fic: We'll Never Be Brothers (but maybe we can be friends) [Avengers/Supernatural]
Title: We'll Never Be Brothers (but maybe we can be friends)
Fandom: Avengers/Supernatural
Characters: Dean Winchester, Loki Laufeyson,
A/N: post-Avengers, goes AU post-Kripke for Supernatural. Also a bit of a language warning, because Dean has a potty mouth when he’s injured
When Dean meets Loki, neither of them are in very good shape: Dean is swerving across an empty country highway, trying to stem a nasty shoulder wound while driving himself back to the motel and medical supplies, and Loki is blindly staggering down the same highway attempting to shake off the disorientation, nausea, and other unsavory side-effects of plunging unprotected through the Bifrost.
Predictably, car hits god.
Dean stumbles out of the Impala too breathless to curse, leaning against his car to help keep his balance and apply pressure on his wound as he peers at the body sprawled on the road. Killing a random guy in the street would be a perfect ending to his shitty day, but for once luck holds out: the guy groans, stands up, and dusts his clothes off, seemingly no worse for the wear. So Dean had just clipped him. Thank… well.
Dean is relieved beyond words that the man is okay. Or - he’s glad, until he really takes a look at the guy’s face, beneath the dirt and grime and streaks of - is that blood? Way too much of all three smeared across his face to be from hitting the pavement, since the road isn’t that dirty. And oh crap, he recognizes that face, because just about everybody in the world knows it.
Loki. Shit.
It’s only been three months since Loki, alleged Norse alien-god-trickster thing, tried to invade New York City. Three months minus a few days since his brother had taken him back to Asgard to be locked away in a supposedly impenetrable cell.
If they were really serious about locking him up, Dean thinks, they should have just asked him. He knows a good spot. But that’s a morbid line of thought, and he shuts it down quickly. He has other things to occupy his mind. Like a bleeding shoulder wound and a trembling megalomaniac he clipped.
To be honest, Dean thought a man (god, Asgardian, whatever) who had gone toe-to-toe with the Avengers and who claimed to be a deity would be more resilient. But despite the initial good show when he’d stood up, Loki has begun to sway perilously side to side, barely staying on his feet.
Dean really isn’t any better, of course; blood is soaking into the waistband of his jeans and underwear, and it’s really damn uncomfortable. He shifts against the Impala with a grunt to try and apply more pressure. He really likes his blood in his body, not his clothes.
The noise seems to start Loki from wherever he’d been staring off into, and he scowls as he looks at Dean, swaying back and forth like a drunken sailor, constantly shifting his feet in an attempt to regain his balance.
Note to self: see if drunken sailors actually sway.
“Mortal,” he rasps, and scowls even further. Dean grunts in acknowledgement and mentally starts penning in the rest of the conversation. He’s powerless, subservient, made to be ruled (according to the papers that one is Loki’s catchphrase), so help the battered god or prepare to die. Blah blah blah.
How fucking cliché.
But Loki just kind of stares at him, and the scowl morphs from ‘scary wrathful god’ to something more confused and irritated as his jaw works but nothing comes out - like he knows he should be saying something, but can’t really remember what it is. Normally Dean would be happy to jump in with a quip, but apparently blood loss makes him content to simply watch as Loki digs for words.
Finally, the god says, “I am Loki.”
Dean wants to roll his eyes, because seriously? But then he sees Loki’s expression. And it isn’t haughty, or expectant. In fact, it hasn’t much changed from the confused-irritated expression that’s starting to tickle the back of Dean’s brain with its nagging familiarity. Loki’s introduction wasn’t mean to be some grand reveal to make Dean remember what he had done not a quarter of a year back to the biggest city in America. It’s just… an introduction.
And Dean? At that moment, Dean is tired of fighting. If he doesn’t get his shoulder patched up soon he’s going to bleed to death; he doesn’t want to throw down with a deposed god in the middle of an abandoned highway. He’s done his share of battling heavens, enough to last him a lifetime and then some. And Loki is looking at him, barely conscious, waiting for him to do something with an expression on his face that takes Dean’s breath away.
Because all of a sudden he remembers that look on a different, more familiar face. A face he hasn’t seen in two and a half years. That confused-irritated expression of a younger brother trying to catch up to his other brother despite the age gap, trying to fit in to a world he doesn’t really understand - doesn’t really like, to be honest - but wants to be a part of because that’s the world his big brother lives in.
