Four Misc. Fics (SPN and TVD)
8/1/11 11:50 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ozmissageDon’t mind me guys, I’m just posting some old fics written for comment memes and such so that I can finish tidying up my masterlist. I’ll try not to be too spammy.
***
Title: whiskey and kisses for everyone
Pairing: Sam/Jo/Dean
Rating: Hard R (sex)
Words: 365
Disclaimer: Not mine. Title from a Siken poem.
Summary: They’re tourists for the afternoon.
A/N: This was written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
missy_useless a really long time ago and I figured I should preserve my one and only Wincest fic for posterity’s sake.
She’s a pit stop.
They’re twin roadside attractions.
When they come together---between dirty sheets, against cold porcelain sinks in diner bathrooms, their cries drowned out by the laughter of patrons and the constant clanking of plates echoing from kitchens, in the backseat of the Impala, their bodies illuminated by every passing headlight---it’s a brief respite from the monotony of the job and the road. It’s implicit that it won’t last, that the next time they see each other it won’t be mentioned.
Their encounters are just moments. Every meeting a postcard, every kiss a hastily scribbled wish you were here.
They meet in Nashville, barely uttering a word of greeting between them before Dean’s paying for a room and Sam is pressing Jo’s body against a Pepto-Bismol pink wall, laughing as he says---We saw The King in Memphis, once.
He fucks her while Dean kisses her neck, whispers the dirtiest sweet nothings she’s ever heard in her ear. They’re tourists for the afternoon. Not hunters, not family, not friends; just drunken, young Americans out to see the world, at least the bit of it that stretches from sea to shining sea.
She comes gasping Sam and Dean, their names twisting together on her tongue, inseparable, indistinguishable. As it should be. Dean laughs roughly, leans across her body to mutter, Good work, Sammy, before kissing his brother’s lips.
She leaves first.
Always does.
An hour later, she’s back on the highway, a map of Louisiana spread across her dash. There’s a haunted motel waiting for her in Shreveport. She’s looking forward to the job. The boys offer help half-heartedly; all three of them know she won’t accept.
It’s easier this way. They won’t ever run together. It’s them and it’s her and once in a blue moon they meet in the middle to pretend they’re something else.
She knows the boys are still tangled together back in Nashville, keening each other’s names. They’ll be tourists for a few hours more and then they’ll get in their car, drive away.
Jo will get a text before the night’s out, two words: Be safe.
And she’ll know their vacation has come to an end.
+
Title: we were always going to end up here
Pairing: Dean/Jo
Rating: R (sex)
Words: 559
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Summary: They both know there’s only one way this ends.
A/N: Written fornorgbelulah for the last round of the five acts meme.
They share a too small bed on a too long night.
They both know there’s only one way that ends, but they play dumb out of mutual respect and a misguided sense of propriety. If they were lying beside anyone but each other they’d be fucking their way to the promise land by now, but it’s not anyone else. They’re Jo and Dean and there are too many excuses stuffed in the tiny space between their bodies for them to cross the line. At least not without a push.
Jo breaks out the liquor, a cheap whiskey she picked up while Dean was busy washing the stink of the day’s job from his skin. They drink straight from the bottle to avoid the hassle of bothering with dirty motel room glasses and Dean marvels at her stamina
“Take it easy, I like Girls Gone Wild as much as the next guy…okay, more than the next guy, but I’m not looking for a reenactment. Not tonight anyway.”
He winks like it’s a joke, like she’s his kid sister and he’s not already hard as hell.
She winks right back, already feeling a buzz, and leans across his lap to grab the bottle. When her shirt rides up she doesn’t bother to tug it back down, opting instead to watch the subtle way Dean’s fingers twitch as he fights the urge to touch what he’s telling himself he’s not supposed to want.
“I’m a big girl now, Dean. I can hold my whiskey. The question is, can you?”
“Sweetheart, I haven’t been completely sober a day in my life since I turned eighteen,” he says with swagger. Jo can’t help but wince.
