Dean’s ear. What it is, exactly, Dean can’t be sure. His senses are playing games with him, and Faith is muttering dirty things to distract him. Before he can let his brain scream no way are you going to let a demon touch you… he says instead, “Yes. Oh god, yes.” And Faith says, “Yeah, oh yeah, Angel,” just as Dean nudges her thighs further apart and kneels between them.
He knows to hold still, knows to wait for Angel. He hears the sound of Angel slicking up his fingers. Faith rolls a condom on him, and he’s still not even sure that this is really happening until Angel’s arm snakes around his chest, bracing him, letting his fingers trail down between Dean’s ass and then up and in. Angel wastes no time, two fingers, deep, but slick and Faith is watching Dean’s face, hungry and hot, sweat plastering her dark hair back from her face. Man, she is beautiful, Dean thinks, and then Angel presses hard across his prostate, and he’s really okay with this.
With Angel’s hand on his hip, guiding him, he slides inside Faith -- and have girls always been this hot and this wet? She bucks her hips up to meet him. “Yeah, just like that,” she says. She gazes over his shoulder at Angel. Again with the secret stares, but Dean’s buried inside her and he doesn’t care so much. Dean feels her hands on his ass and God, she is spreading him, stilling him for Angel.
This is so fucked up. Angel’s hand grips his shoulder and fucked up or not, Dean finds himself pushing back, wanting it -- wanting to plunge forward into Faith and back onto Angel’s cock.
There it is; the burn as Angel enters him, mitigated by the smooth feel of a condom. Slow, but all the way. Angel is going to make him take it all. Faith’s hips are more insistent against his and she’s going to make him come right then and there. “Stop,” he begs her, and then says to Angel, “Please… please.” Angel obliges and saws his hips back and forth, pushing Dean with him, and between them, Dean is like a conduit, they’re fucking him, but also fucking each other, and he can’t move or he’ll come.
Angel forces him to the edge anyway, the edge where Faith is waiting. Dean can’t let her hang, so he tries for a rhythm, grapples with it, then hits his stride. Angel growls behind him, not quite a human sound and fucks him harder. Dean focuses on Faith, sliding a hand between their bodies to let his fingers rub against her clit and when he feels her tighten around his cock, he lets himself go too and comes with sobs in his throat.
Faith holds him tightly, letting Angel continue, pulling them both down on top of her, not allowing Dean much movement in her vice-like grip. “Come on, Angel, baby, come for us,” she whispers.
Dean can hear the sound of Angel’s thighs slapping against his ass, insistent and rough before he slows and gentles, his cock swelling and pulsing before he slides to the side and the three of them settle into a tangled ball on the bed.
**
PART VI
Dean wakes to an insistent buzzing sound.
“Phone,” he mutters at the same time Faith does.
“Ha, it’s yours,” he gloats, but all he gets is a dirty look out from beneath the rat’s nest of her hair.
“Fuck,” Faith sits up. “He’s gone. Shouldn’t be surprised, and I’m not. But now I’ll have to face the music.”
Dean pretty much ignores the cryptic. He has problems of his own. And he’s mighty relieved, all things being equal, that Angel is gone. Easier that way. What he needs now is a medic.
“I can’t fucking move.”
Faith’s smoke-rasped laugh drowns out the sound of birds chirping outside in the sunlight. Mascara rings her eyes making her look like a junkie.
“I can imagine,” she says, rolling her eyes. “Angel’s only serious relationships were with other vampires, Slayers or werewolves. He’s not used to having to take it easy.”
“You call that taking it easy?” Dean smirks to cover the wince.
A hot shower feels great and washes a lot of blood, dirt and soreness away. He’s nearly a new man when he comes out of the bathroom, pulling his dusty t-shirt over his head. A lucky thing he’s decided to dress since it’s now a party. Two people dressed for success are standing in the middle of the wrecked room. Faith’s arms are crossed and she doesn’t bother to cover her panty-clad butt, just stands there in underwear and tank top. She looks pretty pissed.
Trouble, Dean thinks, but not mine.
He wonders how Sam slept and if he’s had breakfast. He can grab coffees and show up with a smile in case Sam is pissed he stayed out all night. Their hotel can't be more than a mile away if Faith isn’t inclined to give him a ride.
One of the suits is a woman and she looks Dean up and down. “Nice night, Faith?”
“Yep, just me and him, banging boots until the break of dawn.”
“So there’s been no sign of Angel?” The other suit speaks, but his tone is sharper, colder, his eyes pure steel.
“No, Wes, not a sign. Not a portent. Not a whiff of rumor on the wind.” Faith sniffs at him to make her point.
“We’d heard wrongly then. Come Lilah, let’s go.”
“Don’t let the door hit ya on the way out,” Faith calls out after them, but it doesn’t have any sting in it. She roughly stuffs her clothing in a worn duffel bag.
“What the fuck with you people?”
“Long story. I’ll explain in the car. I need to hitch a ride with you and your brother.”
“Wait, hold on. This wasn’t part of the deal. I move on, always, after…”
“Oh, whatever. I don’t want to have your babies, idiot. Let me tell you something, though.”
“This really ought to be good,” Dean says, not believing it for an instant, but wondering if she’ll surprise him again.
