Title: An Unusual Accord
Author:![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
laurificus
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: PG
Word count: 2,206
Summary: "I was hoping Earthly Ambassadors would be more of a symbolic title," Dean says, not for the first time.
Notes: Written foramindaya for spn_j2_xmas. Merry Christmas! I hope you like the story, and many apologies for the late posting.
Thanks tomollyamory for betaing and titling, and generally making this story exist. And thanks to the mods for being so lovely and patient. ♥
***
An Unusual Accord
"The ceremony is still on schedule to begin at two, sir," the attendant says, as if Dean hasn't just apparently fallen out of the sky into the lobby. He isn't smiling, but he manages to sound as if he isn't hoping for Dean to die a particularly horrifying death, and Dean's finally learned to be grateful for the small things.
Sam, of course, is getting the special treatment--everyone around him seems to be auditioning for a place in his personal entourage, like there wasn't an actual memo outlining in detail how very un-demon-king he is. One of them is even attempting to fix his hair, and Dean might not like any of them, but he can't deny bravery when he sees it. The only courtesy extended to Dean is the removal of his coat, and since that leaves him feeling vulnerable and exposed in the most expensive suit he's ever owned, he's not sure he appreciates the gesture. At least he's still getting wary looks from the majority of the passing guests. He stares unblinkingly at a blonde woman wearing the most alarming shade of red lipstick he's ever seen, until she hurries off through the big double doors behind him. What she imagines he might do to her, when he's outnumbered and unarmed and bound by several hundred pages of blood-sealed contract, he has absolutely no idea, but it's nice to be thought of so highly.
"Stop fucking with the guests," Sam says, appearing right at his shoulder. He looks absurdly good in his dress suit, the crisp white shirt hugging his body like it was made for him. Dean tries not to notice the way it clings to his chest, or how it seems to exist to bring definition to the muscles in his arms. To say it's not exactly easy to ignore is like saying Sam's not exactly tall, but fortunately for Dean, repressing and denying are two of the things he does best, at least most of the time.
So he glares a little at him, and says, "There's nothing to say I can't fuck with them."
This is entirely true. Dean's read the contract, maybe as many times as Sam has, and Sam's told him what they can and can't do six or seven more times than that. Dean's expecting to be hearing about it on his deathbed. He'll be slipping away, and Sam will be saying something like, "And when you get there, remember you can insult the angels, but only in sentences of twenty words or less."
"I'm saying you can't," Sam says in the here and now, thereby proving that it's not just Dean's death he wants to ruin. "We're at a nice--" he breaks off, starting to grin a little. "We're at a wedding," he says. "We shouldn't antagonise people."
"Lucky for us, there aren't any people here," Dean says. He shoves at Sam when Sam makes shushing motions at him. "I don't think this is shock news to anyone," he says. "Really." He waves down a demon in an honest-to-god top hat, but Sam grabs his wrist before Dean can explore its feelings about not being a person.
Dean twists in his grip, but Sam just clamps down harder, and Dean wasn't really trying to break his hold, anyway. He'll enjoy being in a room full of demons before he admits this out loud, but he kinda likes how easy Sam touches him these days, how sure he is that Dean won't pull back. It's not even like the shirt thing--though there's some of that, too, because Sam's strong and a bit possessive, and Dean maybe likes that--but it's just…nice. After everything. Makes even days like this something approaching bearable when he knows that Sam's there with him, hating it just as much as he is.
"Last one of these I go to, I swear," he says without any hope whatsoever, as Sam leads him through to the hall. True to form, it's as grand as it's subtle. The floor is marble mosaic, and the ceiling goes up and up forever. The wall at the far end isn't a wall at all; it's an elaborate panelling of glass looking onto a vast open space that shifts as Dean looks at it--a forrest and then a mountain range, and then an ocean of foaming waves, none of it any less beautiful for being an illusion. The light is clean and bright, flooding the room in a transformative stream of gold and blue. It catches on the chandeliers that twirl unaided in the still air, and the bunches of flowers that hang suspended from nothing. By the door, a fountain that roars like a waterfall shoots up cascades of differently coloured water. The floor never gets wet and the water just vanishes, and there's always more of it. As uses for demon power go, it's not the worst thing, but Dean still walks as far away from it as possible, and given that the place is the size of a small planet, it's possible to get pretty far.
