Title: When It's You and Me
Author: OpheliacAngel
Pairings: Lucifer/Dean
Genres: Romance/Hurt/Comfort
Rating: Mature
Summary: "I just want a little 'you and me' time. Is that so much to ask for?"
A/N: Written for Frostonthetrees, who has been wanting some Dean/Lucifer. Sorry for the wait, this is the result of plenty of nitpicking. Also knocking out the Dean & Lucifer square on my SPN Rare Pair Bingo card.
The ghoul's teeth sink into his shoulder, tearing through the skin like it's nothing but paper, blood soaking the back of his neck and the table he's strapped to. The pain hits him like a bullet, yet increasing disorientation as more and more blood gushes out of him is the most frightening, that dimly familiar agony giving way to numbness. If he can't slip these restraints - and he's already tried plenty of times - then he's not gonna make it out of here alive. Regrets pluck at him, bemoaning him to pay heed, only adding to his growing panic.
Had a good run. This ain't the most painful way to die, no, just slow. So damn slow. Sorry, Sammy.
Time slows. It feels like he's slipping through the table, through the world, body unwilling to support his limbs any longer, head too heavy and adamantly refusing to lift.
Can't remember… where the hell I am.
The light fades. It fizzles out at the edges of his vision, sparking like fireworks and then dying completely. When there is nothing left to see by Dean starts to fall backward into darkness that feels too much like a freezer, no idea how far down he has to go, but the panic escapes just like every other thought. Then… a ridiculously bright light searing eyes he can't open, a roaring in his ears like a train crossing the tracks, a tingling in his fingers and Dean hopes it'll go fast, this whole dying thing, faster than all the other times.
It is fast, and then there are cold fingers resting just below his ears, on both sides of his face. He can hardly feel them even though this cold is sharp, as if trying to draw his attention to it. There's a sharp tug the second he registers this, like something being pulled out of him and his organs fluttering back to life. Dean is still detached, some freaky out-of-body experience where he watches his mouth open and draw in a breath and his chest retract, but it doesn't last long. He's back in his body again too soon and he wishes he wasn't, courtesy of the hard ass thing he's laying on digging into his back, cold still seeping into his bones and something pricking at his burning eyes.
As soon as the complaint gets voiced in his head, which seems a little too immediate, that hard, possibly metal surface at his back falls away suddenly to something soft, something that gives easily under him and even seems to mold to his shape. Unfortunately, Dean doesn't know what the hell is going on because his body's still trying to catch up, let alone his frozen brain which needs to defrost… ugh… and he starts to panic because - body still out of his control - he can't support himself. He knows well enough that he's no longer falling, but if someone were to put him in water right now he would definitely drown, all the impulse but none of the capability to actually hold himself up. He can feel but he can't control, and he's pretty damn sure there's few things worse than that, especially since he's a guy who needs to be moving.
There are fingernails scratching against his arms then, briefly, pads of fingers digging into his skin but not hard enough to leave bruises. He's repositioned carefully, slowly so as not to freak him out even more than he already is. He still does for a second there until he realizes that those fingers are attached to hands which are holding him up, so there's no way in hell he could fall. It's like all this air inside him - pressure - whooshes out of him and all the urgency to get with it and fight goes out of him with it. Dean calms for the first time in what feels like decades, his gut telling him to relax, telling him not to fight. This is different, this isn't before.
Now he can focus on reconnecting with his body.
Except… awareness pulses too close to comfort. Dean still wants to hide, feels naked and raw and unsure. He eventually notices that the surface beneath his uncomfortably tingling skin is a bed, a huge one, and that there are hands still holding him down, not forcefully. The fact that they compensate and move each time Dean feels increasing pressure somewhere leads him to believe that they're just a reminder, telling him to try not to move. Dean doesn't have to be told. Cold, but not ice-cold, instead something infinitely more reassuring seeps steadily through him from the back of his neck all the way down to the very tips of his toes. That tingling Dean was forced to accept before gives way to sharper pain, curling around his bones as if it's found a permanent home there and scraping, sucking up all of Dean's marrow until Dean has no choice but to cut himself off again.
Hands catch him so he doesn't have to fall anymore, but he's given what he wants.
