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29 September 2011 @ 08:28 pm
Supernatural/Angel Fic: Aces and Eights  
Posted to sn_crossovers


Title: Aces and Eights
Pairing/Characters: Dean/Lindsey, OCs
Rating: NC17
Spoilers: Pilot (Supernatural), City of, To Shanshu in LA, Dead End (Angel)
Summary: Who are you going to call when you've got a dead man's hand: a Winchester
Notes/Warnings: Read the disclaimer on my LJ


Dean rarely needed a good reason to take time out for a beer in a bar, but hot as it was in the Texas panhandle he needed a decent reason for it to be this bar in the dead of June. He took a second to wipe the sweat from his brow before laying down his cards at the poker table.

"Read 'em and weep boys."

A collective grumble went around the table as the remaining men there threw their cards down in disgust. Dean chuckled heartily as he pulled the pot he won towards him. It was more than enough to put gas in his baby and pay for a week of cheap motels.

"I'm out," one man scowled, rising to leave. His exodus caused the rest of the men to leave as well, none of them looking too happy about their luck or lack of it.

"Pleasure doing business with you!" Dean called after them with a winning smile. Hustling was so much easier when the marks didn't realize they were being hustled.

The whine of microphone feedback and the rustle of cables from the small stage behind him got Dean to turn around and look. They were setting up a stool and a two microphones, one at guitar height which meant acoustic guitar.

This should be his guy.

Dean's father John had left him a message with the name of the contact and the name of the bar he'd be performing at, but no description save a few rare words he deemed important: 'Lindsey's a man, not a woman.'

Dean wasn't sure what kind of man in Texas would be called by the fruity name of Lindsey, but his father's instructions had been clear: 'Help him. We owe him.'

The man who took the stage, not too far from his own age, looked all Texan: jeans, belt buckle, boots. Dean figured he probably had a beat up pickup truck in the lot too. His haircut was a little too nice for the crowd, a bit too Hollywood, but he seemed at home in his skin - something Dean found appealing.

"Evening, folks," the man said, only a slight twang to his voice. "Thought I'd start you out with a bit of Hank Williams." He chuckled, more to himself than the crowd it seemed. "Figured no one's going to throw stuff at me during a Hank song."

He got a laugh out of the crowd at that so he settled down with his guitar and starting playing.

Dean had heard his father play the occasional Hank Williams Sr., but country usually took a back seat to classic rock in their vehicles. Still, growing up where they did country roots surrounded them and he recognized the song as an old twelve-bar blues tune gone country: Move It On Over. It was a silly little ditty about a man being in the doghouse because of his woman, only literally.

The song was apparently a good choice because it won the crowds over quickly with even a few of the more drunken men singing along. Lindsey had a good voice, but had quickly become mostly drowned out by the revelers closer to where Dean was sitting.

Following the applause, the next song was more melodic, a more traditional love song. Dean didn't recognize it, but sensed it might be an original based on the crowd's reaction. No one knew the words, but women in particular hushed their conversations and began to watch and listen intently as Lindsey sang.

If Sam had been there Dean probably would have made a smart alec comment about how the guy was a chick magnet, crooning up there on stage, but Dean shunted aside thoughts of his petulant teenaged brother - his talk about leaving the family to go away to college still stinging. He'd only gotten to leave him behind on this gig because the bar was 21 and over.

Figuring he'd have to wait until the end of the set, Dean draped himself comfortably over his chair and took a swig of his beer, gesturing to the waitress as she passed for another. A second round of applause led to a third song, one that hinted more towards a background listening to Led Zeppelin than the Oakridge Boys.

It was a darker tune with minimal guitar accompaniment and Dean found himself drawn to pay closer attention to the lyrics as a result. What he heard there surprised him: the song was all about the darkness in the world around and how it tainted people, becoming the darkness within. Dean shifted in his seat as the lyrics began to hit home.

It's the demons, you say, that make you a killer,
that make you a hero - all the people you save
It's the demon inside you that make you a killer
Yours is the last soul - the only one you can't save


When the song ended Dean forced himself to clap even though less people were than for the first two songs. The waitress brought him a fresh beer and he was distracted enough that he almost didn't tip her and certainly neglected to flash her his trademark roguish grin.