“That’s pretty damn sad.”
Dean shrugs, his eyes still on the exposed skin of her waist. She sees him make the decision a split second before he even realizes he’s made it himself and she moves toward him to save time, to keep him from changing his mind, maybe even just so she can say she got there first.
Either way they end up in the same place: skin on skin, lips on lips. She’s thought about kissing him more times than she’ll ever be willing to admit, but somehow the real deal manages to live up to her imagination. His lips are impossibly soft for a man’s and she makes a mental note to tease him about it later when they’re not pressed against hers, his tongue in her mouth twisting just so. He’s good. Good enough to draw a soft whimper out of her anyway, and Jo would be the first to say that’s no easy task.
“This is wrong,” he says as they break apart, but one hand is already sliding beneath the waistband of her jeans.
She rolls her eyes, bucking her hips impatiently because she’s waited long enough for him to get over whatever the hell it is that he’s so determined to let keep him from taking what they’ve both wanted for damn near three years. She’s not waiting anymore.
“I’m not your sister, Dean. Not a kid. I’m just Jo. And we are going to fuck each other senseless, okay?”
She seals the deal by wrapping her legs around his waist and squeezing until he leans into her muttering something about a special hell right before he gives in to the inevitable.
+
Title: wish you were here
Pairing: Alaric/Damon
Rating: R
Words: 370
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Summary: He’s drinking alone tonight.
A/N: Written forisis2015 for a meme. Inspired by that icon. *points up*
The smell of whiskey reminds him of Damon. One whiff and he can feel the cool stickiness of the bar beneath his fingers, hear the ice clinking against their tumblers, see Damon beside him, his eyebrow quirked and his lips twisted into a weary smile.
He’s drinking alone tonight.
The kids are asleep upstairs and it’s a relief to know they’re sleeping and safe, even if he’s still not sure this is the place he should be. Elena assures him it’s not, you’re not our father, she hissed at him earlier. The words didn’t sting. She wants to be somewhere else too, chasing after monsters, and he put his foot down (the words felt foreign on his tongue, sounded more like an echo of his father’s voice than his own).
I’m not your father. I’m not your anything…but I am the only thing you have left.
Elena stormed off, slammed her door. And that was good. It was normal and if he’s certain of nothing else, it’s that she needs something normal in her life. They all do.
He made a promise to Damon that he would keep her safe and he made a promise to Jeremy, unspoken, but no less important, to stay. Mystic Falls isn’t where he wants to be, but it’s where he’s needed.
So he stays put, drinking alone, wishing he wasn’t.
He falls asleep on the couch, a half-empty glass still clutched in his hand.
That night he dreams of the bar and whiskey and him.
“Everything alright, Ric?” Damon asks lightly, there’s laughter in his voice, but his eyes are dark, hard.
Alaric answers with a kiss that is as greedy as it is sloppy. He crushes his mouth against Damon’s cold, red lips, slides his hand through Damon’s hair, feels the counter cutting into his back as Damon corners him, trapping him with his body and mouth---
He wakes in the morning with the taste of soured liquor in his mouth and a headache starting at his temples. There’s a text message waiting for him.
No news. Hope you slept well. D.
He groans, rubs a hand through disheveled hair and heads to the kitchen to make breakfast.
He hopes Elena likes pancakes.
+
Title: Blood Brothers
Pairing: Alaric/Damon/Stefan
Rating: R (violence)
Words: 1,661
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Summary: Stefan rampages. Damon obsesses. Alaric just does his best to keep up. Post s2.
A/N: Written forjanie_tangerine for the last round of the five acts meme.
They follow the trail of bodies from the foothills of Kentucky north to New York City and then across the ocean to sleepy English hamlets and the actual, fucking moors of Scotland. Stefan rampages. Damon obsesses. Alaric just does his best to keep up.