There are long rows of tables in one half, a string quartet playing something suitably elegant and soothing behind them. In the other half, there's a stage, decked out in hieroglyphs and symbols Dean's never seen before in his life, and beneath that, spread out in a semi-circle, chairs that look more expensive than anything Dean's ever been near in his life. He's pretty sure they're upholstered in silk, the frame made of something that gleams and shines and shimmers. Dean can't decide if he's more impressed than disgusted.
"The angels are gonna hear about this, and get all competitive again," Sam says, not unfairly. Since the angels and the demons teamed up to fight purgatory and agreed to leave earth mostly alone, event-planning has gotten way out of control. This is why Dean's been to six functions in the last year, and he's sure the tryimillennial celebration of the heavenly gardens was an entirely fictitious reason to animate a lot of really big ice sculptures. It's better than apocalypses and smiting, Dean supposes, but he doesn't see why they have to keep dragging him and Sam into it.
"I had been hoping Earthly Ambassadors would be more of a ceremonial title," he tells Sam, maybe not for the first time since Crowley demanded they be involved in the negotiations, and the angelic delegation got in on the act, too, just to prevent Crowley getting an advantage.
"To be fair," Sam says, looking around at the assembly of unnervingly attractive meat suits, "I think most of them were hoping for that, too."
That's hard to argue. No one's said a word to them since they sat down; not many more than that have even looked at them, and from experience, Dean's not betting on a big turn around before they leave. The demons seem in awe of Sam and scared of Dean, as if there's actually something special about them, beyond stupidity and stubbornness and a pathological inability to recognise when they're beaten. Dean doesn't much get it, but occasionally, like right now, Sam smiles at him like he does.
Normally, that smile makes Dean nervous, because living up to what Sam thinks he is, is still a bit like routinely throwing himself from an plane at fifty thousand feet. But today, it's all right. They're sitting close enough for their shoulders and knees to brush, and that makes it easier for Dean to relax. So he starts in on what they always do at times like this, now that the demons have to ask for permission to possess someone and can't inhabit them until they drop dead: he starts bartering work for correctly identifying who's in what new vessels. It's concerning on seven or eight levels that they have regular activities for this sort of thing, but the basement needs cleared out, and there's no way Dean's wrong about his guess.
"The guy with the cravat is totally Agares," Dean says, leaning closer in and whispering behind his hand. "Who the fuck else would be wearing that god-awful a shade of green?"
"Virgil," Sam says, instantly, and Dean kicks him, because he's always forgetting about Virgil, and Sam's almost certainly responsible, even if Dean doesn't know how. "And since he's the only one who can get drunk like an actual person, that's who he is. You're clearing out the basement."
"I'm clearing out your face," Dean says, completely stupidly, and Sam laughs. It's a thing he does these days. Dean finds it wildly improbable and hugely necessary all at once; it makes him inclined to do outrageous things, like kiss the sound of it right out of his mouth. And sometimes, when Sam's close and happy like this, it's hard to remember why he shouldn't. Repression and denial, after all, only go so far, and Sam's not the kind of guy who takes resistance well.
This time, though, Dean's saved from any and all inappropriate impulses by a thunderclap from overhead, or maybe from right beside his ear. He doesn't jump, no matter what Sam's planning to claim later. "Fucking demons," Dean says, possibly a bit less under his breath than he intended. "Always with the drama." He thinks Crowley shoots him a death glare when he comes onto the stage, but he can't be entirely sure. Crowley's sincere smiles have a disturbing habit of looking dangerously threatening, too.
And as if to prove it, he gazes at the woman now standing by his side. He's either planning to kill her or deeply in love with her, and since the invitations referred to the union of Crowley, king of Hell, and Arantha, Diplomatic Consort of the Higher Order of Demons, Dean's assuming it's the latter.
"If this was all some drug-induced nightmare, you'd tell me, right?" he asks Sam, but Sam just shrugs.
"Reality is your department," he says, perfectly easy, because mostly it is now. Then he says, "You're seeing that, too, aren't you?" And he points, really unnecessarily, at the thing that's just appeared between Crowley and Arantha.
