triskehale (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
triskehale) wrote2013-08-08 11:17 pm
triskehale) wrote2013-08-08 11:17 pm
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it is the prohibition that makes anything precious
Derek was bored.
At first, he relished in the unfamiliar feeling. He hadn’t been bored in years, and he took hearty advantage of it. He explored the city at his leisure and caught up on his reading. He went grocery shopping and jogged along the beach. It was a normal, boring life and at first he truly enjoyed it.
But a normal, boring life is not what Derek was meant for, or what he was born into. Derek was used to his heart pounding, to his senses staying heightened and sharp, constantly prepared for a fight. There was an itch growing under his skin, a craving for the bone-deep adrenaline that he’s so far gone weeks without. He’s constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop because life here is just too good. No one is trying to kill him. No one is dying at his hands or because of his mistakes. There’s no way it can last. He’s uneasy, and he wishes something, anything, would happen just so he can shake the uneasiness in his bones.
Well, be careful what you wish for, and all that.
Derek follows Stiles into the coffee shop near their building and looks around out of habit. Whenever he walks into a room, the occupants are made note of and exit routes are planned. This isn’t something he can shake, no matter how bored he gets. Dean is off to the side with his hands in his pockets, obviously waiting for his order, and Derek walks up to him as Stiles darts off for the counter.
“Dean, hey.” They give each other a casual nod and seem content to occupy the same space together without saying much else. He likes that about Dean. Stiles puts in their normal order and comes over, eyes narrowed at Dean. Stiles never really got over the whole vampire attack thing, which he blames Dean for, and that brief moment of contact has been all the two have had.
Derek rolls his eyes in fond exasperation and claps a hand on Stiles’ shoulder, partly touched by his loyalty. “Down, boy.”
Dean just looks a bit unimpressed and amused all at the same time, and the three of them have a bit of a standoff while they wait for their drinks. Dean lingers to continue making small talk with Derek until he and Stiles get their orders as well, and they all head for the door. There’s a group of teenagers clogging the main entrance so Derek leads them towards a single door at the side of the shop.
He has a hand on Stiles’ back as he pulls it open and ushers Dean out first. Stiles follows and Derek feels something like a vacuum, like the air is being sucked from his lungs while he’s tugged forward by a string at his belly. Everything goes white and he’s dizzy for a moment as he stumbles through the door.
The air outside is cool and a little muggy and the air smells dirty, nothing like Darrow. He shakes his head to clear the stars from his eyes and when he opens them, they are not standing outside of The Bean Counter. In fact, they aren’t even in Darrow at all.
Red floods his irises as he reaches out to reach for Stiles. He sighs in relief when he grabs his arm and then turns to face him and Dean. “Holy shit. Why are you a newsie?”
Stiles’ clothes are entirely different. He’s in a white linen shirt with suspenders over brown tweed knee pants and stockings, with a newsboy cap jammed on his head. Dean looks like something out of a mobster movie, dressed in a dark three-piece wool suit and a fedora on his head. Dean and Stiles are gaping at each other while Derek turns to take in their surroundings. The air smells all wrong, and soon he realizes why. They’re a long way from home.
Derek is standing next to a classic 20’s Cadillac on a cobblestone street lined with plenty like it. There are no modern cars anywhere. There’s nothing modern at all. His heart pounds as he turns to look in a different direction, eyes widening as he takes in a familiar landmark. The Flatiron building looms over them, tall and proud, and Derek’s heart leaps up into his throat.
“This is New York,” he informs them, and Dean and Stiles look over at him. Derek spent years here, and if he breathes in deep enough he can catch familiar scents on the air. “So, we know where we are.”
Derek slides his hands down his own heavy suit, taking in the black, pinstriped three-piece monstrosity and blood red tie. His vision is momentarily obscured by his own fedora, and he reaches up to pluck it off of his head. There’s a weight at his side and he finds that it’s a revolver in a side holster, tucked neatly under his suit jacket. Below that is a hip flask clipped to a black leather belt. He looks up at Stiles’ slack mouth and Dean’s green eyes, letting the red fade out of his own as the panic subsides. “When are we, is the better question.”
