Ducks: Queen of Frickin' Everything

TITLE: Fine
AUTHOR: Ducks, theantijoss
E-MAIL: ducksfanfic@gmail.com
FANDOM: Angel/Supernatural Crossover
DISCLAIMER: Wow, so not mine on either count! Thanks be to Whedon and Kripke for use of their respective sandboxes. And hot, slashable characters. *G*
RATING: NC-17
WARNINGS: Slashy goodness, angst
PAIRING(S): Angel/Dean Winchester
TIMELINE: Post-NFA, AU SPN Season 3-ish
SYNOPSIS: Angel has only one answer to Dean's questions.
WORD COUNT: ~2120
DISTRIBUTION: Please ask. Chances are good that I'll say yes. :)
AUTHOR'S NOTES: This is part of a much larger story that I'm writing in fits and starts, but... you know how I love the porn. It exists for its own sake. *G*
FEEDBACK: I'd love some, thank you!
PROMPT(S): getlaid25 prompt .025 Angel/Dean Winchester

Thanks to my beloved thenyxie for more reasons than I can count -- not least of which is getting me all cracked out on SPN to begin with. And always encouraging my naughtiness.

"Fine"
By Ducks



They always lie side by side after sex, a thousand miles, two hundred years, and a good foot of physical space between them, mirror images with their arms tucked manfully behind their heads. Staring up at the water-stained ceiling, harboring absolutely no desire to cuddle, no sir. They never do. And yet, on those rare occasions when they fall asleep together, they never fail to end up so wrapped around one another that it would have been tough to tell who's appendages were whose if Angel's skin wasn't so much paler than Dean's.

"What's Hell like?"

Voice so plaintive, it reminds Angel how young Dean really is. Just how much trouble he's in. Angel will go back to Hell himself before he lets them take this human he's come to care so much about. Before the lets the source of those completely legitimate and well-founded fears consume Dean Winchester.

"It's like Hell," he replies vaguely, refusing to fill Dean's head with anything even closely resembling the truth. Though it's a fact that imagination is almost always worse than reality, when it comes to demon dimensions, human conjectures can't come close to the horror. "Pretty much how you'd expect."

Dean turns on his side to face Angel, the warm male scent of his skin stirring on the air like a whif of some delicious dinner cooking. Angel quickly squashes any thought that equates his lover with food. Sometimes it's really, really difficult to resist, and some deep, dark part of himself is so curious to know...

Would Dean's curse leave a taste in his blood?

"Don't bullshit me, Angel. I need to know."

Angel won't turn to face him, can't stand to look into those liquid eyes, the green so similar to Buffy's. The innocence lost far too soon also the same. Full of answers no one so young should ever have to possess, and questions they should never know enough to ask.

He's two hundred and twenty something years older than Dean. It seems like an eternity, and most of it hellish. But Dean is no child.

"I don't remember," he evades. What he wouldn't give not to have this question hanging between them at all, but he knows himself too well. He has never been able to say no to Dean. That's how they ended up together to begin with. Both living on the road, but managing every now and again to hook up in some hotel or cabin somewhere just off the beaten trail of their mobile lives. Arrangements by sheer force of Dean's will. Angel means to ask where Dean tells Sam he's going when they meet up, because he'd bet all the money in the world that Dean hasn't told his little brother that he's fucking, and being fucked by, a vampire.

"Bullshit. Don't fucking do that, Angel. I hate it when you treat me like some little kid. I made a deal with a devil, dude. I know dark."

"Dark? You don't know a damn thing about dark, Dean." Angel swings out of bed and to his feet in one vampire quick motion, not bothering with his usual habit of remaining as human as possible. He's angry, and he wants Dean to be angry too -- or at least as scared and worried as he should be. Hell, he wants the man to leave for more reasons than he can count, not the least of which is the damn questions. He runs his fingers compulsively through his hair and is forcibly reminded of the way Dean grips him when Angel takes him into his mouth... The memory of that passion, only so recently spent, burns away his anger and resentment, leaving only regret in its place. Jesus, has he ever felt anything else? "Hell is worse than the worst thing you can possibly imagine. That's the truth."

Dean shifts, his back braced against the chintzy pasteboard at the head of the bed, tangled sheets tucked around his waist, hands bunched into fists on his lap. Angel can imagine the perfect shape of Dean's penis, hidden just beneath the wrinkles of cheap cotton. The hot, silky skin, the taste of pumping blood and salty semen, and the sensory memory makes him shiver. Then Dean nails him with those eyes, freezes him in place, and he knows how wrong it is to be so hard right now when his lover is in so much pain.

"My dad sold his soul for me. My brother got tagged by the demon that killed our mom and his girlfriend to be some King of the Apocalypse. It's still possible that he'll go dark on me, and I'll have to shoot him. I've got less than six months to live before I get sucked into Hell. What could be worse than that?"

Angel looks right into him, wills him to hear what he's about to say and never ask again. "How about having to shoot Sam over and over again, a million different ways, for all eternity, while he begs you to let him live? Raping your mother and setting her on fire. Eating your father's flesh. Turning into a monster and slaughtering innocents, always aware, always knowing what's happening, and feeling the agony, but never being able to do anything about it. Take your worst nightmare, multiply it times a thousand, and add a helping of the worst acid trip in the history of mankind. That's what Hell is like."

Terror slips across the summer green of Dean's eyes. Just a flash, but enough for Angel to catch it, and he wishes he could take the words back. Wishes they had stuck to their usual exchange of monosyllables and grunts, necessary information and involuntary reaction only.

Talking only gets them into trouble.

Dean clamps his teeth together, jaw bulging, and shrugs. "'S about what I expected."