"Yeah," Dean says. "Jesus."
There's so many things wrong with it Dean doesn't even know where to start. Though the heads wouldn't be a bad place. Two or three he could probably accept. He's been around, seen all kinds of shit. But he loses count at six, and he's sorry to have gotten even that far, because he can't even figure out what some of them are attached to. Dean feels weird just looking at it, like he might if he suddenly found himself viewing everything upside down. Even the air around it seems thick and heavy; Dean imagines he could reach out and grab handfuls of it, mould them into something new and interesting.
"Are those heads free-floating?" Sam asks, in a fascinated whisper, the way he used to sound as a kid when he found particularly gruesome insects in their shitty motel rooms. Dean half expects him to take out their journal and start taking fucking notes.
"The High Priest of Hell," Crowley says by way of explanation, looking directly at them. "Ain't much to look at, I know, but he gets the job done."
Dean nods, because only a crazy person wouldn't agree. He watches as it begins to lash the air with its tail. At the same time, it starts emitting this noise that Dean doesn't have the words for. High-pitched and resonant, somehow, like if fire could scream or pain had an actual sound. It's nothing like the angels. He can hear it just fine; it's the rest of his body that's freaking out, like it doesn't want to stay in the shape it's always had. Then there's a ferocious burst of light, and for a second Crowley and Arantha are lit up from the inside, so that Dean can see who they used to be, not the vessels they have. The hall seems to grow smaller all around them, or maybe it's just that the air from the priest seems to be spreading outward. Dean feels like he can't breathe and like he doesn't need to, this weird mixture of panic and fear and peace. Then it's over, and there's polite applause, and Sam, touching him all along his side, while the violin starts up in a song Dean's never heard before.
"I don't think this is going to replace the traditional ceremony," Dean whispers, and Sam grins and swats at him, even as he says, "It was short, though. Give it points for that."
"Winchesters," Crowley says, "Shut the fuck up."
Sam actually looks embarrassed as Crowley takes Arantha's hand, and stares down at them all. "Most of you are only here because I'm the king of Hell and I can wipe you out just as soon as it pleases me. And the other two are only here because they're contractually obliged." There's a hushed quiet, and then he smiles. "That's all right. Love makes a man generous, see. Tonight, there's a party on me. And no killing." He smiles again, starts to lead Arantha to the middle of the stage as the tempo of the music picks up. "Can't say fairer than that, can I?" He looks over at Sam and Dean. "Glad you came, boys," he says. "Might not have made it if it hadn't been you." then he's off, dancing with a speed and grace Dean would never have expected of him.
Sam nudges Dean, leaves his hand against his side longer than he has to. "That was--you know," he says. "Something."
Dean glances over at him, catches this warm, hopeful look on his face, and Sam doesn't say anything, but he doesn't need to this time. There's a fucking pipe band appeared from somewhere; they're surrounded by clapping and stamping and the legions of hell. None of it matters. Dean's pulse beats louder than anything else as he follows Sam, out back through the doors to the lobby, out into the deserted street beyond. Sam's laughing and unresisting beside him; his head dips down as Dean lifts his own face towards him, and the fabric of his shirt is soft against Dean's fingers when Dean pulls him in.
The kissing goes on for a long time after that. It's slow and gentle, god help him, even a little sweet. Sam's hands move over Dean's back, but he doesn't even try to slip them under his shirt, and Dean's hands stay curled around Sam's shoulders, just holding. It's all good, exactly like this, and Dean knows there's a promise of better for later, because later's a thing they have now.
He's grinning the grin of the incredibly self-satisfied when they go back in, walking beside Sam with no distance between them. In the hall, Crowley's still twirling his wife around the floor, and Sam stops to watch them, his expression melting into something soft and pleased as he does.
Dean snags two glasses from a passing tray, and shoves one into Sam's hand. "Are you getting emotional about a demon wedding?" he asks. "Because I'm telling you, that's not normal."
Sam flashes him a different smile in answer, the one that says maybe Dean isn't the worst person in the world he could be stuck with. "Nah," he says. "But--dude, two demons just got married, and we were there, and no one tried to kill us." He shrugs, slides his fingers, very gently, against Dean's neck. "Just," he says. "Just. Our lives, man."
