![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ficwizeTitle: Things that Go Bump in the Night
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
wizefics
Crossover: Supernatural/X-Men, written as part of the![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
sncross_bigbang
Disclaimer: All recognizable characters are the property of their respective owners.
Type: Slash casefile, pre-series for Supernatural
Word Count: ~33,000
Characters: Dean Winchester and Remy LeBeau
Warnings: NC17 for sexual content, language and violence
Spoilers: None, if you're familiar with Supernatural. Random bits of Remy LeBeau's past and his powers. This story is not really set in any particular X story line.
Artist:la_conquistador
Link to Art: Amazing artwork and icons!
Summary: Thirty-five minutes. That's all Dean needed for this job. As long as everything went according to plan, of course.
But this is New Orleans, and nothing ever goes to plan. When Dean is interrupted mid-job by a stranger who strongly resembles a demon, the Plan is blown to hell and back. Dean eventually must join forces with the mysterious Remy LeBeau to try and undo the damage that they have done. Of course, Remy makes no secret about the fact that he has a secondary motivation that causes him to race around New Orleans to try and capture a vengeful spirit.
Author’s Notes: I owe a lot of thanks for this story. First, this story was written forwindiain. I hope you enjoy it! Secondly, this story would never have made it this far if it weren't for the help and encouragement of catwomyn5 and pdantzler2. Lastly, I must give all thanks and praise to my wonderful beta readers escritoireazul and dramady. They have made this story much better than it was.
I must also thankla_conquistador, whose artwork provided me with the inspiration I needed to get over the last few hurdles.
For those who think this looks familiar, I started posting it some months back, then realized I had a much bigger story here. I've rewritten the entire fic, and suggest that you consider starting at the beginning. Thanks to those who encouraged me!
*************
Chapter 1
*************
Dean Winchester knew his way around a cemetery. In fact, he could tell anyone who wanted to listen how long it took, within a ten minute window, to dig up a grave, wrench open a coffin, dump enough kosher sea salt on the bones to pickle a mummy, and light the whole thing on fire until it was nothing but ash and memories.
Few cemeteries held any power over him, but as immune as he was to the manicured and clean gravesides of most cities, he absolutely loathed jobs in New Orleans. Things never went as planned, which was why he was currently unloading a small armory into the black satchel he planned to take with him to the graveside of one Kalila Keskeya, who by his reckoning had gotten mixed up with something nasty before she'd died, and whatever it was, it hadn't let her pass on in peace.
Dean was going to try and help her with that, at the same time as he tried to keep his own skin where it belonged. Shutting the trunk of the Impala with a bang, Dean double checked that he was wearing a protective cross, and patted his pocket to make sure he had plenty of Holy Water in reach.
Taking a deep breath, he tossed his satchel over the stone wall and then climbed up to the top. Pausing on the top of the wall, he glanced around, his skin already crawling, clammy despite the heat. The cemetery looked empty, nothing but lonely crypts and tombs amidst ancient trees dripping with Spanish moss. A soft breeze stirred the branches, setting the shadows to dancing and giving the illusion of constant movement.
"Fucking creepy," Dean muttered, then vaulted down inside the cemetery and landed lightly next to his bag. He picked it up and hurried towards the gravesite, his black jeans and tee shirt helping him blend into the shadows.
The sound of a tree branch snapping in the wind drew him up short, and he pressed himself against one of the crypts, feeling his heart thud in his chest. "Get a grip," he ordered himself. "Just a salt and burn, you've done a thousand of 'em, or Dad never would have let you come by yourself." Feeling both slightly comforted by the truth of his words, as well as utterly ridiculous that he was talking to himself, he pushed off the crypt and continued on his way.
Thirty-five minutes. That's all he would need for this job.
As long as everything went according to plan, of course.
Swallowing against the sudden sense of foreboding, Dean shook his head and kept walking. His feet made soft thudding noises on the grass and he paused again, thinking that he heard a following footstep. Dropping to a crouch, he glanced around, but saw nothing.
Relief washed over him as he arrived at the crypt he'd been searching for and he pulled a lighter out of his pocket and tapped it. Reading the marker in the flickering light, he rubbed his fingers lightly over the engraving that meant he'd found the right place.
KALILA KESKEYA
Beloved wife and friend,
Carried home to God in the arms of an angel.
1923-2002
"I've gotta give it to you," Dean muttered, letting the lighter die and dropping to his knees beside his bag. "You didn't go easy. I saw pictures. You put up one hell of a fight, old girl."
