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Entry tags:
A Web of Lies, Leverage/SPN Crossover (To Salt the Flame verse), NC-17
Fandom: Leverage/SPN Crossover (To Salt the Flame verse- Part One, Part Two)
Title: A Web of Lies
Charcater: Dean Winchester
Rating: NC-17, more for theme than graphic
Word Count: 656
Summary: In a world where John Winchester left his only son to pursue a calling to the priesthood, Dean Winchester hasn't had an easy life. He's far older than his 17 years and he's just beginning to find his own way, with a growing reputation in the world of supernatural trinkets and anything else that requires special handling...but with his father suddenly trying to come back into his life and a huge debt hanging over his head, the balance is precariously built on a web of lies that is about to come unraveled.
A/Ns & Warnings: This world is all the fault of![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
havenward. John Winchester is a priest, Eliot Spencer is a young retrieval specialist who gets mixed up with John. Dean is the wayward bad boy son. Written for my second card for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
angst_bingo.
His was a life built on lies. Had been since he could remember. The lie that they would be okay. The lie that his father would come home. The lie that the next foster home would be better, that the next old man wouldn't beat him, the next older boy wouldn't fuck him over.
He figured it out by the time he was twelve. He was good with words, with telling the lie so as no one could see through it. No ma'am I didn't see it. No sir, I don't know anything about your wallet. Please donate to this worthy charity.
It served him well when he headed out on his own. Kept him out of trouble more than a few times.
Of course, as he got older, the lies became more elaborate. He hid behind fake names, fake identities. At first it was just self-preservation. He was forced to sell himself to make a living, but he wasn't going to be out hustling under his own name. He whored himself on the streets a while using different names, but that was before he found him a sweet sugar daddy who liked taking it up the ass and was willing to pay pretty money to keep Dean for himself.
Then he moved to different lies. Ones that kept him alive while he hustled a different game. He sweet talked his way out of more trouble than most people see in a lifetime before he was seventeen.
Lying comes so easy Dean doesn’t even consider the truth anymore…just what it takes to make the next score, keep him moving, find the next game. He doesn’t think about it much.
When he takes the mail from his boy, absently patting his head in reward, Dean doesn’t really consider the box either, not until he sees his name…his real name…in neat black letters.
He stops and backtracks, lifts the box. No return address and a postmark in Lawrence, Kansas. He frowns at it, lifts it. First his father shows up out of the blue and now this.
He growls at the boy to move and takes the box into his work room. No point being stupid about it. He closes the door to activate the sigils worked into the walls of the room, crosses the devil’s trap on the floor and takes the box to his work bench, shoving aside the hex box with it’s cursed rabbit’s foot to make room for the delivery.
He lifts the knife he keeps handy and uses it to cut through the tape that holds the brown paper around the box. Slowly, Dean lifts the paper away, leaving a plain looking box.
There are no markings or symbols, nothing to give him a clue. Dean huffs a little and murmurs. “Fuck it,” before he opens the box, half expecting to be hit with some whammy or explosion.
Instead, the only thing that hits him is the distinctive smell of a fire, the heavy, thick smoke smell that triggers one of his earliest memories. He recoils almost physically before he tilts the box. Inside is the charred remains of a baby blanket, the singed head of a teddy bear and a note.
Dean fingers the blanket, closing his eyes to keep from looking at the bear’s head. He’d been four years old, his baby brother only an infant. Dean had put the bear in the crib to keep the baby company. The blanket had been his too, handed down to his brother.
He lifted the note, opening the folded paper. The picture on the page stared back at him and the name scribbled at the bottom made every lie Dean ever told meaningless in the face of the lie he didn’t think his father capable of.
Sam.
The boy in the picture was maybe twelve or thirteen, with messy brown hair falling in his eyes and a smile as wide as Texas.
Sam.
Title: A Web of Lies
Charcater: Dean Winchester
Rating: NC-17, more for theme than graphic
Word Count: 656
Summary: In a world where John Winchester left his only son to pursue a calling to the priesthood, Dean Winchester hasn't had an easy life. He's far older than his 17 years and he's just beginning to find his own way, with a growing reputation in the world of supernatural trinkets and anything else that requires special handling...but with his father suddenly trying to come back into his life and a huge debt hanging over his head, the balance is precariously built on a web of lies that is about to come unraveled.
A/Ns & Warnings: This world is all the fault of
havenward. John Winchester is a priest, Eliot Spencer is a young retrieval specialist who gets mixed up with John. Dean is the wayward bad boy son. Written for my second card for angst_bingo.His was a life built on lies. Had been since he could remember. The lie that they would be okay. The lie that his father would come home. The lie that the next foster home would be better, that the next old man wouldn't beat him, the next older boy wouldn't fuck him over.
He figured it out by the time he was twelve. He was good with words, with telling the lie so as no one could see through it. No ma'am I didn't see it. No sir, I don't know anything about your wallet. Please donate to this worthy charity.
It served him well when he headed out on his own. Kept him out of trouble more than a few times.
Of course, as he got older, the lies became more elaborate. He hid behind fake names, fake identities. At first it was just self-preservation. He was forced to sell himself to make a living, but he wasn't going to be out hustling under his own name. He whored himself on the streets a while using different names, but that was before he found him a sweet sugar daddy who liked taking it up the ass and was willing to pay pretty money to keep Dean for himself.
Then he moved to different lies. Ones that kept him alive while he hustled a different game. He sweet talked his way out of more trouble than most people see in a lifetime before he was seventeen.
Lying comes so easy Dean doesn’t even consider the truth anymore…just what it takes to make the next score, keep him moving, find the next game. He doesn’t think about it much.
When he takes the mail from his boy, absently patting his head in reward, Dean doesn’t really consider the box either, not until he sees his name…his real name…in neat black letters.
He stops and backtracks, lifts the box. No return address and a postmark in Lawrence, Kansas. He frowns at it, lifts it. First his father shows up out of the blue and now this.
He growls at the boy to move and takes the box into his work room. No point being stupid about it. He closes the door to activate the sigils worked into the walls of the room, crosses the devil’s trap on the floor and takes the box to his work bench, shoving aside the hex box with it’s cursed rabbit’s foot to make room for the delivery.
He lifts the knife he keeps handy and uses it to cut through the tape that holds the brown paper around the box. Slowly, Dean lifts the paper away, leaving a plain looking box.
There are no markings or symbols, nothing to give him a clue. Dean huffs a little and murmurs. “Fuck it,” before he opens the box, half expecting to be hit with some whammy or explosion.
Instead, the only thing that hits him is the distinctive smell of a fire, the heavy, thick smoke smell that triggers one of his earliest memories. He recoils almost physically before he tilts the box. Inside is the charred remains of a baby blanket, the singed head of a teddy bear and a note.
Dean fingers the blanket, closing his eyes to keep from looking at the bear’s head. He’d been four years old, his baby brother only an infant. Dean had put the bear in the crib to keep the baby company. The blanket had been his too, handed down to his brother.
He lifted the note, opening the folded paper. The picture on the page stared back at him and the name scribbled at the bottom made every lie Dean ever told meaningless in the face of the lie he didn’t think his father capable of.
Sam.
The boy in the picture was maybe twelve or thirteen, with messy brown hair falling in his eyes and a smile as wide as Texas.
Sam.