"Thank you. Thank you very much," Lindsey said into the microphone. He scanned the crowd from the stage and his eyes alit on Dean. For a moment it looked like he startled, but only to a highly observant hunter's eye like Dean's, but then he was back to strumming the guitar and starting up another country oldie.

-

As the set progressed Dean looked harder at the man on the stage, trying to observe any detail that would tell him more about Lindsey. His boots were scuffed, but top quality - just with signs of real wear. His hair might be styled too trendy for the South, but his drawl was genuine if as faded as his jeans. The guitar itself was top of the line, but not fancy - just extremely well made with a great tone - the kind of guitar a musician without an ego but with a fat wallet would own. On one hand he wore a rather busy looking metal bracelet. It looked really out of place and Dean made a note to ask him about it. His right hand though, it held what looked like a thin red rubber band around it that when Dean looked closer appeared more like a fresh scar.

Intrigued, he pushed aside his half-drunk beer, figuring he might need to be a bit more clear headed than he'd planned on for this gig.

Before he knew it the set was over and Lindsey was leaving the stage after a brief bow and a wave in appreciation for the applause the crowd offered for his performance.

Dean wondered if he should go look for him backstage, but he emerged only a moment later - sans guitar - and headed straight for Dean, pausing only long enough to accept a beer in a bottle from the bartender.

"Who sent you?" Lindsey asked, his tone and body language guarded, on alert. Dean knew that posture; he'd gone into plenty of situations on that level of readiness - fight or flee, usually the former.

"My Dad," Dean said simply. "John Winchester. Says we owe you a favor."

Lindsey cocked his head at him, tension lessened, but mostly looking at him with a curious expression. "My guess is you'd be Dean then, not Sam."

"Right you are," Dean said with a smirk, splaying out his hands as if putting himself on display. "In the flesh."

Lindsey pulled out a chair at Dean's table and took a swig of his beer, finally letting his guard down.

"I think the last time I saw you both was when Sammy was still young enough to be in footie pajamas."

Dean leaned forward, narrowing his eyes. "So how is it you remember me and my brother, but I don't remember you?"

"You were asleep," Lindsey huffed out, amused. "John could only come by super late so you two would be crashed out in the back seat."

"So what exactly do we owe you for?" Dean asked.

Lindsey lowered his voice. "You still running credit card schemes?"

Dean leaned back in his seat, eyeing Lindsey a little more carefully.

"Maybe."

"Well, your dad? He wasn't so good at it when he started. He got himself in a bit of a legal jam. He was looking at jail time and having to put you boys into the system. So he heard of me through a mutual acquaintance and asked if I could help. And I did. No jail and I helped him make sure the odds would be better that future credit cards companies wouldn't come after him."

"How'd you do that?" Dean asked. "You don't look that old. You can't have been more than a kid yourself."

"I'm older than I look," Lindsey told him. "I've been out of law school a while, long enough to be practicing in LA - at least until recently." He took a long drink then a second one. "Anyway, I used my law school chops to get him out of the first jam and my knowledge of the occult to keep him off their radar."

"How?"

"There are substances you can rub into a paper to make anyone who handles it feel positive about it. After I got him off the hook I made sure he had enough to put on all his future applications so they'd get approved and if anyone pulled them, they'd think better of pursuing them."

"Huh." Dean capitulated, but had to admit to himself that did explain a lot. "Not bad. So what am I supposed to be helping you with?"

Lindsey looked around as if suddenly concerned with their environment. "Not here. You got a car, right? You can follow me to my place and I'll tell you the whole story."

-

Lindsey's 'place' didn't look any different from Dean's; they'd both checked into unobtrusive yet sturdily built motels with good solid locks on the doors.

Once Lindsey drew back the deadbolt with his room key he put out his arm to bar Dean from entering until he'd turned on the lights and done a visual sweep of the room.

"I've got enemies," he said by way of explanation. "And no, this isn't where I live, but I don't let anyone know the location of my real safehouse."

"Hell, if I'd known I would have told you to meet at my piece of shit motel instead of yours - saved you some money."

Lindsey shrugged as he placed his guitar case on the bed. "A man's got to sleep, especially after a night gig. Home's enough of a drive that I'm not heading back tonight." He pulled out one of the simple wooden chairs at the small round table by the closed window drapes and cocked his head at the other for Dean to sit in. "So, my story... You want the twenty-five cent version or 'just the facts ma'am' to start?"