Grabbing a crowbar, Dean pried open the stone lid, muscles straining until it slid suddenly to the side with a loud grating noise. He dropped the iron bar and it thudded against the ground; his nose wrinkled when the smell hit him. He shoved the stone slab with both hands, forcing it back until he could see the coffin inside.
A second tree branch snapped and he froze. He peered into the darkness moving his eyes slowly over the shadows until he was confident that he was alone. Reaching down again, he picked up the crowbar and hefted himself so that he straddled the stone crypt, one foot resting firmly on the coffin itself. With a grimace, Dean eased his foot down inside the tomb to the side of the coffin and leaned down to jab the edge of the crowbar under the lip of the coffin.
Only years of being in similar situations warned him to look up, but there was absolutely nothing he could do to avoid the dark shape flying towards him. The coffin lid fell back in place with a loud bang as Dean threw up one hand to try and ward off the attacker. The shape was a lot more solid than it looked and it hit him with a thud, sending them both crashing backwards, out of the crypt and onto the ground.
Dean rolled, one hand moving automatically to his pocket for the Holy Water, while the other swung the crowbar wildly. Whatever was on top of him ducked under the crowbar and they continued to roll until Dean had the Holy Water free. Before he had the chance to use it, he was pinned, one arm held over his head, and the hand with the Holy Water trapped against his side.
Expecting the worst, Dean looked up into the face of his attacker, surprised when it appeared to be a man. His second thought was that it was a very handsome man at that. Long brown hair partially obscured the strong jaw line, but did nothing to hide the full lips pulled back in a snarl.
"What have we here? A petit grave robber, oui?"
Dean blinked in confusion, but gritted his teeth when he saw the eyes of the thing holding him to the ground. Red. Red on black.
Struggling furiously, he nearly succeeded in freeing the hand holding the Holy Water when the creature backhanded him. Stunned slightly, he opened his mouth and spit out the only Latin phrase he could remember for situations like this. "Exorcizo te, omnis spiritus immunde, in nomine Dei Patris omnipotentis." Then, just in case the thing didn't understand Latin, Dean added. "Get the fuck off me."
Now it was the demon’s turn to look confused and it leaned backwards just enough that he was finally able to free his hand.
"What is dis?" Its words were cut off when Dean flung the contents of the Holy Water vial in its face. Sputtering, it shook its head and Dean waited for the screaming and face melting to start. Instead, the eyes opened again, this time even angrier than they were before. "What de hell?"
Frantic now that the Holy Water hadn't worked, Dean used what leverage he had to hit it in the side of the head. With a pained squawk, it rolled off him, and both of them lurched to their feet. Dean eyed his bag longingly, but the demon, all six foot plus of him, was in the way. Wracking his brain, he spat out the first words he could think of. "In the Name of our Lord Jesus Christ! It is he who commands you! It is he who flung you from the gates of Heaven to the depths of Hell!" The demon just stared at him, looking impossibly confused. Desperate, he shouted, “The power of Christ compels you."
"Mon ami?" The demon spoke, its voice amused and angry both. "Are you goin' to tell me why you quotin' De Exorcist? Or is dis your idea of a joke?"
Dean reached up to touch his forehead gingerly. He was pretty sure it was bruised. "Do I look like I'm joking, demon?"
"Demon?" It crossed his arms and glared at him with such disgust that he faltered. "I may be a many t'ings - freak, mutie, even some four letter type words, but I sure as hell ain' no demon."
"Mutie?" Dean repeated. "As in mutant?"
"Dat's right."
"You're not a demon?"
"Not las' time I checked." The man was openly grinning now. "What is dis? A joke? You’re funny for a grave robber, oui?"
Dean snorted. "If I was a grave robber I'd start with something less sanitized than this grave. Nothing in it except maybe a wedding ring and I make it a habit to avoid those." He rubbed his head again and glared at the man responsible for bruising him. He didn’t act like a demon, now that Dean had a chance to look at him. He was lean, but Dean knew from personal experience that he was muscled enough to be stronger than he looked. Brown hair flopped over his face, and like Dean, the other man was dressed entirely in black.
"Homme, I can' tell if you're crazy or jus’ a liar."
"I'm crazy?" Dean asked incredulously. "Do you make it a habit to hide out in cemeteries at night and attack anyone you see? Because, news flash, that ain't normal."
"Non, I guess not." The man pondered him for a second, one arm raised so he could rub the back of his neck, and then looked at Dean's bag curiously. "You got more demon repellant in dat?"