They’re sitting in a rented car thick with the scent of sweat and dirty clothes. Alaric dimly remembers a time when he was still young and vampires were just a surefire way to get into his girlfriend’s pants (somewhere, a box full of Anne Rice books sits collecting dust in the back of his closet, the irony is not lost on him). He dreamed about seeing the world then. He never imagined it would be like this, his arms sticking to worn vinyl seats as he sweats on a long Spanish night, an actual vampire sprawled in the backseat, berating him for being human and requiring so much sleep.
“You want to go home, Ric? Then fucking go home.”
Alaric sighs, twists in his seat to get a better look at Damon in the back. His body is visibly tense, muscles taught and he’s got that look, the one that seems to force Alaric to follow him to the ends of the earth as if he has no will of his own. It’s a mix of guilt and determination and stubbornness and something else, something uniquely Damon that Alaric can’t describe, but he knows it when he sees it.
“I’m not going home,” Alaric says, his voice soft.
Damon widens his eyes in mock delight. Alaric wonders if sincerity would actually kill him.
“Hallelujah, can we go look for my brother before he finds another human happy meal to snack on now?”
“Sure, Damon, whatever you want.”
*
Stefan’s body is humming. Or maybe he is. Yes, he thinks he is.
Dizzy suddenly, he laughs at nothing at all, lets his tongue dart out to lap at the stray drops of blood lingering on his lips. A girl lies at his feet. He doesn’t know her name, but she tasted like vodka.
He can feel Damon like a phantom string, pulling him closer, pulling him back, blood of my blood, Stefan thinks. It’s thicker than water, someone said that once. A lot of someones. But Stefan remembers the words coming from his father’s mouth, an admonishment for some childish transgression between his sons.
If he stands still long enough, Damon will catch him.
Stefan laughs again, drops to the ground beside the dead girl and waits.
*
Alaric slows him down. Damon knows he should put him on the first plane back to Mystic Falls. It’s not his fight and when things go south, he’ll be the first one to die. But Damon wants someone with him. It’s a weakness, but one he’s willing to indulge now more than ever. More than that he wants the person at his side to be Ric. But he has no intentions of telling Ric that.
They’re climbing a winding set of cobblestone steps, Alaric one flight behind. The sun is setting and Damon knows that Stefan will be on the hunt soon. He always did prefer the night, such a cliché, Damon would tease as his little brother slipped away to stalk rabbits and deer in the woods. It’s practical, Damon, Stefan would shoot back.
Damon misses that balance, that give and take, craves it in fact. His world is off kilter now that it’s his job to act the hero, a role he knows he’ll never be fit to play. Not like his hopeless, self-sacrificing jackass of a brother. He wishes that he hated Stefan. But he doesn’t and he can’t.
Stefan’s close. Closer than he has been before. Damon pauses, closes his eyes and listens.
“He’s here,” Damon says.
Alaric is beside him again, his hands resting on his knees, breathing heavily. He looks up at Damon with more trust than he deserves. Damon makes one more wish, a better one this time, he wishes for Alaric to make it out of this little vacation of theirs alive.
“You sure?” Alaric asks.
Damon nods.
“I can hear him. He’s calling my name.”
*
The vampires circle each other, their eyes locked, and Alaric feels like an intruder. Tension hangs in the air with a litany of things left unsaid. Alaric gets the distinct feeling they’ve been here before.
“Darkside never looked good on you, little brother,” Damon says with a smirk that doesn’t reach his eyes.
Stefan shrugs, somehow infusing a usually innocuous gesture with menace. Alaric can’t see a trace of the old Stefan left in this man, but still Damon edges closer, hand outstretched.
“Elena’s blaming herself for this, you know that? You remember Elena, right? Love of your life? That should ring a few bells.”
Stefan raises a finger to his bloodstained lips and Alaric shivers, wonders if Damon will hate him if he has to kill his brother, wonders if he would even have a chance to do the job before Stefan ripped his throat out.
As if he can hear his thoughts, Stefan turns to Alaric.
“I see you brought your pet,” Stefan chuckles.