"Hit me with the basics," Dean countered as he sat. "I'll ask questions if I need to know more."

Lindsey pulled a pad of paper from the nearby nightstand and tossed it across the table for Dean to look at. The plain legal pad had only one word on it, repeated randomly across the page: kill.

"Fact: my hand got cut off. Fact: my law firm hired a mystical shaman and a surgeon to put another one on me. Fact: hand works great, except it started writing all that without me telling it to."

"Dude," Dean chortled, "You've got an evil hand?"

"That's what I thought." Lindsey scrubbed his face with both hands as if weary and Dean was reminded of both the scar - which he now understood - and the bracelet which he suspected might be involved. "But I found out they were harvesting the body parts from living people, unwilling donors. They had a twisted sort of body bank hidden away where they kept human beings in life support chambers for their parts."

Dean shuddered. "That's so many levels of wrong I can't even..."

"Yeah," Lindsey agreed. "Ends up this hand belonged to a guy I used to work with in the mail room back in the early days. He'd crossed the company so they made him disappear and then started using him for parts for the staff they wanted to promote." He let out a long breath and Dean could tell that he was having trouble keeping the guilt and pain at bay. "He wasn't trying to tell me to kill people..." His voice faltered and Dean caught a glimpse of the man's raw humanity. "He was sending me a message to kill him."

A moment of silence passed in which Dean gave Lindsey time to look away and pretend he didn't need the time to pull himself together.

"You did, didn't you?" Dean said finally. "You put this poor dude out of his misery."

Lindsey nodded. "The ones we could save, we got out, but the ones who were too far gone - who were basically only alive on mystical life support and a few tubes?" Another deep breath. "Yeah, him and a few others." He rubbed his braceleted hand around the red mark circling his wrist. "I try not to feel responsible, I mean, I didn't know. But I've got to live knowing someone else suffered a horrible existence so I could have two hands again."

Dean propped his chin up on his hand, elbow on the table, as he examined Lindsey.

"So if you've got a working hand, the operation's been trashed, the innocent people have been saved... What do you need a Winchester for?"

"It's going to sound weird," Lindsey admitted. "But I won't feel right until it's done." He met Dean's eyes, his gaze intense. "I want you to exorcise my hand. I need to know that any connection it has to its dead owner or the sons of bitches who put it on me is permanently out of commission."

Dean's eyes flicked to the bracelet and back. "What about that?"

"They told me I need to leave it on for the hand to keep working. It's part of what made it possible."

"So there's a chance if we do this..." Dean grimaced. "Look, you've got a nice spiffy hand there and clearly it's a talented one if you're playing guitar that well, but if we do this and it messes up the mojo..." He made a harsh sound and mimicked the hand coming off again. "Are you prepared to lose it again?"

Lindsey turned his gaze to the guitar case on the bed. There was a long pause in which the fingers of his good hand skated across the top of the case, making the bracelet jangle slightly.

"Yes," Lindsey said solemnly. "I'm sure. My peace of mind is more important than any gig."

Dean nodded. "So, when did you want to do this exorcism?"

Lindsey turned to him, standing up straighter and taking a deep breath.

"Tonight. I want to do it tonight. No waiting."

Dean faltered a little. "Dude, there's like supplies and stuff I'd need to do an exorcism. I can't just..."

Lindsey opened up a drawer in the scarred wooden bureau and pulled out a large paper bag, dumping its contents on the cigarette burn marred bedspread.

"I came prepared." Once Dean perused the materials to ensure all he needed was there, he turned to meet Lindsey's dead serious gaze. "I'm ready now. Let's do this."

-

When he was young and his father was preparing him to be a hunter, Dean had eaten up all the weapons training, been fascinated by the secretive knowledge of the occult and even went into his physical fitness regimen with gusto, remembering his father's admonition that speed and strength would keep him alive. What he didn't love was learning Latin. Sam was always better at it and it pissed him off.

Still, speaking the words of the exorcism aloud, Dean was grateful for his father's insistence on learning the archaic language. Few words in English had anywhere near the power of the simple Latin word Christo.