Someone's sitting on the dresser when Dean opens his eyes and turns his head. He can feel the twinge in his shoulder even though, as he looks down at the area with a grimace, he notices in awe that it's completely healed - phantom pain. His eyes slam shut of their own accord as dreams, no, memories - and recent ones too - flicker behind his eyes like a film on super speed. He hates ghouls nearly as much as he does witches. Sure, witches are all about spreading their twisted ideologies and leaving behind bloody messes for Dean to mop up, but ghouls are nearly as bad. The fact that they exist in the bodies they dare feed off of sets his teeth on edge like little else does, worse than skin walkers even. Those damn teeth. Who knows what diseases fester in their rank gums?
Consciousness seems to be forced upon him again. Dean is well aware he doesn't feel as weak and lightheaded from that much blood-loss as he should feel. Moreover, and probably most importantly, he's not dead, which is a feat in itself considering Dean knows exactly how much blood he lost before he blacked out, enough to not walk away from.
Which means someone got him the hell out of there and managed to transfuse him with some more juice before he shuffled off this mortal coil completely.
When Dean turns his head again he sees long legs first, dangling off the dresser, long, toothpick thin legs that somewhat remind him of Sam's but are definitely not his brother's. These are restless, more graceful than gangly and obviously too thin. Dean squints, tilts his head up slightly to see someone he has never in his life seen before. Shaggy black hair frames an almost heart-shaped face, and a hand keeps brushing spikes of dark hair off his forehead irritably, though in a way that still manages to look flawlessly graceful. There are rings adorning the guy's every finger, big rings that clang slightly as he incessantly moves his fingers, almost as if they're paining him. The black AC/DC t-shirt and low-hanging jeans bring Dean into familiar territory, and so do the eyes once they turn on him.
Sharp eyes, dark brown ones that smirk at him and Dean recognizes the other features once he has those eyes to bring them together, features too eerily similar to how he remembers them. Dean blames himself entirely, the hair having thrown him off, but it's still him, just a different vessel.
Lucifer.
The smile is more sardonic but with the same degree of smugness as before. "There's nothing like hearing a Winchester's distress call to brighten your morning." Lucifer's legs swing back and forth playfully, yet as if they move in perfect rhythm to a song Dean can't hear. They're kinda mesmerizing, especially since Dean knows full-well that he needs to be able to move and defend himself again but technically also just wants to lie in the super soft bed he's in - memory foam, he almost moans - and drift so he can postpone his angry limbs waking back up.
For the longest time Lucifer doesn't even bother hopping off the dresser, just sits there as if there's no possible reason for him to be in a rush, even if everything hinges on Dean saying that pesky three syllable word. Still, Lucifer doesn't so much as scoot closer to the edge of the piece of furniture he's sitting on. He must realize Dean Winchester's not much of a threat right now, all promise that he can't even voice and no follow through, at least until he can surge past the lingering threads of disorientation.
"Pulled me out?" Dean's voice is barely a slur, sounding more like his throat's gone through a grinder and just barely come out the other side. Lucifer could have completely healed him, but why bother when you can be a dick and play with your brother's vessel?
Lucifer's bangs are so thick and so long that they nearly cover his eyes, yet he doesn't brush them away this time. Still, his eyes smolder beneath them, burning a hole through Dean's fire-soaked retinas. "Practically dead by the time I found you. From my experience, however, Winchesters are remarkably resilient. Can't guarantee there won't be lingering side-effects, but I believe my handiwork will hold up."
Dean allows the voice to wash over him. It's younger and far less mature because he's picked a vessel that looks barely twenty-six, but Dean can still read through every word and determine it as Lucifer's. If the eyes weren't enough then the playfulness and intent in that voice would be. Dean's starting to think this is all too surreal, about how he knows Lucifer that well to be able to recognize him when he's in a different vessel, but Dean's more relieved that he can recognize him rather than wake up and not know what the hell was going on.
So Lucifer saved his life, and he wants Dean to say yes.
"Not exactly."
