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Chapter title is from song by Kip Wagner.
55
Smoking Gun – Kip Wagner
He was a bitch to live with. This Dean concluded a week later, a week of feeling too tightly wound trying to whack his thoughts into submission. His thoughts were like gophers. Who knew? He'd catch one of the little suckers trying to escape into a fantasy, grab it, only to have another pop out of a different hole entirely and be off to the races. So he was alternately cranky and horny, although mostly horny, and stuck in a state where he couldn't do anything about it.
They were still working together. Why were they still working together? It was torture. She got too close, standing beside him in that slick Fed suit of hers, although heels—and with that his mind went rabbitting off again, lingering until she looked up at his distracted silence, catching the drift of his thought like completing a circuit, the pink of her tongue touching both lips on an indrawn breath as she struggled to put a lid on live current.
He got stuck partnered with Sam after that.
Sam started taking himself off to the library, to do "research", just to get out of the line of fire. He caught Sam eying another black Charger that morning, thinking about hot-wiring it just to get out of riding in the Impala, because he drove too fast. He couldn't help that. She drove too fast. She was taking the curves too sharply, working the edgy frustration out on the road. He was just keeping up. Sam had looked longingly at the low-slung wheels, and heaved a sigh with his soul in it, like all he wanted in the whole wide world was a nice, slow, non-Formula One drive for a change.
Well, too bad. This was all his fault.
They were chasing down a lead in Omaha, one tensely silent meal too many, with Sam ambitiously trying to fill in the conversational gaps with trivia. For whatever reason that day they had parked clear across the parking lot. So it was a long trek back to the Impala and the Durango, with nowhere to put his eyes as he followed her, keeping a carefully casual but spacious distance between himself and walking temptation, when she abruptly stopped short and muttered, "Oh, for cryin' out loud."
She turned on her heel. He had to pull up to avoid running into her, and he blamed that little distraction for the fact she was able to slip her hand around his neck and tug his head down, skimming a kiss across his lips, tentative like she was not entirely sure that whatever-it-was wasn't all in her head, her kiss delicious like honey and cinnamon and whiskey and he inhaled, his heart stopping on a precipice.
He should pull back. It was the sensible thing to do.
His lips parted because he needed air to make that decision, and she slid in for a taste, running the tip of her tongue along the inner curve of his upper lip like he was a fine bourbon. Oh God. His eyes closed, focusing on that slick friction. His muscles locked, wanting to reach, to stroke his hands down her back, under her jacket, to hold, to bring her flush against his heat, all of it, a fine tremor of tension pulling against his better judgment. She put her other hand on his shoulder, stepping in closer and up on her tiptoes, dreamily lost in what she was doing, soft and warm against him, her attention wholly focused on the kiss he could do nothing but slant his head into, his hands clenched into fists at his sides with the effort of his restraint. He leaned in, deepening the kiss despite himself, tasting the smooth curve of her bottom lip, gently sucking, listening to the intoxicating break in her breath, the tightening of her hands on him looking for balance over the iffy instability that seemed to be affecting her knees.
He only slid a hand around her waist to keep her upright, and once he had touched he couldn't help but step, to close the distance between them until body heat was fire and his imagination was pitiful in comparison to the real thing. In his arms she was everything he remembered and more than he imagined, supple and sleek, a live flame, flush against him in all the right places. He brought her closer, the rustle and friction of six layers too many clothing scraping sensitized skin and he needed more.
"Ahem."
They jerked apart, hands going to weapons because she didn't recognize the voice and he did. He shoved her behind him and Sam was already running back to them from across the parking lot before he even got done turning all the way around to face down Crowley, and whatever Crowley had in mind besides really atrocious timing.
"Hello, boys." Crowley peered around him, eyebrows perking up with interest, then added. "Your Grace."
What?
Crowley launched in before he had a chance to follow that thought.
"We've got problems."
"We?" He growled. "There is no we."
Crowley shot back a long-suffering look of exaggerated patience.
"They're going over to the other side."
"Who?" Sam asked, trying to find a thread in Crowley's headless conversation.
"Demons, you meathead. Who'd you think I was talking about? Who else would I be worried about? It's not like I can do anything about the angels flocking to him. I mean, birds of a feather and all, and he is an archangel, so that can't be a surprise. Even you can't be that naïve."
He stared at Crowley, because Crowley was making even less sense than normal. "You've got demons working for Ramiel now?"
"We've. We've got." Crowley corrected meticulously. "This is your problem too, mate."
Dean snarled. Crowley ignored him and went on.
"He's promising them there will be no judgment. No sorting of the sheep, no fire and brimstone for anyone." Crowley scoffed. "If their brains were bigger than peas, they'd know better. But you know, demons. Not the sharpest knives in my drawer, and that's saying something."
"Can he do that?" Sam asked.
"Think, you great big Moose. They're busy emptying Heaven, shoving every last saint and goody two shoes back down here in half-rotten corpses. What kind of redemption do you think is on offer? It's a long con. Not a bad sales pitch, I'll grant you. Takes one to know one."
