[FIC] Last Call

I took drabble prompts on my DW/IJ, and nothing I wrote ended up as a drabble. Posting finally. Prompt for this was: a Tremor brother(s)/a Winchester brother(s). Weaponry.

Smokin’ Aces/Supernatural. Jeeves Tremor/Dean Winchester. R. 1900 words. Non-con of the unwanted groping variety.

A thousand successful hunts and more wounds than scars, and this is how it was going to end?

Last Call

“Nai guhh.”

Dean’s crawled through every state at least twice, spent more than enough time in the kind of bars where it takes a dozen guys to come up with a full set of teeth between them, and he still can’t understand the mash of sounds coming out of the guy towering over him. Could be part of the block between Dean’s ears and his brain is that the guy’s got neo-Nazi fuckhead written all over him. Literally, turns out, when the guy drops a hand on the top of the bar and rolls up his shirtsleeve. He slugs Dean in the shoulder in what Dean hopes was meant to be a friendly gesture, but either way it’s going to leave a bruise.

“Forry five. Bih boom. Big. Bigbig.”

So that one, Dean understands. Almost smiles until sliding up on the other side of him comes the skinnier, shorter, equally tattooed version of the skinhead mountain pawing at him.

Bright blue eyes skim over Dean’s face in a way that makes him feel like he’s really in the wrong damn kind of bar. “What he means is he likes your gun.”

“Yeah, I got that.” Dean tugs his shirt down over the lump of it at his spine and wraps his hands around his beer, hoping they’ll take the hint and leave before Sam tracks him down. Dean’s here to avoid trouble, not up the ante.

“I think my brother Jeeves there wants a closer look at that fine piece of weaponry.” Blue-eyes pulls the pick out of someone’s abandoned glass and twists to lean his back against the bar. He starts cleaning his teeth, and under the flap of his ratty, sleeveless, black denim jacket, he’s got more guns strapped to him than the Impala has trunkspace for. “How about you go with him to the little boy’s room.”

Dean flinches when a big hand claps to his leg and runs up his thigh to squeeze him none-too-gently in the crotch. “Bafroom. Good for ya.” Another squeeze, firm enough to make him see stars.

“Do I have a choice?”

Blue-eyes turns his head lazily, beams a big smile at him. “The good Lord says we all got choices, friend.”

“C’mon.” Jeeves takes a fistful of Dean’s jacket and hauls him off his stool, gives him a shove towards the back of the bar and smacks him upside the head when he doesn’t move.

“I’m going, I’m going.” Out of the corner of his eye, Dean catches the bartender looking edgy. Dean smiles, tries to assure the few people tossing looks his way that he’s got things covered, and there won’t be trouble. But his blood runs hot, then cold. There’s something about the vibe in the joint that’s changed enough that a quick takedown in the bathroom and a getaway might be the best plan of action.

He glances back to see if Blue-eyes is going to follow, but his new, giant-sized buddy blocks his view and gives him another smack. “No time. Gon’ get dark,” he grunts.

Dean scowls and rubs the back of his head. Guy is bigger than his freak brother, but Dean bet he landed on the far end of the spectrum when it came to smarts. All bulk and no brains, and Dean hates the type. “Dark? It’s half past ten. The sun’s been down for hours.”

“Gon’ get dark.” Right.

The bathroom is a tiny one stall, one urinal, one sink affair, and the moment they’re both inside, Dean ducks down out of reach and springs back to deliver a swift punch to Jeeves’s nuts. Pain rockets up Dean’s arm, his hand numbed, and the next thing he knows he’s being picked up into the air, the world does a few spins and then he’s flat on the floor with no air left in his lungs.

Jeeves pulls a goddamn butcher knife out of his pants and Dean blinks away stars and the sudden flicker of his life flashing past his eyes. A thousand successful hunts and more wounds than scars, and this is how it was going to end? Down and out, just like that, chopped up by a crazy asshole with a stupid looking mohawk and left to bleed on a dirty bathroom floor. Dean’s breath comes back in a loud gasping rush just in time to see Jeeves drive the knife into the plaster and leave it in the wall.

“Shuddup,” Jeeves tells him, putting a boot to his leg to swivel him around on the tile. Two-hundred odd pounds of muscle drops onto him, wriggles back to sit on his shins, and Dean’s eyes bug when Jeeves goes straight for his fly.

The hard edges of his gun dig into the base of his spine, impossible to get to. Jeeves slams a hand down onto his shoulder, pins him effectively and grins when his hand wriggles its way into Dean’s boxers. Dean squirms, eyeballs the gun just a little too far out of reach and considers that maybe being chopped to death wasn’t such a bad alternative after all.

When the lights cut out and the shooting starts, Dean’s mind takes another 180. He renews his efforts to reach his gun, but it’s no use. Adrenaline rips through his veins, and if the groping he could do without, at least he’s got a pretty effective meat shield between him and any rounds flying this way. It sounds like a war’s going on, screams interrupted by shotgun blasts and the cough of automatic rifles.

“Done soon,” Jeeves says, and Dean can’t tell if he means he’s going to come from rutting against Dean’s leg like a goddamn dog, or if the firefight is almost over.

