Jessica (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
sparkysparky) wrote2008-02-29 09:22 pm
sparkysparky) wrote2008-02-29 09:22 pm
Fic: Enchanted... (Sam/Dean, NC-17) 1/2
Title: Enchanted: The Extraordinary Adventures of Prince Samuel of Winchester and His Faithful Squire; Or: How Sam & Dean Saved the Girl, Killed the Dragon and Rode Off Into the Sunset In the Impala
Movie: Enchanted
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
sparkysparky
Genre: Supernatural (Wincest)
Characters/Pairings: Sam/Dean (also Sam/Bela, but not really), appearances by Ellen
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: about 6,000 this part (around 10,000 total)
Summary: Once upon a time there lived a dashing prince. He was Prince Samuel of Winchester, and he had a quest to save the beautiful maiden Bela with only the help of his faithful squire Dean and their steed, Impala. (Or: This one time, Sam and Bela got mojo'd and there was a dragon. Whoops!)
Warnings: There be plot holes ahead. And also crack. Also, beware dragons.
Notes/Credits: Muchas gracias tofateenviesus for ass kicking and beta, and to titti for general ass kickage. Written for the ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
abouttwoboys challenge. This is part 1 of 2, the rest will be posted somehow during the weekend.
Disclaimer: I am not a short bald man, these characters are not mine. Neither am I a 150 year old animation genius. I'm only borrowing their characters and situations for a short while. I promise to return them in nearly the same condition I took them.
Part One:
Just outside Pittsburgh, PA
"So, there's a hunt in Newark," Sam said, without looking up from the laptop. "Several graves were disturbed over the past week, and the bodies are missing. The newspaper report also mentioned an oddity in the landscape around the grave, previously healthy plants mysteriously died."
Dean groaned, flopping back on the bed and covering his face with his hands. "Zombies?" Dean asked, flipping through their journal. It had been Dad's once, but it was theirs now, "Why's it always gotta be frickin' zombies?"
"It could be zombies, or it could be run of the mill bad gardening or grave robbers," Sam said. "Dean…it could be Bela, messing with things she doesn't understand again. One of the missing bodies was big in antiques while alive; the daughter said they buried a box with the old woman, something she never let out of her sight." Sam closed the laptop. "The daughter also said that her grandmother was protective of the box, claimed it had some sort of mystical power."
Dean rolled his eyes. "Frickin' fantastic," he said. "Zombies and mysterious mystical artifacts, what could be more exciting?"
Sam laughed, amused at Dean's attitude. "Dude, you love zombies. Or so you've said a thousand times before."
Dean sat up on the bed, and glared at Sam. "I like them in movies, or on television. I don't love their smelly, rotten hands wrapping around my neck." The look Dean sent Sam as he explained was one usually reserved for idiots and rednecks.
"At least we know how to kill them," Sam offered. "A quick lure and stake, and we're done. And if it's not zombies, then it's Bela or someone like her—"
"I hope the fuck there's only one Bela in the world. She's far more than enough," Dean griped, linking his hands behind his head and staring up at the ceiling. "But yeah, okay, let's go check it out." They were both quiet for a moment, and then Dean turned his head back towards Sam. "So, wanna fuck before we leave?"
"That's it? A quick agreement and then you want to fuck?" Sam asked, raising his eyebrow. He glanced at Dean, only getting a look in reply that said, Got a problem with that?. And since Sam didn't, and he wasn't stupid, he shrugged. "Yeah, okay then. Let's fuck."
"Flippin' great," Dean said, already stripping off his shirt before wriggling out of his jeans.
Sam's cock grew hard just watching. He was always slightly amazed that Dean could get him from flaccid to horny in less than three seconds. Dean lay back against the pillows of the king-sized motel bed—they'd stopped getting two queens after they'd fucked the first time, right after Sam saved Dean from going to hell—and arched an eyebrow.
"Coming, Sammy?" Dean taunted, hand traveling down his torso to fist his cock roughly.
"Not yet," Sam said, quickly stripping naked. He threw his clothes in the general direction of the chair, and moved to the bed, taking his time and studying Dean's naked form.
He'd never tell Dean this, but Dean was the most gorgeous thing Sam had ever seen—all long lines and golden skin stretched tight over lean muscles, a long, thick cock leaking precum onto a perfectly flat stomach. But it was the freckles that got to Sam the most, when they stood out against flushed skin as Sam fucked his brother. One of Sam's favorite games was to play connect-the-freckles on Dean's skin. He could spend hours trailing his tongue along Dean's shoulders, down his back to his ass.
"Are you going to stare at me all day, or are you going to fuck me?"
Dean's voice was demanding, and reminded Sam that they only had an hour before they had to get on the road. Without answering, Sam crawled onto the bed and on top of Dean, pressing his brother into the mattress. Dean's legs came up around Sam's hips, and their cocks rubbed together, sending frissons of pleasure along Sam's nerves. Dean's pupils were blown wide, black with need, and Sam didn't waste time reaching for the lube.
Dean was still relaxed from their three a.m. celebratory fuck, so two fingers pressed inside easily. Sam used Dean's moans, the needy, impatient sounds that spilled from Dean's mouth as cues, slowing moving his fingers inside his brother, stretching the muscles. He added a third finger, his cock growing even harder at the way Dean was falling apart beneath him, loving the way Dean's hips ground down relentlessly against his hand.
"Dammit, Sam, fuck me already," Dean growled, fingers scoring red marks into Sam's shoulders.
Sam laughed, and withdrew his fingers, not pausing to let Dean tense up again as he guided his cock into his brother. The heat was amazing, and Dean was still tight enough that the muscles clamped around the intrusion of Sam's cock, milking along the thick length.
"Fuck it, Sam, move!" Dean demanded, pressing his hips up against Sam.
Sam laughed, and gripped Dean's hips harshly, fingers fitting perfectly over the bruises he'd left the night before. "Don't move," Sam ordered, his tone drawing another gorgeously needy sound from Dean, but his brother did as commanded, and went still. "Hands above your head and leave them there." This was something new for them, Sam giving orders and Dean obeying without question, but it was something Sam knew they both wanted, needed even.
Sam pressed Dean's legs further apart, holding them wide as he started to fuck harder, making sure to only brush past Dean's prostate every few strokes—just enough to keep Dean hard, but not enough to get him off. He kept the pace slow, pulling almost all the way out before slamming back in, his balls brushing against the underside of Dean's ass with every stroke.
"Sammy," Dean whined, obviously fighting to remain still. Sam knew his brother well enough to know that Dean wouldn't move, wouldn't allow himself to break a direct command. "Wanna come."
Sam ignored him, pressing into his brother with long, hard strokes. Dean was gorgeous like this, Sam thought, raising Dean's legs so they rested on his shoulders, freeing his hands to run them feverishly over Dean's body. He ended up pinning Dean's wrists to the pillow with one hand, and fisting Dean's cock with the other. He pulled in time to his strokes, speeding up gradually until he could feel the sweat drip down his face from the exertion. Dean was straining up against him now, gasping for air as Sam's cock pounded past his prostate on every thrust.
Sam tugged on Dean's cock, palm sliding over the head, and he dropped his head to Dean's shoulder, biting at the skin there. "Come, Dean," he ordered, squeezing Dean's cock just before he released it. Dean made a low, keening sound as he exploded onto his stomach. The sound of Dean's voice and the tight vise around his cock brought on Sam's own orgasm almost painfully just moments later.
When the shockwaves of pleasure were over, Sam's arms trembled and he collapsed on top of Dean. Dean grunted, but didn't push him away, and Sam kissed his brother’s shoulder in apology. They lay there for a long few minutes, a tangle of sweaty, messy limbs, until Dean finally pushed at Sam's shoulder.