Lucifer pushes himself off the dresser then, landing gracefully on his feet and Dean's snort comes out more like a vague, all too pitiful choking sound. Dean follows him with his eyes as best he can, unable to ignore the appeal of the vessel Lucifer's chosen after the last one no doubt melted in on him. There's no peeling… yet, at least not that Dean can see. The inky hair is messy and spiked and there is so much of it, covering his eyes, tips dancing across his nose, and Dean likes this goth, bad-boy look, can almost forget that it's the devil itself staring back at him.
"What the hell happened to your vessel?" Dean rasps, sounding somewhat better than his first attempt at speech.
Lucifer shrugs. "Didn't hold up. Got out before it fell apart." Dean wonders what the hell would have happened if he hadn't gotten out in time, but soon there's a convincing enough distraction. Lucifer's fingers skate across his arm, very tips of those cold fingers dancing, playfully, like he's lost in some sort of trance. Dean watches his intense eyes, wondering what the hell will come of this.
"What are you doing?"
Lucifer shrugs, the gesture innocent but the glint in his eyes anything but. "I just want a little 'you and me' time. Is that so much to ask for?"
When the devil himself wants to hang out with you it is a lot to ask for. Still, Dean nods, not wanting to incur Lucifer's wrath while he's still mostly done for the count. Thinking about moving and actually moving turn out to be two very different things entirely. Not only that, but the impulse seems to take forever to reach his brain.
He's trapped here, on this bed, in this room. Hell, he might as well be strapped down to that table again.
Lucifer sighs. Cold tendrils squirm around in Dean's arm then, just underneath the skin, and he can move. Dean stretches his arm experimentally, flexing his fingers for a good few seconds and then shooting for sitting up slowly, glaring at Lucifer when a near tidal wave of dizziness washes over him, dragging him under for at least a few minutes. Dean swallows convulsively, eyes slipping shut before he can prevent it from happening, until Lucifer caves on that too, hand cupping the back of Dean's neck until the hunter no longer feels like his own organs are falling out of him.
It's strange and entirely unwarranted, but recovering this quickly makes him sort of hard too. His dick throbs an unsteady beat beneath his jeans as if reaching out to Lucifer of all people. Dean ignores it because he is so not getting into this right here, right now, but Lucifer's eyes drag lazily downward regardless of what Dean wants. There's no excitement there yet there's no disgust either, both of which surprise Dean simultaneously.
And then the Lucifer that everyone knows and loves gets right into it. Dean just sits there, trying to stay upright, trying to ignore the nausea pricking at his cheeks. "I generally detest the human form. Angels, on the other hand, are deliciously wielding. They're tougher than humans but still sooo breakable. Us archangels, well, that's where I get carried away. All that power and know-how, it's just the righteousness that tends to get in the way."
"So, in other words, you'll hold up a conversation with me but you won't fuck me?" Dean can't believe he's even getting into this, but hey, his head and other parts of him are finding it difficult to catch up. It's not Dean's fault that he and the devil have the same taste in vessels.
Lucifer hums. "Now now, I never said I wouldn't make an exception. You do have an exceptionally pretty face, much like Michael. And you have Gabriel's beloved snark." Great, Dean thinks, the best of both angels. 'Cause Lucifer comparing me to the traits of his brothers isn't creepy at all. "Dean-o," Lucifer sing-songs. "If I wanted to fuck my brothers, I would. I would not use you as a means to act out hidden desires. I have no hidden desires." Right, sure, there's nothing there, 'cause apparently Dean can't for the life of him shut up, even though he knows Lucifer is tuning in to every thought he's saying.
The devil's hand grips Dean's head then, clenching into a fist around his hair, though instead of yanking he relaxes his clenched fingers instead, petting him, and Dean tries not to panic. "I wish you wouldn't refer to me as that," Lucifer continues. "Devil." His voice utters the word like it's some sort of curse, one that would twist him into some unrecognizable being instead of the other way around, instead of his twisted nature honing that very term and providing it with horrible meaning.
Dean clears his throat, hard-pressed to even do that. He can see Lucifer's anger brimming just below the surface and he doesn't want to awaken it. "Then what?"