Either way, Jeeves shifts his weight, his hand skids off Dean’s shoulder to the floor, and Dean’s chance glimmers like a beacon. One hard twist that wrenches his shoulder to screaming earns him his Colt in his hand, and Jeeves grunts when the muzzle hits his chest.

“Get off of me or I shoot.” Dean flicks the safety, and the last thing he expects to hear is a shuddering moan. Humans, he’ll never understand them.

Jeeves moans again, takes Dean’s wrist and Dean’s too fucking stunned to pull the trigger. Shooting people isn’t what he does, and for all Jeeves’s enthusiastic rutting, he’s clearly not a jizz-sucking incubus.

The door bangs open and for second Dean thinks the sound and the sudden flare means somehow his finger squeezed the trigger, but the light stays. Jeeves’s eyes are glittering, his teeth bared, and Dean’s treated to the sight of the guy twisting his head down to lick at the barrel of his gun, lewd and wet, and for chrissakes if he gets out of here alive, the thing’s going to need to be disinfected.

“You ain’t done yet?” Blue-eyes keeps the door open with his shoulder, a flare sizzling in his hand. There’s bits and chunks of gore all over him, everywhere but around his eyes, left clean from the goggles hanging loose at his neck. Even if Dean’s seen messier, it’s always been something nasty and otherworldly doing the damage. He swallows hard thinking about what went on out there.

Jeeves grinds against Dean’s thigh one last time before stopping unsatisfied. He puts a hand to Dean’s face and thumbs at his lip, lightly slaps him once more across the face as if to say if you didn’t shoot me already before he stands. He steps over Dean, yanks his knife back out of the wall, and rubs at his cock through his jeans. Dean’s never felt more invisible in his life, and thankful for it.

“Can I keep ’em?” Jeeves asks, muscling in close to his brother. “Perty gun. Perty face.”

Dean’s skin crawls like it’s stretched over a ball of snakes as the two assholes look him over like he’s a piece of meat. The gun in his hand might as well be a rock for the good it’s doing him. Dimly, in the back of his mind, he hopes that Sam’s still at the motel. If he shows up now, things are only going to get messier.

“No pets.” Blue-eyes claps a hand to Jeeves’s neck, pulls him down to touch their foreheads together. “But I won’t put him down if it’ll make you feel better.”

Jeeves looks disappointed as he tucks the butcher knife back into his pants, looks less so when a grenade gets slapped into his palm. He tosses Dean one last, unreadable glance, and then the two of them are gone, the door swinging to clap shut and a final, teeth-shattering blast shaking it on its hinges.

The whine of sirens finally gets Dean up on his feet. He does his pants back up and shivers, staring at the heavy weight of the gun before tucking it back into place. Surreal doesn’t begin to explain the whirl of what-the-fucking-fuck going on inside his skull. He catches the handle of the door and pauses, gauges the size of the window instead and makes up his mind.

Whatever’s out there, he doesn’t want to see it. There are some nightmares he can live without facing.

And shit, but Sam’s probably riled up over all the red and blue lights howling this way.

The sweeping beam of a flashlight skips through the crack under the door and Dean freezes. They’ve had a lot of shit pinned on them, but he’s not keen on getting caught and having a barroom massacre added to the list.

He inches slowly away from the door, but not fast enough to avoid the hard smack of it into his face. Christ, it’s like the universe has decided that tonight is the night to slap him around.

“Dean!” Light shines in his face and he shies away. “Dude, what happened? Are you okay?” Sam flips his grip on the flashlight to take him by the face, turn his head towards the faint glow of the streetlamp coming in from the window. “What the hell did you find?”

“Freaks,” Dean says, shrugging away from Sam’s concern. “Can we not talk about it and get out of here before the cavalry arrives?”

“The back door’s blown to bits, we can go out that way, so you know….” Sam nods towards the front and no, Dean doesn’t know, and he’d like to keep it that way.

“Next time I’m sticking with a six-pack in the room,” Dean mumbles, praying that whatever he just stepped on hadn’t been someone’s finger. He’s going to need a shower. A long one.

“I’ll remember that.”

“Please do.”

“Freaks?” Sam asks as they burst into the cool night air and away from the stink of blood and bullets. Dean starts to take back his earlier assessment of Sam’s brains, because his brother just doesn’t know when to shut up.

“You remember the Benders?” he says. “Add a bigger arsenal, a Hitler fetish, and a disturbing tendency for— Let’s just say these guys made those hillbillies look like the Hiltons.”

“Oh.” Sam’s face flushes.


“Oh,” Sam repeats, the colour draining away just as fast. “So, we skipping town? Nothing’s panned out so far.”

“Thought you’d never ask. You pack, I shower, and tonight never happened, got it?”

Sam opens his mouth, pauses and nods and tosses Dean the keys. “Got it.”



One thought on “[FIC] Last Call

  1. belladona

    awesome. funny and disturbing at the same time. And I love that dean’s so able to cope with being molested- he figures out how to deal with it, and gets out of there, and then passes it off as just another freaky episode in the life of a winchester.

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