"Come on, Sammy boy," he said, sounding disgustingly awake for someone who'd just been fucked silly. "You smell rank, dude. Time to shower and hit the road."
"Bite me," Sam said, but he got up anyway. Dean was right. They had to shower and pack the gear, and get on the road before any more bodies went missing.
"No time for that now, Sammy," Dean said, walking naked to the bathroom. He looked over his shoulder and grinned wolfishly. "I might later, though, if you're a good boy."
Sam just groaned and followed Dean into the bathroom. If they were fast they had time for a second round in the shower. And Sam knew from experience that when he wanted to be, he could be extremely fast.
~~~~~~~~
Times Square, New York City
Bela Talbot was not a woman to admit mistakes. Ever. Period. Full stop. The simple truth of it was that Bela Talbot did not make mistakes. Not professionally and certainly not personally. Which was why, when she finally made a mistake—a huge, glaring, gaping chasm of a mistake—she didn't realize it until it was too late.
The box had seemed innocent enough; there weren't any runes or hieroglyphics that she could make out. There had only been a symbol—one she didn't know, and didn't care enough to find out about—and a lock. Nothing about it had roused her suspicions, other than a brief thought about why anyone would pay a cool quarter million plus expenses for something as useless, and worse as unattractive, as this box. But Bela had long since stopped wondering why her clients were willing to pay ridiculous amounts of money for pieces of junk, and learned to simply take their money and go on her way.
All that didn't explain why, as she was waiting in Times Square for her client to come collect the box, she was suddenly feeling as if something was about to go terribly wrong.
Bela tapped her foot impatiently, annoyed with being made to wait. The client was already three minutes past the appointed meeting time, and Bela was not a woman who tolerated tardiness. Especially when it involved money. Her money. Money she'd earned. Growling under her breath, she spun on her thousand dollar heel, almost losing her composure—which she never did—as the old woman appeared seemingly out of thin air. This was, she thought, not all that out of the ordinary when one considered the types of people requiring her services.
"You're late," Bela said, her voice cool. There was no sign she'd ever been off balance, and she wore her usual expression—cool and slightly amused at the other person's expense. "I believe that's another ten, on top of the two-fifty, as per our contract."
The old woman ignored her, and reached for the box. Bela tried to evade her grasp, but found she'd somehow become immobile. Fucking witches, she thought. The woman's smile as she looked her up and down sent shivers down Bela’s spine, though she'd deny that fact to the death, if necessary. Bela Talbot didn't do scared and helpless.
"What do you want?" Bela asked her voice calm and cold. "I came here for my money, and I expect to be compensated for this little trick. I want an extra fifty grand, for pain and suffering, or I'll take that box to the next highest bidder."
The woman didn't respond to Bela's taunt, simply kept staring at Bela with soulless eyes. "Yes, you'll do wonderfully," she whispered, stroking a gnarled finger down Bela's cheek. "This won't hurt my beauty. Much."
The old woman touched a long, yellow nail to the lock and it fell away as if it had never been there. The box opened, and a shimmering strand of light twirled its way towards Bela, enveloping her completely, tearing into her skin, climbing down her throat, and becoming her. She opened her mouth to scream as the pain became tangible, but before she could even make a sound, she knew nothing more.
~~~~~~~~
Fairmount Cemetery, Newark, NJ
"Why does it always got to be frickin' zombies?" Dean asked, panting against the side of the Impala. He had a large gash in one arm, still oozing blood, and he thought his ankle was sprained. Not the worst injuries he'd ever had, not by a long shot, but that fact didn't make him hate zombies any less. He tore a strip from his shirt and tied it around the gash to stop the bleeding. It would work well enough until they got back to the motel, and wouldn't get blood all over his baby.
Sam didn't answer; apparently too busy trying to get his breath back after the zombie had made a considerable attempt to strangle him. Dean thought it was possible Sam also had a concussion; the zombie had seemed to enjoy slamming Sam's head into things: the ground, a tree, headstones. Hand-shaped bruises were already forming on Sam's throat, and he was cradling his arm against his chest.
Dislocated, Dean thought. Frigging fantastic. He pushed off from the car and patted Sam's shoulder. "Come on, Sammy," he said, helping Sam into the Impala's passenger seat. "Time's wasting, and the longer we stay here, the sooner the cops find us."
Sam nodded and his eyes closed, causing Dean to panic internally for a minute. Sleeping was bad for concussions. "Come on Sammy boy, no napping," he said, reaching over—grimacing as the action pulled at the bandage on his arm—and shaking Sam. "You probably have a concussion, so that means no sleeping until I make sure you're all right."
"Back off, Dean" Sam growled, glaring at Dean. Sam never had been a good patient; he was even worse than Dean when it came to taking care of his injuries.
Dean tried to ignore the fact that Sam's angry voice went straight to his groin. Sam was hurt, and it was not the time to be aroused. "No, I won't back off," Dean said. "Not until I'm sure you're okay."
"I'm fine," Sam insisted, wincing as the Impala rode roughly over a bump in the road.
"You're not fine," Dean said, wanting to kiss away the hidden pain in Sam's eyes. That wouldn't be appreciated at the moment, so Dean kept the urge to himself. "You've got a dislocated shoulder, a bruised throat and most likely a concussion. So just do as I say for once, and stay awake until we get to the motel." Sam was such a pissy bitch when he was tired and hurt, but it only made Dean want to hold him down and fuck him, which wasn’t really an appropriate response, even if the images conjured up were hot, and shot straight to his cock.
Dean had been paying more attention to Sam than to driving, so when he looked forward again and saw the old woman standing in the middle of the road, his heart stopped. He slammed on the breaks, silently apologizing to his girl, and the Impala jerked to a stop. Dean clutched at the wheel, knuckles white, and took a deep, shuddering breath. A sideways glance at Sam showed that he was just as shaken, and Dean pulled himself together.
"Stay here," he ordered Sam. He took one last deep breath, and got out of the car, scowling when he saw Sam do the same. Stupid idiot had never been one to follow orders. Dean turned to see that the old woman was staring at them, her face white.
"Ma'am, are you okay?" Sam asked, slipping seamlessly into his concerned do-gooder routine, which under normal circumstances caused Dean to tease him mercilessly. "Do you need help?"
The woman didn't say anything, and Dean started to get a bad feeling about this whole situation. Something wasn't right about this woman, but before he could do anything, even reach for a knife, the woman had opened a box Dean hadn't even noticed she’d been holding, and released some sort of golden light.
Dean shouted as the light flew towards Sam, too fast for any sort of evasion even if Sam hadn't been already injured. Sam screamed in pain, and Dean whirled around to kill the bitch who was hurting his brother, but she had disappeared. He watched as Sam collapsed to the ground and began convulsing, and Dean's heart nearly stopped.
"Sam!" Dean shouted, running to his brother and ignoring his ankle's scream of complaint. If he was dead, Dean would hunt every single thing—living and dead—until he found the thing that did this. He fell to his knees, shaking Sam, memories from two years ago flashing before his eyes, bile rising in his throat. He pushed the sick feeling down, and pulled Sam into his arms, cradling him against his chest.
"Come on, Sammy, don't you do this to me again! I can't save you this time, you know that!" Sam didn't respond, just flopped forward, limp and unresponsive. This time Dean couldn't stop the bile, and had to turn aside as he lost the contents of his stomach all over the pavement. Still heaving, he turned back and shook Sam again, his heart stopping and then restarting as Sam miraculously groaned and tried to sit up.
"Dean?" he asked, cracking his eyes open and peering at Dean with a confused look in his hazel eyes. "Did we kill the dragon?"