“Leave him out of this,” Damon hisses and Stefan seems to take the words as a challenge because he’s on Alaric before he can blink. Alaric staggers back, hands groping for something to hold onto, he presses the release on the stake at his wrist and plunges it blindly into Stefan’s shoulder at the exact moment Damon stabs the needle into Stefan’s neck. Stefan’s body goes limp, but it’s too late, Stefan’s teeth hit their mark.
“You okay?” Damon asks, as he lowers his brother to the ground.
Alaric touches his neck; his hand comes away drenched in blood. Damon pales and Alaric takes that as a bad sign.
“Well, at least we found him,” Alaric says shakily.
Damon shakes his head as he kneels down beside Alaric. He moves closer until Alaric can feel Damon’s breath on his wound and then Damon is pressing a gentle kiss against the puncture marks, his tongue lapping at the errant flood of blood, hissing slightly at the taste of vervain. Damon pulls back.
“I told you to go home.”
“Since when do I take orders from you?” Alaric muttters, still pressing the wound at his neck.
“Always.”
Damon uses his teeth to open a vein in his wrist and forces Alaric to drink. He gags at first, but he can feel the blood working through his system, healing him. He was never one for drugs, even back in college, but he imagines this is very close to the high his roommate was always chasing.
“Try not to die in the next twenty-four hours, okay, buddy?” Damon says before placing a lingering bloody kiss to Alaric’s forehead.
He turns away before Alaric can respond, his attention returning to his mercifully unconscious brother.
*
Stefan wakes to find himself strapped to a bed, the ropes binding his arms and feet laced with just enough vervain to keep him weak. His mind is a jumble of thoughts, the events of the past few months melding with the events of the last few hours. The only clear thought he has is that he wanted this. He wanted to be found.
“Morning, sunshine,” Damon says and Stefan turns his head in the direction of his brother’s voice. Damon’s lounging beside the bed, his long body draped gracefully across a chair. “Still crazy?”
“Let me go, Damon,” Stefan demands. Damon shakes his head.
“No.”
Stefan strains against the ropes and feels a scream bubbling in his throat as every twist brings the vervain in contact with his skin. He wants to be free, wants it desperately, but he’s not sure what exactly he wants freedom from---this room or Klaus or fucking Damon or himself.
“Please,” Stefan knows he’s begging, can hear the sound in his voice and resents himself for it. “I can’t do this, not again. Just…let me go. Walk away.”
Damon is beside Stefan in the blink of an eye, his face perilously close to Stefan’s. He runs a hand through his brother’s hair and leans down to meet his lips, his mouth is cool against Stefan’s feverish skin and he tastes familiar, like Damon, and someone else---
“Alaric?” Stefan mutters against Damon’s mouth. “Did I…”
The sound of someone clearing their throat draws Stefan's attention to Alaric lingering by the door. He smiles lightly.
“I’m not dead yet, but I’d appreciate it if you would keep your teeth to yourself. At least for a few more hours.”
“Ric’s not looking to join our ranks,” Damon says, as he gives his brother’s cheek an almost affectionate pat.
Stefan swallows and closes his eyes. He’s been down this road before. He’s not looking forward to the next part.
“Klaus will come for us,” he says.
He feels the sudden absence of Damon’s weight as he gets up from the bed.
“We know that.”
“We just don’t care,” Alaric adds.
*
Stefan’s screams echo through the abandoned house and Damon imagines them reverberating through the mountains to find Klaus’s ears, to bring him to their door. Alaric stands beside him, the pale light of the moon illuminating his face as they stand guard together.
“He’ll get through this,” Alaric reassures.
“You are too damn optimistic for your own good, Ric.”
“It’s a curse.”
Damon half smiles. He’s very glad that Alaric’s still among the living.
“It’s really not,” Damon says.
Another scream pierces the air and Alaric flinches. He’s clearly never had the joy of listening to a vampire detox before.
“I guess you're right,” he says simply and takes Damon’s hand without asking or hesitating. This is a new, but not at all unpleasant development.
Damon lets him.