Dean thinks of the profiles the news had run virtually non-stop for days after the attempted invasion of New York City, thinks of how every description of Loki always included brother of Thor. He thinks about how Loki looks pretty beat up and wonders why he would return to this realm of all places, when Norse legend says there are plenty other options for Loki to choose.
All of a sudden, Dean can pick out the bits of little lost brother standing before him, cloaked within the god, trying so desperately hard to be strong and self-sufficient and immovable against a world of hurt. It doesn’t matter that it’s the good guys doing the hurting, or that they have a damn justified reason for such actions against Loki. Dean has spent his whole life as big brother, and it’s natural to fall in the role again. Loki is someone standing right in front of him that Dean can help, and SHIELD is just a thought hundreds of miles away.
He defended his brother when people were calling Sam the Antichrist; defending alleged evil is nothing new for Dean. It’s the people that matter to Dean more than the philosophy. He’s seen up close and personal how similar Heaven and Hell can act. He’s allied with demons that sacrificed for a greater cause, and he’s fought angels that would murder indiscriminately; he has little faith in the inherent nature of good and evil. And right now, Dean can see one of his people peering through Loki’s eyes. It’s only an illusion, but it’s more than he’s had in years and he doesn’t want to let that go. He’s a harder man now than he’s ever been before. It makes him selfish.
The blood loss probably helps with the bad decision making, too. Dean knows his judgment is shot when he’s injured.
Either way, Dean settles his hand more firmly on the wound over his shoulder, jerks his head to the passenger side door, and grunts, “Dean. Get in.”
Loki hesitates, a habit of independence and pig-headedness rearing its head that’s so familiar Dean has to snap his mouth shut against the urge say something catty so Loki will huff disdainfully but get in the car.
The comment isn’t necessary anyway; Loki’s stubbornness holds out until he sways once more, staggers a little bit to stay on his feet. He acquiesces and they both half-collapse into the car. Dean throws the car into gear and starts heading back to town once more.
----------------
The silence they began the car ride in lasts two miles before Dean breaks it. He doesn’t like silence, and it’s been a long time since he’s had someone riding shotgun.
“How’d you escape?”
Loki starts out of some sort of meditative zen thing he’d had going on, and scowls. Dean looks away from the road (not like his driving can suffer much at this point) and scowls right back at him. Seriously, does the guy have any positive facial expressions? Better question - does he have more than three?
“Last I heard, you’d been dragged kicking and screaming back to Asgard to be locked away forever. So I’m curious how you ended up running into my car.”
“It was your car which ran into me,” Loki sniffs, which, okay, justifiable complaint. Dean kinda did. Not that he’s going to outright say he does, since he’s totally not going to allow a haughty alien to guilt-trip him.
But no, focus on the question. Dean truly is curious how Loki escaped.
(If he could do it then -)
“Don’t change the topic,” Dean grumbled. “I wanna know how you got out.” He sounds like a petulant three-year-old, but neither of them are in any shape for higher brain function.
Loki’s mouth opens, closes, then opens again. “Too bad.”
Dean looks away from the road again so he can properly convey how underwhelmed he is. “Wow. Stunning retort.”
“I am merely trying to restrain myself to insults that your puny Midgardian brain can fathom.”
Yeah, that’s better. Dean thinks. He kinda zoned out in the middle a bit, but the end of Loki’s insult is certainly killer. Dean should reciprocate, but fuck he really needs to concentrate on the road or he’s going to crash. So he responds with the first insult that comes to mind - always the first insult he reflexively hurls.
“Bitch.”
It’s Loki’s turn to give him a weird look that Dean catches out of the corner of his eye (eyes on the road, eyes on the road, concentrate, Winchester!)
“At home, some of the fiercest and most loyal hunting hounds are bitches. I do not see how that is an insult.”
Oh yeah. Dean nearly forgot the guy sitting shotgun is a psychotic alien. One that Dean picked up off the side of the road and is now taking back to the motel where he’ll be sleeping. Maybe that’s not the best idea. It’s too late now, though; the exit is right here, and the motel is hardly a block away from it.
Dean concentrates hard, and is nearly successful in getting all the way from the exit to the parking lot of the motel without swerving. He feels accomplished, because the light-headedness he’s feeling means he’s lost a lot more blood than normal, and that means it’s even harder to drive than normal. Sammy would be proud.
