Delicious: Parts o7 & o8

[conclusivelead]

Title: Delicious
Author: conclusivelead.
Pairing: Dean/Sam
Burton Movie: Charlie & the Chocolate Factory.
Rating: R - NC-17.
Category: Angst, drama, darkfic, romance
Word Count: o7 & o8 = 3,974.
Spoilers: None; AU.
Summary: “There is a smear of dark on the back of his hand and Sam wants nothing more than to lean forward and place his lips against that bronze and taste the bitter of chocolate and the sweet of skin.”
Warnings: AU, chocolate!Kink, introspection, vagueness, cursing, violence, death, frotting, UST, campiness

Notes: Out on time again! Huzzah! The sexual tension starts to come to a head (no pun intended) in this chapter. @.@ Thank you to everyone who continues to read, and thanks to x_puppetstrings for betaing. ♥

Disclaimer: Supernatural is the property of Kripke and the CW network. I do not own Supernatural and there is no profit being made from this fanfiction. I also own neither Charlie and the Chocolate Factory or Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory.

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DELICIOUS - Parts o7 & o8
A SPN/Charlie & the Chocolate Factory Crossover...of Sorts

o7

“That’s all the time we have for this room, I’m afraid.” Mr. Winchester leads the group to a row of doors that Sam never would have noticed otherwise. There are three of them, and are all the same shades of chrome, barely noticeable against the sheen of the wall. The chocolatier stops before the middle door and withdraws his key ring again, searching for the correct key just as Mrs. Cast gives a startled gasp. Her fingers clutch at the silver cross hanging from her throat.

“But where’s Lilith?”

Mr. Winchester pauses in his search for the correct key, fingers stilling slowly before he glances over his shoulder. Impatience flashes in his eyes before his face settles back into composure. “Is something wrong, Mrs. Cast?” It’s obvious to Sam that he heard her perfectly clearly the first time, but Mr. Winchester’s restlessness seems to be growing with each passing moment, and the hot stares he pins on Sam are growing in frequency. He wonders briefly whether Mr. Winchester will last until the end of the tour before he acts on those unspoken promises.

Sam wonders if he should care. There is an acidic taste at the back of his throat that burns his tongue and slips down into his stomach, poisoning his insides - fear. There is such a strong sense foreboding. There is something wrong going on here, something is terribly…wrong in this place, but Sam can’t bring himself to want to care. He disregards the fear grabs onto that ever-present lust and rides it, allows it to drive him on past all the apprehension.

He doesn’t care.

“I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Winchester,” says Mrs. Cast, apparently equally as embarrassed as she is worried. She twists, twists, twists the silver cross on its silver chain, perfectly manicured fingers clenched tight around the small pendant. Her knuckles are white. “It seems as though Lilith has managed to get away from me.”

Sam temporarily thinks that Mr. Winchester’s impatience is going to return, but the chocolatier is all silky smile and cool self possession. “Quite all right, Mrs. Cast, quite all right,” he soothes, proceeding to fumble through his keys again, searching again. He turns from the middle door to the door on the right and everyone in the group watches as he finally settles upon what appears to be the correct key. He singles it out and slides it into the lock of the door. Mr. Winchester only cracks it open enough so that he can pop his head inside. Sam watches curiously as the man leans inside the other room for a few moments, the doorknob held tight in his hand so that no one else can see what is on the other side of the chrome door. The light shining from the other room casts a strange glow on the collar of Mr. Winchester’s velvet jacket and illuminates the golden-bronze of the back of his neck. Sam stares at the skin there hungrily.

After a moment, the shorter man’s face emerges once more and he smiles at Mrs. Cast, gesturing her forward. “Come with me, madam,” he says, opening the door a little wider to admit Mrs. Cast’s slightly bulkier form. “My workers are going to help you locate your daughter.”

Grandpa Bobby and Sam watch as Mr. Winchester urges Mrs. Cast into the room and then holds up his forefinger quickly to the remainder of their tour group, smiling, pleading for their patience, although his eyes show that he has none himself. He follows Mrs. Cast into the room, the door closing softly but surely behind him. Sam is sure that it is again locked.