At first, he relished in the unfamiliar feeling. He hadn’t been bored in years, and he took hearty advantage of it. He explored the city at his leisure and caught up on his reading. He went grocery shopping and jogged along the beach. It was a normal, boring life and at first he truly enjoyed it.
But a normal, boring life is not what Derek was meant for, or what he was born into. Derek was used to his heart pounding, to his senses staying heightened and sharp, constantly prepared for a fight. There was an itch growing under his skin, a craving for the bone-deep adrenaline that he’s so far gone weeks without. He’s constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop because life here is just too good. No one is trying to kill him. No one is dying at his hands or because of his mistakes. There’s no way it can last. He’s uneasy, and he wishes something, anything, would happen just so he can shake the uneasiness in his bones.
Well, be careful what you wish for, and all that.
Derek follows Stiles into the coffee shop near their building and looks around out of habit. Whenever he walks into a room, the occupants are made note of and exit routes are planned. This isn’t something he can shake, no matter how bored he gets. Dean is off to the side with his hands in his pockets, obviously waiting for his order, and Derek walks up to him as Stiles darts off for the counter.
“Dean, hey.” They give each other a casual nod and seem content to occupy the same space together without saying much else. He likes that about Dean. Stiles puts in their normal order and comes over, eyes narrowed at Dean. Stiles never really got over the whole vampire attack thing, which he blames Dean for, and that brief moment of contact has been all the two have had.
Derek rolls his eyes in fond exasperation and claps a hand on Stiles’ shoulder, partly touched by his loyalty. “Down, boy.”
Dean just looks a bit unimpressed and amused all at the same time, and the three of them have a bit of a standoff while they wait for their drinks. Dean lingers to continue making small talk with Derek until he and Stiles get their orders as well, and they all head for the door. There’s a group of teenagers clogging the main entrance so Derek leads them towards a single door at the side of the shop.
He has a hand on Stiles’ back as he pulls it open and ushers Dean out first. Stiles follows and Derek feels something like a vacuum, like the air is being sucked from his lungs while he’s tugged forward by a string at his belly. Everything goes white and he’s dizzy for a moment as he stumbles through the door.
The air outside is cool and a little muggy and the air smells dirty, nothing like Darrow. He shakes his head to clear the stars from his eyes and when he opens them, they are not standing outside of The Bean Counter. In fact, they aren’t even in Darrow at all.
Red floods his irises as he reaches out to reach for Stiles. He sighs in relief when he grabs his arm and then turns to face him and Dean. “Holy shit. Why are you a newsie?”
Stiles’ clothes are entirely different. He’s in a white linen shirt with suspenders over brown tweed knee pants and stockings, with a newsboy cap jammed on his head. Dean looks like something out of a mobster movie, dressed in a dark three-piece wool suit and a fedora on his head. Dean and Stiles are gaping at each other while Derek turns to take in their surroundings. The air smells all wrong, and soon he realizes why. They’re a long way from home.
Derek is standing next to a classic 20’s Cadillac on a cobblestone street lined with plenty like it. There are no modern cars anywhere. There’s nothing modern at all. His heart pounds as he turns to look in a different direction, eyes widening as he takes in a familiar landmark. The Flatiron building looms over them, tall and proud, and Derek’s heart leaps up into his throat.
“This is New York,” he informs them, and Dean and Stiles look over at him. Derek spent years here, and if he breathes in deep enough he can catch familiar scents on the air. “So, we know where we are.”
Derek slides his hands down his own heavy suit, taking in the black, pinstriped three-piece monstrosity and blood red tie. His vision is momentarily obscured by his own fedora, and he reaches up to pluck it off of his head. There’s a weight at his side and he finds that it’s a revolver in a side holster, tucked neatly under his suit jacket. Below that is a hip flask clipped to a black leather belt. He looks up at Stiles’ slack mouth and Dean’s green eyes, letting the red fade out of his own as the panic subsides. “When are we, is the better question.”
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He stays close to Derek when they're in the office, looking at the glass he's offered with suspicion before taking it and taking a sip. Because if he can't have his manhood back via wardrobe, he can at least drink the fucking whiskey. And besides, Derek can't tell him not to.