"I wasted my Holy Water on you." Dean grumbled, tensing as the other man went towards the bag. "Leave it alone. Some of that stuff is dangerous."
"Really?" The man glanced at him, red eyes sparkling with curiosity.
"Shit." He cursed and then they both flung themselves at the bag, each grabbing a handle and pulling backwards, spilling out salt, several crucifixes, a box of shot gun shells, and a sawed off shotgun. "I said leave it alone!" He ordered and threw a punch.
By some contortion that Dean couldn't quite follow, the other man ducked, so that Dean's knuckles grazed his jaw, and then Dean was flat on his back, his hands pinned, the other man straddling him.
"Remy's gettin' awful tired of dis." The man flexed his jaw slightly, alleviating the sting where Dean had hit him and then grinned. "Though, I could get used to dis." He ground his hips slowly and Dean gasped, his face heating up.
"Dude, get off me."
"Firs', you gonna tell me what's goin' on here." Remy countered. "Den, maybe I get up." His lips quirked into a smile that practically screamed sex appeal. "Or maybe you change your mind about dat and Remy stay here for a bit longer."
"Don't count on it," Dean snapped, even as his heartbeat sped up for reasons that had nothing to do with the fight or the cemetery. He strained upwards, trying to throw Remy's weight to the side, but stopped when Remy made a sound that had nothing to do with pain. The sound pooled in Dean's gut and to his everlasting irritation, he felt his body betray him. Deciding that he would be better off not grinding against the other man, he lay still. "Look, all I want to do is salt and burn the bones of Kalila Keskeya."
"Oh, is dat all?" Remy lifted one eyebrow in a mocking question.
"Dude, you're the one who asked." He shrugged, uncomfortably aware that Remy hadn't been lying when he'd hinted that he enjoyed having Dean stretched under him. "Now let me up, so I can do it before something bad happens."
"Like what?" Remy demanded. Almost before the words were gone from his lips, Dean saw a glimmer of light from inside the crypt.
"Like that," he replied grimly.
Remy glanced over his shoulder, eyes widening in shock as he saw a black shadow impossibly illuminated from within climbing from the stone vault. Dean shoved him aside and grabbed for his bag as they scrambled to their feet. The spirit turned towards them and any hope Dean had that it would just be the ghost of Kalila Keskeya was dashed at the feeling of malevolence that washed over him.
Suddenly, and without warning, the spirit let out a howl. For a second, it seemed that sound was pulled in towards it, leaving Dean and Remy both lost in a world of utter silence. Unwillingly, they stepped forward towards the grave, before an unearthly scream burst from the creature like an explosion, throwing them both backwards through the air.
Dean landed painfully on his side, the breath driven from him in a whoosh. He saw Remy hit the ground in some sort of elegant roll, trench coat fluttering behind him gracefully, and had just enough time to be jealous before the spirit started howling again. He glanced back in time to watch the stone of the crypt crack as the spectre exploded outward. Just as suddenly, it was gone. In the distance, sirens screamed a warning and Remy hauled Dean to his feet.
"We got ta get," Remy ordered and Dean nodded grimly. Together they ran towards the wall, Dean stopping long enough to grab the belongings that had fallen from his bag. The climb out of the cemetery was much less elegant than the climb in and he hit the ground with a grunt.
Looking up, he grabbed for his car keys only to stop dead. "Where the fuck is my car?!"
"We don' got time for dat now." Remy grabbed him by the arm and dragged him across the street.
"My car! Someone stole my car!" Dean shouted in disbelieving outrage, but he didn't resist Remy's attempts to hurry him into the alley.
"Don' worry, mon ami. Remy'll get it back for you," the Cajun promised.
"How are you going to do that?" Dean yelled, stumbling to a halt as realization dawned. "You son of a bitch, you stole my car!"
Remy turned, flashing him an unapologetic grin. "Dat was before I knew you." He didn't resist when Dean grabbed his jacket lapels and pushed him back against the stone wall of one of the apartments.
"If she's got one scratch on her…" He stopped, cut off suddenly as Remy spun them, so that Dean was flush against the wall, with Remy pressed firmly to his front.
"You can take it out o' Remy's hide," the Cajun promised before pressing his mouth against Dean's in a hungry kiss. It was searing and so unexpected that Dean gasped, giving Remy ample opportunity to deepen the kiss. He broke it off as suddenly as he began it, grinning flippantly. "Remy'll find you tomorrow by noon. Now, get outta here before de cops show up." With that he was gone, leaving Dean bruised, livid, and faintly tasting Tabasco.
Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7
Author:
wizefics Crossover: Supernatural/X-Men, written as part of the
sncross_bigbangDisclaimer: All recognizable characters are the property of their respective owners.
Type: Slash casefile, pre-series for Supernatural
Word Count: ~33,000
Characters: Dean Winchester and Remy LeBeau
Warnings: NC17 for sexual content, language and violence
Spoilers: None, if you're familiar with Supernatural. Random bits of Remy LeBeau's past and his powers. This story is not really set in any particular X story line.
Artist:
la_conquistador Link to Art: Amazing artwork and icons!
Summary: Thirty-five minutes. That's all Dean needed for this job. As long as everything went according to plan, of course.
But this is New Orleans, and nothing ever goes to plan. When Dean is interrupted mid-job by a stranger who strongly resembles a demon, the Plan is blown to hell and back. Dean eventually must join forces with the mysterious Remy LeBeau to try and undo the damage that they have done. Of course, Remy makes no secret about the fact that he has a secondary motivation that causes him to race around New Orleans to try and capture a vengeful spirit.
Author’s Notes: I owe a lot of thanks for this story. First, this story was written for
windiain. I hope you enjoy it! Secondly, this story would never have made it this far if it weren't for the help and encouragement of catwomyn5 and pdantzler2. Lastly, I must give all thanks and praise to my wonderful beta readers escritoireazul and dramady. They have made this story much better than it was.I must also thank
la_conquistador, whose artwork provided me with the inspiration I needed to get over the last few hurdles. For those who think this looks familiar, I started posting it some months back, then realized I had a much bigger story here. I've rewritten the entire fic, and suggest that you consider starting at the beginning. Thanks to those who encouraged me!
*************
Chapter 1
*************
Dean Winchester knew his way around a cemetery. In fact, he could tell anyone who wanted to listen how long it took, within a ten minute window, to dig up a grave, wrench open a coffin, dump enough kosher sea salt on the bones to pickle a mummy, and light the whole thing on fire until it was nothing but ash and memories.
Few cemeteries held any power over him, but as immune as he was to the manicured and clean gravesides of most cities, he absolutely loathed jobs in New Orleans. Things never went as planned, which was why he was currently unloading a small armory into the black satchel he planned to take with him to the graveside of one Kalila Keskeya, who by his reckoning had gotten mixed up with something nasty before she'd died, and whatever it was, it hadn't let her pass on in peace.
Dean was going to try and help her with that, at the same time as he tried to keep his own skin where it belonged. Shutting the trunk of the Impala with a bang, Dean double checked that he was wearing a protective cross, and patted his pocket to make sure he had plenty of Holy Water in reach.
Taking a deep breath, he tossed his satchel over the stone wall and then climbed up to the top. Pausing on the top of the wall, he glanced around, his skin already crawling, clammy despite the heat. The cemetery looked empty, nothing but lonely crypts and tombs amidst ancient trees dripping with Spanish moss. A soft breeze stirred the branches, setting the shadows to dancing and giving the illusion of constant movement.
"Fucking creepy," Dean muttered, then vaulted down inside the cemetery and landed lightly next to his bag. He picked it up and hurried towards the gravesite, his black jeans and tee shirt helping him blend into the shadows.
The sound of a tree branch snapping in the wind drew him up short, and he pressed himself against one of the crypts, feeling his heart thud in his chest. "Get a grip," he ordered himself. "Just a salt and burn, you've done a thousand of 'em, or Dad never would have let you come by yourself." Feeling both slightly comforted by the truth of his words, as well as utterly ridiculous that he was talking to himself, he pushed off the crypt and continued on his way.
Thirty-five minutes. That's all he would need for this job.
As long as everything went according to plan, of course.
Swallowing against the sudden sense of foreboding, Dean shook his head and kept walking. His feet made soft thudding noises on the grass and he paused again, thinking that he heard a following footstep. Dropping to a crouch, he glanced around, but saw nothing.
Relief washed over him as he arrived at the crypt he'd been searching for and he pulled a lighter out of his pocket and tapped it. Reading the marker in the flickering light, he rubbed his fingers lightly over the engraving that meant he'd found the right place.
Beloved wife and friend,
Carried home to God in the arms of an angel.
1923-2002
"I've gotta give it to you," Dean muttered, letting the lighter die and dropping to his knees beside his bag. "You didn't go easy. I saw pictures. You put up one hell of a fight, old girl."