“Oh, this is absolutely ridiculous,” snaps a man’s voice. Sam is surprised to see Mr. Carpenter running a handkerchief across his forehead, mopping up the nervous sweat there. “This blasted tour is never going to end if we keep losing track of guests. Sooner or later Mr. Winchester will find a way to get rid of every last one of us, just see if he doesn’t.”

Meg Master’s sister gives him a confused look, glancing back and forth between the elegant but frustrated man and the door behind which their guide has just disappeared.

“I don’t understand,” she says, clearly bewildered.

He gives her an annoyed look, and for the first time Sam realizes that Mr. Carpenter probably does not want to be here at all. He glances at the man’s daughter, who has produced a nail file from somewhere and is currently working at maintaining her perfect manicure. The sly, scheming look she was wearing at the beginning of the tour has completely disappeared and now boredom rules her features. Oh, of course, Sam thinks, feeling rather dull for not realizing sooner. Grandpa Bobby arches a brow at him and he shrugs. He’ll never understand rich people and their scheming, gold-digging ways. Not ever.

“What’s to understand?” replies Mr. Carpenter coldly, picking invisible lint from his flawlessly pressed slate-colored suit. “It’s obvious to anyone with eyes that Mr. Winchester doesn’t even want us here. This entire thing is one huge publicity stunt, of course, but he’s not even trying to be civil - not really. He’s trying his best to make this entire tour go as quickly as possible. He wants it over and done with and he wants us out of his chocolate factory.”

Meg Masters rolls her eyes even as her little sister frowns and says quietly, “Surely that’s not entirely true…”

“Of course it is, kiddo,” Meg assures, gripping her sister’s shoulder. Her mouth is twisted slightly, as though she is trying to remain serious and not laugh at her sibling’s lack of eagerness to see the worst in their host. “The guy’s pretty much an antisocial asshole.”

Sam glares.

“Succinctly said, my dear,” drawls Mr. Carpenter.

Grandpa Bobby’s face is slowly turning a rather discomforting shade of plum; Sam is reminded of Mr. Winchester’s top hat. “Hey, now,” his grandfather says, voice right with restrained anger. “Whatever you may think of this man, he is our host, and we are guests in this place. We have no right to be speaking badly of him.”

Sam concurs with a resolute nod. He is afraid that if he opens his mouth to speak, all that will emerge is a string of curses. The tension in the room is thick as the other four guests turn to stare at Sam and his grandfather. The tall teenager is sure that an argument is about to break out, but then -

“Alright, now that Mrs. Cast is taken care of… did I miss something?”

- Mr. Winchester standing before them, key ring at his waist and hands crossed before him over the top of his walking stick. There is amusement in his eyes. Sam has a feeling that he knows exactly what has just transpired, and feels something akin to alarm for the first time in Mr. Winchester’s presence. How is it that this man knows absolutely everything about…everything? There are those fingers, those insistent fingers at his spine, drifting down his skin as the green-eyed man unabashedly dragged his gaze from Sam’s legs to his face. The corners of his full lips are upturned again. Sam is blushing.

“Oh, no, nothing at all,” Mr. Carpenter is saying, and Sam looks over to see the artist avoiding looking at the chocolatier.

“Nope, nothin’,” assures Grandpa Bobby, slinging an arm up around Sam’s shoulders awkwardly. “We’re all real excited to be movin’ on if you’ve got things settled with Mrs. Cast, sir.”

Mr. Winchester nods at Grandpa Bobby once, his smile genuine when his gaze is on Sam’s grandfather. His façade returns as soon as he looks away. Sam feels a strange rush of affection for both Bobby and for the strange man he has really only just met. He runs a hand through his hair, a nervous habit. “Yes, Mrs. Cast is being assisted in her search for her daughter by a few of my more trusted workers,” he says, voice low but as always, everyone hears him quite easily. “Once they find little Lilith they’ve been told to escort them both to the gates of the factory.”