~~~~~~~~
Midnight Motel, Newark, NJ
Dean didn't know what the fuck was going on. Sam had passed out again soon after uttering something about a dragon. Dean had managed to get him back to the motel and into bed without any more injuries. Sam had slept for a few hours, giving Dean the time to treat both their wounds, as Sam had been impossible to wake. Dean had worried at first, but relaxed as it became clear that Sam was simply sleeping deeply, and not unconscious.
So, when Sam bolted upright and started shouting about being improperly dressed—Dean hadn't been about to put him to bed with bloodstained clothes, so he was naked—and how Princes must always be aware of their modesty, Dean hadn't known how to react. His first instinct had been to laugh, but the more Sam talked about needing his sword and steed and rescuing fair maidens, the more concerned he grew.
"Squire, bring me my braces," Sam ordered, apparently forgetting his modesty and standing tall, with his chest puffed out and hands fisted jauntily at his hips, his soft cock nestled against the dark hair between his slightly spread thighs. Dean was so distracted by that thought that he nearly missed what Sam sad next. "And saddle my steed, at once. I must find the fair maiden, my one true love, my Princess Bela, and rescue her."
Dean didn't move, sputtering in shock at Sam's words. What the fuck was going on? The concussion had clearly scrambled Sam's brains, or whatever that old woman had unleashed had done something to him, but either way, Dean was itching to kill something. "What the fuck, Sam? Princess Bela? Have you lost your mind?"
"I do not understand your odd form of expression," Sam said, frowning. If the situation hadn’t been so completely fucked up, Dean would have found the furrow between Sam's brows alluring. "That is not important, so do not speak of it again. We must make haste, the longer we dally, the danger for my darling Princess Bela grows perilously."
"Seriously, dude, what is up with the whole Princess Bela thing? We hate Bela. She's the anti-Christ as far as we're concerned." Dean wasn't prepared for Sam's reaction to that, and wheezed out a breath as Sam slammed him against the wall with a sword—where the fuck had Sam found a frigging sword? In thin air?—pressed against Dean's throat. Dean felt a small trail of blood trickle down his neck, and made certain to stay very still. He didn't need Sam nicking an artery and killing him. That would solve nothing.
"Do not ever speak of my maiden in that way again," Sam said, dangerously. "You are my Squire. You do not question my authority, for I am Prince Samuel of Winchester, my exploits are revered throughout the land. I have killed sixteen dragons, and saved a dozen or more villages from burning and famine. I have led my men to war, and emerged victorious over my foes. My word is law, and it is my word that anyone who speaks ill of my Princess be imprisoned and executed by beheading."
Dean knew that finding Sam's threatening form arousing was so totally not a normal reaction, but then nothing between the Winchesters could ever be described as normal, and he shifted uncomfortably as his cock pressed against the zipper of his jeans. Dean just wanted this whole situation to go away, so he and Sam could fuck. He didn't even care who did the fucking, as long as there was nakedness and cocks involved. When he found that old crone, she was toast.
"All right, all right, I get it," Dean said, deciding to play along until he could find a moment to call Bobby and figure out what the fuck they were going to do. "Princess Bela is off-limits. Understood."
"Verily, Squire, I do hope to not have to behead you." Sam pulled away and set his sword aside. All the anger seemed to drain out of Sam, and he was once again back to himself—or at least as much like himself as a 'Prince' could be. "Now, dress me Squire, and we shall be on our way."
Dean was getting incredibly tired of being called 'Squire', but he had no desire for another sword to the throat. Once had been enough, thanks all the same. "There is no way in hell I’m dressing you," Dean said, but when Sam just stared at him in helpless confusion, he rolled his eyes.
"Frigging Prince Charming attitude," he muttered, grabbing Sam’s underpants from their duffle and gesturing for Sam to step into them. Dean started breathing easier after Sam’s crotch was covered, though the blue boxer briefs did nothing to disguise Sam’s body, and Dean quickly helped Sam pull on a shirt and button his jeans. Sam seemed happy enough to be wearing his owns clothes, which gave Dean a lot of hope that his Sam was in there someplace.
"Well done, Squire," Sam said, picking his sword up. "Where is my scabbard?" Sam didn’t move to look for it himself, and Dean finally realized that as Sam’s 'squire' he was supposed to find it.
"When I find that stupid crone, she is going to burn," Dean muttered, not at all surprised when he found a scabbard—an honest to god scabbard—under the bed. "Here." He shoved the scabbard at Sam, who expertly sheathed his sword—and under normal circumstances there would be so many things Dean could say to that—but instead of fastening it around his waist, slung the strap over his shoulder.
"And now we ride," Sam said, striding out of the door quickly. Dean quickly grabbed their bags—grateful they never fully unpacked anyplace they slept—and followed Sam outside.
"My faithful steed, Impala," Sam was saying, sliding into the driver’s seat. "She has served me well through the years."
Dean didn’t have time to demand Sam get out of his seat, as Sam already had the car on and in drive. He threw the bag to the backseat and slid in, shutting the door just as Sam stepped on the gas and they screeched out of the parking lot.
"We must find my Princess," Sam said as they passed the town limits. "Before my precious gem winds up at the mercy of the hard cruel world. It won't be easy, Faithful Squire, but we will fight with our very lives until she is safe."
Dean reached over and turned up the music, loud. Metallica blasted from the stereo and amazingly Sam—or rather Prince Samuel of Winchester—didn't complain, and Dean tried his best not to think about just exactly how difficult it was going to be to find frigging Bela Talbot. He had to hope that somehow Sam had a clue as to where to start looking, or else he had a feeling they were up the creek without a paddle.
~~~~~~~~
Ritz Carlton Central Park, New York City
Bela woke with a large smile, and sighed. It was such a beautiful day outside; she could hear the birds singing good morning to one another. And what made it the best day of all, was that she knew her Prince would find her.
"Isn’t it a lovely day?" she asked her companion. She was just so fortunate that her dearest friend Ellen Harvelle had found her. Especially in a city with so many strange people, who whistled whilst one passed by, and made rude gestures when one was just trying to be nice. Bela didn't know how she would have survived the City without Ellen's help. Fate had been smiling on her, crossing their paths, though Ellen insisted it was something to do with tracking skills, whatever those were.
While waiting for the other woman to reply, Bela twirled around the room, tidying up the best she could without a broom and mop, singing her happy working song as she went, giggling when her animal friends stopped by to help. What wonderful creatures they were, always willing to lend a paw.
"Oh, I’m so happy! Ellen, my dearest friend, I just know that my Prince Samuel is on his way. What say you we go find him?" Her dearest friend just groaned and rolled over in the second bed, pulling a pillow over her head.
She hummed happily, and threw open the window singing at the top of her lungs to her bird friends. "Early one morning, just as the sun was rising, I heard a maiden singing in the valley below…" She giggled as the birds joined in, harmonizing their lovely trills to her voice. As she sang she danced around the room, cheerfully cutting curtains so the birds and mice flittering about could help her make a dress. The clothes she’d been wearing yesterday were awfully immodest.
By the time her dearest friend Ellen, who had rescued her from the evil miscreants on the streets, roused, Bela was dressed in the most beautiful confection of a dress. It was blue with lovely pink flowers, and flowed around her as if a light breeze was blowing. Giggling, Bela danced around the room, singing about true love as Ellen blearily got up.
"You still insane, Talbot?" Ellen asked, running a hand through her bed-mussed hair. "Well that’s just perfect, isn’t it?"
"Oh it is,” Bela said, breathlessly, clasping her hands together in excitement. "It's the most perfect day and do you know why?" She twirled around Ellen, so filled with life and love that she just wanted to share it with the world. "Today is the day I will find my Prince Samuel. My One True Love! Isn't it exciting?"
"Thrilling," Ellen said. "Where'd you get the dress?"
"Oh I made it! With the help of my animal friends. Aren't they brilliant?" Bela twirled and clapped her hands.