***
Title: whiskey and kisses for everyone
Pairing: Sam/Jo/Dean
Rating: Hard R (sex)
Words: 365
Disclaimer: Not mine. Title from a Siken poem.
Summary: They’re tourists for the afternoon.
A/N: This was written for
missy_useless a really long time ago and I figured I should preserve my one and only Wincest fic for posterity’s sake.She’s a pit stop.
They’re twin roadside attractions.
When they come together---between dirty sheets, against cold porcelain sinks in diner bathrooms, their cries drowned out by the laughter of patrons and the constant clanking of plates echoing from kitchens, in the backseat of the Impala, their bodies illuminated by every passing headlight---it’s a brief respite from the monotony of the job and the road. It’s implicit that it won’t last, that the next time they see each other it won’t be mentioned.
Their encounters are just moments. Every meeting a postcard, every kiss a hastily scribbled wish you were here.
They meet in Nashville, barely uttering a word of greeting between them before Dean’s paying for a room and Sam is pressing Jo’s body against a Pepto-Bismol pink wall, laughing as he says---We saw The King in Memphis, once.
He fucks her while Dean kisses her neck, whispers the dirtiest sweet nothings she’s ever heard in her ear. They’re tourists for the afternoon. Not hunters, not family, not friends; just drunken, young Americans out to see the world, at least the bit of it that stretches from sea to shining sea.
She comes gasping Sam and Dean, their names twisting together on her tongue, inseparable, indistinguishable. As it should be. Dean laughs roughly, leans across her body to mutter, Good work, Sammy, before kissing his brother’s lips.
She leaves first.
Always does.
An hour later, she’s back on the highway, a map of Louisiana spread across her dash. There’s a haunted motel waiting for her in Shreveport. She’s looking forward to the job. The boys offer help half-heartedly; all three of them know she won’t accept.
It’s easier this way. They won’t ever run together. It’s them and it’s her and once in a blue moon they meet in the middle to pretend they’re something else.
She knows the boys are still tangled together back in Nashville, keening each other’s names. They’ll be tourists for a few hours more and then they’ll get in their car, drive away.
Jo will get a text before the night’s out, two words: Be safe.
And she’ll know their vacation has come to an end.
+
Title: we were always going to end up here
Pairing: Dean/Jo
Rating: R (sex)
Words: 559
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Summary: They both know there’s only one way this ends.
A/N: Written for
norgbelulah for the last round of the five acts meme.They share a too small bed on a too long night.
They both know there’s only one way that ends, but they play dumb out of mutual respect and a misguided sense of propriety. If they were lying beside anyone but each other they’d be fucking their way to the promise land by now, but it’s not anyone else. They’re Jo and Dean and there are too many excuses stuffed in the tiny space between their bodies for them to cross the line. At least not without a push.
Jo breaks out the liquor, a cheap whiskey she picked up while Dean was busy washing the stink of the day’s job from his skin. They drink straight from the bottle to avoid the hassle of bothering with dirty motel room glasses and Dean marvels at her stamina
“Take it easy, I like Girls Gone Wild as much as the next guy…okay, more than the next guy, but I’m not looking for a reenactment. Not tonight anyway.”
He winks like it’s a joke, like she’s his kid sister and he’s not already hard as hell.
She winks right back, already feeling a buzz, and leans across his lap to grab the bottle. When her shirt rides up she doesn’t bother to tug it back down, opting instead to watch the subtle way Dean’s fingers twitch as he fights the urge to touch what he’s telling himself he’s not supposed to want.
“I’m a big girl now, Dean. I can hold my whiskey. The question is, can you?”
“Sweetheart, I haven’t been completely sober a day in my life since I turned eighteen,” he says with swagger. Jo can’t help but wince.
“That’s pretty damn sad.”
Dean shrugs, his eyes still on the exposed skin of her waist. She sees him make the decision a split second before he even realizes he’s made it himself and she moves toward him to save time, to keep him from changing his mind, maybe even just so she can say she got there first.