Grabbing a crowbar, Dean pried open the stone lid, muscles straining until it slid suddenly to the side with a loud grating noise. He dropped the iron bar and it thudded against the ground; his nose wrinkled when the smell hit him. He shoved the stone slab with both hands, forcing it back until he could see the coffin inside.
A second tree branch snapped and he froze. He peered into the darkness moving his eyes slowly over the shadows until he was confident that he was alone. Reaching down again, he picked up the crowbar and hefted himself so that he straddled the stone crypt, one foot resting firmly on the coffin itself. With a grimace, Dean eased his foot down inside the tomb to the side of the coffin and leaned down to jab the edge of the crowbar under the lip of the coffin.
Only years of being in similar situations warned him to look up, but there was absolutely nothing he could do to avoid the dark shape flying towards him. The coffin lid fell back in place with a loud bang as Dean threw up one hand to try and ward off the attacker. The shape was a lot more solid than it looked and it hit him with a thud, sending them both crashing backwards, out of the crypt and onto the ground.
Dean rolled, one hand moving automatically to his pocket for the Holy Water, while the other swung the crowbar wildly. Whatever was on top of him ducked under the crowbar and they continued to roll until Dean had the Holy Water free. Before he had the chance to use it, he was pinned, one arm held over his head, and the hand with the Holy Water trapped against his side.
Expecting the worst, Dean looked up into the face of his attacker, surprised when it appeared to be a man. His second thought was that it was a very handsome man at that. Long brown hair partially obscured the strong jaw line, but did nothing to hide the full lips pulled back in a snarl.
"What have we here? A petit grave robber, oui?"
Dean blinked in confusion, but gritted his teeth when he saw the eyes of the thing holding him to the ground. Red. Red on black.
Struggling furiously, he nearly succeeded in freeing the hand holding the Holy Water when the creature backhanded him. Stunned slightly, he opened his mouth and spit out the only Latin phrase he could remember for situations like this. "Exorcizo te, omnis spiritus immunde, in nomine Dei Patris omnipotentis." Then, just in case the thing didn't understand Latin, Dean added. "Get the fuck off me."
Now it was the demon’s turn to look confused and it leaned backwards just enough that he was finally able to free his hand.
"What is dis?" Its words were cut off when Dean flung the contents of the Holy Water vial in its face. Sputtering, it shook its head and Dean waited for the screaming and face melting to start. Instead, the eyes opened again, this time even angrier than they were before. "What de hell?"
Frantic now that the Holy Water hadn't worked, Dean used what leverage he had to hit it in the side of the head. With a pained squawk, it rolled off him, and both of them lurched to their feet. Dean eyed his bag longingly, but the demon, all six foot plus of him, was in the way. Wracking his brain, he spat out the first words he could think of. "In the Name of our Lord Jesus Christ! It is he who commands you! It is he who flung you from the gates of Heaven to the depths of Hell!" The demon just stared at him, looking impossibly confused. Desperate, he shouted, “The power of Christ compels you."
"Mon ami?" The demon spoke, its voice amused and angry both. "Are you goin' to tell me why you quotin' De Exorcist? Or is dis your idea of a joke?"
Dean reached up to touch his forehead gingerly. He was pretty sure it was bruised. "Do I look like I'm joking, demon?"
"Demon?" It crossed his arms and glared at him with such disgust that he faltered. "I may be a many t'ings - freak, mutie, even some four letter type words, but I sure as hell ain' no demon."
"Mutie?" Dean repeated. "As in mutant?"
"Dat's right."
"You're not a demon?"
"Not las' time I checked." The man was openly grinning now. "What is dis? A joke? You’re funny for a grave robber, oui?"
Dean snorted. "If I was a grave robber I'd start with something less sanitized than this grave. Nothing in it except maybe a wedding ring and I make it a habit to avoid those." He rubbed his head again and glared at the man responsible for bruising him. He didn’t act like a demon, now that Dean had a chance to look at him. He was lean, but Dean knew from personal experience that he was muscled enough to be stronger than he looked. Brown hair flopped over his face, and like Dean, the other man was dressed entirely in black.
"Homme, I can' tell if you're crazy or jus’ a liar."
"I'm crazy?" Dean asked incredulously. "Do you make it a habit to hide out in cemeteries at night and attack anyone you see? Because, news flash, that ain't normal."
"Non, I guess not." The man pondered him for a second, one arm raised so he could rub the back of his neck, and then looked at Dean's bag curiously. "You got more demon repellant in dat?"