"Where'd you get material…" Ellen trailed off as Bela pranced to the windows and she saw the dress-shaped cutouts. "Oh, of course. How stupid of me to not have thought of using curtains."
"Oh, don't worry, Ellen! Women aren't supposed to be smart! We're to be cherished and taken care of by our One True Loves." Bela took Ellen's hands in hers and looked soulfully into her eyes. "One day your Prince will come, someday you'll find your love…"
"For all that is good and holy, stop right there, Bela Talbot, before you do anything else you'll regret when we figure this out," Ellen said, placing her hand over Bela's mouth. "And the hotel is going on your credit card."
Bela just smiled happily, spinning away while somewhere deep inside, her true self screamed with anger.
~~~~~~~~
Central Park South, New York City.
As it turned out, finding Bela wasn't as difficult as Dean had both hoped and feared. The longer they went without finding the Bela meant the longer Sam stayed like this. On the flip side, the sooner they found Bela…well. The sooner they found Bela. And Dean would like to avoid that harridan at all costs, if at all possible. Unless, of course, he could throttle her. He'd enjoy that probably more than was healthy.
Sam steered the car fearlessly through the streets of New York, at a pace that even Dean found life-threatening. He considered falling to his knees and kissing the ground by the time Sam found a place to park, but chose to make sure his baby was undamaged. There wasn't even a scratch on her, he was relieved to note, so Sam could live another day. Not even some freaking weird spell would have saved Sam from Dean's wrath had the Impala been damaged.
Dean looked around for Sam, and swore loudly when he realized that his brother had taken off without him. "Dammit, Sammy," he muttered, grateful that Sam was so freakin' tall that his head was above the other pedestrians’ on the crowded street. Of course, part of that was because Dean knew he could find Sam in any sort of crowd. It was like he'd been hard-wired to always be able to pin-point his brother, just incase he was needed.
"Don't you ever do that do me again," Dean hissed at Sam when he finally caught up. He growled in annoyance as Sam merely cocked an eyebrow at him, and continued walking along as if he owned the place. Which, Dean decided, Sam probably thought he did, what with being a 'prince' and all.
"Come, Squire, and attend to me. We must find my Princess." Sam paced with his arms behind his back, shoulders squared and spine rigid. "We must make a plan, Squire, for if the Evil Doers doth have my Princess, we shall have to fight. Possibly to the death. Are you with me, Squire?"
And yeah, Dean was so over the 'squire' bit. Sam would be making that up to him for weeks. Preferably with pie and handcuffs. Together. At the same time. With a magic fingers bed. "Yeah, yeah, I'm with you," Dean muttered, resisting the urge to adjust his jeans. Like he was about to let Sam go off alone while he was still princified.
"That is most wonderful news, Squire," Sam said, just before getting a dreamy, vacant expression on his face. He swayed, and his eyes closed, and he smiled brightly.
"Sam?" Dean asked, immediately concerned, as well as perturbed at the innocence of Sam's expression. He hadn't seen Sam smile that way since Sam had been nine, and Dean had taken him to the local carnival of whatever town they'd been living in at the time. "Sammy, you okay?"
"Oh, Squire, don't you hear it?" Sam asked, gazing at Dean with large, anime eyes. "It is the most wondrous sound." Sam closed his eyes again, and to Dean's surprise starting humming to a non-existent melody.
"Brain damage," he muttered. "Sam's got brain damage." Sam never sang. Dean sang—and quite well if he said so himself—but never Sam. Sam grumbled and bitched—his normal behavior—about Dean's singing. And Sam definitely, no questions asked, did not sing frigging Disney songs. And flowers definitely did not sway in his direction during said singing. The entire world was going insane.
"It is my love, my brilliant Princess Bela!" Sam exclaimed, and before Dean could do more than reach out to grab the sleeve of Sam's jacket, Sam was off. As Dean stood watching incredulously, Sam sprinted through the park, vaulted over benches, wound around picnickers and finally leaped onto the back of a horse, and galloped out of sight.
"Well, isn't that frigging perfect," Dean muttered, sprinting in the direction Sam had gone.
He didn't have the same luck with the benches, or the picnickers, but when he finally managed to untangle himself from the barbequers he'd run into, and had picked the last of the pickles out of his hair, he was just in time to see Sam vault off the horse and land in perfect position for Bela—in some sort of medieval dress made out of…curtains? Seriously?—to throw herself against his chest.
"Oh my darling, you have found me!" Bela cried, as Sam spun her in a slow, gentle circle. "I was so frightened! The people in this village are coarse and unrefined!"
Dean wasn't surprised that he heard the faint whisper of the birds singing, and the sun managed to somehow break through the clouds and shine down upon the 'lovers'. They were haloed in a delicate yellow, which gave their skin a soft, romantic glow and made Dean just want to be sick. He had to look away, and was surprised to see Ellen looking just as disgusted.
"Ellen? What are you doing here?" Dean asked, crossing to her, grateful to have something else to focus on other than the loving reunion going on by the pond.
"Long story, I'll catch you up in a minute, As soon as those two over there stop waxing poetical."
"My delicate blossom, I would never let harm come to you," Sam was cooing, stroking Bela's hair as he held her close.
Dean thought he would vomit at the saccharine sweet scene he was witnessing. A shared eye roll with Ellen proved he wasn't the only one. He was going to have so much fun mocking Sam for this whole ordeal. As soon as he got his Sam back, killed the bitch that did this, and fucked Sam senseless, that is.
"Oh, how I wish there were a ball tonight," Bela exclaimed, flapping her arms like some sort of bird. "So we could properly become betrothed and have our True Love's Kiss. The local royalty must be having a ball, don't you think, my beloved Prince?"
"Oh, delectable morsel, I will find you a ball, and declare my love for you in front of all and sundry," Sam exclaimed, eyes shining with love for Bela.
Dean wanted to smack them both. He snorted, unable to hide his disdain. Sam was going to have a lot of groveling to do when this was all over. "Oh, right, because formal balls just happen to be so easily accessibly—"
"Hark! I found thee a ball, oh enchanting princess!" Sam exclaimed, waving a flyer around wildly. "It is being held tonight, my beloved jewel. We shall go hence forth, and announce our love to the nobles of the realm."
Dean grabbed the flyer, and was entirely not surprised to see that it was 'Open to Princes and Princesses of All the Realm'. There was fine print detailing the time and place, and where to order tickets. He handed the flyer to Ellen, and resisted the urge to slam his head into a nearby tree. Somehow, he didn't doubt at all that they'd get tickets, find outfits and go to the frigging ball.
"Frigging perfect," Ellen and Dean muttered together. Sam and Bela had pranced off and were now feeding each other grapes—since when had street-side vendors started selling fruit?—so Dean decided now would be a great time to see what Ellen knew about the situation.
Which, as it turns out, wasn't much. "I've been keeping tabs on Bela for awhile," Ellen said. "She has something of mine and I want it back." Ellen smirked. "And then this happened and well, it was just too good to be true."
Dean had to admit, Ellen had a point. "The blackmail really is of epic proportions," Dean said, snickering. He sobered quickly as Sam brushed a lock of Bela's hair over her shoulder, and Bela blushed. "They're not brain-damaged, are they? This isn't…permanent, right?"
Ellen shook her head. "Bobby didn't seem to think so," she said. "I called him last night after Her Highness fell asleep. He thinks we're dealing with a Crone."
"A crone," Dean repeated. "A frigging crone. Perfect." He sighed. Crones were nasty and used archaic magic that no one he'd ever met knew how to stop. "So that means…" he trailed off, horrified.