Either way they end up in the same place: skin on skin, lips on lips. She’s thought about kissing him more times than she’ll ever be willing to admit, but somehow the real deal manages to live up to her imagination. His lips are impossibly soft for a man’s and she makes a mental note to tease him about it later when they’re not pressed against hers, his tongue in her mouth twisting just so. He’s good. Good enough to draw a soft whimper out of her anyway, and Jo would be the first to say that’s no easy task.
“This is wrong,” he says as they break apart, but one hand is already sliding beneath the waistband of her jeans.
She rolls her eyes, bucking her hips impatiently because she’s waited long enough for him to get over whatever the hell it is that he’s so determined to let keep him from taking what they’ve both wanted for damn near three years. She’s not waiting anymore.
“I’m not your sister, Dean. Not a kid. I’m just Jo. And we are going to fuck each other senseless, okay?”
She seals the deal by wrapping her legs around his waist and squeezing until he leans into her muttering something about a special hell right before he gives in to the inevitable.
+
Title: wish you were here
Pairing: Alaric/Damon
Rating: R
Words: 370
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Summary: He’s drinking alone tonight.
A/N: Written for
isis2015 for a meme. Inspired by that icon. *points up*The smell of whiskey reminds him of Damon. One whiff and he can feel the cool stickiness of the bar beneath his fingers, hear the ice clinking against their tumblers, see Damon beside him, his eyebrow quirked and his lips twisted into a weary smile.
He’s drinking alone tonight.
The kids are asleep upstairs and it’s a relief to know they’re sleeping and safe, even if he’s still not sure this is the place he should be. Elena assures him it’s not, you’re not our father, she hissed at him earlier. The words didn’t sting. She wants to be somewhere else too, chasing after monsters, and he put his foot down (the words felt foreign on his tongue, sounded more like an echo of his father’s voice than his own).
I’m not your father. I’m not your anything…but I am the only thing you have left.
Elena stormed off, slammed her door. And that was good. It was normal and if he’s certain of nothing else, it’s that she needs something normal in her life. They all do.
He made a promise to Damon that he would keep her safe and he made a promise to Jeremy, unspoken, but no less important, to stay. Mystic Falls isn’t where he wants to be, but it’s where he’s needed.
So he stays put, drinking alone, wishing he wasn’t.
He falls asleep on the couch, a half-empty glass still clutched in his hand.
That night he dreams of the bar and whiskey and him.
“Everything alright, Ric?” Damon asks lightly, there’s laughter in his voice, but his eyes are dark, hard.
Alaric answers with a kiss that is as greedy as it is sloppy. He crushes his mouth against Damon’s cold, red lips, slides his hand through Damon’s hair, feels the counter cutting into his back as Damon corners him, trapping him with his body and mouth---
He wakes in the morning with the taste of soured liquor in his mouth and a headache starting at his temples. There’s a text message waiting for him.
No news. Hope you slept well. D.
He groans, rubs a hand through disheveled hair and heads to the kitchen to make breakfast.
He hopes Elena likes pancakes.
+
Title: Blood Brothers
Pairing: Alaric/Damon/Stefan
Rating: R (violence)
Words: 1,661
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Summary: Stefan rampages. Damon obsesses. Alaric just does his best to keep up. Post s2.
A/N: Written for
janie_tangerine for the last round of the five acts meme.They follow the trail of bodies from the foothills of Kentucky north to New York City and then across the ocean to sleepy English hamlets and the actual, fucking moors of Scotland. Stefan rampages. Damon obsesses. Alaric just does his best to keep up.
They’re sitting in a rented car thick with the scent of sweat and dirty clothes. Alaric dimly remembers a time when he was still young and vampires were just a surefire way to get into his girlfriend’s pants (somewhere, a box full of Anne Rice books sits collecting dust in the back of his closet, the irony is not lost on him). He dreamed about seeing the world then. He never imagined it would be like this, his arms sticking to worn vinyl seats as he sweats on a long Spanish night, an actual vampire sprawled in the backseat, berating him for being human and requiring so much sleep.