The stack of cash is impressive, and when he manages to keep his eyes from bugging out of his head, he looks at Dean and Derek for a split second before looking at the newsboy satchel he's got slung over his shoulder, then back at the money - which is more than he's seen in his life, really. In that moment, he makes an executive decision and starts grabbing the bricks of bills, trying not to look too eager, and shoving them into his bag, since he's the only one with any kind of bag.
"Pleasure doin' business witchoo fellas," he says in his best 1920's Chicagoan accent, carefully derived from the odd gangster movie and his own artistic license, before turning his back to look over at Dean and Derek and taking another drink of his whiskey with a look that clearly says he's ready to go.
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Rumrumming in some kind of New York pasted together from a collection of Dean's idle fantasies is another mindfuck entirely, and Dean starts looking for the downside.
It doesn't take him long to find it. "We're in New York," he says, mouth hanging open around the obvious. In New York, not Darrow, and where the fuck is Cas? Turning, Dean looks to the only person with a chance of sniffing him out, if Castiel is even here at all. "Derek, can you smell him?"
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"No."
He pushes past the growing crowd and start to paint a sigil on the nearest wall, chanting low and desperate as he prays. He prays to find Dean, he prays for his brothers, he prays for his father. He prays for anyone on either side of good or evil who will help him return. His vision is narrow and hears little of the ruckus around him until he is spun around by a pair of large hands.
"The hell're you up to?" a voice demands, spittle flying as Castiel tries to reach behind him to draw another sigil. "Right now, wacko. What the hell are you doing?"
"I am an Angel of the Lord," Castiel grinds out, struggling to get free, nearly blind with rage at his helplessness. "Let me go, right now. I know what this place is and I do not have time for this.I do not belong here..."
He chokes as he's suddenly bodily dragged away from the wall and out the nearest door, a second large man having joined the first. He tries to get his feet under him, hat falling to the ground as he's pulled down an alley and shoved, face first against the brick wall. His cheek throbs and he spits out blood as he tries to move. "Who the hell are you with? You a cop?" he first man hisses in his ear. "You're a dead man, you nut."
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"Who, Castiel You think he came with us?" Derek tries to sniff around but all the strong alcohol in the enclosed space burn his nose and make his eyes water. "I can't smell anything but goddamn grain alcohol in here. Let's get outside."
Once they're out on the street in the waning sunlight, Derek takes a few strides away from the bar and takes off his fedora, revealing slicked back, side-parted inky black hair. He inhales deeply and the only hint that he's doing anything other than standing there is a slight flaring of his nostrils. Castiel has a very distinct smell, almost like copy paper and storm clouds, and almost always shrouded in Dean.
He's about to admit defeat when he catches a slight hint of it, eyes going red as his head whips to the side. "Hold on."
He turns a corner and looks around, trying to follow the scent. When he smells blood, his lips flatten into a thin line and he focuses his hearing as best he can as he scans the area. He stops suddenly, putting a hand on Dean's chest. "He's up ahead somewhere, and he isn't alone. Dean, I smell blood. His."
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"What, like that way? Let's go, then." He points the way he thinks Derek catches the scent, waiting for a confirming nod before he starts to head that way, weaving his way past a couple apparent 1920s New York citizens.
"Hey, kid, how much for a paper?"
Stiles whirls around as he hears someone shout at him across the street, jaw dropping for a moment while he thinks of a plausible lie.
"Uh. No news today! The world is awesome. They had nothing to write about; free yourself from the burden of information for twenty-four hours. ...sir." He stares at his two suited up, stubbly accomplices with wide 'oh my god, why' eyes before he jogs to catch up with them, still clutching at the bag with intense paranoia.
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Behind him, he's aware that someone is calling out, either to him or to Stiles, but Dean doesn't care and he doesn't stop, rounding the next corner hard enough to send gravel flying when he skids to a halt. At the far end of the alley, two men are holding a slighter one against the wall, a meaty hand pulled back to deliver cruel, backhanded slap, and Dean doesn't hesitate.
The knife at his belt is gone, flying on a silent path that ends with an abrupt squealch. Ignoring the man's bellow of pain as he clutches his skewered hand, Dean pulls the tommy gun from his belt and fires a quick volley into the air, the sound thunderous between the dense alley walls.
"Let go of him and get out of here," Dean snarls, "Before I pump you both full of lead."