"You got it, handsome. We have to let this play out to its natural course," Ellen said. "Sam and Bela will go to the ball, the Crone will appear, there will be some sort of fight, and it will end one of two ways." She pinned Dean with a serious gaze. "Sam defeats whatever the Crone sends his way…"
"Or," Dean finished, swallowing roughly, "he loses, and everyone dies."
-end part 1-
Movie: Enchanted
Author:
sparkysparkyGenre: Supernatural (Wincest)
Characters/Pairings: Sam/Dean (also Sam/Bela, but not really), appearances by Ellen
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: about 6,000 this part (around 10,000 total)
Summary: Once upon a time there lived a dashing prince. He was Prince Samuel of Winchester, and he had a quest to save the beautiful maiden Bela with only the help of his faithful squire Dean and their steed, Impala. (Or: This one time, Sam and Bela got mojo'd and there was a dragon. Whoops!)
Warnings: There be plot holes ahead. And also crack. Also, beware dragons.
Notes/Credits: Muchas gracias to
fateenviesus for ass kicking and beta, and to titti for general ass kickage. Written for the abouttwoboys challenge. This is part 1 of 2, the rest will be posted somehow during the weekend.Disclaimer: I am not a short bald man, these characters are not mine. Neither am I a 150 year old animation genius. I'm only borrowing their characters and situations for a short while. I promise to return them in nearly the same condition I took them.
Part One:
Just outside Pittsburgh, PA
"So, there's a hunt in Newark," Sam said, without looking up from the laptop. "Several graves were disturbed over the past week, and the bodies are missing. The newspaper report also mentioned an oddity in the landscape around the grave, previously healthy plants mysteriously died."
Dean groaned, flopping back on the bed and covering his face with his hands. "Zombies?" Dean asked, flipping through their journal. It had been Dad's once, but it was theirs now, "Why's it always gotta be frickin' zombies?"
"It could be zombies, or it could be run of the mill bad gardening or grave robbers," Sam said. "Dean…it could be Bela, messing with things she doesn't understand again. One of the missing bodies was big in antiques while alive; the daughter said they buried a box with the old woman, something she never let out of her sight." Sam closed the laptop. "The daughter also said that her grandmother was protective of the box, claimed it had some sort of mystical power."
Dean rolled his eyes. "Frickin' fantastic," he said. "Zombies and mysterious mystical artifacts, what could be more exciting?"
Sam laughed, amused at Dean's attitude. "Dude, you love zombies. Or so you've said a thousand times before."
Dean sat up on the bed, and glared at Sam. "I like them in movies, or on television. I don't love their smelly, rotten hands wrapping around my neck." The look Dean sent Sam as he explained was one usually reserved for idiots and rednecks.
"At least we know how to kill them," Sam offered. "A quick lure and stake, and we're done. And if it's not zombies, then it's Bela or someone like her—"
"I hope the fuck there's only one Bela in the world. She's far more than enough," Dean griped, linking his hands behind his head and staring up at the ceiling. "But yeah, okay, let's go check it out." They were both quiet for a moment, and then Dean turned his head back towards Sam. "So, wanna fuck before we leave?"
"That's it? A quick agreement and then you want to fuck?" Sam asked, raising his eyebrow. He glanced at Dean, only getting a look in reply that said, Got a problem with that?. And since Sam didn't, and he wasn't stupid, he shrugged. "Yeah, okay then. Let's fuck."
"Flippin' great," Dean said, already stripping off his shirt before wriggling out of his jeans.
Sam's cock grew hard just watching. He was always slightly amazed that Dean could get him from flaccid to horny in less than three seconds. Dean lay back against the pillows of the king-sized motel bed—they'd stopped getting two queens after they'd fucked the first time, right after Sam saved Dean from going to hell—and arched an eyebrow.
"Coming, Sammy?" Dean taunted, hand traveling down his torso to fist his cock roughly.
"Not yet," Sam said, quickly stripping naked. He threw his clothes in the general direction of the chair, and moved to the bed, taking his time and studying Dean's naked form.
He'd never tell Dean this, but Dean was the most gorgeous thing Sam had ever seen—all long lines and golden skin stretched tight over lean muscles, a long, thick cock leaking precum onto a perfectly flat stomach. But it was the freckles that got to Sam the most, when they stood out against flushed skin as Sam fucked his brother. One of Sam's favorite games was to play connect-the-freckles on Dean's skin. He could spend hours trailing his tongue along Dean's shoulders, down his back to his ass.
"Are you going to stare at me all day, or are you going to fuck me?"
Dean's voice was demanding, and reminded Sam that they only had an hour before they had to get on the road. Without answering, Sam crawled onto the bed and on top of Dean, pressing his brother into the mattress. Dean's legs came up around Sam's hips, and their cocks rubbed together, sending frissons of pleasure along Sam's nerves. Dean's pupils were blown wide, black with need, and Sam didn't waste time reaching for the lube.
Dean was still relaxed from their three a.m. celebratory fuck, so two fingers pressed inside easily. Sam used Dean's moans, the needy, impatient sounds that spilled from Dean's mouth as cues, slowing moving his fingers inside his brother, stretching the muscles. He added a third finger, his cock growing even harder at the way Dean was falling apart beneath him, loving the way Dean's hips ground down relentlessly against his hand.
"Dammit, Sam, fuck me already," Dean growled, fingers scoring red marks into Sam's shoulders.
Sam laughed, and withdrew his fingers, not pausing to let Dean tense up again as he guided his cock into his brother. The heat was amazing, and Dean was still tight enough that the muscles clamped around the intrusion of Sam's cock, milking along the thick length.
"Fuck it, Sam, move!" Dean demanded, pressing his hips up against Sam.
Sam laughed, and gripped Dean's hips harshly, fingers fitting perfectly over the bruises he'd left the night before. "Don't move," Sam ordered, his tone drawing another gorgeously needy sound from Dean, but his brother did as commanded, and went still. "Hands above your head and leave them there." This was something new for them, Sam giving orders and Dean obeying without question, but it was something Sam knew they both wanted, needed even.
Sam pressed Dean's legs further apart, holding them wide as he started to fuck harder, making sure to only brush past Dean's prostate every few strokes—just enough to keep Dean hard, but not enough to get him off. He kept the pace slow, pulling almost all the way out before slamming back in, his balls brushing against the underside of Dean's ass with every stroke.
"Sammy," Dean whined, obviously fighting to remain still. Sam knew his brother well enough to know that Dean wouldn't move, wouldn't allow himself to break a direct command. "Wanna come."
Sam ignored him, pressing into his brother with long, hard strokes. Dean was gorgeous like this, Sam thought, raising Dean's legs so they rested on his shoulders, freeing his hands to run them feverishly over Dean's body. He ended up pinning Dean's wrists to the pillow with one hand, and fisting Dean's cock with the other. He pulled in time to his strokes, speeding up gradually until he could feel the sweat drip down his face from the exertion. Dean was straining up against him now, gasping for air as Sam's cock pounded past his prostate on every thrust.
Sam tugged on Dean's cock, palm sliding over the head, and he dropped his head to Dean's shoulder, biting at the skin there. "Come, Dean," he ordered, squeezing Dean's cock just before he released it. Dean made a low, keening sound as he exploded onto his stomach. The sound of Dean's voice and the tight vise around his cock brought on Sam's own orgasm almost painfully just moments later.
When the shockwaves of pleasure were over, Sam's arms trembled and he collapsed on top of Dean. Dean grunted, but didn't push him away, and Sam kissed his brother’s shoulder in apology. They lay there for a long few minutes, a tangle of sweaty, messy limbs, until Dean finally pushed at Sam's shoulder.
"Come on, Sammy boy," he said, sounding disgustingly awake for someone who'd just been fucked silly. "You smell rank, dude. Time to shower and hit the road."
"Bite me," Sam said, but he got up anyway. Dean was right. They had to shower and pack the gear, and get on the road before any more bodies went missing.