“You know that little demon you’ve been hunting? The one that killed your poor mommy and daddy and wants to get its hands on your baby brother?”
Dean stares.
“Yeah, I thought so. Well, those two lawyers represent him. Him and lots of others like him.”
“What are you saying?” Dean asks sharply. “I don’t know what you’re trying to do here, or what game you’re playing at…”
“Angel found you and your bro to warn you, to see where your dad’s book is going to lead you next and set up something for your family-friendly demon. I think he’s grown a soft spot for you, too. You remind him of someone he used to…” Faith scratches her head and her hair flies around her head, Ladylike, this one is not. She bends to pull on a pair of jeans.
“We’re doing okay on our own, don’t need -“
“Yeah, you’re tough I know,” she interrupts. “But this is bigger than you or me, it always is. And it’s well-represented. Evil lawyers want Angel on their side, like yesterday. And Angel just wants to mourn his dead, brood his broodypants off, but he needs a mission, he needs to be saving people. He needs us.”
“You’ll get it,” Faith continues airily, as if Dean’s already on board. She slings her bag over her shoulder. “Angel will probably be there at the next spot on your travel itinerary; he’ll want to see for himself. Let’s get your brother and go. We have a lot of work to do if we want to vaporize this mother.”
Dean follows her out into the sunshine, which seems far too bright for what’s happened in the last 24 hours. She knows about the demon, she knows about his parents, she knows… He wants to know what else she knows.
Dean has always been able to go with the flow, think on his feet, and believe in the unbelievable. It’s a special talent, one could say. And Faith is a hot little number… and Angel…
Plus, he’s got new leads on the demon, and he’s doubled the size of his army.
“Let’s get one thing straight right off,” he says to Faith. “I do the driving.”
**end**
.
Author: Alizarin
Fandoms: Buffy, Angel, Supernatural
Rating: NC-17 overall
Pairings: Angel/Dean, Angel/Dean/Faith, Faith/Dean
Words: 6,960
Written for: Oh god, just me. And maybe femmenerd and girlguidejones but only because they begged like shameless hussies.
Beta by: The awesomeness of poisontaster who not only read it, but endured the mighty morphin’ tenses of DOOM. She’s the hardest working girl in fandom. Thanks, gorgeous. That said, there were so many mistakes and still are and they are clearly ALL MINE.
PART I
Dean leans as far out as he can, nearly falling off his stool, in order to watch the swinging ass of a hot little number that just cruised by their table.
Sam rolls his eyes. Dean knows; it’s all so fucking predictable.
Dean is only doing it to hide the flaring, intense interest he has in the tall, dark and handsome type at the other end of the bar. He stares at the girl’s ass; he leers at her. It’s what he does, what he always does.
He doth protest too much. He knows it.
But Sam’s always bought it and it’s not like he has no interest in the fairer sex; that’s not it at all. It’s just that he’s not interested in every girl he looks at, and he’s not interested in the types he’s supposed to like. And he’s interested in men too, one more thing he’s not supposed to like - at least he thinks he’s interested.
Once they slay their proverbial dragon, Dean figures he’ll get his shit sorted out. After, he’ll be at liberty to decide who he really wants to be. When that time comes, Dean thinks, everything will fall into place.
The guy at the end of the bar turns around and pins him in place with a stare.
Busted.
This is so not good, Dean thinks, because now he can’t look away. The guy - a man, really - is breathtaking. He’s beautiful in a soulful way, not in a superfluous way.
And he’s making his way over to Dean.
“Shit,” Dean says.
“What?” Sam asks, looking up from his laptop, his beer and his cheese fries.
“Might be trouble; you let me handle it.” It looks like Sam acknowledges that there’s nothing too troublesome, maybe he assumes that Dean’s had five more beers than he ought to have had, and so he shrugs and goes back to his beer and his notes.
Dean steps up to the guy, meets his eyes. Better to let him know right away there’s been a miscommunication. He wasn’t looking at the guy that way. Or if he was, he’s certainly not interested in talking about it. No way.
But he’s underestimated the powerful pull of the guy and his own desperation.
There’s a few minutes of idle chit-chat, and Dean is doing most of it and the guy is just staring at him like he wants to eat him for breakfast - or maybe fuck him for same. He’s got a black t-shirt on, tight over his pecs and dark denim jeans pulled taut across his hips, accentuating what more than a few dive bar floozies have looked at hungrily in passing. Dark eyes, dark hair, a set jaw and a strong build - plus an unrelenting interest in every twitch and smirk Dean makes - fuck, this is going to be too good to pass up. Sam is here, but Dean can finesse this. He has to.
Turns out, he doesn’t have to.
The guy is quick and smooth and he’s got the waitress bringing shots and suddenly Sam has extra beers. Maybe Dean sees him crumple a bill into the waitress’ hand right before she and a girlfriend from the bar descend on Sam and suggest a drinking game. Dean winks at Sam so it’s all okay and then he and the mystery man are slipping outside, intentions clear as the inky black sky and there’s no hint of Sam burning a hole in Dean’s back with his curious stare.
Dean drops to his knees as soon as they’re out and around the back and his hand is braced against the wood-slatted wall, splinters digging in deep and sharp. The guy stares down, severe, no smile, this isn’t playful.
