Lest We Bleed Ourselves
By HR
SuperWho: Jack/Dean
Named after my Jack/Dean Theme Song. Aka Jars by Chevelle (Really people, that song is so Jack/Dean that it hurts. It butchers me. Ugh, I can't even describe how it makes me feel.)
Based off the most beautiful Gif-set I've ever seen in my life, seen on fysuperwho . tumblr. It was, ugh I had so many tears. The feelings poured out of my soul, onto this Word document with no time for censorship.
I am ashamed of myself – and I'll admit that I frown upon people who do this – but I've only seen one episode of Torchwood. I have, though, seen every DW epi with Captain Jack, and have read up on him (Godstiel bless the Doctor Who wiki.)
Whatever. I don't care. I mean I'm attempting to keep this in character, really. If I fail, I fail. I don't care, this had to be done. I seriously wrote this at three in the morning, no shame. Unbeta'd, (sorry Meg I just wanna get this up real quick!) and unedited by me. One of them "Feelings onto paper" things.
Hurt/Comfort/Friendship
Rated T 'cause I can
Characters/Pairings: Jack/Dean, Jack/Ianto, Dean/Castiel
Prompt/Summary: A chance encounter in a bar, and he's sharing a lot more with this so-called captain than he's shared with anyone else in years. "Who'd you lose?" "Someone I loved." Jack/Dean, Jack/Ianto, Dean/Castiel. Spoilers for beginning of Season 7 for SPN, Series 3 for TW.
Dean Winchester can't tell you how he ended up in Cardiff.
Perhaps it had something to do with Sam's hallucinations, with the Leviathan coming to destroy the entire fucking world (even though they'd just managed to fix it again), or maybe he's just kidding himself. Maybe it has nothing to do with that. Maybe it's all about him.
It doesn't matter how, so much as he did.
He ends up in some back alley bar – pretty high-end though, considering where it's at – with three shots of whiskey already in his stomach and a fourth burning his throat. The lights are dim in here, which he thinks is just about the best idea ever considering the killer headache blossoming across the back of his neck, though he could argue against the smell. It's sweaty, and sticky, with a sweet tint to it, but more than anything it's the scent of sex.
Usually he loves it. Not now, not today. Not this year, even.
There's accents being thrown at him left and right, including the pretty young bartender that's caressing his face with blood-red fingernails, tossing him a sly smile - he's not sure how she thinks she can still pursue him, considering he's told her to fuck off more than once – so he's surprised when he hears an American one.
He glances over automatically, registering the face he sees. It's relatively attractive, he decides, with high cheekbones and a prominent jaw line, tired eyes attempting to shine with cockiness, but not quite achieving it.
The next thing he knows, those tired eyes are staring back at him.
He doesn't look away, not right away. Something's pulling him, something familiar – maybe it's the messy dark hair, or that damned blue that just kills him. Either way.
The stranger offers a weary smile and holds his hand out. Dean takes a moment to realize what he's wearing – a heavy, military-type over coat that ignites a sting at the back of his throat. God damn it, if he didn't look so much like him already.
"Captain Jack Harkness," the stranger says, tired eyes a little more awake as they linger over Dean's features.
Dean takes his hand. "Dean. Winchester."
"Winchester?" the stranger cocks an eyebrow and brings his drink to his lips. He doesn't comment further on it, but keeps his eyes on Dean as he downs his glass in one shot. Dean follows the movement with his eyes – the pull of his mouth over the lip of the glass, the gliding of his throat as he swallows.
Dean grins back, "Yup." He rolls his empty shot glass between his palms, and looks away, chuckling.
The one named Jack leans closer, "What's so funny, Dean Winchester?"
Dean looks up, green eyes meeting blue – he can't stop the memory's flashing through his mind right now, can't stop the pain – and shrugs, "The irony."
"Of what exactly?" Jack's voice is dangerously low, and Dean recognizes his tone right away. He should know, he's used it in joints like this more times than he can count.