"No time for that now, Sammy," Dean said, walking naked to the bathroom. He looked over his shoulder and grinned wolfishly. "I might later, though, if you're a good boy."
Sam just groaned and followed Dean into the bathroom. If they were fast they had time for a second round in the shower. And Sam knew from experience that when he wanted to be, he could be extremely fast.
Times Square, New York City
Bela Talbot was not a woman to admit mistakes. Ever. Period. Full stop. The simple truth of it was that Bela Talbot did not make mistakes. Not professionally and certainly not personally. Which was why, when she finally made a mistake—a huge, glaring, gaping chasm of a mistake—she didn't realize it until it was too late.
The box had seemed innocent enough; there weren't any runes or hieroglyphics that she could make out. There had only been a symbol—one she didn't know, and didn't care enough to find out about—and a lock. Nothing about it had roused her suspicions, other than a brief thought about why anyone would pay a cool quarter million plus expenses for something as useless, and worse as unattractive, as this box. But Bela had long since stopped wondering why her clients were willing to pay ridiculous amounts of money for pieces of junk, and learned to simply take their money and go on her way.
All that didn't explain why, as she was waiting in Times Square for her client to come collect the box, she was suddenly feeling as if something was about to go terribly wrong.
Bela tapped her foot impatiently, annoyed with being made to wait. The client was already three minutes past the appointed meeting time, and Bela was not a woman who tolerated tardiness. Especially when it involved money. Her money. Money she'd earned. Growling under her breath, she spun on her thousand dollar heel, almost losing her composure—which she never did—as the old woman appeared seemingly out of thin air. This was, she thought, not all that out of the ordinary when one considered the types of people requiring her services.
"You're late," Bela said, her voice cool. There was no sign she'd ever been off balance, and she wore her usual expression—cool and slightly amused at the other person's expense. "I believe that's another ten, on top of the two-fifty, as per our contract."
The old woman ignored her, and reached for the box. Bela tried to evade her grasp, but found she'd somehow become immobile. Fucking witches, she thought. The woman's smile as she looked her up and down sent shivers down Bela’s spine, though she'd deny that fact to the death, if necessary. Bela Talbot didn't do scared and helpless.
"What do you want?" Bela asked her voice calm and cold. "I came here for my money, and I expect to be compensated for this little trick. I want an extra fifty grand, for pain and suffering, or I'll take that box to the next highest bidder."
The woman didn't respond to Bela's taunt, simply kept staring at Bela with soulless eyes. "Yes, you'll do wonderfully," she whispered, stroking a gnarled finger down Bela's cheek. "This won't hurt my beauty. Much."
The old woman touched a long, yellow nail to the lock and it fell away as if it had never been there. The box opened, and a shimmering strand of light twirled its way towards Bela, enveloping her completely, tearing into her skin, climbing down her throat, and becoming her. She opened her mouth to scream as the pain became tangible, but before she could even make a sound, she knew nothing more.
Fairmount Cemetery, Newark, NJ
"Why does it always got to be frickin' zombies?" Dean asked, panting against the side of the Impala. He had a large gash in one arm, still oozing blood, and he thought his ankle was sprained. Not the worst injuries he'd ever had, not by a long shot, but that fact didn't make him hate zombies any less. He tore a strip from his shirt and tied it around the gash to stop the bleeding. It would work well enough until they got back to the motel, and wouldn't get blood all over his baby.
Sam didn't answer; apparently too busy trying to get his breath back after the zombie had made a considerable attempt to strangle him. Dean thought it was possible Sam also had a concussion; the zombie had seemed to enjoy slamming Sam's head into things: the ground, a tree, headstones. Hand-shaped bruises were already forming on Sam's throat, and he was cradling his arm against his chest.
Dislocated, Dean thought. Frigging fantastic. He pushed off from the car and patted Sam's shoulder. "Come on, Sammy," he said, helping Sam into the Impala's passenger seat. "Time's wasting, and the longer we stay here, the sooner the cops find us."
Sam nodded and his eyes closed, causing Dean to panic internally for a minute. Sleeping was bad for concussions. "Come on Sammy boy, no napping," he said, reaching over—grimacing as the action pulled at the bandage on his arm—and shaking Sam. "You probably have a concussion, so that means no sleeping until I make sure you're all right."
"Back off, Dean" Sam growled, glaring at Dean. Sam never had been a good patient; he was even worse than Dean when it came to taking care of his injuries.
Dean tried to ignore the fact that Sam's angry voice went straight to his groin. Sam was hurt, and it was not the time to be aroused. "No, I won't back off," Dean said. "Not until I'm sure you're okay."
"I'm fine," Sam insisted, wincing as the Impala rode roughly over a bump in the road.
"You're not fine," Dean said, wanting to kiss away the hidden pain in Sam's eyes. That wouldn't be appreciated at the moment, so Dean kept the urge to himself. "You've got a dislocated shoulder, a bruised throat and most likely a concussion. So just do as I say for once, and stay awake until we get to the motel." Sam was such a pissy bitch when he was tired and hurt, but it only made Dean want to hold him down and fuck him, which wasn’t really an appropriate response, even if the images conjured up were hot, and shot straight to his cock.
Dean had been paying more attention to Sam than to driving, so when he looked forward again and saw the old woman standing in the middle of the road, his heart stopped. He slammed on the breaks, silently apologizing to his girl, and the Impala jerked to a stop. Dean clutched at the wheel, knuckles white, and took a deep, shuddering breath. A sideways glance at Sam showed that he was just as shaken, and Dean pulled himself together.
"Stay here," he ordered Sam. He took one last deep breath, and got out of the car, scowling when he saw Sam do the same. Stupid idiot had never been one to follow orders. Dean turned to see that the old woman was staring at them, her face white.
"Ma'am, are you okay?" Sam asked, slipping seamlessly into his concerned do-gooder routine, which under normal circumstances caused Dean to tease him mercilessly. "Do you need help?"
The woman didn't say anything, and Dean started to get a bad feeling about this whole situation. Something wasn't right about this woman, but before he could do anything, even reach for a knife, the woman had opened a box Dean hadn't even noticed she’d been holding, and released some sort of golden light.
Dean shouted as the light flew towards Sam, too fast for any sort of evasion even if Sam hadn't been already injured. Sam screamed in pain, and Dean whirled around to kill the bitch who was hurting his brother, but she had disappeared. He watched as Sam collapsed to the ground and began convulsing, and Dean's heart nearly stopped.
"Sam!" Dean shouted, running to his brother and ignoring his ankle's scream of complaint. If he was dead, Dean would hunt every single thing—living and dead—until he found the thing that did this. He fell to his knees, shaking Sam, memories from two years ago flashing before his eyes, bile rising in his throat. He pushed the sick feeling down, and pulled Sam into his arms, cradling him against his chest.
"Come on, Sammy, don't you do this to me again! I can't save you this time, you know that!" Sam didn't respond, just flopped forward, limp and unresponsive. This time Dean couldn't stop the bile, and had to turn aside as he lost the contents of his stomach all over the pavement. Still heaving, he turned back and shook Sam again, his heart stopping and then restarting as Sam miraculously groaned and tried to sit up.
"Dean?" he asked, cracking his eyes open and peering at Dean with a confused look in his hazel eyes. "Did we kill the dragon?"
Midnight Motel, Newark, NJ
Dean didn't know what the fuck was going on. Sam had passed out again soon after uttering something about a dragon. Dean had managed to get him back to the motel and into bed without any more injuries. Sam had slept for a few hours, giving Dean the time to treat both their wounds, as Sam had been impossible to wake. Dean had worried at first, but relaxed as it became clear that Sam was simply sleeping deeply, and not unconscious.