"I wasted my Holy Water on you." Dean grumbled, tensing as the other man went towards the bag. "Leave it alone. Some of that stuff is dangerous."
"Really?" The man glanced at him, red eyes sparkling with curiosity.
"Shit." He cursed and then they both flung themselves at the bag, each grabbing a handle and pulling backwards, spilling out salt, several crucifixes, a box of shot gun shells, and a sawed off shotgun. "I said leave it alone!" He ordered and threw a punch.
By some contortion that Dean couldn't quite follow, the other man ducked, so that Dean's knuckles grazed his jaw, and then Dean was flat on his back, his hands pinned, the other man straddling him.
"Remy's gettin' awful tired of dis." The man flexed his jaw slightly, alleviating the sting where Dean had hit him and then grinned. "Though, I could get used to dis." He ground his hips slowly and Dean gasped, his face heating up.
"Dude, get off me."
"Firs', you gonna tell me what's goin' on here." Remy countered. "Den, maybe I get up." His lips quirked into a smile that practically screamed sex appeal. "Or maybe you change your mind about dat and Remy stay here for a bit longer."
"Don't count on it," Dean snapped, even as his heartbeat sped up for reasons that had nothing to do with the fight or the cemetery. He strained upwards, trying to throw Remy's weight to the side, but stopped when Remy made a sound that had nothing to do with pain. The sound pooled in Dean's gut and to his everlasting irritation, he felt his body betray him. Deciding that he would be better off not grinding against the other man, he lay still. "Look, all I want to do is salt and burn the bones of Kalila Keskeya."
"Oh, is dat all?" Remy lifted one eyebrow in a mocking question.
"Dude, you're the one who asked." He shrugged, uncomfortably aware that Remy hadn't been lying when he'd hinted that he enjoyed having Dean stretched under him. "Now let me up, so I can do it before something bad happens."
"Like what?" Remy demanded. Almost before the words were gone from his lips, Dean saw a glimmer of light from inside the crypt.
"Like that," he replied grimly.
Remy glanced over his shoulder, eyes widening in shock as he saw a black shadow impossibly illuminated from within climbing from the stone vault. Dean shoved him aside and grabbed for his bag as they scrambled to their feet. The spirit turned towards them and any hope Dean had that it would just be the ghost of Kalila Keskeya was dashed at the feeling of malevolence that washed over him.
Suddenly, and without warning, the spirit let out a howl. For a second, it seemed that sound was pulled in towards it, leaving Dean and Remy both lost in a world of utter silence. Unwillingly, they stepped forward towards the grave, before an unearthly scream burst from the creature like an explosion, throwing them both backwards through the air.
Dean landed painfully on his side, the breath driven from him in a whoosh. He saw Remy hit the ground in some sort of elegant roll, trench coat fluttering behind him gracefully, and had just enough time to be jealous before the spirit started howling again. He glanced back in time to watch the stone of the crypt crack as the spectre exploded outward. Just as suddenly, it was gone. In the distance, sirens screamed a warning and Remy hauled Dean to his feet.
"We got ta get," Remy ordered and Dean nodded grimly. Together they ran towards the wall, Dean stopping long enough to grab the belongings that had fallen from his bag. The climb out of the cemetery was much less elegant than the climb in and he hit the ground with a grunt.
Looking up, he grabbed for his car keys only to stop dead. "Where the fuck is my car?!"
"We don' got time for dat now." Remy grabbed him by the arm and dragged him across the street.
"My car! Someone stole my car!" Dean shouted in disbelieving outrage, but he didn't resist Remy's attempts to hurry him into the alley.
"Don' worry, mon ami. Remy'll get it back for you," the Cajun promised.
"How are you going to do that?" Dean yelled, stumbling to a halt as realization dawned. "You son of a bitch, you stole my car!"
Remy turned, flashing him an unapologetic grin. "Dat was before I knew you." He didn't resist when Dean grabbed his jacket lapels and pushed him back against the stone wall of one of the apartments.
"If she's got one scratch on her…" He stopped, cut off suddenly as Remy spun them, so that Dean was flush against the wall, with Remy pressed firmly to his front.
"You can take it out o' Remy's hide," the Cajun promised before pressing his mouth against Dean's in a hungry kiss. It was searing and so unexpected that Dean gasped, giving Remy ample opportunity to deepen the kiss. He broke it off as suddenly as he began it, grinning flippantly. "Remy'll find you tomorrow by noon. Now, get outta here before de cops show up." With that he was gone, leaving Dean bruised, livid, and faintly tasting Tabasco.
Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7