Dean smirks and looks away again, "Everything. Every God damn thing." He rubs his forehead with his palm, sighing. "Sorry, man, I just . . . I don't know anymore." Again, he doesn't know why he's saying these things, why he's opening up to a total stranger. Then again, it wouldn't be the first time, and something hidden beneath Jack's gaze gives off the impression that he would understand.
He's right, and Jack's leaning away, settling his elbow on the counter top and his head in his hand. "Who'd you lose?"
"Excuse me?" Dean drops the glass in his hand and it rolls against the countertop with a chiming noise.
"Come on," Jack smirks. "Who'd you lose?"
Dean frowns, and the defensives that he'd dropped earlier fly up now. "None of your business, buddy."
"Suit yourself," Jack shrugs, and goes to stand, when Dean calls out a "Wait."
Jack's smug smile returns and he sits down again, his elbows now on his knees, his chin balanced in the heels of his hand.
Dean swallows. "Someone I loved."
Something flashes in Jack's tired eyes and the smug smile diminishes into a mere slight curvature of an upper lip. They stare at each other for a moment, images of heartache galloping across their respective iris', pupils dilated. Finally, Jack whispers, "Me, too." And turns away again, head bowed, eyes closed.
Dean sighs again. "It's fucking stupid, too. How he went." He picks of his shot glass.
"How's that?" Jack's voice is quiet, and Dean can't quite tell if it's the trick of the light or if there's a tear rolling down his cheek.
"Guess you could say he drowned," Dean pinches the bridge of his nose. "Doesn't matter, it was his own damn fault."
Jack doesn't say anything.
"Wish I could tell ya," Dean laughs, low, and dark. "You wouldn't believe me."
"Don't be so sure," Jack peeks at Dean, that slight curve of the mouth reappearing. "There's a lot I believe."
Dean would not be surprised if this Jack guy was a hunter. Something about his demeanor says as such, or at least something similar. He knows things, Dean suspects. He knows a lot about the world that maybe even Dean himself doesn't.
"Do you believe in monsters?"
"If you only knew," Jack lifts his head, tired eyes shining. "You said your name was Winchester, right?"
Dean raises an eyebrow, "Yeah?"
"Interesting," Jack muses, tracing a circle over the lip of his glass. "I've heard of you. You're American, right?"
"So are you," Dean comments, deciding to ignore the I've heard of you part. If this guy really is a hunter, as Dean suspects, than of course he's heard of him. "How'd you end up here?"
"It's a looonngg story," Jack laughs louder than Dean's heard it thus far. "What about you?"
"Mine's longer," Dean bites his bottom lip. "My brother, Sam, he's pry waiting for me back home. God, I hate flying." Dean pushes his glass away. "I've been here too long, anyway. I should go."
"I could give you a ride," Jack grins widely. "If you hate flying, that is."
"What do you have a magic transporter beam or something?"
Jack's eyes flash. "Something like that."
When they're leaving the bar, arms bumping into each other periodically, Dean asks. "What about you?"
"What about me?" Jack looks sideways at Dean.
"The one you lost," Dean stares at the ground, watching his feet.
Jack's expression darkness, but there's a certain fondness glimmering somewhere beneath the pained expression. "His name was Ianto. Ianto Jones, and he was beautiful."
"Castiel," Dean murmurs. "God, he was a fucking angel."
"You say that like its literal."
"Maybe it is."
"You believe in angels, Dean Winchester?"
A smile finds it's way on Dean's face, "I kinda have to."
"What about aliens?" Jack stops, and suddenly his face is very serious.
"Never thought about it," Dean's eyebrows draw together in bewilderment. "Wouldn't be surprised, though. Why?"
Jack's eyes aren't tired anymore – they're very much awake, very much alive. "Ever hear of Torchwood?"
"No," Dean's too confused to make a smart-ass comeback about the title of whatever-the-fuck it was.
"Come on," Jack says, taking Dean's hand, "I'll show you."