***
Author:
laurificusPairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: PG
Word count: 2,206
Summary: "I was hoping Earthly Ambassadors would be more of a symbolic title," Dean says, not for the first time.
Notes: Written for
amindaya for spn_j2_xmas. Merry Christmas! I hope you like the story, and many apologies for the late posting.Thanks to
mollyamory for betaing and titling, and generally making this story exist. And thanks to the mods for being so lovely and patient. ♥***
An Unusual Accord
"The ceremony is still on schedule to begin at two, sir," the attendant says, as if Dean hasn't just apparently fallen out of the sky into the lobby. He isn't smiling, but he manages to sound as if he isn't hoping for Dean to die a particularly horrifying death, and Dean's finally learned to be grateful for the small things.
Sam, of course, is getting the special treatment--everyone around him seems to be auditioning for a place in his personal entourage, like there wasn't an actual memo outlining in detail how very un-demon-king he is. One of them is even attempting to fix his hair, and Dean might not like any of them, but he can't deny bravery when he sees it. The only courtesy extended to Dean is the removal of his coat, and since that leaves him feeling vulnerable and exposed in the most expensive suit he's ever owned, he's not sure he appreciates the gesture. At least he's still getting wary looks from the majority of the passing guests. He stares unblinkingly at a blonde woman wearing the most alarming shade of red lipstick he's ever seen, until she hurries off through the big double doors behind him. What she imagines he might do to her, when he's outnumbered and unarmed and bound by several hundred pages of blood-sealed contract, he has absolutely no idea, but it's nice to be thought of so highly.
"Stop fucking with the guests," Sam says, appearing right at his shoulder. He looks absurdly good in his dress suit, the crisp white shirt hugging his body like it was made for him. Dean tries not to notice the way it clings to his chest, or how it seems to exist to bring definition to the muscles in his arms. To say it's not exactly easy to ignore is like saying Sam's not exactly tall, but fortunately for Dean, repressing and denying are two of the things he does best, at least most of the time.
So he glares a little at him, and says, "There's nothing to say I can't fuck with them."
This is entirely true. Dean's read the contract, maybe as many times as Sam has, and Sam's told him what they can and can't do six or seven more times than that. Dean's expecting to be hearing about it on his deathbed. He'll be slipping away, and Sam will be saying something like, "And when you get there, remember you can insult the angels, but only in sentences of twenty words or less."
"I'm saying you can't," Sam says in the here and now, thereby proving that it's not just Dean's death he wants to ruin. "We're at a nice--" he breaks off, starting to grin a little. "We're at a wedding," he says. "We shouldn't antagonise people."
"Lucky for us, there aren't any people here," Dean says. He shoves at Sam when Sam makes shushing motions at him. "I don't think this is shock news to anyone," he says. "Really." He waves down a demon in an honest-to-god top hat, but Sam grabs his wrist before Dean can explore its feelings about not being a person.
Dean twists in his grip, but Sam just clamps down harder, and Dean wasn't really trying to break his hold, anyway. He'll enjoy being in a room full of demons before he admits this out loud, but he kinda likes how easy Sam touches him these days, how sure he is that Dean won't pull back. It's not even like the shirt thing--though there's some of that, too, because Sam's strong and a bit possessive, and Dean maybe likes that--but it's just…nice. After everything. Makes even days like this something approaching bearable when he knows that Sam's there with him, hating it just as much as he is.
"Last one of these I go to, I swear," he says without any hope whatsoever, as Sam leads him through to the hall. True to form, it's as grand as it's subtle. The floor is marble mosaic, and the ceiling goes up and up forever. The wall at the far end isn't a wall at all; it's an elaborate panelling of glass looking onto a vast open space that shifts as Dean looks at it--a forrest and then a mountain range, and then an ocean of foaming waves, none of it any less beautiful for being an illusion. The light is clean and bright, flooding the room in a transformative stream of gold and blue. It catches on the chandeliers that twirl unaided in the still air, and the bunches of flowers that hang suspended from nothing. By the door, a fountain that roars like a waterfall shoots up cascades of differently coloured water. The floor never gets wet and the water just vanishes, and there's always more of it. As uses for demon power go, it's not the worst thing, but Dean still walks as far away from it as possible, and given that the place is the size of a small planet, it's possible to get pretty far.