“But then won’t they miss out on the rest of the tour?” asks Ruby Carpenter, her voice slightly (and a little surprisingly, thinks Sam) accusatory. Her eyes are narrowed at Mr. Winchester.

Mr. Winchester casts her a disconcerting look. “Frankly, if Mrs. Cast and her daughter wanted to experience the rest of the tour, then little Lilith should have kept better track of us.” His tone is sharp, but his features are relaxed, a laid-back, almost dreamy smile on his face. “The same could be said, I think, of Mr. Gregory.”

Sam starts. He has completely forgotten about Mr. Gregory. He takes a quick look around, and from the look on everyone else’s faces, so have they.

“Anyway, onward and upward, as they say,” continues Mr. Winchester, reaching for the handle of the middle door. He twists the knob and the door opens easily. The room beyond it is dark, but he enters anyway, shrugging a shoulder as he does so to indicate that they follow. As Sam passes through the doorway into the lightless room, he vaguely wonders why Mr. Winchester hadn’t searched for a key to unlock it the second time round.

The thought is immediately dispatched when the lights come on.

“Wow,” says Meg Masters.

My sentiments exactly. Sam’s jaw drops as he examines his surroundings.

As wide as the last room is, this room is as tall. The ceiling goes on for what looks like miles. The room is relatively small, width-wise. It is a circular room, and is perhaps the size of a basketball court. The walls are completely covered with shelves which are completely lined with different kinds of nuts. Between the shelves, Sam can just barely discern a strange, grand, swirling paintjob that extends from the too-high ceiling to the very center of the floor, in the middle of which there is a strangely-placed hole that is maybe six-by-six feet wide. Glancing back at the door through which he has just journeyed, Sam sees a sign:

Nut Room.

“This is the Nut Room,” says Mr. Winchester, as though on cue. He waves with his walking stick as he speaks, pointing as various types of nuts and explaining which nut goes into which candy bar. Sam kind of zones out; the bizarre swirling paint is throwing off his equilibrium and he feels almost nauseous. He closes his eyes momentarily, trying to bid the uneasiness in his stomach to fade. After a few seconds it does, and when he opens his eyes again, all is well.

“-is this strange hole, Mr. Winchester?” Ruby Carpenter is asking, leaning conspicuously over the edge of the oddly-placed hole in the ground. Her furs slink forward off her shoulders and she just barely catches them before they fall into the depths of the floor.

“Careful, Miss Carpenter, wouldn’t want you falling in there,” Mr. Winchester warns in monotone, still standing near the door with Grandpa Bobby and Sam. Meg Masters and her sister are near the shelving, perusing the collection of tropical nuts and are safely away from the strange hole, but Mr. Carpenter has joined his daughter in the center of the room. “That’s the garbage chute and incinerator, where we dump all the rotting nuts. Wouldn’t want to ruin your pretty wrap.”

Ruby sniffs in distaste and backs away a little, but her father is closer to her than she realized and the two bump into each other. Ruby slips on the slick, sloped tile and her furs begin to creep from her shoulders again. The heiress gasps and grabs for them, but slips again, this time falling to her knees, and then forward, losing her stability.

“Ruby!” her father cries, reaching out and clamping his fingers around her wrist. He yanks back on his slim daughter’s form, but the momentum of her fall pulls him forward as well.

Sam watches this entire event unfold with horrified eyes and starts forward to try and help them, but there is an iron hand on his shoulder, holding him back. His head snaps back, glaring into firm green eyes. “No, Sammy. You’ll just fall, too.” There is a calmness in Mr. Winchester’s voice as he says this that near-repulses him. He speaks of allowing these two to possibly fall to their deaths with an apathy that cannot possibly be healthy, cannot possibly be human. For the first time since Sam realized that it was even there, at the rear of his perception, the unease is prickly-sharp, demanding his attention. His common sense is screaming at him to think - think. Was he safe here?

