Shoot the Moon

by Sable Fennec

February 17, 2007

Notes: I have no idea where this is going. If you want slash of some nature, or any other pairing, simply request. I'll consider it. Also, to quote GoddessErin: "I realize that happens on the show. I'm not writing the show. You want to watch the show, I won't stop you." Therefore, major AU for Angel, and for Supernatural as well. Takes off during Born Under a Bad Sign for SPN, and Sleep Tight for Angel.

When he burst in the door, he found a ragged man in a leather jacket, chin covered in week old stubble. He had something cradled in his left arm, and clutched in his right hand was a small, battered book. he was also speaking in loud, impeccable Latin, undoubtedly intending to exorcize the black-eyed man advancing on him.

It wasn't in Dean's nature to hesitate, so he dashed forward and tackled the demon to the ground. He whaled him one on the jaw with a left hook, and kept on going, past feeling sympathy for the poor sonofabitch trapped inside. All of his anger came out, all of his rage, and then the guy's head snapped back and a rush of black fled his mouth.

The guy with the book kept right on reading, until the black vanished with a strange, subliminal pop. Dean thought he could grow to like this guy.

He spared a brief, resigned thought for the sucker who'd originally inhabited the body, slumped over now and lifeless. Dean stood, clutching his gun tightly. He was wiling to give the guy the benefit of the doubt, but memories of Gordon were fresh in his mind. He was a long way from getting friendly with another hunter quite so readily.

The man still standing breathed deeply, looked at him warily, and flipped the book shut. It disappeared behind the folds of the blanket in his arms. His eyes were intense and dark. "Thank you," he rasped, sounding very British.

"No problem," Dean answered, and he stood and checked the gun at his back out of habit. "So, we gonna fight, too, or can we get out of this hell hole?"

The man smiled faintly. "We can leave," he said, so Dean palmed his gun and nodded. Demons made him especially paranoid these days. "My hands are a tad preoccupied at the moment." He gestured meaningfully.

Dean meant to respond, but a sound suspiciously like a baby crying filled the air, and the guy was shushing the, god, it really was a baby, saying things like, "shhh, Connor," and, "it's okay now, the demon's dead," until the baby gurgled and shut up.

After his speechless staring was done, he narrowed his eyes and said, "You brought your kid on a hunt?" like he had any room to be offended, but Dad had at least waited until he was old enough to shoot, complete with trembling hands and choked off screams.

It was only now that he saw how tired the guy looked, how lean and bone-weary, soles of his shoes coming off and hair lank and greasy. And he could have made up a thousand excuses, which Dean knew well from experience, but all he said was, "Not much choice in the matter."

So Dean looked at him again, at the baby, and said, "Come on, I'll let you use my shower.

Later on, after Dean learned that the English guy's name was suitably English, and the baby'd been fed and cleaned up, he really did let Wesley use his shower. He looked down like Dean was prying a leech off his arms when he took the baby, and maybe the analogy was more apt than he'd thought, because Wesley was looking more alive by the second.

"Go on," he said, jerking his head toward the motel's bathroom. "I'll watch him."

Wesley didn't speak, didn't thank him again. It was a good thing, too, because if he'd sounded any more grateful Dean would've had to punch him for not taking care of his son.

He didn't even need Sammy there to tell him he was transferring his issues. And wasn't that a depressing thought?

Wesley wasn't really sure what he was doing, letting a strange man named Dean look after Connor while he showered, of all things. But Dean had a shotgun and knew demons and didn't ask questions, and he held Connor like he wasn't terrified of dropping him, which Wesley still was. He probably always would be.

It felt wonderful to get clean and, amazingly, warm, but Angel's presence over his shoulder was tangible. If he closed his eyes, Wesley heard Angel say, "What are you doing with my son? I can't trust you, Wesley. You're going to get him killed."

So Wesley didn't close his eyes for long; the thought of Connor in the next room spurred him to efficiency. As he hurriedly replaced his clothes, uncaring of the filth sticking to his skin, by nature inescapable, he had one thought.

Connor could be dead right now. What was he doing?

It seemed like Dean barely had time to appreciate the child he was holding before Wesley finished his shower. He left the bathroom like a bat out of hell, and made a B-line for Connor. Dean handed him over without a word, and once he had him, Wesley seemed to sink into the carpet. Dean didn't mistake it for relief. He knew better.