So, when Sam bolted upright and started shouting about being improperly dressed—Dean hadn't been about to put him to bed with bloodstained clothes, so he was naked—and how Princes must always be aware of their modesty, Dean hadn't known how to react. His first instinct had been to laugh, but the more Sam talked about needing his sword and steed and rescuing fair maidens, the more concerned he grew.
"Squire, bring me my braces," Sam ordered, apparently forgetting his modesty and standing tall, with his chest puffed out and hands fisted jauntily at his hips, his soft cock nestled against the dark hair between his slightly spread thighs. Dean was so distracted by that thought that he nearly missed what Sam sad next. "And saddle my steed, at once. I must find the fair maiden, my one true love, my Princess Bela, and rescue her."
Dean didn't move, sputtering in shock at Sam's words. What the fuck was going on? The concussion had clearly scrambled Sam's brains, or whatever that old woman had unleashed had done something to him, but either way, Dean was itching to kill something. "What the fuck, Sam? Princess Bela? Have you lost your mind?"
"I do not understand your odd form of expression," Sam said, frowning. If the situation hadn’t been so completely fucked up, Dean would have found the furrow between Sam's brows alluring. "That is not important, so do not speak of it again. We must make haste, the longer we dally, the danger for my darling Princess Bela grows perilously."
"Seriously, dude, what is up with the whole Princess Bela thing? We hate Bela. She's the anti-Christ as far as we're concerned." Dean wasn't prepared for Sam's reaction to that, and wheezed out a breath as Sam slammed him against the wall with a sword—where the fuck had Sam found a frigging sword? In thin air?—pressed against Dean's throat. Dean felt a small trail of blood trickle down his neck, and made certain to stay very still. He didn't need Sam nicking an artery and killing him. That would solve nothing.
"Do not ever speak of my maiden in that way again," Sam said, dangerously. "You are my Squire. You do not question my authority, for I am Prince Samuel of Winchester, my exploits are revered throughout the land. I have killed sixteen dragons, and saved a dozen or more villages from burning and famine. I have led my men to war, and emerged victorious over my foes. My word is law, and it is my word that anyone who speaks ill of my Princess be imprisoned and executed by beheading."
Dean knew that finding Sam's threatening form arousing was so totally not a normal reaction, but then nothing between the Winchesters could ever be described as normal, and he shifted uncomfortably as his cock pressed against the zipper of his jeans. Dean just wanted this whole situation to go away, so he and Sam could fuck. He didn't even care who did the fucking, as long as there was nakedness and cocks involved. When he found that old crone, she was toast.
"All right, all right, I get it," Dean said, deciding to play along until he could find a moment to call Bobby and figure out what the fuck they were going to do. "Princess Bela is off-limits. Understood."
"Verily, Squire, I do hope to not have to behead you." Sam pulled away and set his sword aside. All the anger seemed to drain out of Sam, and he was once again back to himself—or at least as much like himself as a 'Prince' could be. "Now, dress me Squire, and we shall be on our way."
Dean was getting incredibly tired of being called 'Squire', but he had no desire for another sword to the throat. Once had been enough, thanks all the same. "There is no way in hell I’m dressing you," Dean said, but when Sam just stared at him in helpless confusion, he rolled his eyes.
"Frigging Prince Charming attitude," he muttered, grabbing Sam’s underpants from their duffle and gesturing for Sam to step into them. Dean started breathing easier after Sam’s crotch was covered, though the blue boxer briefs did nothing to disguise Sam’s body, and Dean quickly helped Sam pull on a shirt and button his jeans. Sam seemed happy enough to be wearing his owns clothes, which gave Dean a lot of hope that his Sam was in there someplace.
"Well done, Squire," Sam said, picking his sword up. "Where is my scabbard?" Sam didn’t move to look for it himself, and Dean finally realized that as Sam’s 'squire' he was supposed to find it.
"When I find that stupid crone, she is going to burn," Dean muttered, not at all surprised when he found a scabbard—an honest to god scabbard—under the bed. "Here." He shoved the scabbard at Sam, who expertly sheathed his sword—and under normal circumstances there would be so many things Dean could say to that—but instead of fastening it around his waist, slung the strap over his shoulder.
"And now we ride," Sam said, striding out of the door quickly. Dean quickly grabbed their bags—grateful they never fully unpacked anyplace they slept—and followed Sam outside.
"My faithful steed, Impala," Sam was saying, sliding into the driver’s seat. "She has served me well through the years."
Dean didn’t have time to demand Sam get out of his seat, as Sam already had the car on and in drive. He threw the bag to the backseat and slid in, shutting the door just as Sam stepped on the gas and they screeched out of the parking lot.
"We must find my Princess," Sam said as they passed the town limits. "Before my precious gem winds up at the mercy of the hard cruel world. It won't be easy, Faithful Squire, but we will fight with our very lives until she is safe."
Dean reached over and turned up the music, loud. Metallica blasted from the stereo and amazingly Sam—or rather Prince Samuel of Winchester—didn't complain, and Dean tried his best not to think about just exactly how difficult it was going to be to find frigging Bela Talbot. He had to hope that somehow Sam had a clue as to where to start looking, or else he had a feeling they were up the creek without a paddle.
Ritz Carlton Central Park, New York City
Bela woke with a large smile, and sighed. It was such a beautiful day outside; she could hear the birds singing good morning to one another. And what made it the best day of all, was that she knew her Prince would find her.
"Isn’t it a lovely day?" she asked her companion. She was just so fortunate that her dearest friend Ellen Harvelle had found her. Especially in a city with so many strange people, who whistled whilst one passed by, and made rude gestures when one was just trying to be nice. Bela didn't know how she would have survived the City without Ellen's help. Fate had been smiling on her, crossing their paths, though Ellen insisted it was something to do with tracking skills, whatever those were.
While waiting for the other woman to reply, Bela twirled around the room, tidying up the best she could without a broom and mop, singing her happy working song as she went, giggling when her animal friends stopped by to help. What wonderful creatures they were, always willing to lend a paw.
"Oh, I’m so happy! Ellen, my dearest friend, I just know that my Prince Samuel is on his way. What say you we go find him?" Her dearest friend just groaned and rolled over in the second bed, pulling a pillow over her head.
She hummed happily, and threw open the window singing at the top of her lungs to her bird friends. "Early one morning, just as the sun was rising, I heard a maiden singing in the valley below…" She giggled as the birds joined in, harmonizing their lovely trills to her voice. As she sang she danced around the room, cheerfully cutting curtains so the birds and mice flittering about could help her make a dress. The clothes she’d been wearing yesterday were awfully immodest.
By the time her dearest friend Ellen, who had rescued her from the evil miscreants on the streets, roused, Bela was dressed in the most beautiful confection of a dress. It was blue with lovely pink flowers, and flowed around her as if a light breeze was blowing. Giggling, Bela danced around the room, singing about true love as Ellen blearily got up.
"You still insane, Talbot?" Ellen asked, running a hand through her bed-mussed hair. "Well that’s just perfect, isn’t it?"
"Oh it is,” Bela said, breathlessly, clasping her hands together in excitement. "It's the most perfect day and do you know why?" She twirled around Ellen, so filled with life and love that she just wanted to share it with the world. "Today is the day I will find my Prince Samuel. My One True Love! Isn't it exciting?"
"Thrilling," Ellen said. "Where'd you get the dress?"
"Oh I made it! With the help of my animal friends. Aren't they brilliant?" Bela twirled and clapped her hands.
"Where'd you get material…" Ellen trailed off as Bela pranced to the windows and she saw the dress-shaped cutouts. "Oh, of course. How stupid of me to not have thought of using curtains."