Actually, he’d call Dean a dick. But that’s normal. Deep down, the kid loves him.
Dean levers himself out of the car, but Loki doesn’t move until he thumps the roof. “Get moving, Lucky, you’re not staying in my baby.”
That didn’t sound right, Dean thinks. He messed up one of the words. But Loki is distracting him right now, because he’s scrambling out of the Impala and looking back at the car like it might bite him. “I thought these metal beasts of yours had no sentience, but were manufactured.”
Actually, no, Dean’s not distracted, because he doesn’t understand a fucking word that just came out of that guy’s mouth. Besides, what Dean really needs is to stitch himself up, chug a Gatorade or two, and crash for twelve hours. Stupid god-things can wait for later.
Luckily, whoever built this motel was really thoughtful and had a little railing encircle the walkway to the rooms, so Dean doesn’t have to completely use his own strength to move; he can kind of slide along, hand still pressed against shoulder, until he gets to the right room.
The door doesn’t open, though.
Because it’s locked. Stupid. Dean has the key somewhere. His… pocket? That sounds right. Dean shakes his head a bit to clear it and fishes around his pants until he finally digs out a key that isn’t for the Impala. He successfully inserts it into the lock, but has trouble turning it. Fuck. He just wants to sleep.
Dean’s about to give up and take a nap right on the fucking concrete, but then a hand comes out of nowhere to turn the key for him. Dean jerks away to turn and face the guy that was sitting in his car. Oh yeah. The guy’s name is…
Fuck.
Lucky! That’s it. Like the dog. Because they were talking about dogs, Dean can remember. Dean always wanted a dog. It’d be kickass if it could hunt with him.
Lucky is staring at him, open door in front, and Dean wonders if this is some strange custom thing they have where Lucky is from. Because he’s not from around here, Dean can also remember. But he can’t be bothered to remember the name of the place right now. He’s so fucking tired, and he has other things to remember.
Like the blood dripping onto his boots and fuck, yeah, that’s why he was going here in such a hurry. He has to stitch himself up. Stat.
“C’mon, Lucky,” Dean mumbles, and staggers into the room.
The medical supplies are in Dean’s duffle for easy access, but it’s really a dumbass idea on his part. Sure it was a pain in the ass to keep it in the trunk when he doesn’t need it for the easy jobs, but at least then Dean would have been able to give himself some on-site care instead of fumbling his way back to the motel half-dead. Easy jobs don’t always turn out that way.
Dean stares at the case for a moment before remembering what he needs - thread, needle, bandages.
And alcohol. Lots and lots of alcohol. Luckily his whiskey bottle is right next to the first aid kit. That’s pretty smart. Good job, Dean.
His legs are really shaky, so once Dean has the supplies he lets himself collapse to the floor. Now he won’t have to worry about pesky legs. He can concentrate on threading the needle, something he’s done a hundred times or more, but also something that’s become pretty difficult since the last time he did it. The string keeps on shaking as well as the needle, and neither of them shake at the same frequency that they ever meet where Dean intends them do.
Lithe fingers grab the thread and needle and hesitatingly thread them for him. Dean grunts his thanks and takes it back from Sammy.
The next part should be easy, since Dean has already lost feeling in his shoulder. He hasn’t drunk anything yet, has he? He must have.
Time to start stitching, then.
It’s awkward to stitch while he has a shirt on, but it’d be too much effort to take it off. He can just sew through the gash in it. Dean lines up the edges of skin as neatly as he can and slowly presses the needle in.
Ugh, Dean hates stitches. He can’t feel the thread, but from numerous other times he can imagine the sensation of it pulling through his skin and it’s gross.
He has to keep pulling, though, it’s important.
Except something is stopping him…
Sam?
“Whardyudon?”
That came out more muddied than he intended.
Sam responds anyway - whoa, he sounds really foreign. That’s funny, Dean has never hallucinated accents before. He takes the needle out of Dean’s hands. Unlike the accent, that’s good, right? He can finish up the sutures and Dean can sleep.
Dean just wants to sleep. Sam is prodding his shoulder outside of the numb zone. Bitch.
He can sleep through it, though.