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"Dean," he breathes, trying to think of something to say to sum up the almost crushing relief that he hasn't lost him. All those things are lost, however, at the sight of his silhouette against the setting sun, gun held aloft and hat perched just so. It is...highly distracting.
"He started it!" his attacker yells, dragging his wounded accomplice out of the alley. "Said he was a damn angel, bled all over our bar!" They stumble away as Castiel starts to push himself up, wiping at the blood still running down from his nose and cheek.
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Then he's running off, pushing past people who are fleeing in the opposite direction. "That's one way to draw attention to ourselves."
He watches the guys run down the alley and out of sight before stepping up and putting his hand on the side of Castiel's neck, veins in the back of his hand going black as he takes his pain. "Castiel, man," he says as he lets go, not wanting to touch him too long with an angry, trigger happy Dean nearby. "You gotta stop opening up veins in public."
He steps back to give them their space, and even though he can smell him and hear his heartbeat, he still turns to look at Stiles to make sure he's okay.
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There's blood dripping all the way out of the alley and he curls a lip at the shiny trail that dots its way toward the street, then looks back at Castiel. He likes the guy and wants him to be okay, but seriously?
"Oh, that's great. So on top of dishing out hooch and carrying tons of dirty fucking money, now we're stabbing people and shooting automatic weapons?" He glares daggers at Dean, words pushed out in an angry hiss, then goes back to keeping an eye on the mouth of the alley. "Let's get the fuck out of here before someone comes."
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"You think I'm carrying it around because it's pretty?" he asks, finally hanging on to Cas to keep him close as he addresses Stiles. "People gonna call this in on their cells instead of running in the opposite direction? It's a different world, kid, catch up."
Turning to Cas, Dean adds, quiet, "You okay?"
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His gaze cuts back over to Dean, grasping at his sleeve as he fights the impulse to pull him in close. He is here and as sorry as he is that he's caused problems yet again, he can't help but marvel at the miracle of them being allowed to be here, together. "I'm sorry."
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A group of uniformed officers come tearing around the corner then, and Derek turns to roll his eyes at Dean and grab Stiles' arm, dragging him down the alley as they break into a run. Evading police, and they've been here for less than an hour. Wonderful.
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He clutches at the satchel with their cash for dear life and untangles Derek's hand from his arm so they can both run, pointing when he sees an open door - a hotel lobby, from the looks of it - and looks back at the other two, gesturing silently to suggest that they all head inside.
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"C'mon," he growls, channeling his frustration into a faster pace, one hand still fisted in Castiel's sleeve as they pass through a gilded door and into a smoky lobby. Spying a restroom door, Dean hauls Castiel through it.
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Castiel stumbles along behind Dean, keeping pace until they enter the hotel and he pauses long enough to manage a quick, "Room!" at Derek, in hopes that he will understand to get them only one before he's hauled bodily into an empty restroom.
He raises his eyes to stare at Dean's tight jaw, trying to gauge how badly he has handled this. "I'm sorry for what I did in the bar."
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He lets out the air in his lungs in a soft gust, chuckling darkly and pulling his hand away from Stiles' mouth, looking down at him in the dim light and talking softly. "You okay?"
They haven't had a moment alone since this started, and he's relieved for the momentary reprieve. Tensions are running high and he wants a quiet moment before they reconvene, hopefully all on the same side.
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He lets out a huge sigh when Derek finally moves his hand, eyes starting to adjust just enough to see the reflection of light from a crack between the door and the floor shine off of Derek's eyes. The closet is stuffy and warm and probably filled with coats that probably aren't clean, but he does his best not to think of that, just thunking his head back against the wall with a faint laugh. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm okay." Derek is pressed bodily to him and he's doing everything in his power to remind himself that his crush and his hormones have no place in the 1920s, but it's only half working.
He presses on, sighing and closing his eyes for a moment, reaching up to take his cap off and run his hand over his hair. "The fuck is going on, dude?"
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He already knows that he feels safer with Derek than is probably normal - pack or otherwise - but right now he kind of needs it and isn't gonna question it. Or the weird feelings thing. Or the fact that Derek is really, really close to him.
After another couple moments, he squirms, puppylike. He can only stay still for so long and finally clears his throat, smiling at him a little. "So, uh. You're okay?" He reaches up, rubbing the back of Derek's neck.
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