Sam jerks his wrist away and rushes forward anyway. There is a shout at his back, rough and enraged, and it’s not from Grandpa Bobby, who moved faster than he did and is trying to snatch Ruby out of midair. Sam grabs for the back of Mr. Carpenter’s collar, but his fingers only brush the fabric as the older man falls forward after his daughter, and they both disappear from sight into the darkness of the chute.

Ruby’s scream echoes in Sam’s ears.

“Dammit,” swears Bobby quietly, panting for breath.

“Oh my God,” whispers Meg’s sister, eyes wide and hands trembling. “Holy…holy shit.”

Sam stares into the darkness of the hole, shocked at the speed at which the Carpenters have disappeared. Only moments ago, they were standing just where he is standing, and now they are gone. He almost doesn’t feel it when a hand wrenches him back from the slanting floor of the chute. He is whipped around and hands situate themselves on his shoulders. Gloved fingers dig into his skin, even through the flannel of his shirt and the thin material of his overcoat. Olive eyes pierce his own hazel depths, and he immediately and inexplicably feels very, very guilty. “Just what the fuck was that, Sammy? Hm? What. The. Fuck. Was. That?”

It scares Sam just how calm Mr. Winchester’s tone is - how low, how rough his voice is scares him more than any of the screaming that his mother has ever, ever done. In fact, it terrifies him. He swallows loudly, and his lips tremble. The fingers on his shoulders are bruising and he is truly, truly afraid. He sees a raged pain deep in those green eyes that sends apprehension shuddering through him.

“Mr. Winchester, sir, what do we do?” Grandpa Bobby saves him.

All the rage is masked in an instant. Mr. Winchester’s hands drop and he turns away from Sam, eyes full of something, though, that doesn’t allow him to relax for even an instant. “I’m going to radio for help. It’s Tuesday; likely that the incinerators aren’t on today.” Meg’s sister gives a willowy sob at these words and Sam exhales unsteadily, thoroughly dazed. “As it is, there’s nothing we can do by just standing here. We might as well move on with the tour. Only a few more stops; might as well finish it off.” The cloaked impatience is no longer cloaked. Mr. Winchester is now visibly agitated, edgy. His eyes keep sliding almost involuntarily back to Sam’s shaken form.

Sam tries to keep his gaze directed toward the floor, unready to meet that intense green stare again so soon.

Meg Masters looks more than a little dubious at this suggestion, but Sam steps forward and nods, trying to look more convinced than he felt. Meg’s sister looks like she’s about to pass out, and he feels sorry for her. “Yeah, let’s keep going. I’m sure they’re going to be perfectly fine.”

Meg’s little sister looks at him and sniffles, wiping her eyes. “D-d’you really think so?” she hiccups.

Sam smiles kindly, nodding. “Of course.”

Meg lifts a brow at him, obviously full of silent doubts, but says nothing, refusing, apparently, to shatter her little sister’s illusions.

Sam is such a liar.

o8

Mr. Winchester leads them out of the Nut Room through another door, adjacent to the one that they entered through. Strangely enough, this new door just leads to a hall. At the very end of this hall is the entrance to an elevator that is made of what looks like, to Sam’s eye, glass. He stares, bewildered, and then almost laughs at himself. I’ve been in a room made completely of candy, ridden in a boat on a chocolate river, and had eye-sex with the most famous chocolatier in the world today, he thinks, shaking his head and grinning despite himself and the rather grim turn of events. Sam Bucket, you are an idiot.

Mr. Winchester presses the button with an upward-pointing arrow and the elevator immediately lets out a ‘ding’ before the doors slide open to reveal a large, completely transparent elevator. Buttons cover the walls of the elevator, and the ceiling, too, Sam sees as he gets on. Everything is made of sturdy, hard glass, and intricately carved. It seems like it should be cluttered, messy, but instead it is beautiful and sleek and modern. Everyone fits inside the elevator easily, with much room to spare. Meg and her sister gravitate to one corner, where the journalism major does her best to keep her younger sibling from bursting into hysterics. As the elevator begins its journey upwards, Bobby goes to the back wall and watches with fascination as they pass different floors and levels, different rooms where different kinds of candy are made. Everyone once and a while, he sighs a little nostalgically, as though he’s spotted something he remembers from long ago.