----------------
Dean wakes up to the smell of bloody, sweaty clothes and grimaces. Gross. He doesn’t feel like shit, though, which is surprising. Usually upon waking up with hazy memories and unpleasant stenches, he has at minimum a raging hangover. Today it’s only the familiar lethargy of muscles after a hard night’s work. Dean takes a moment to mentally run through what had happened last night, beginning with what he could immediately remember: a hunt. Just a normal salt and burn, but something had gone wrong.
The crypt, that was it. The crypt had been decorated with stone soldiers pointing Civil War era muskets at him. So when the ghost had flung him aside, Dean had landed face-first on one and speared his shoulder.
Dean winces at the memory of hoisting himself off of the statue. The wound hadn’t bled much initially, so Dean had bitten through the pain to finish excavating the grave and torching the sucker. One things Dean loves about crypts is how quickly the job goes. It was over in only a couple of minutes, excluding the time he’d been impaled. Then he’d gotten in his Impala and driven back to the motel to stitch himself up. Except something had happened on the way.
Dean recalls a flash of green eyes staring at him in front of the motel door, and groans.
Fuck.
He remembers.
There’s a rustle of clothing somewhere in the room, and Dean bites back a curse. Maybe it isn’t the best thing to let on you don’t want the homicidal alien to be in your room. He might take offense. Except given the way he’d apparently fixed up Dean last night - because Dean knows he was in no state to fix himself up by the time he returned to the motel - maybe he’s not as trigger happy as he seems.
Either that, or he’s biding his time.
Fuck.
Dean rolls over to face Loki, but the lack of pain in his shoulder distracts him. It doesn’t make sense. There’s not even a twinge, but if he’d passed out last night there must have been more damage than Dean had expected.
Loki, looming over Dean’s bed like a freaking creeper, notices the confused crease in Dean’s brow and says, “Your method of healing is most crude and ineffective. I took the liberty of repairing your wounds myself.”
Dean sits up so he can tentatively roll his shoulder back and forth. The skin pulls, but there’s no pain beyond that minor discomfort. Loki hadn’t bothered to change him out of the dirt- and blood-stained shirt he went hunting in, so Dean just looks through the tear in his shirt. The visual corroborates what he had already discerned; his wound is almost completely healed, new skin pink but healthy. He won’t even have a scar.
Magic? Dean wonders. It’s most likely.
Loki is still looming, still watching with a hawk-eyed stare. So Dean clears his throat and swallows his pride and says, “Thanks.” Dean had made a bad call last night, and probably would have died from it if Loki hadn’t been there to patch him up with whatever weird god hoodoo he had.
Loki sniffs. “Had I been at full strength, I could have repaired all the damage. Yet as it was, my sub-par healing far surpassed your primitive attempts to sew yourself back together.”
Dean really needs a drink. “Yeah, well don’t get a swelled head about it,” he grumbles, and levers himself to his feet with a grunt. The shoulder may be practically painless, but the rest of Dean’s body is still recovering from the hunt and the flinging around. He stumbles to the sink, forgoes a cup, and just sticks his head under the tap so he can drink directly from it. Once he feels sated, he sticks his hands under the water and starts scrubbing at the dirt embedded in them.
“So,” Dean says. Then, because he has may have alleged self-destructive tendencies, he decides to test Loki’s patience. It’s not like the guy will kill him after going through the effort to patch him up so well. “You never answered my question last night, Lucky.”
Dean can’t see the god’s face, but if the poisonous silence is anything to go by, Loki is reacting to the nickname about as well as Dean expected him to. Not like that is a deterrent.
“How did you escape?"
After waiting a moment more to emphasize his displeasure, Loki answers: “By expending a great deal of effort.”
That’s about as vague as all fuck.
To buy time, Dean cups his hands and splashes water on his face. He tries to think of a response, but nothing comes to mind. Loki is obviously going to stonewall him on the breakout question, and Dean can’t think of anything else to talk about except so how did you like New York? which, yeah, wouldn’t go over well, and Dean would rather not waste the god’s patience on questions Dean doesn’t really care about.
That still leaves him with nothing to say.
Dean looks at Loki, standing off to a corner with his hands behind his back and a scowl on his face, and then down at himself. Now he has clean hands to compare the rest of himself to, he can see just how grimy and dusty the rest of him is. “I’m going to shower,” Dean announces. He grabs boxers from his duffle and a new t-shirt. “Make yourself at home.”
Loki is gone by the time Dean is done.