There are long rows of tables in one half, a string quartet playing something suitably elegant and soothing behind them. In the other half, there's a stage, decked out in hieroglyphs and symbols Dean's never seen before in his life, and beneath that, spread out in a semi-circle, chairs that look more expensive than anything Dean's ever been near in his life. He's pretty sure they're upholstered in silk, the frame made of something that gleams and shines and shimmers. Dean can't decide if he's more impressed than disgusted.
"The angels are gonna hear about this, and get all competitive again," Sam says, not unfairly. Since the angels and the demons teamed up to fight purgatory and agreed to leave earth mostly alone, event-planning has gotten way out of control. This is why Dean's been to six functions in the last year, and he's sure the tryimillennial celebration of the heavenly gardens was an entirely fictitious reason to animate a lot of really big ice sculptures. It's better than apocalypses and smiting, Dean supposes, but he doesn't see why they have to keep dragging him and Sam into it.
"I had been hoping Earthly Ambassadors would be more of a ceremonial title," he tells Sam, maybe not for the first time since Crowley demanded they be involved in the negotiations, and the angelic delegation got in on the act, too, just to prevent Crowley getting an advantage.
"To be fair," Sam says, looking around at the assembly of unnervingly attractive meat suits, "I think most of them were hoping for that, too."
That's hard to argue. No one's said a word to them since they sat down; not many more than that have even looked at them, and from experience, Dean's not betting on a big turn around before they leave. The demons seem in awe of Sam and scared of Dean, as if there's actually something special about them, beyond stupidity and stubbornness and a pathological inability to recognise when they're beaten. Dean doesn't much get it, but occasionally, like right now, Sam smiles at him like he does.
Normally, that smile makes Dean nervous, because living up to what Sam thinks he is, is still a bit like routinely throwing himself from an plane at fifty thousand feet. But today, it's all right. They're sitting close enough for their shoulders and knees to brush, and that makes it easier for Dean to relax. So he starts in on what they always do at times like this, now that the demons have to ask for permission to possess someone and can't inhabit them until they drop dead: he starts bartering work for correctly identifying who's in what new vessels. It's concerning on seven or eight levels that they have regular activities for this sort of thing, but the basement needs cleared out, and there's no way Dean's wrong about his guess.
"The guy with the cravat is totally Agares," Dean says, leaning closer in and whispering behind his hand. "Who the fuck else would be wearing that god-awful a shade of green?"
"Virgil," Sam says, instantly, and Dean kicks him, because he's always forgetting about Virgil, and Sam's almost certainly responsible, even if Dean doesn't know how. "And since he's the only one who can get drunk like an actual person, that's who he is. You're clearing out the basement."
"I'm clearing out your face," Dean says, completely stupidly, and Sam laughs. It's a thing he does these days. Dean finds it wildly improbable and hugely necessary all at once; it makes him inclined to do outrageous things, like kiss the sound of it right out of his mouth. And sometimes, when Sam's close and happy like this, it's hard to remember why he shouldn't. Repression and denial, after all, only go so far, and Sam's not the kind of guy who takes resistance well.
This time, though, Dean's saved from any and all inappropriate impulses by a thunderclap from overhead, or maybe from right beside his ear. He doesn't jump, no matter what Sam's planning to claim later. "Fucking demons," Dean says, possibly a bit less under his breath than he intended. "Always with the drama." He thinks Crowley shoots him a death glare when he comes onto the stage, but he can't be entirely sure. Crowley's sincere smiles have a disturbing habit of looking dangerously threatening, too.
And as if to prove it, he gazes at the woman now standing by his side. He's either planning to kill her or deeply in love with her, and since the invitations referred to the union of Crowley, king of Hell, and Arantha, Diplomatic Consort of the Higher Order of Demons, Dean's assuming it's the latter.
"If this was all some drug-induced nightmare, you'd tell me, right?" he asks Sam, but Sam just shrugs.
"Reality is your department," he says, perfectly easy, because mostly it is now. Then he says, "You're seeing that, too, aren't you?" And he points, really unnecessarily, at the thing that's just appeared between Crowley and Arantha.