"You look like shit," Dean said bluntly. That was his idea of tact. Sam's absence was like a wound.

Wesley didn't seem to hear him. He backed up until he hit the other bed and sat down. Dean couldn't stop himself from getting rooms with twins, not because of habit but because of a half-formed hope that barely let him breathe. Sam's going to show up some day soon, and he always wants his own bed, touchy bastard.

Once he'd satisfied his obsessive compulsive disorder by staring at his kid enough, Wesley looked up at him and opened his mouth to speak. Dean saw the vulnerability in his eyes and didn't like it. He didn't want to hear a single syllable.

"If you thank me one more time," he warned, "I'll punch you."

"Right," Wesley said. "Sorry."

Dean restrained a sigh. At least Sam didn't let being emo cripple his sense of humor. Obviously this was what happened when an older brother wasn't around to ensure your sanity. "Tell me a story," he suggested, lifting his feet onto the bed without bothering to take his boots off. He got comfortable.

Silence for a bit. "I'm afraid none of my stories make for pleasant listening."

"That good, huh?"

Wesley sighed. "Fine." His face was pinched; Dean knew he was thinking about how insufferable he was, and smirked. Wesley was obviously loosening up somewhat; Dean took it as a positive sign. He had to have a personality in there somewhere, after all.

"So the kid isn't yours," he said, not a question. From the way Wesley stiffened, hunched over, stared at him fiercely – it all read as desperation to Dean, and he wondered how his father looked to adult eyes those first days after the fire.

"It's that apparent, then."

"Yeah." Pause. "I mean, you don't know what to do with him. You don't look at him at all."

"No, he isn't my son," was all Wesley said. And then, surprising Dean: "I took him. I took him, and I can't go back." He swallowed.

Eying him carefully, Dean said, "Somehow, I don't think Connor's face is going to turn up on a milk carton."

"No, you're right. He won't." Wesley looked down at the baby, who was making unhappy noises. He rocked him awkwardly, clearly at odds with human contact. The effort wasn't enough: Connor started crying, giving Wesley the face of Chicken Little. The sky is falling, Dean thought.

Wasn't it just.

Taking pity on the guy, Dean stood and moved to sit beside him. "Let me have him," he offered.

Uneasy. "Alright."

Once in his hands, Dean held him up at eye level, saw his crinkled brow, sulky lips. He smiled. "No matter how hard you try, buddy, you're never gonna beat my brother at your age. He could bring the house down." Suddenly that phrase had a lot more meaning.

He set Connor on his knee, started bouncing him up and down a little, just enough to make him laugh. Somber now, he went on. "I know it sucks to be on the road hunting at that age. Believe me, I know. But cut Wesley some slack, okay? You're alive."

He glanced over, and was startled to find Wesley smiling softly, eyes for once not glazed with the past. They had instead the quality of asphalt in summer, but brighter. Almost green. Wesley leaned over and used the long sleeve of his sweater to wipe the spit off the Connor's face. The baby's laughter lightened the air.

"His father is a vampire," said Wesley quietly. "I'm not sure how. Magic was involved. He has a soul, but..." Not smiling, just staring at twined fingers in his lap, like they were a bundle of snakes waiting to strike him. "I took Connor for protection."

A cell phone rang. Smoke on the Water emerged from tinny speakers.

"Yeah."

"Dean?" Sam's voice, gasping. He grabbed Connor, kept perfectly still. Fear, bright and cold, ice flares in his vision.

"Where are you? Are you alright?"

"Dean, I..."

Click.

"There's a couple rules here," said Sam lazily, holding a knife and letting is slide across his palm, whispering against his skin. The viscosity of blood always surprised him. He curled his fingers so it touched; rubbed them together; shrugged and left his hand stained red. He turned to the girl.

She was beautiful. An actress, he knew, because she was acting right now. It wasn't bad: gaze firm, wide, refusing to choke on the gritty rag in her mouth. Her brown hair was long and tousled, the disarray artful against the beauty of her smeared cheeks. He flicked the knife out, let it run across her. Enjoyed the flare of color.

It wasn't important to Sam if she looked afraid. Only that she was. He could hear her thoughts. Oh, god, my vision was wrong, it was wrong, he doesn't need saving...

"First rule." He smiled. "When my brother gets here, tell him the truth."