He’s here to get his fix and Dean’s both dealer and syringe.
He pulls Dean’s head back with one hand so he can really stare down, right into Dean’s eyes, and with his other hand he deftly undoes the fly of his jeans. Dean can’t look down, can’t move his head -- fuck this guy is all about control. The guy reels him in and he opens his mouth, eyes finally shutting in supplication as the guy’s cock moves in, shoving his lips aside and filling up the space inside. Thank God the guy’s not shoving, Dean could have gagged. The pressure of it on his tongue makes him crazy; makes him hot and he finds he’s opening his throat for more, licking around the full head, praying, hoping, wanting to hear the guy moan.
The guy doesn’t make a single sound until he comes - later, much later, too long as Dean’s jaw is aching - and then it’s just a grunt almost like a sob. Dean hears him fasten his fly and expects him to walk away; he’s ready for that and it’s okay. He wipes his hand across his mouth, feeling thoroughly fucked, the way his lips are swollen and his throat is full of salt.
But no, the guy hauls him up by the lapels of his leather jacket, like Dean is a stuffed toy, and there’s the muffled press of a kiss before he spins Dean around and shoves him up against the wall with one hand, the other hand doing its duty at fly-opening.
Dean’s being held firm and fast, the shoulder of his jacket in one fist and his cock in the other fist. The guy is strong and unyielding - so firmly in control it makes Dean shudder and give, bend and break. He wants it to last, wants the guy to jack him off for many minutes more but it isn’t going to happen, not after his mouth was fucked and he got so hot from being held down, being hauled up, being swept along on a fierce tide of need as great as his own.
Dean splashes over the wood, hips thrusting into the guy’s fist, his head nearly banging against the wall, but he knows in the back of his mind he can’t go back into the bar with splinters in his forehead.
When he turns around, he sees those eyes go dark with lust again and he thinks for a second he's gonna be asked for another round. He looks down and sees that the guy’s fist is bloody, his knuckles scraped raw against the wood he had Dean pressed up against.
Dean doesn’t think.
“Hey,” he says softly, and brings the bruised and bloodied knuckles up to his lips and gently sucks them.
What happens next is so fast - almost too fast, except Dean has had a lifetime of training in timed reactions, split second decisions - but the guy jerks his hand away like lightning back into the sky. His face flashes, changes, contorts, and Dean sees fangs and yellow eyes and he hears “Don’t” and it sounds like a low growl, not even a voice, but an empty void that echoes back and creases its forehead and slits its pupils and…
Fuck. He’s a fucking vampire. Dean knows it even though its face flashes back to normal instantaneously. No one else would ever believe their eyes; they’d think it was a trick of the light. But Dean knows.
Dean knows.
Fast as he can, he’s running. He’s unarmed and he’s got nothing on him, but he’s got guns in the car and he can at the very least, give it some pepper, some salt in the wounds, a few bullets to pick out of its skin - and maybe put some distance between them while he regroups, warns Sam, hides, gathers his thoughts.
And fuck. Sam has the keys on him. Dean bangs on the trunk in frustration, hard, several times, sensing nothing behind him and he half-turns and the demon is gone, utterly vanished. And he is about ready to turn all the way around when he hears Sam.
“Dean? What the fuck is going on?”
“Taking a piss, little brother, give a man some privacy.” Dean’s a quick thinker. He pretends to shake, zips his fly, coughs a little, leans on the hood like he’s still drunk when he’s never been more sober.
“Get in the car, Sammy,” Dean says, straightening and putting on his don’t-fuck-around face that Sam will never - or rarely - argue with. “We need to go. Now.”
**
PART II
They converge on the tiny motel, arranged around a courtyard with a defunct fountain in the middle. Sam heads around the back and Dean goes straight through to the vampire’s front door. The vamp is sleeping; they got an eye-witness saw him go in around dawn and it's late afternoon and he hasn't been out. Bugs buzz lazily in the stagnant fountain water. It would otherwise be silent and Dean thinks of his last-night lover laid out on the motel bed, maybe drunk on some other victim's blood.
Too bad the best blow job of his life has to die.
Sam's shaggy head appears around the corner and affirms that there's no exit from the back window without serious sunburn and window breakage, and Dean isn't going to waste another second. He kicks in the door with a Timberland and his shotgun is lined up in perfect parallel with Sam's as they enter, near-military style, just like Daddy taught them.
Dead man’s blood coats the bullets. They’ve got knives in their boots to finish the job.
The demon isn't lying on the bed. The bedsheets are twisted like white snakes, but empty of a body. Sam clears the bathroom and that's when Dean starts to get nervous. A bead of sweat drips down from his forehead and he can feel the damn thing slip down, drop, and land on the carpet. In the same second, he sees the silhouetted form lounging in the junky leather chair near the window. The vamp is as still as the furniture he’s sitting in.
He's about to blow its head off when his gun gets kicked from his grip and knocked up against the ceiling. It doesn't go off, but hits the ceiling with some serious force and plaster spills down, covering the guy's dark hair in white. He's a vampire, so yeah, he moves fast.
Sam -- Sam has got a gun, and Dean turns and leans back to give him a clear shot. There's someone else, though, a tiny form standing in the open doorway. She spins Sam around, and his gun pops up and snaps right into her hands.