"So how's that going to work? How can Ramiel promise them they won't be judged?"
Crowley rolled his eyes.
"Imagination, Louise. Surely you must have some."
Zee inhaled. "Possession."
"And a prize for Her Grace. It's about time you boys got some brains in this outfit. Eight billion, live, fresh, ambulatory meat suits—all you need is a little help pushing their occupants to one side, and it's free rentals for the Wingless Host on the Upper West Side."
Sam looked horrified. "Why? Why would Ramiel even want to do that?"
"It's Judgment Day, Samantha. What's a good plea to get out of being tossed into the ninth circle? What buys you a cozy seat topside, bars on the windows and three squares, even if you are taking them with your arms behind you in hospital whites?"
"Guilt by mental defect." Sam replied automatically. "The insanity plea."
"That's his plan? Make everyone Three Faces of Sybil and call it good? What the hell kind of plan is that?"
Crowley's grimace was thin as he looked down at his tailored suit.
"An effective one. No saints, no sinners, no Heaven, no Hell. Everything blended together until everyone's the same, no one to blame, nowhere to go. We'll all be stuck on this grimy ball of dirt for all of a very long eternity, driving each other stark raving mad with Hope watching kindly over us. So unless you're planning to do something about it, welcome to the new asylum."
In the silence that followed Crowley's disappearance, Dean stepped back. He turned around, very deliberately, so deliberately that Sam tensed up.
He faced the woman behind him.
So there was a catch. There was always a catch.
His voice came out low, but he thought it was remarkably even, all things considered.
"What are you?"
Out of the corner of his eye he saw Sam wrinkle his brows together, but before Sam could open his mouth to speak, he held up one finger at his brother. Not now.
" 'Your Grace.' WHAT are you?"
He knew it was bad news the moment she drew herself up, icy distance settling over her like a cloak, her eyes a thousand miles distant, expressionless and soulless again.
Sam interrupted. "Dean…"
"An Exeter-Asquith." The corner of her lip flicked upward, cool in a way that chilled him to his bones. "My full name is Zelda. Evangeline. Exeter-Asquith."
She paused there and waited, like it should mean something. It meant nothing to him, but Sam made a barely audible "oh shit" before clamping his lips together. Dean stared at him. It was an actual eon before Sam got his crap together, and burped up an all too tentative question.
"Exeter-Asquith, of the Exeter-Asquiths?"
He didn't think Zee's expression could get any icier, but it definitely did.
Sam huffed anxiously.
"WHAT?"
He asked the question through gritted teeth, because Sam had come to a full stop, ohfuckohfuckohfuck written loud all over him.
He crossed his arms and glared at his brother. "Sammy."
Sam sighed. "The Exeter-Asquiths are aristocracy, Dean. One of the Families."
The words rang in his ears and he processed them hollowly, like they came from a great distance.
He stared at Sam, because there was something else in Sam's voice. That wasn't all of it.
"And?" He demanded.
Sam huffed again.
"The Exeter-Asquiths, the family goes back a long ways. There are stories about them. In the bunker." Sam glanced cautiously at Zee out of the side of his eye, as if mentioning the bunker was fine now, because the cat was obviously out of the bag. "There were a couple of newspaper clippings from about twenty-five years ago. The main line of the family suffered a spectacular run of bad luck—illness, freak accidents, you name it. The title eventually ended up going to a tiny forgotten offshoot of the family, where it eventually passed to a child, the sole surviving heir of the line."
Dean turned. There was ice in his heart, the chill traveling down to the palms of his hands.
"You're an heiress?"
Her eyes narrowed more, watching him carefully.
"Something like that."
He felt sick. He was cold and everything was moving like molasses in winter.
"You don't sound English."
"I spent time here, growing up."
A spectacular run of bad luck. A series of freak accidents.
No. It was too much to ask.
It was just too much to ask.
There were stories about her family in the bunker. What the hell had happened? And what the hell was she?
He lit into the only thing he could deal with right now.
"And so what are you doing here? This your idea of fun, huh? Slumming it? A way to pass the time? Are you playing at hunting, princess?"
His voice rose, red and angry as he bit off the words, making mocking circular gestures with his finger, glaring at her, ignoring Sam's frantic silent signaling. Not now. Dean, later. Don't blow it now.
It was too late to be worried about blowing it. He wasn't the one who'd been keeping secrets. He glared, his temper boiling. He played fast and loose with the truth all the time, but not like this.
Never like this.
"You didn't think I… we deserved to KNOW?"
The look she gave him was hooded. She said nothing.
He glared harder. God, it was like pulling teeth.
Finally, "Is it relevant?"
Was it relev.. Dean clicked his teeth shut with a snap. Well. That said everything. The rush of anger was so loud in his ears he almost didn't hear her next words as she turned and walked sharply away from them.
"Don't you worry. The title dies with me."