It was a little different to exorcise a body part, but in the end - just to make sure - they'd ended up not focusing on just Lindsey's hand, but on all of him, hoping to ensure any connection really was severed.

Despite the lack of a full fledged demon possessing Lindsey, the exorcism was grueling for both of them and once it was done, they both collapsed, sweaty and exhausted - the room silent save their harsh breaths quieting down slowly.

"How do you feel?" Dean asked finally.

"Other than wiped?" Lindsey kind of shrugged. "Not any different, but I believe that any connection that was left was severed and that's good enough for me. I just can't live with thinking 'what if' you know?"

"I hear that."

Lindsey cocked his head at Dean. "You must be wiped out yourself." He glanced over at the little alarm clock on the nightstand. "It's seriously late. You should crash here until you're cool to drive."

"I'm good," Dean said, trying to stand and wavering slightly.

"Yeah, and I'm Mr. Rogers," Lindsey huffed. "Don't be a dick. It's not worth driving when you're out of it just because you're homophobic."

"Whoa!" Dean put up his hands. "I'm all equal opportunity here! I just don't know you from Adam is all."

"But your Daddy knows me and trusts me," Lindsey countered. "Else he wouldn't have sent you here alone to help." He sat down on the bed, looking bemused. "Besides, I saw how you were looking at the waitresses in the bar. Don't tell me you don't bed whatever pretty little thing strikes your fancy before you head out of town?"

"I do okay," Dean tried for humility but failed grandly, grinning widely. "So yeah, I'll crash for a bit then I have to take off."

"Wake me up when you go if I'm still out," Lindsey said, starting to take off his boots. "I want to make sure the deadbolt's locked behind you and the salt line hasn't been disturbed.

Dean glanced and saw that even the windows had been salted; he could actually sleep safely here.

"Sure, no problem."

-

A loud noise wrenched Dean from sleep and he felt the bed he was in move.

He had his knife pulled from under his pillow and was on his feet in a split second.

"Who's there?" he called out into the darkness, blade at the ready.

"Just me, Lindsey," a voice came back and a second later the lamp on the other side of the bed was turned on, revealing Lindsey with a sharpened wooden stick in his hand, at the ready same as Dean's weapon.

Dean let out a breath and lowered his knife.

"Sorry about that. Not really used to sleepovers."

"I hear that," Lindsey said, tucking his stake back under his own pillow as Dean did the same with his knife. "Glad you're not the kill first and ask questions later type."

Dean cocked his head towards Lindsey's pillow. "A stake?"

"I've got vampire problems," was his only explanation so Dean just nodded.

Lindsey peeked out through a gap in the curtains to look out over the motel parking lot.

"Anything out there?" Dean asked.

"Some drunken idiot ran into a parked car on the street. Looks like the motel manager's out there now dealing with it. None of our concern." He let the drapes fall closed and let out a long breath. "Well, that's a boatload of adrenaline I didn't need."

Dean flopped down on the bed. "I figured I'd be good if I slept four hours. And this idiot has to wake me after what? One and a half? No more than two."

"Good luck trying to fall back asleep now," Lindsey said, commiserating. He flopped back down on the bed next to Dean, both of them staring up at the ceiling. "It always took me at least an hour to come back down again. That or..."

Dean chortled with understanding. "A good fuck."

"Yeah."

Silence fell over the room again and the only sound was Dean drumming his fingers over his own stomach, bored and antsy.

"Got any liquor?"

"No," Lindsey said, getting up and putting his jeans back on. "But this is Texas and you can bet that manager has a bottle of something hidden in the office he'll part with for enough cash." He tugged on his boots and grabbed his room key and wallet, stuffing them in his pockets as he grabbed his shirt on the way out. "If I'm not back in five minutes..."

"Yeah, yeah," Dean said, motioning him to go. "Cavalry."

By the clock on the wall it only took four for Lindsey to return with a mostly full bottle of Jack Daniels and a couple of plastic wrapped disposable cups.

"I paid for a second night and told them to leave me the fuck alone in the morning so I could sleep. They shouldn't be bothering us in the AM at all now."

He tossed the cups on the bed and Dean unwrapped them both and held them up as Lindsey opened up the bottle and poured for both of them.

"To your now not evil hand," Dean mock toasted. "May it play many gigs in the years to come."