"Archangel," Lucifer sighs, as if in longing, and Dean just stares at him. The only longing he's ever seen from Lucifer has been completely faked, but this… this is something else. "First and foremost, that's what I am, Dean. That is what I was created as, and even though I was cast down from being that I am still an archangel." Dean nods. It's hard to do anything but nod when the devil is petting your hair, one step away from strangling you. He balks at the term Lucifer just told him to use, cringing inwardly because no way in hell is he giving Lucifer the satisfaction of seeing it. It's bad enough that he can see Dean doing it in Dean's own head. Lucifer relents before he does, sighing again and removing his hand. Dean figures what the hell and gives in too, and at the notion a gust of cold wind rushes from the archangel's mouth as he breathes onto Dean's once-torn shoulder, which feels way too damn good. "How's your shoulder?"
Dean swallows. "Fine." The cold just keeps coming and it feels amazing. Good enough to make Dean second guess his qualms at even talking to the guy. He wonders how desperate he'd have to be to want Lucifer's cold fingers brushing up and down his back, a cold clarity in contrast to his fevered nightmares, remnants of hell dreams. He doesn't ask Lucifer to take them away, he's so used to them at this point that he -
The archangel's hand settles on the back of his neck again, a spot so familiar now Dean's almost okay with him leaving it there. It's cold but it's the perfect temperature and Dean moans, realizes he's probably blushing bright red after that. Lucifer laughs, a laugh that sounds young and free and affectionate. And god, Dean does not want to think about that last one. Sympathy for the devil, he relates, even though he's never been able to get behind that term. Sam's more about all that crap.
It's not sympathy, really, it's just that Dean's sorta pleased that he made Lucifer laugh like that, without even saying a goddamn word. He's oddly at peace, seeing a bit of the way Lucifer must have been eons ago fold out from underneath layers and layers of rage and resentment and raucous, ill-contained energy. Lucifer leans closer, messily spiked black hair falling across his forehead, soft as it brushes against Dean's cheek. He likes this new vessel, likes how he can still see the old one on the surface and underneath. There's still the same eyes, the same nose, the same curve of the mouth even, and Dean realizes it must have taken a very long time to find a vessel so similar in facial appearance, so no one would be left wanting.
"Yes," Lucifer replies, voice almost intimately soft. The calm before the storm, Dean thinks, but the thought dissipates as Lucifer's knuckles - heavily ringed fingers - slide along Dean's cheek. The rings leave biting cold where they touch, but the pads of the archangel's fingers brush the chill away and leave an almost warmth there. "I wanted you to recognize me. Wanted it so that you would not be left wanting." Dean almost gasps and backs up because that's sorta what he did mean by the thought. "When it's you and me, Dean," Lucifer breathes against his lips, "I feel young again. Do you understand that, understand what it feels like to be with someone that not only makes you feel whole, but whole as you used to be? Unburdened by past grievances and mistakes, pressured only by petty doubts and desires. I should thank you," he breathes into Dean's ear, and a tremor rushes through the hunter. A tremor that has Dean shaking from head-to-toe until Lucifer presses a hand over his heart.
Warmth then, not heat exactly but more like lukewarm, and a rush of something otherworldly pressing against him gently, asking for permission. And Dean's so used to saying no, doesn't even matter what it is anymore, but this is Lucifer's grace, he realizes, and his taut chest and rapidly beating heart cave under the offer. A sticky warmth fills up all the empty parts inside in thank you until Dean is gasping and practically bent over, hand buried in Lucifer's mop of dark hair, tugging gently at the strands in appreciation.
Maybe, he thinks, hard, knowing that Lucifer appreciates his inner monologue, no matter how naive it may make him seem. Maybe I can trust you. His knees dig into the bed beneath, heart bared, teeth clenched.
Lucifer's hand settles on top of Dean's, fingers curling around it. Dean tilts his head up because Lucifer's quiet for the longest time and it starts to unnerve him. "Not my intent," the archangel makes clear, and Dean knows this is important, struggles to remember it, the fact that the devil himself, his sworn enemy, claims not to want anything from him. Lucifer shakes his head, tip of his thumb making a crescent shape in the hunter's wrist effortlessly, like everything he does, yet also intently as if he's carving something precious there. "Don't think, Dean. Just relax."
So Dean does, honing in on the archangel's icicle fingers wrapping around his arm and palpitating his shoulder. I like this version. The smirk is genuine yet devilish at the same time and it's definitely Lucifer, and Dean likes that too, likes it a little too much.
FIN