"What. The. Fuck." The girl is spitting and hissing and she elbows Sam right in the face. Dean hears a crack and Sam goes down. The vamp pulls his arm around Dean's throat and he's squeezing, but not too hard. The girl doesn't know that they're friends, obviously, and she kicks Dean in the gut. His vision goes blurry and then blank for a few minutes.
When Dean gets his bearings again, he's tied -- fucking tied -- to a chair, Sam next to him, with his head still nodding to the side. Their knives and guns are tossed aside, out of reach.
"Let me go, fucking bloodsuckers!"
The girl laughs, heartily. She's got a denim miniskirt on and a pair of cowboy boots with steel on the heel. Long silky legs reach up and up; she's wearing a wife-beater, like the vampire, his is white, hers is black. His hangs loose on him, hers is tight. Her hair is pinned up off her long neck and dark lashes frame brown eyes and if Dean knew for a fact he wasn't going to date demons or their demon-loving friends, he'd certainly let her fuck with his preference.
"Okay," the vamp says, running a hand over his hair, rubbing his face, "What are you doing here, Faith?"
"Clearly I'm here to save your sorry ass from getting dusted by small-town amateurs," she says.
"I'm not happy to see you," he says.
"Stop flirting with me, Angel, you know you never gonna get some."
"Cleveland not able to cool your heels, Faith?"
"That bureaucratic bullshit isn't my scene, you know it. I’m more in line with the bureaucratic bribes."
"Smells like Wolfram and Hart all over."
Apparently, the two of them aren't even going to acknowledge Dean and Sam's presence. They're so wrapped up in something of their own making that they don't even care that two guys are tied up in the motel room they're in, shotguns scattered on the floor.
"I run by my own rules, Angel."
"Pay for play, am I right Faith? Does Buffy know you're doing this? Does the Council?" At this Faith seems to change tactics. She digs the toe of her boot into the rough, cheap carpet. She avoids his gaze and casts hers over Dean and Sam.
"Pay, yes. Play, maybe. I'm well beyond trusting Lilah, but I recall I wasn't the only one who trusted Wesley." Now it's the vamp’s turn to stare holes in the carpet. Dean sees his face twist with pain, like Faith has stabbed him in the chest.
"Wesley's dead."
"Wes is as dead as Lilah, Angel. You knew this would happen; you arranged it. Gunn had the smarts to fix his legacy. Wes…not so much."
"Hey," Dean's got his wind back; it's time to stake a claim to this conversation. "You guys gonna kill us or just bore us to death with your drama?"
The vampire doesn't move. Faith does. Quick as a bunny, she straddles him, licks her finger and runs it along the sweat dripping down his face. Then she runs her tongue back along her finger and clenches her thighs as Dean struggles. "Oh, you're a fiery piece of ass, aren't you? Pretty for a redneck, too. And your little boyfriend."
"Faith, leave him alone," the vampire says.
"Angel. These guys tried to waste you. Bullets, not even stakes. Rank amateurs. I watched them stalk you, waited outside to give you a hand. Can't we scare the piss out of 'em before we let 'em go?" Angel and Faith, nice names for demons. Dean can't wait to see what reindeer games they've got in store.
Angel moves over to Faith and drags her off Dean bodily. She blows a kiss and winks at him as she lets herself be hauled over to the bed.
"It's fine, Faith. I'm moving on. No one will believe the stories they'll try to tell - and these guys have a special book full of stories, so don't worry." Fuck, so the guy knew about their research, about Dad's book. "Plus, I fucked him last night."
Faith's mouth drops open.
Dean's mouth drops open. Then he quickly looks over to Sam to make sure he hasn't heard. His priorities are so screwed up. Sam's head is moving side to side, but he's groggy still.
"Thought you were waiting for me, Angel," Faith pretends to pout, but it's got a touch of hurt in it.
"Let's go our separate ways, Faith. I'm not interested in Wolfram and Hart, their zombies, or anything you, they, the Council or anyone else has to offer."
"I get it. Let me come with you."
"No."
"Rogue Demon Hunters. You and me. We'll take the Brothers Grimm as our apprentices."
"Go ahead Faith,” Angel is laughing, but not in amusement. His face is twisted up by the smile. “My journey is over. This is the living end. I'm not saving anyone, not fighting, not living. It's over."
"Drama queen," Faith retorts, and rolls her eyes at Dean as if they’re co-conspirators.
Angel has clearly has enough with the company and the banter, because he drags Dean and Sam still tied in their chairs and shoves them out into the courtyard, then hauls Faith out the door and dumps her next to them. Dean can hear him moving the motel dresser up against the busted door.
“Open this door,” Faith shouts. She begs, pleads and whines. Dean has never seen a woman pull out all the stops like this. He knows that if he were on the other side of the door, he’d be opening it. What happened to make this vampire want to give up on his immortal lifestyle and the likes of a hot woman like Faith?
Faith shouts herself hoarse, bangs her fists against the door until they bleed. She realizes Dean and Sam are still sitting in the courtyard so she stops to cut them loose with one of their knives before she stalks off.