“He’s not here anymore,” Alaric snaps just to shut Damon up. “You know that as well as I do. He catches scent of us and gets the hell out of Dodge.”
“You want to go home, Ric? Then fucking go home.”
Alaric sighs, twists in his seat to get a better look at Damon in the back. His body is visibly tense, muscles taught and he’s got that look, the one that seems to force Alaric to follow him to the ends of the earth as if he has no will of his own. It’s a mix of guilt and determination and stubbornness and something else, something uniquely Damon that Alaric can’t describe, but he knows it when he sees it.
“I’m not going home,” Alaric says, his voice soft.
Damon widens his eyes in mock delight. Alaric wonders if sincerity would actually kill him.
“Hallelujah, can we go look for my brother before he finds another human happy meal to snack on now?”
“Sure, Damon, whatever you want.”
*
Stefan’s body is humming. Or maybe he is. Yes, he thinks he is.
Dizzy suddenly, he laughs at nothing at all, lets his tongue dart out to lap at the stray drops of blood lingering on his lips. A girl lies at his feet. He doesn’t know her name, but she tasted like vodka.
He can feel Damon like a phantom string, pulling him closer, pulling him back, blood of my blood, Stefan thinks. It’s thicker than water, someone said that once. A lot of someones. But Stefan remembers the words coming from his father’s mouth, an admonishment for some childish transgression between his sons.
If he stands still long enough, Damon will catch him.
Stefan laughs again, drops to the ground beside the dead girl and waits.
*
Alaric slows him down. Damon knows he should put him on the first plane back to Mystic Falls. It’s not his fight and when things go south, he’ll be the first one to die. But Damon wants someone with him. It’s a weakness, but one he’s willing to indulge now more than ever. More than that he wants the person at his side to be Ric. But he has no intentions of telling Ric that.
They’re climbing a winding set of cobblestone steps, Alaric one flight behind. The sun is setting and Damon knows that Stefan will be on the hunt soon. He always did prefer the night, such a cliché, Damon would tease as his little brother slipped away to stalk rabbits and deer in the woods. It’s practical, Damon, Stefan would shoot back.
Damon misses that balance, that give and take, craves it in fact. His world is off kilter now that it’s his job to act the hero, a role he knows he’ll never be fit to play. Not like his hopeless, self-sacrificing jackass of a brother. He wishes that he hated Stefan. But he doesn’t and he can’t.
Stefan’s close. Closer than he has been before. Damon pauses, closes his eyes and listens.
“He’s here,” Damon says.
Alaric is beside him again, his hands resting on his knees, breathing heavily. He looks up at Damon with more trust than he deserves. Damon makes one more wish, a better one this time, he wishes for Alaric to make it out of this little vacation of theirs alive.
“You sure?” Alaric asks.
Damon nods.
“I can hear him. He’s calling my name.”
*
The vampires circle each other, their eyes locked, and Alaric feels like an intruder. Tension hangs in the air with a litany of things left unsaid. Alaric gets the distinct feeling they’ve been here before.
“Darkside never looked good on you, little brother,” Damon says with a smirk that doesn’t reach his eyes.
Stefan shrugs, somehow infusing a usually innocuous gesture with menace. Alaric can’t see a trace of the old Stefan left in this man, but still Damon edges closer, hand outstretched.
“Elena’s blaming herself for this, you know that? You remember Elena, right? Love of your life? That should ring a few bells.”
Stefan raises a finger to his bloodstained lips and Alaric shivers, wonders if Damon will hate him if he has to kill his brother, wonders if he would even have a chance to do the job before Stefan ripped his throat out.
As if he can hear his thoughts, Stefan turns to Alaric.
“I see you brought your pet,” Stefan chuckles.