Sam doesn’t really have time to assess the situation before he is being pushed into the corner opposite on the diagonal from where the Masters sisters are and there are gloved hands running themselves up and down his sides, fingering the flannel of his shirt and playfully brushing over the skin just beneath. He gasps aloud before one of the hands clamps down over his mouth. Lips are at his ear, those full, pink lips that he has been staring at for the past three hours, those full, pink lips that he has been imagining every day since he was a child, and those full, pink lips are whispering things, hot breath humid on the susceptible skin of his neck.

“Sam, Sam, Sam…” Mr. Winchester is whispering, over and over again, lips hovering just above the pulsing tendon Sam’s neck. Sam’s breath is caught in his throat and he wants to lean forward and force those lips to touch, to follow through. He needs skin-to-skin, mouth-to-mouth, cock-to-cock. “Sam…”

The candy-maker’s fingers maneuver their way beneath the rounded flap of the hem of Sam’s shirt and dance along the waistband of his pants, the soft cloth of those fucking impossible gloves creating unbearable friction where they slide against the overtly sensitive skin of Sam’s stomach. The younger man groans against the palm of Mr. Winchester’s hand and he bucks his hips. The chocolatier grins, displaying slightly pointed canines and tucks his knee between Sam’s thighs. Sam bites his bottom lip, his entire body tense with desire. He knees are shaking, and he can’t help it, he hips begin to grind down against that thigh between his own, slowly at first, and then faster, harder, desperately. It feels like there is electricity running through his veins, feels like his nerves are shooting off without asking his brain for permission. He wants more, needs more…

That green gaze captures his, and that same dark, unspoken hunger is there, tangible and alive and growing between them. “Sammy…” Mr. Winchester’s voice is scratchy and coarse and it breaks on the second syllable. Sam can hear the desire in his tone, can smell the sexual tension in the air. He arches up against the other man, pressing his mouth against Mr. Winchester’s gloved palm in a kiss.

He feels the acid bite of fear at the back of his tongue again, those misgivings ever present but he pushes past it again and again. He can’t fight this impulse to mold his body to that of Mr. Winchester’s, to lean in and taste the other man’s skin, see if it smells of chocolate and sugar and sweet and tastes of sinister intention.

The chocolatier’s eyes are hot, and his hand begins to slide down from Sam’s mouth and he is leaning forward with dark purpose, but then the elevator is beginning to slow down, and there is noise from the Masters sister on the reverse end of the elevator and Sam remembers that they aren’t alone, after all.

They step away from each other quickly, untangling as fast as they can without trying to draw attention to their side of the elevator. Not that we haven’t already done a bang-up job there, Sam thinks, flushed to his roots. He straightens his flannel shirt, which has been pushed up around his ribs.

The elevator stops, and Mr. Winchester takes another step away from Sam, making an apparent effort not to look at him. He is breathing heavily, through flared nostrils. He grabs his walking stick from where he left it leaning near the corner, and as the doors slide open, Sam sees that he is gritting his teeth.

“Hey - Sam, you should have watched the floors go by with me,” Grandpa Bobby is saying, and Sam suddenly realizes that his grandfather’s arm is around his shoulders again and that they are following the Masters sisters out of the elevator. “It was amazing, absolutely amazing. I didn’t think it was possible, but this place has gotten even better since I worked here, boy, even better.”

Bobby sounds breathless and excited. Sam is breathless and excited, too, but for an entirely different reason, and he tries to be thrilled for him, but he is still trying to will away his now-entirely inappropriate erection. He smiles at his grandfather, anyway, hoping that the older man is mistaking the high flush in his cheeks for shared enthusiasm and the pair turns the corner…

…and cross the threshold of the next room.

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