“Hey! Hey!” Dean wants more, wants to see what this chick is all about, what she knows, but she’s making a beeline and not looking back. “That’s my knife, bitch!”
Dean finds he's almost pleased to see she's human; the sun glints off pieces of her dark hair as he watches her storm off. He wants to chase her down so bad he can taste it. But he's got Sam to worry about and so they limp off in the other direction.
He promises himself he'll get the answers he wants.
**
PART III
Faith smokes Marlboro Reds. That’s the color of choice for the world-weary Slayer.
Little bitty cutey-pie slayerettes rule the day with Buffy -- now that she’s CEO, goddess and big sis all rolled into one. They’d never been that close, she and B., so Faith doesn’t feel slighted in the least. Really.
Her and Angel on the other hand. She always thought he’d have time for her one day, but this running away and slamming door in her face like some rebel teen on smack - well, it just wasn’t like him.
Once he calms down and lets her back into his room, she flops onto the bed and pretends that he isn’t ignoring her. She asks him about the guys that stormed his room. She asks about the one he claimed he fucked.
“Not both of them, huh?” Faith asks.
“Just the prettier one,” Angel says.
“Always did like ‘em fair,” she replies. She’s down to three Reds, seeing as Angel’s taken up smoking again. He hears what she says and grips the edges of his chair. He stubs out his cigarette with vehemence. She watches his face shift, the vampire just underneath, like a fish swimming near the surface of a lake. But it looks like grief and that frightens her more than his game face ever could.
“Sure you’re not Angelus?” Hey, it’s a fair question.
“And you’d be clothed and in one piece if I were?”
“Good point.” Faith fingers the Red, drawing her lighter near after a practiced flick. “I bet Angelus is a righteous good fuck.”
“Nothing righteous about it.” Angel bogarts another Red without asking. He grins at Faith but it’s devoid of humor, completely without charm. Faith hides a small shudder. She doesn’t like the vibe she’s getting from him. “It’s only good if you’re suicidal. Or immortal.” His grin turns wolfish and Faith has to look away.
“Spike,” Faith says, trying out the word, seeing what effect it might have. He’s talking about Spike. He really always did like them fair. Blondes. Cocky, self-assured, loving him, resisting him, playing light to his dark and matching him strike for strike. Faith isn’t an expert on Angel like maybe Wesley was, or Buffy even, but she’s learned a lot by watching. She’s learned a lot by living.
Now Faith wishes she had the name back in her mouth because Spike brings the cloud cover to Angel’s face.
“He’s… gone.”
“Gunn,” She says.
“Dead.”
“Fred.”
“Burned out of her body by an Old One. But you’d have known that I assume.”
“Old One,” Faith repeats. “I got the so-called ‘report,’ dry as a bone from Watcherville, but I prefer to hear your story from you.”
“My list of dead loved ones turns you on?” Angel’s voice is flat, his eyes expressionless. “You want the gory B-movie horror of it all? I sent Wesley to die, and he did. Lorne was chased down and tied up by demons who then dragged him behind a truck for miles until he was nothing but pulp. Gunn bled out in the alley and dogs licked up the blood. You want to hear how they put my girlfriend in a cage just her size and stuck her out under a full moon, and then when she changed into a werewolf, she was crushed? Every bone in her body, broken. And Spike.”
He stops at Spike.
“I had no idea,” Faith says, and moves over to where Angel sits in the leather chair. She reaches for him. He slaps her hand away.
Faith was never very good with the notion of comfort, giving or receiving.
“So.” She speaks softly, still afraid of bringing his horror back to life. “You won’t come with me, won’t let me come with you. You don’t want to hear Wes and Lilah’s offer - I can assure you it’s astounding - you won’t acknowledge Buffy or the Council. What is it you want, Angel?”
“Time away from pain,” Angel says. “Just time.”
“Well, I didn’t come all this way just to leave empty-handed. There’s a convenient nest of nasty vamps 30 miles out, on an abandoned farm. Ride with me, kill with me. Let’s let loose a little. We can take the pretty along if you want, teach them a few new tricks. Do that for me, Angel, before Wes and Lilah ruin my fun.”
Angel’s head bows, the shape making a shadow as the afternoon light goes soft and turns to gold. Faith can feel time stopping and slipping as her friend and quarry battles his inner hordes.
“Angel?” She finally asks, brushing his forearm with her fingertips.
He looks at her and she knows she’s won this terribly small, terribly meaningless victory. She’s won one night.
**
PART IV
“That’s her,” Dean says, nodding to the end of the bar.
“She’s pretending not to notice you,” Sam notices, “But she’s aware you’re here.”
“We,” Dean corrects him. “We’re here. You were in that motel room same as I was.”
“But I wasn’t talking about films with the vampire last night, here in this very bar.”
“What?” How did Sam know that when Dean barely remembered any of their conversation?
“You told him you really liked ‘My Own Private Idaho,’” Sam smirks. Dean’s breath catches but he stays focused. He has his worries and his hang-ups carefully prioritized.
“Since when did you become such a keen observer of humanity,” Dean tries to make light, but Sam is wary, seeming to suspect something. Damn. His little brother has grown into a total smartass. Still, he really does fucking love the kid.
It’s a little like a replay of the night before when the girl turns around, levels her eyes on him, and saunters over to their table. It’s a Friday night and the place is crowded, but most of the eyes in the place are on her. Faith.
