Sam couldn't believe it. Apparently Blondie couldn't believe it either, because he squinted at Sam curiously. It wasn't so much a squint as a tilt of his eyes, but Sam got the feeling it was pretty expressive for him. He was looming over them like they were steak that had gone slightly tough in the fridge and he'd just escaped from Top Chef. It was amazing how the sneer was evident though his face was almost perfectly blank. It was unfair that the looming was going on despite the fact they were near equal in height. It was just embarrassing that Dean was practically a drooling idiot right next to him, mouth hanging open all red and wanting, eyes wide and fixed on that pale, eerie face.
"Everything's very good, Dean. You're feeling very good."
That was a faint smirk in the bastard's face, though his expression didn't seem to change at all. Dean stumbled a step, and Sam automatically grabbed his arm to steady him. Dean was thrumming with energy, shallow breaths and a ridiculous flush across his cheeks that lit up his freckles. Sam watched his brother's eyes slide shut in what could only be called bliss, and braced himself as he took most of his weight. The sounds that were coming out of Dean's mouth, ragged and high and completely uncontrolled, were making him blush.
He cut his eyes back to Blondie, who was definitely smirking now. Very slowly, almost lazily, the man trained his gaze on Sam. His eyes were very blue. Something curled right beneath his skin, like a shadow at the edge of his vision, but ground into him too deeply for that. It fluttered, and Sam glared back resolutely.
"What are you?"
Slumped against him, Dean moaned again, rubbing his face against Sam's shoulder. Sam took a deep breath, and carefully didn't look south to where Dean's legs were barely holding him up.
"You are very interesting, Mr. Winchester."
The accent was perfectly normal, but just slightly off, a little too precise, each syllable exquisitely rounded off and paced. Sam couldn't place it all, couldn't place what the fuck was going on at all, and he had an armful of Dean to deal with at all.
"You see, my employee," a tilt of the head and Sam noticed the cute blonde girl who'd been eyeing them earlier that night, "can't seem to read you."
Were they psychics? Had Azazel sown a few more seeds than even Sam anticipated? Their ages didn't seem right, but he knew better than to make assumptions.
"I see I've left you with a busy evening though."
No further explanation - the bastard just swept out while Sam was still dealing with a functionally useless Dean. The blonde girl lingered, a concerned look on her pert features, but she too was ushered away by what looked like her escort, a dour, dark-haired type who came off slightly constipated when he muttered something in her ear.
Dean mumbled happily into Sam's neck, clinging like a limpet. He had a faint sheen of sweat all over, warm and content, features smooth. Sam sighed. He'd have to save the digging for tomorrow.
Ask and you shall receive: Sam, Dean and a Viking
"Everything's very good, Dean. You're feeling very good."
That was a faint smirk in the bastard's face, though his expression didn't seem to change at all. Dean stumbled a step, and Sam automatically grabbed his arm to steady him. Dean was thrumming with energy, shallow breaths and a ridiculous flush across his cheeks that lit up his freckles. Sam watched his brother's eyes slide shut in what could only be called bliss, and braced himself as he took most of his weight. The sounds that were coming out of Dean's mouth, ragged and high and completely uncontrolled, were making him blush.
He cut his eyes back to Blondie, who was definitely smirking now. Very slowly, almost lazily, the man trained his gaze on Sam. His eyes were very blue. Something curled right beneath his skin, like a shadow at the edge of his vision, but ground into him too deeply for that. It fluttered, and Sam glared back resolutely.
"What are you?"
Slumped against him, Dean moaned again, rubbing his face against Sam's shoulder. Sam took a deep breath, and carefully didn't look south to where Dean's legs were barely holding him up.
"You are very interesting, Mr. Winchester."
The accent was perfectly normal, but just slightly off, a little too precise, each syllable exquisitely rounded off and paced. Sam couldn't place it all, couldn't place what the fuck was going on at all, and he had an armful of Dean to deal with at all.
"You see, my employee," a tilt of the head and Sam noticed the cute blonde girl who'd been eyeing them earlier that night, "can't seem to read you."
Were they psychics? Had Azazel sown a few more seeds than even Sam anticipated? Their ages didn't seem right, but he knew better than to make assumptions.
"I see I've left you with a busy evening though."
No further explanation - the bastard just swept out while Sam was still dealing with a functionally useless Dean. The blonde girl lingered, a concerned look on her pert features, but she too was ushered away by what looked like her escort, a dour, dark-haired type who came off slightly constipated when he muttered something in her ear.
Dean mumbled happily into Sam's neck, clinging like a limpet. He had a faint sheen of sweat all over, warm and content, features smooth. Sam sighed. He'd have to save the digging for tomorrow.