"Yeah," Dean says. "Jesus."
There's so many things wrong with it Dean doesn't even know where to start. Though the heads wouldn't be a bad place. Two or three he could probably accept. He's been around, seen all kinds of shit. But he loses count at six, and he's sorry to have gotten even that far, because he can't even figure out what some of them are attached to. Dean feels weird just looking at it, like he might if he suddenly found himself viewing everything upside down. Even the air around it seems thick and heavy; Dean imagines he could reach out and grab handfuls of it, mould them into something new and interesting.
"Are those heads free-floating?" Sam asks, in a fascinated whisper, the way he used to sound as a kid when he found particularly gruesome insects in their shitty motel rooms. Dean half expects him to take out their journal and start taking fucking notes.
"The High Priest of Hell," Crowley says by way of explanation, looking directly at them. "Ain't much to look at, I know, but he gets the job done."
Dean nods, because only a crazy person wouldn't agree. He watches as it begins to lash the air with its tail. At the same time, it starts emitting this noise that Dean doesn't have the words for. High-pitched and resonant, somehow, like if fire could scream or pain had an actual sound. It's nothing like the angels. He can hear it just fine; it's the rest of his body that's freaking out, like it doesn't want to stay in the shape it's always had. Then there's a ferocious burst of light, and for a second Crowley and Arantha are lit up from the inside, so that Dean can see who they used to be, not the vessels they have. The hall seems to grow smaller all around them, or maybe it's just that the air from the priest seems to be spreading outward. Dean feels like he can't breathe and like he doesn't need to, this weird mixture of panic and fear and peace. Then it's over, and there's polite applause, and Sam, touching him all along his side, while the violin starts up in a song Dean's never heard before.
"I don't think this is going to replace the traditional ceremony," Dean whispers, and Sam grins and swats at him, even as he says, "It was short, though. Give it points for that."
"Winchesters," Crowley says, "Shut the fuck up."
Sam actually looks embarrassed as Crowley takes Arantha's hand, and stares down at them all. "Most of you are only here because I'm the king of Hell and I can wipe you out just as soon as it pleases me. And the other two are only here because they're contractually obliged." There's a hushed quiet, and then he smiles. "That's all right. Love makes a man generous, see. Tonight, there's a party on me. And no killing." He smiles again, starts to lead Arantha to the middle of the stage as the tempo of the music picks up. "Can't say fairer than that, can I?" He looks over at Sam and Dean. "Glad you came, boys," he says. "Might not have made it if it hadn't been you." then he's off, dancing with a speed and grace Dean would never have expected of him.
Sam nudges Dean, leaves his hand against his side longer than he has to. "That was--you know," he says. "Something."
Dean glances over at him, catches this warm, hopeful look on his face, and Sam doesn't say anything, but he doesn't need to this time. There's a fucking pipe band appeared from somewhere; they're surrounded by clapping and stamping and the legions of hell. None of it matters. Dean's pulse beats louder than anything else as he follows Sam, out back through the doors to the lobby, out into the deserted street beyond. Sam's laughing and unresisting beside him; his head dips down as Dean lifts his own face towards him, and the fabric of his shirt is soft against Dean's fingers when Dean pulls him in.
The kissing goes on for a long time after that. It's slow and gentle, god help him, even a little sweet. Sam's hands move over Dean's back, but he doesn't even try to slip them under his shirt, and Dean's hands stay curled around Sam's shoulders, just holding. It's all good, exactly like this, and Dean knows there's a promise of better for later, because later's a thing they have now.
He's grinning the grin of the incredibly self-satisfied when they go back in, walking beside Sam with no distance between them. In the hall, Crowley's still twirling his wife around the floor, and Sam stops to watch them, his expression melting into something soft and pleased as he does.
Dean snags two glasses from a passing tray, and shoves one into Sam's hand. "Are you getting emotional about a demon wedding?" he asks. "Because I'm telling you, that's not normal."
Sam flashes him a different smile in answer, the one that says maybe Dean isn't the worst person in the world he could be stuck with. "Nah," he says. "But--dude, two demons just got married, and we were there, and no one tried to kill us." He shrugs, slides his fingers, very gently, against Dean's neck. "Just," he says. "Just. Our lives, man."
***
nervous