"Thanks." Lindsey took a drink and hissed at the burn. "I tell you, for that short period of time before I got my hand replaced..." His eyes went to his guitar case in the corner. "I just couldn't believe I'd never play again. That fact just didn't penetrate my brain, no matter how logical it was. I knew - knew - I'd play again somehow." His gaze shifted into the amber liquid in his cup. "But that didn't keep me from missing it, or being pissed at the one who cut off my hand in the first place."

"Dare I ask?"

Lindsey shot a quick glance Dean's way.

"Like I said. I've got vampire problems."

Sensing not to push further Dean just focused on polishing off his drink. He could feel the alcohol start to make his body feel heavy, melting it back down to the bed, making sleep a possibility again.

But that would take a while. For now, he still had the twitches that came from preparing your body for a fight and then not getting one.

"This sucks," Dean bemoaned, grumbling at his cup.

Lindsey just sloshed more whiskey into it.

"Drink enough you'll fall asleep again," he advised.

-

Dean was never around anyone long enough to ask what he was like drunk, but in just a short while he'd figured out that Lindsey drunk was very tactile. He asked about every scar, tracing them with his finger on Dean's torso and legs, intent on hearing every detail.

For a lawyer Lindsey had quite a few scars other than the one around his wrist. The bracelet - the only thing he had on save his boxers now that he'd undressed for bed a second time - would occasionally jangle loud enough to hear. It was an oddly solemn reminder of what they'd been there to do that night, but the rest of the time Lindsey seemed unusually cheery.

"El chupacabra? No, seriously."

"Yeah, seriously! Everyone says goatsuckers aren't real, but they sure as hell are and they have nasty teeth! Check this out!"

Dean pulled his boxers down a little on the side to reveal a jagged scar along his hip, still pink but done healing.

"Shit..." Lindsey crouched down for a better look, fingertips grazing over the scar - so close Dean could feel his warm whiskey breath on his skin. "Dude, that's fucked up." His eyes flicked up to meet Dean's and something shifted low in Dean's gut.

"Looks like that alcohol's not helping much," he forced out, licking his lips.

"Yeah." Lindsey stood, staying in Dean's personal space, his finger still on Dean's bare hip until it shifted an inch, hooked into his waistband and tugged him closer. "Guess we'll have to try something else."

What happened next could barely be called a kiss - the act more of two voracious predators trying to devour the other.

Hands flew over rapidly heating skin, taut torsos in contact as friction finalized the attraction they'd only been playing at all night. With a quick shove off of their boxers they were just two hard lengths aligned between their impatient bodies, limbs trying to get each one closer to the other.

Lindsey's alcohol sharp tongue tasted perfect in Dean's mouth; his ass fit right into Dean's hands. Each movement was so right it felt choreographed - both of them in tune with just the right amount of force and action to achieve the desired friction.

Dean's head jerked back as Lindsey grabbed a fistful of his short hair and pulled. Lindsey bit down on Dean's shoulder as his body went rigid, jerking haphazardly as he came hard, splashing warm over Dean's stomach.

Sliding through the slick mess between their bellies only pushed Dean further, eyes almost rolling back as Lindsey recovered quickly enough to up his efforts to finish Dean off.

He was close, so close, but it wasn't enough.

A flash of metal caught his eye and then made his heart skip a beat: Lindsey had his knife out.

Not letting up, Lindsey caressed Dean's neck with his own knife, his voice low and threatening in his ear.

"Come for me... Now."

With a strangled growl, the adrenaline that burst anew through Dean's system exploded and he saw nothing for two or three blissful seconds.

In the haze afterwards he felt more than saw Lindsey return the knife to its place beneath Dean's pillow.

"Desperate times..." Lindsey said with a chortle, using a hotel towel to clean up.

"Heh," Dean huffed. "And here I thought the whole idea was to get rid of all this extra adrenaline."

"Bet you a fifty you're out in less than ten minutes," Lindsey said, tossing him a towel of his own.

"So not taking that action," Dean grumbled. "The fifty I've got, I need."

"Well then, feel free to not give all this to your Dad." Lindsey pulled an envelope out of Dean's jacket hung over the chair - an envelope he'd clearly snuck in there when Dean was either asleep or in the bathroom.