Lie. The stink of it is worse than demon sulfur. Angel moves before he's consciously decided to, sits down beside Dean on the bed. They're almost the same height, same size and build, but somehow Dean always seems so small and frail to him. Angel slides an inch closer than is comfortable, but an inch farther away than the deepest part of him wants to.

"We'll find a way, Dean. We're not going to let you go."

Dean shakes his head, stares down at his hands. "Nah. We've been through this already. If I welch--"

"Sam dies. Fine, so you've said. That doesn't mean there isn't a way around it. Dean, I've seen things... done things you can't imagine with magick. I know people who have resources you guys have never dealt with before. We'll find a way to kill the demon. Break the deal. Send a doppelganger or something in your place. We'll do whatever it--"

Angel jumps half out of his skin when Dean's fingertips seal Angel's lips, cutting off the diatribe he realizes was starting to sound more than a little panicked and desperate. Dean is looking right at him, deep into him, with all the pain and fear he refuses to show shining there, raw and as naked as his body as he pulls away.

"Shut up. Just shut up, okay? I didn't come here to pump you for information. You can't save me. So just... shut up and give me this."

Then Dean's fingers are gone, and his lips -- sinful, hot, soft, thick, strong, demanding lips -- are in their place, closing over Angel's like he can suck the reality of what lies before him away, lick it clean, nibble it to nothingness until Angel is fairly whimpering from the futile effort. Everything Dean Winchester is comes out in that kiss, the strength, the vulnerability, the need, the unbridled ferocity and passion. All edged with cheeseburger and tequila.

As much as Dean brings out his protective side, he also urges Angel's own demon forth, like a moth to the flame. The sensation of that dark want is so similar to the lust he felt for Buffy, he wonders if it's not some sick, masochistic desire of the demon's to dance with its own destruction.

Angel loves to fuck killers, hunters, Slayers. The more easily they could do him in, the more he wants them. It's a kink he doesn't think he's heard of before, and he wonders if he's the only one who has it. Or maybe the only one who's survived it.

Of course, he ponders that for all of five seconds before Dean pulls him down on top of him. There is something different about making love with a man that goes beyond mere physicality, and with Dean Winchester, it's almost a battle. Like they are trying to destroy each other rather than give and receive pleasure. The musculature of their bodies clash, their penises rub together, rough friction sending waves of pleasure rather than pain shooting through them as they engage in this passionate struggle.

Dean bites -- it's one of the things Angel enjoys most about being with him. The strong jaw, the blunt teeth that close down hard on the juncture of Angel's throat and shoulder, causing him to cry out, fingers digging down into Dean's scalp to pull him closer. Like Dean can draw blood from him, draw strength. The sensation only grows as Dean's mouth wanders, memorizing the lines of Angel's shoulders, the muscles of his chest, tongue flickering hyper-sensitive nipples into stone hardness. Angel pushes him back to reclaim that luscious mouth, to taste that edge of desire and fear and passion beneath mints carefully consumed to cover his earlier meal.

Silly human. You can't fool a vampire with breath mints. He can smell your blood.

Dean's a smorgasboard of all the best characteristics of male humanity -- passions and obsessions that Angel has long since forgotten. The way a human man feels under him, hot and writhing as he smooths a gentle hand down the tight muscles of Dean's side and reaches between them to take hold of his cock. Dean lets out a hiss that sears the nerves up and down Angel's spine, and he gives a demon snarl in response even as he shivers, and Dean arches instinctively into his grip.

"Fuck. Angel," the boy gasps, and Angel rewards Dean's habit of talking, telling him everything, by slipping his thumb over the head of his penis on every upstroke. Dean fucks his hand, head thrown back, bucking like a wild thing, and all Angel wants right now is to look into Dean's eyes as they come together.

Sometimes it's like Dean is the one with the psychic power, or just knows Angel's wants and needs so well. As if he can hear Angel's thoughts, one of Dean's hands unclutches from its tearing death grip on the flimsy bedspread and takes firm hold of Angel's dick, stroking hard and fast in the same rhythm that Angel is using on his own. In a moment they are lying side by side and face to face on the ratty motel room bed, arching violently into one another's fierce grip, panting into each other's mouth between long, deep kisses.

Waves of heat crash over him, and Angel feels his own end rushing in on the tide of Dean's increasingly furious pulse, the jerk and twitch of the generous cock in his hands that signals impending explosion. Before it's too late, Angel reaches his free hand behind Dean's back and forces their bodies closer together so their hands and penises are a tangle, and there's twice the friction, three times, four from that chaos.

"Ugh, god, Angel! God! FUCK! God, I'm gonna come!" Dean cries, slamming his head into Angel's shoulder as his body jerks, his cock goes rigid and releases in Angel's hand, come shooting over his belly, his chest. Angel watches, watches Dean's beautiful face contorted in ecstasy, those full lips parted around a cry that stops being words at all. His eyes snap open, nail Angel like a shot of pure passion straight into his veins, and then his own universe explodes in white fire and summer moss.

This time, they stay wrapped around one another, stuck together and panting like any two lovers in the afterglow, rather than a demon and a man doomed to Hell. Dean's breath evens out quickly, his body gone warm and limp with exhaustion, and Angel just holds him. This is what Dean was really talking about when he asked Angel to give him "this". Dean needs to be held so badly, but he just doesn't know how to ask. Never would ask even if he did.

Angel understands. He has the same problem. So he stays awake and watches over the boy while he sleeps, and hopes Dean's dreams are sweeter than the nightmare future they're facing.

"I'll find a way. I swear," he whispers to Dean's unhearing ears, and pulls his human a little bit closer in the dark.