"Oh, don't worry, Ellen! Women aren't supposed to be smart! We're to be cherished and taken care of by our One True Loves." Bela took Ellen's hands in hers and looked soulfully into her eyes. "One day your Prince will come, someday you'll find your love…"
"For all that is good and holy, stop right there, Bela Talbot, before you do anything else you'll regret when we figure this out," Ellen said, placing her hand over Bela's mouth. "And the hotel is going on your credit card."
Bela just smiled happily, spinning away while somewhere deep inside, her true self screamed with anger.
Central Park South, New York City.
As it turned out, finding Bela wasn't as difficult as Dean had both hoped and feared. The longer they went without finding the Bela meant the longer Sam stayed like this. On the flip side, the sooner they found Bela…well. The sooner they found Bela. And Dean would like to avoid that harridan at all costs, if at all possible. Unless, of course, he could throttle her. He'd enjoy that probably more than was healthy.
Sam steered the car fearlessly through the streets of New York, at a pace that even Dean found life-threatening. He considered falling to his knees and kissing the ground by the time Sam found a place to park, but chose to make sure his baby was undamaged. There wasn't even a scratch on her, he was relieved to note, so Sam could live another day. Not even some freaking weird spell would have saved Sam from Dean's wrath had the Impala been damaged.
Dean looked around for Sam, and swore loudly when he realized that his brother had taken off without him. "Dammit, Sammy," he muttered, grateful that Sam was so freakin' tall that his head was above the other pedestrians’ on the crowded street. Of course, part of that was because Dean knew he could find Sam in any sort of crowd. It was like he'd been hard-wired to always be able to pin-point his brother, just incase he was needed.
"Don't you ever do that do me again," Dean hissed at Sam when he finally caught up. He growled in annoyance as Sam merely cocked an eyebrow at him, and continued walking along as if he owned the place. Which, Dean decided, Sam probably thought he did, what with being a 'prince' and all.
"Come, Squire, and attend to me. We must find my Princess." Sam paced with his arms behind his back, shoulders squared and spine rigid. "We must make a plan, Squire, for if the Evil Doers doth have my Princess, we shall have to fight. Possibly to the death. Are you with me, Squire?"
And yeah, Dean was so over the 'squire' bit. Sam would be making that up to him for weeks. Preferably with pie and handcuffs. Together. At the same time. With a magic fingers bed. "Yeah, yeah, I'm with you," Dean muttered, resisting the urge to adjust his jeans. Like he was about to let Sam go off alone while he was still princified.
"That is most wonderful news, Squire," Sam said, just before getting a dreamy, vacant expression on his face. He swayed, and his eyes closed, and he smiled brightly.
"Sam?" Dean asked, immediately concerned, as well as perturbed at the innocence of Sam's expression. He hadn't seen Sam smile that way since Sam had been nine, and Dean had taken him to the local carnival of whatever town they'd been living in at the time. "Sammy, you okay?"
"Oh, Squire, don't you hear it?" Sam asked, gazing at Dean with large, anime eyes. "It is the most wondrous sound." Sam closed his eyes again, and to Dean's surprise starting humming to a non-existent melody.
"Brain damage," he muttered. "Sam's got brain damage." Sam never sang. Dean sang—and quite well if he said so himself—but never Sam. Sam grumbled and bitched—his normal behavior—about Dean's singing. And Sam definitely, no questions asked, did not sing frigging Disney songs. And flowers definitely did not sway in his direction during said singing. The entire world was going insane.
"It is my love, my brilliant Princess Bela!" Sam exclaimed, and before Dean could do more than reach out to grab the sleeve of Sam's jacket, Sam was off. As Dean stood watching incredulously, Sam sprinted through the park, vaulted over benches, wound around picnickers and finally leaped onto the back of a horse, and galloped out of sight.
"Well, isn't that frigging perfect," Dean muttered, sprinting in the direction Sam had gone.
He didn't have the same luck with the benches, or the picnickers, but when he finally managed to untangle himself from the barbequers he'd run into, and had picked the last of the pickles out of his hair, he was just in time to see Sam vault off the horse and land in perfect position for Bela—in some sort of medieval dress made out of…curtains? Seriously?—to throw herself against his chest.
"Oh my darling, you have found me!" Bela cried, as Sam spun her in a slow, gentle circle. "I was so frightened! The people in this village are coarse and unrefined!"
Dean wasn't surprised that he heard the faint whisper of the birds singing, and the sun managed to somehow break through the clouds and shine down upon the 'lovers'. They were haloed in a delicate yellow, which gave their skin a soft, romantic glow and made Dean just want to be sick. He had to look away, and was surprised to see Ellen looking just as disgusted.
"Ellen? What are you doing here?" Dean asked, crossing to her, grateful to have something else to focus on other than the loving reunion going on by the pond.
"Long story, I'll catch you up in a minute, As soon as those two over there stop waxing poetical."
"My delicate blossom, I would never let harm come to you," Sam was cooing, stroking Bela's hair as he held her close.
Dean thought he would vomit at the saccharine sweet scene he was witnessing. A shared eye roll with Ellen proved he wasn't the only one. He was going to have so much fun mocking Sam for this whole ordeal. As soon as he got his Sam back, killed the bitch that did this, and fucked Sam senseless, that is.
"Oh, how I wish there were a ball tonight," Bela exclaimed, flapping her arms like some sort of bird. "So we could properly become betrothed and have our True Love's Kiss. The local royalty must be having a ball, don't you think, my beloved Prince?"
"Oh, delectable morsel, I will find you a ball, and declare my love for you in front of all and sundry," Sam exclaimed, eyes shining with love for Bela.
Dean wanted to smack them both. He snorted, unable to hide his disdain. Sam was going to have a lot of groveling to do when this was all over. "Oh, right, because formal balls just happen to be so easily accessibly—"
"Hark! I found thee a ball, oh enchanting princess!" Sam exclaimed, waving a flyer around wildly. "It is being held tonight, my beloved jewel. We shall go hence forth, and announce our love to the nobles of the realm."
Dean grabbed the flyer, and was entirely not surprised to see that it was 'Open to Princes and Princesses of All the Realm'. There was fine print detailing the time and place, and where to order tickets. He handed the flyer to Ellen, and resisted the urge to slam his head into a nearby tree. Somehow, he didn't doubt at all that they'd get tickets, find outfits and go to the frigging ball.
"Frigging perfect," Ellen and Dean muttered together. Sam and Bela had pranced off and were now feeding each other grapes—since when had street-side vendors started selling fruit?—so Dean decided now would be a great time to see what Ellen knew about the situation.
Which, as it turns out, wasn't much. "I've been keeping tabs on Bela for awhile," Ellen said. "She has something of mine and I want it back." Ellen smirked. "And then this happened and well, it was just too good to be true."
Dean had to admit, Ellen had a point. "The blackmail really is of epic proportions," Dean said, snickering. He sobered quickly as Sam brushed a lock of Bela's hair over her shoulder, and Bela blushed. "They're not brain-damaged, are they? This isn't…permanent, right?"
Ellen shook her head. "Bobby didn't seem to think so," she said. "I called him last night after Her Highness fell asleep. He thinks we're dealing with a Crone."
"A crone," Dean repeated. "A frigging crone. Perfect." He sighed. Crones were nasty and used archaic magic that no one he'd ever met knew how to stop. "So that means…" he trailed off, horrified.
"You got it, handsome. We have to let this play out to its natural course," Ellen said. "Sam and Bela will go to the ball, the Crone will appear, there will be some sort of fight, and it will end one of two ways." She pinned Dean with a serious gaze. "Sam defeats whatever the Crone sends his way…"
"Or," Dean finished, swallowing roughly, "he loses, and everyone dies."
-end part 1-
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I was cracking up and enjoying this, and about to read on when... no clicky!
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*cracks up*
Love your icon, btw.