She’s got a skin-tight bustier top on that makes Dean drool a little. Black leather jeans are slung low on her hips. She looks like a hunter, what Dean imagines a chick hunter would look like. And she looks ready for action, too.
Dean can’t help his curiosity. He toes the bag of ammo at his feet and curls a fist around the handful of dead man’s blood-bullets in his jacket pocket, just in case.
“We weren’t properly introduced earlier,” she says, sticking out a hand with black nail polish flashing at the tips. Sam stares and Dean kicks him under the table to get him to snap his mouth shut.
“I’m Dean, this is my little brother Sammy.”
“It’s Sam. And I’m his younger brother, but also, taller.” Faith looks like she wants to eat Sam up. Dean would rather she kept her eyes on him.
“We don’t want trouble,” Faith continues. “You two know a little about what’s what. Enough to get yourselves in trouble if you want to. I’m thinking we all agree to let sleeping dogs lie.”
“Don’t know about dogs,” Dean says. “We’re not in the habit of letting vampires roam the streets killing people when we can do something about it.”
Faith looks at him like he’s lost his motherfucking mind. “Have your bro fill you in on what a Slayer is. Angel may be a little tepid in the living area, but he’s got soul.” She did a little groove right then to illustrate the word. Dean may have felt his mouth go dry, even though he was trying hard to concentrate on what she was saying. Sam’s fingers were flying over his laptop and seriously who brought a goddamn laptop into a bar on a Friday night?
“No can do, my pretty little lady, we don’t just walk away from a fight.”
“Well, maybe you can join in on one and see what a real fight is like,” Faith says. She’s looking him up and down, sizing him up and hey, he’s got two eyes too, he can surely see that she’s a fairly formidable force tucked together in a compact body.
“Drinks?” she asks. It’s not a question, it’s a statement. He nods.
He’s in. He is so in.
An hour later they’re reaching maximum sloshitude and the bartender actually cuts them off from the tequila and makes them drink something else so he doesn’t run dry. Dean’s got a good buzz going, but he’s not opposed to beer.
“Lissen, I gotta get my fight on or I’ll want to fuck soon instead.”
She smiles the slowest, sultriest smile he’s ever seen and he thinks it’s going to go that way but no.
Sam and Dean grab their gear and follow her out the door. Once they’re outside, he sees the outline of Angel against the streetlamp. He doesn’t recoil, not even close. Sam stops, stutters, but Dean grabs his arm, steadies him, and says, “Okay, show us something.” It’s as much to Angel as it is to Faith and he’s fueled with his buzz and his sense of something dangerous and new going on with these two. “Curiosity killed the cat,” he mutters to himself.
Sam climbs courteously into the back of Angel’s pick up. It’s a fucking vampire pick up, with the windows blacked out and everything. He and Sam need the fresh air, and with Faith sitting back there with them and the guns, it doesn’t even feel like the risk it probably is. Sam is convinced his Slayer research is on target and Dean really hopes he’s right.
“We’re getting up in the grill of a big nest,” Faith informs them casually. “Werewolves and vamps, and these Kene'chogue fuckers. Demons. Ugly fuckers, I hate them. They like to gather up weres and vamps and screw with ‘em, make ‘em really pissed and rabid and then set them loose all over town.”
“How do you know this stuff?” Sam’s enquiring mind wants to know.
They've reached a deserted clearing a mile outside of town. Faith shrugs off Sam’s question. “Instinct. Other ways.”
Angel doesn’t say much, just hands some wooden stakes to Dean.
“Don’t need those, got dead man’s blood on my bullets here.” There's something about Angel’s look, the rough brush of calloused hand against Dean’s that acknowledges the night before without anything overt. Dean tries not to be happy about that.
“Messy,” Angel says, gesturing to Dean’s knife and rifle. “And if they’re not Initiative hybrids, the blood won’t slow them down.”
Dean doesn’t know what he's talking about but Dad would never steer them wrong. Never. That's the end of that.
Sam moves off toward the edge of the forest, scouting the bare bones of trees skirting the clearing. “We’ll find out for sure, soon enough,” he calls out. “Vamps headed this way.”
Dean immediately regrets his tequila haze as seven rabid, yellow-eyed, multi-fanged, hillbilly vamps start making their way to the gathering in the clearing. Dean’s eyes fill with smoke as he and Sam lay down rifle-fire. Faith and Angel haven’t yet moved and Dean thinks suddenly, a trap, we’re fucked, I let Sam right into it, following my dick, oh God…
Before he can get his head sorted out, Faith sprints forward, knocks the head of one of the vamps back with her fist, spins around and drives a stake into his chest. There’s an explosion of dust.
“Told y’all,” she smiles wickedly. “I like wood.”
“Fuck,” Dean says. Unbelievable, this whole scene. Not one of the vamps even stumbled after the dead man’s blood ripped into them. And Angel and Faith are clearly protecting him and Sam, yet leaving them room to do what they came here to do. They had a kind of military precision. They were strong, fast - unbelievably so.
Faith spins and kicks and Angel just stands solid, taking out whatever comes his way with what seems like a flick of his wrist.