"He doesn't want payment," Dean told him.

"Maybe not, but I've got plenty of money and the work you guys do?" He fell silent for a moment, clearly serious. "Someone's got to do it."

Dean nodded, not needing to add anything to that but grateful for someone who understood.

"I'm ready to crash," Lindsay announced. "Remember to wake me when you need to go."

"Got it."

Dean was in the middle of formulating a thought about Lindsey as they both settled back into bed, but it got lost after a yawn that led to nothing at all.

-

"Hey..."

Dean shook Lindsey's foot, figuring it was the safest distance from the stake under the pillow. As lame as it was it was whittled awfully sharp and Dean didn't want to find out just how much damage it could do to someone who wasn't a vampire.

"What the..."

"It's just me - Dean," Dean quickly said as Lindsey woke, disoriented. "I'm taking off and you wanted to lock the door behind me."

"Yeah." Lindsey rolled out of bed, wearing just his boxers although when he put them back on Dean wasn't sure. "Okay."

He walked past Dean to the door and checked the peephole before undoing the locks.

"Tell your Dad thanks for me and say hey to that little brother of yours, even if he doesn't remember me."

"Will do," Dean said with a nod.

As he headed to the door, he paused because Lindsey hadn't opened it yet.

Lindsey put a hand out and gathered Dean's shirt in his gentle grip, pulling him in a little closer, almost as if he was bringing him closer to kiss him only he didn't.

"Keep your head down, okay?" Lindsey told him quietly.

"Always," Dean responded, equally solemn. "You too."

Lindsey let him go then and opened the door.

Bright sunlight streamed in, making them both wince.

"You never saw me," Lindsey told him as he headed out. "I was never here."

Dean wasn't sure what happened in Lindsey's life to make him need to disappear, but if it kept him alive, he'd do everything he could to erase any evidence of this night ever happening.

Except in his own memory.

"You were never here," Dean agreed.

The Impala started right up and Dean headed to his own motel to plant a fake story about why he was in the area, check out and hope that Lindsey didn't find out he put the money back in Lindsey's coat before he left.

~
 
 
 
Emma DeMarais: BlueEyeemmademarais on September 30th, 2011 03:31 am (UTC)
Confession
This fic was written as a gift for luminous_mortal as a thank you for fact checking some of my military oriented fic. It was supposed to be done ages ago, but it kind of grew a bit bigger than expected. Hehehe

The title, Aces and Eights, was chosen because in poker it's refered to as the "Dead Man's Hand." Seeing as how Lindsey actually has a dead man's hand on him... /grins/ I just couldn't help but go there.

The Hank Williams song is real as are all the bands mentioned in the fic. The so called original song Lindsey sings (the one that Dean relates to) is not real; I made up the lyrics to suit the story. El chupacabra? No comment. ;-)

Very special thanks to First Readers bientot and melodious329 for their assistance with this fic.

Thanks,

Emma DeMarais
I want another pony: Fangirlsverucasalt123 on October 1st, 2011 04:47 am (UTC)
Re: Confession
Angel and SPN crossover makes me so so so happy. This was lovely.
Luminous Mortal: I am fangirling...luminous_mortal on October 1st, 2011 07:45 am (UTC)
Oh honey, you did it!!! You brought my two favorite characters together AND THERE WAS GORGEOUS MAN POSTURING, BEAUTIFUL STORY TELLING, AND SUCH SWEET CHEMISTRY I THOUGHT I WOULD COME UNGLUED!!!! *bites knuckle*

Thank you sooooooo much for creating this crossover -- I totally bought it, hook, line and sinker...TOTALLY worth the wait!!!! *beams*

xoxoxoxo
Emma DeMaraisemmademarais on October 1st, 2011 06:31 pm (UTC)
Whee! I'm so glad! Whenever I have to make someone wait I usually a) try harder and b) make it longer in hopes of making up for how long it took.

I really liked how this came out! Your idea for the pairing was great and while I thought I'd like Eliot/Dean better, I like that Lindsey's got canon experience with the occult that makes him a better fic in the Winchesterverse.

And hello hot! Wow, once these two got alone it was hard to keep them apart long enough to get the task at hand (pun intended) taken care of. LOL

Thanks again for all your help!