“Leave him out of this,” Damon hisses and Stefan seems to take the words as a challenge because he’s on Alaric before he can blink. Alaric staggers back, hands groping for something to hold onto, he presses the release on the stake at his wrist and plunges it blindly into Stefan’s shoulder at the exact moment Damon stabs the needle into Stefan’s neck. Stefan’s body goes limp, but it’s too late, Stefan’s teeth hit their mark.
“You okay?” Damon asks, as he lowers his brother to the ground.
Alaric touches his neck; his hand comes away drenched in blood. Damon pales and Alaric takes that as a bad sign.
“Well, at least we found him,” Alaric says shakily.
Damon shakes his head as he kneels down beside Alaric. He moves closer until Alaric can feel Damon’s breath on his wound and then Damon is pressing a gentle kiss against the puncture marks, his tongue lapping at the errant flood of blood, hissing slightly at the taste of vervain. Damon pulls back.
“I told you to go home.”
“Since when do I take orders from you?” Alaric muttters, still pressing the wound at his neck.
“Always.”
Damon uses his teeth to open a vein in his wrist and forces Alaric to drink. He gags at first, but he can feel the blood working through his system, healing him. He was never one for drugs, even back in college, but he imagines this is very close to the high his roommate was always chasing.
“Try not to die in the next twenty-four hours, okay, buddy?” Damon says before placing a lingering bloody kiss to Alaric’s forehead.
He turns away before Alaric can respond, his attention returning to his mercifully unconscious brother.
*
Stefan wakes to find himself strapped to a bed, the ropes binding his arms and feet laced with just enough vervain to keep him weak. His mind is a jumble of thoughts, the events of the past few months melding with the events of the last few hours. The only clear thought he has is that he wanted this. He wanted to be found.
“Morning, sunshine,” Damon says and Stefan turns his head in the direction of his brother’s voice. Damon’s lounging beside the bed, his long body draped gracefully across a chair. “Still crazy?”
“Let me go, Damon,” Stefan demands. Damon shakes his head.
“No.”
Stefan strains against the ropes and feels a scream bubbling in his throat as every twist brings the vervain in contact with his skin. He wants to be free, wants it desperately, but he’s not sure what exactly he wants freedom from---this room or Klaus or fucking Damon or himself.
“Please,” Stefan knows he’s begging, can hear the sound in his voice and resents himself for it. “I can’t do this, not again. Just…let me go. Walk away.”
Damon is beside Stefan in the blink of an eye, his face perilously close to Stefan’s. He runs a hand through his brother’s hair and leans down to meet his lips, his mouth is cool against Stefan’s feverish skin and he tastes familiar, like Damon, and someone else---
“Alaric?” Stefan mutters against Damon’s mouth. “Did I…”
The sound of someone clearing their throat draws Stefan's attention to Alaric lingering by the door. He smiles lightly.
“I’m not dead yet, but I’d appreciate it if you would keep your teeth to yourself. At least for a few more hours.”
“Ric’s not looking to join our ranks,” Damon says, as he gives his brother’s cheek an almost affectionate pat.
Stefan swallows and closes his eyes. He’s been down this road before. He’s not looking forward to the next part.
“Klaus will come for us,” he says.
He feels the sudden absence of Damon’s weight as he gets up from the bed.
“We know that.”
“We just don’t care,” Alaric adds.
*
Stefan’s screams echo through the abandoned house and Damon imagines them reverberating through the mountains to find Klaus’s ears, to bring him to their door. Alaric stands beside him, the pale light of the moon illuminating his face as they stand guard together.
“He’ll get through this,” Alaric reassures.
“You are too damn optimistic for your own good, Ric.”
“It’s a curse.”
Damon half smiles. He’s very glad that Alaric’s still among the living.
“It’s really not,” Damon says.
Another scream pierces the air and Alaric flinches. He’s clearly never had the joy of listening to a vampire detox before.
“I guess you're right,” he says simply and takes Damon’s hand without asking or hesitating. This is a new, but not at all unpleasant development.
Damon lets him.
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Date: 8/1/11 09:04 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 8/2/11 01:48 am (UTC)