A werewolf bounds out of the woods, heading for Sam. Angel steps in front of it, snatches it out of the air and twists its neck. A strangled yelp and it’s toast. Dean stabs a vamp in the gut and the thing grins up at him, evilly. He should have taken the wooden stakes when he had the chance. Faith tosses him one and after two, okay, three stabs at the thing, it explodes. He meets Sam’s eyes then and they both realize: this is the real deal. A Slayer and a vampire with a soul.
He and Sam aren’t alone, after all, not at all.
**
PART V
The killing was done, it was over and done, and it was good.
Dean loves the hunt and the kill, what’s not to love? Sam does too, much as he would never admit. And Angel, whatever he was thinking, it wasn’t that he hated killing. He was clearly so damn good at it.
They drop Sam off at the motel. Dean mumbles something about wanting to decompress, have some more drinks, and Sam is eager to get off the hook on that, but he fights the idea of Dean just going off with a couple of strangers, one of them a vamp.
“I’m going, Sam, don’t baby me,” Dean says, knowing his brother needs the reassurance. “I need to work off the energy. I’ll be fine. Look, I have my cell phone. You can call me. I’ll call you if I run into trouble but I won’t. I just wanna get laid.”
Sam gives in with a quiet frown. He’s too tired to fight Dean knows that Sam will flop down on his twin bed and be out before Angel guns the motor, taking him and Faith away, free in the wind in the back of the truck, hollering at the top of their lungs with bloodlust.
She tastes like earth.
Back at Angel’s shoddy motel room, Angel sits in the leather chair near the window and smokes a cigarette, just watching. Dean takes Faith’s clothes off slowly. He’s spinning, like the room, and therefore clumsy. Plus, he’s not used to having an audience. Condoms are spread out on the bedspread, like colorful confetti.
Faith isn’t just some bimbo, and this makes him a little nervous, too. If the tequila hadn’t dulled his inhibitions, he’d have to really rethink this. Faith isn’t ready to worship his pretty eyes and his smooth talk, she’s got his number, and she could break his face as well. Her hair is loose and wild from the ride and there are dried bits of leaves in it. Dean wants to worship every inch of her. Angel’s approval and possible arousal at the two of them is a bonus. He’ll think about the rest tomorrow.
There’s no light but the glow of the cigarette butt and a slanting streetlight through the ratty curtains. Angel is the biggest presence in the room. Dean tries hard to block him out and just do his thing. He preens as Faith strips him down to his boxers and lets her admire him. He takes strength from it. He kisses her as languidly as she allows. He caresses the underside of her arm, kisses her wrist, licks the side of her neck before fingering the thin line of her underwear. She encourages him with several moans and he can feel that she’s wet already.
When he finally has her naked, she arches back down on the bed and spreads herself out. He sucks each nipple in turn before moving down to tongue between her legs, perfect French kisses that end with his tongue delving inside. Faith’s gasps are supremely gratifying. Her fingers clench in his hair and he lifts his head. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Angel, his fly undone, stroking himself hard.
Dean swallows a smile.
Faith pulls him up and yanks his boxers down, hooking her foot in them to bring them deftly off over his feet. Then she reaches out for Angel. Angel stands and pulls off his shirt. Dean turns to look and to admire the pale, solid chest. He can’t see anything of Angel’s eyes but a shadowed smudge.
There’s a tense moment then, as Angel and Faith communicate something, negotiate their positions with stares. Angel ignores her outstretched hand and runs his own hand along Dean’s back. Dean shudders.
Angel whispers in Dean’s ear. What it is, exactly, Dean can’t be sure. His senses are playing games with him, and Faith is muttering dirty things to distract him. Before he can let his brain scream no way are you going to let a demon touch you… he says instead, “Yes. Oh god, yes.” And Faith says, “Yeah, oh yeah, Angel,” just as Dean nudges her thighs further apart and kneels between them.
He knows to hold still, knows to wait for Angel. He hears the sound of Angel slicking up his fingers. Faith rolls a condom on him, and he’s still not even sure that this is really happening until Angel’s arm snakes around his chest, bracing him, letting his fingers trail down between Dean’s ass and then up and in. Angel wastes no time, two fingers, deep, but slick and Faith is watching Dean’s face, hungry and hot, sweat plastering her dark hair back from her face. Man, she is beautiful, Dean thinks, and then Angel presses hard across his prostate, and he’s really okay with this.
With Angel’s hand on his hip, guiding him, he slides inside Faith -- and have girls always been this hot and this wet? She bucks her hips up to meet him. “Yeah, just like that,” she says. She gazes over his shoulder at Angel. Again with the secret stares, but Dean’s buried inside her and he doesn’t care so much. Dean feels her hands on his ass and God, she is spreading him, stilling him for Angel.
This is so fucked up. Angel’s hand grips his shoulder and fucked up or not, Dean finds himself pushing back, wanting it -- wanting to plunge forward into Faith and back onto Angel’s cock.
There it is; the burn as Angel enters him, mitigated by the smooth feel of a condom. Slow, but all the way. Angel is going to make him take it all. Faith’s hips are more insistent against his and she’s going to make him come right then and there. “Stop,” he begs her, and then says to Angel, “Please… please.” Angel obliges and saws his hips back and forth, pushing Dean with him, and between them, Dean is like a conduit, they’re fucking him, but also fucking each other, and he can’t move or he’ll come.
Angel forces him to the edge anyway, the edge where Faith is waiting. Dean can’t let her hang, so he tries for a rhythm, grapples with it, then hits his stride. Angel growls behind him, not quite a human sound and fucks him harder. Dean focuses on Faith, sliding a hand between their bodies to let his fingers rub against her clit and when he feels her tighten around his cock, he lets himself go too and comes with sobs in his throat.
Faith holds him tightly, letting Angel continue, pulling them both down on top of her, not allowing Dean much movement in her vice-like grip. “Come on, Angel, baby, come for us,” she whispers.
Dean can hear the sound of Angel’s thighs slapping against his ass, insistent and rough before he slows and gentles, his cock swelling and pulsing before he slides to the side and the three of them settle into a tangled ball on the bed.
**
PART VI
Dean wakes to an insistent buzzing sound.
“Phone,” he mutters at the same time Faith does.
“Ha, it’s yours,” he gloats, but all he gets is a dirty look out from beneath the rat’s nest of her hair.
“Fuck,” Faith sits up. “He’s gone. Shouldn’t be surprised, and I’m not. But now I’ll have to face the music.”
Dean pretty much ignores the cryptic. He has problems of his own. And he’s mighty relieved, all things being equal, that Angel is gone. Easier that way. What he needs now is a medic.
“I can’t fucking move.”
Faith’s smoke-rasped laugh drowns out the sound of birds chirping outside in the sunlight. Mascara rings her eyes making her look like a junkie.
“I can imagine,” she says, rolling her eyes. “Angel’s only serious relationships were with other vampires, Slayers or werewolves. He’s not used to having to take it easy.”
“You call that taking it easy?” Dean smirks to cover the wince.
A hot shower feels great and washes a lot of blood, dirt and soreness away. He’s nearly a new man when he comes out of the bathroom, pulling his dusty t-shirt over his head. A lucky thing he’s decided to dress since it’s now a party. Two people dressed for success are standing in the middle of the wrecked room. Faith’s arms are crossed and she doesn’t bother to cover her panty-clad butt, just stands there in underwear and tank top. She looks pretty pissed.
Trouble, Dean thinks, but not mine.
He wonders how Sam slept and if he’s had breakfast. He can grab coffees and show up with a smile in case Sam is pissed he stayed out all night. Their hotel can't be more than a mile away if Faith isn’t inclined to give him a ride.
One of the suits is a woman and she looks Dean up and down. “Nice night, Faith?”
“Yep, just me and him, banging boots until the break of dawn.”
“So there’s been no sign of Angel?” The other suit speaks, but his tone is sharper, colder, his eyes pure steel.
“No, Wes, not a sign. Not a portent. Not a whiff of rumor on the wind.” Faith sniffs at him to make her point.
“We’d heard wrongly then. Come Lilah, let’s go.”
“Don’t let the door hit ya on the way out,” Faith calls out after them, but it doesn’t have any sting in it. She roughly stuffs her clothing in a worn duffel bag.
“What the fuck with you people?”
“Long story. I’ll explain in the car. I need to hitch a ride with you and your brother.”
“Wait, hold on. This wasn’t part of the deal. I move on, always, after…”
“Oh, whatever. I don’t want to have your babies, idiot. Let me tell you something, though.”
“This really ought to be good,” Dean says, not believing it for an instant, but wondering if she’ll surprise him again.
“You know that little demon you’ve been hunting? The one that killed your poor mommy and daddy and wants to get its hands on your baby brother?”
Dean stares.
“Yeah, I thought so. Well, those two lawyers represent him. Him and lots of others like him.”
“What are you saying?” Dean asks sharply. “I don’t know what you’re trying to do here, or what game you’re playing at…”
“Angel found you and your bro to warn you, to see where your dad’s book is going to lead you next and set up something for your family-friendly demon. I think he’s grown a soft spot for you, too. You remind him of someone he used to…” Faith scratches her head and her hair flies around her head, Ladylike, this one is not. She bends to pull on a pair of jeans.
“We’re doing okay on our own, don’t need -“
“Yeah, you’re tough I know,” she interrupts. “But this is bigger than you or me, it always is. And it’s well-represented. Evil lawyers want Angel on their side, like yesterday. And Angel just wants to mourn his dead, brood his broodypants off, but he needs a mission, he needs to be saving people. He needs us.”
“You’ll get it,” Faith continues airily, as if Dean’s already on board. She slings her bag over her shoulder. “Angel will probably be there at the next spot on your travel itinerary; he’ll want to see for himself. Let’s get your brother and go. We have a lot of work to do if we want to vaporize this mother.”
Dean follows her out into the sunshine, which seems far too bright for what’s happened in the last 24 hours. She knows about the demon, she knows about his parents, she knows… He wants to know what else she knows.
Dean has always been able to go with the flow, think on his feet, and believe in the unbelievable. It’s a special talent, one could say. And Faith is a hot little number… and Angel…
Plus, he’s got new leads on the demon, and he’s doubled the size of his army.
“Let’s get one thing straight right off,” he says to Faith. “I do the driving.”
**end**
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