hellfighters | More than Magic

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More than Magic

Once upon a time, there was a species of supernatural beings who liked to watch over the ones with deep desires in their hearts. If they were good, they would grant them wishes, and help them on the way to finding true love and happiness.

In the old days, they were so loved and revered that stories would be told of them. But the fairy godmothers, as they were known amongst those who held them dear, grew to be more and more presumptuous about the wishes of their wards. In short, they got cocky and more and more of the granted wishes backfired. It got so bad that people stopped loving them, stopped telling stories about them, and when they finally stopped making wishes to them the species started die out. Without the wishes giving them the power, there was nothing to keep them in existence.

But of course, some stories alive and there was always the occasional wishes dropping in from little children that had yet to stop believing, so a few stayed a live. A handful at first, then only a couple, and finally just the one.

The very last of the fairy godmothers is a mess to behold.

He's fading, there's no doubt of that, and his once gloriously sparkling gown hangs in tatters. His beautiful mane of silver and cream has lost all luster and is falling out by the handfuls. His wings barely function anymore, and he's generally had one too many hits of Mumbo Jamma Juice. Bothering with wishes isn't really a thing anymore. Occasionally, he will come across something that catches his attention enough that he uses the last drops of his power to try to grant it.

Sadly, he rarely gets it right.

Like when he comes across this semi-young hunter with a plethora of the most sore and sad wishes in his scarred and broken heart. The hidden longing for love and family and home, reminds the fairy godmother so much of the princesses he used to cater to thousands of years ago, that he can't resist the need to want to bring just those things to the hunter.

Except, again he gets it wrong. He gets those wishes all garbled up and can't differentiate between love and home and safety, and he thinks the best thing he can do for this one called Dean is to turn his beloved car into a human. And the face the old fairy picks, is the first one he can pluck out of what lies in Dean's heart.

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"I can't talk about myself with people," Baby replies with a frown. "I'm not supposed to tell people I'm a car." And since he's been a human all of a day, his experience as a human is very, very limited. He's in a bit of a bind, then. How's he supposed to communicate with anybody when the only two things he knows anything about -- Dean and himself -- are topics he's not supposed to talk about?

He looks around at all the people and takes in the smells. It smells like... lots of things. Alcohol and food, mostly. And people. It smells a lot like people.

"At least I can talk to you. You're nice to me. You and Dean are the only ones who are."

"Well. You just. Leave out the car parts." He digs through his pockets and pulls out some quarters and hands them over to Baby.

"Yeah, well. FDR is actually...he'd be good to you, if he could see past your face." And that's about all he's going to say on that particular issue.

"You see that machine over there? With all the glowing lights? That's the jukebox. It plays songs. Whatever songs you want. You just browse through until you hear something you like, and then you press the green button to buy it. Want to try?"

"You try leaving out the human parts when you talk about yourself," Baby says, eyebrows raised before he gets up from the table, sliding the coins off and into his hand.

He looks over at the jukebox and then weaves his way through the crowd, returning smiles and waves on the odd occasion that he gets them.

The jukebox is a foreign-looking thing to him. He can't actually read. There's a few words that he knows, so he looks at familiar ones.

Led Zeppelin, for example. He knows what that says. He puts in coins until the machine seems to want to let him push buttons, then he pushes the same buttons as the numbers beside that particular name. As it turns out, it's Ramble On, and he recognizes that song as one of Dean's favorites.

He likes this jukebox thing now! So much so that he starts moving his hips and singing along with the music.

Dean stops breathing when his back hits the wall. Even if he's the slightly taller one, he feels like FDR is towering over him. He swallows, but his mouth has gone completely dry. He doesn't even know what he's scared of, but... what he hears isn't it.

What FDR actually says makes him laugh and roll his eyes, completely breaking any tension he was feeling. "You are cockiest SOB ever," he says with a grin, his hand reaching up to straighten FDR's collar. That's a habit he's picked up just because of him. "Listen to you, saying that like it's the big reveal of some chick flick and expecting me to swoon and pull up my skirt for you..."

As much as Dean is rolling his eyes, he also looks so kinda happy. "Thing is about big neon signs... it's pretty easy to read what's on them, and I read yours ages ago, man. Come on. Why the hell else would I still be doing this? Didn't have a problem hearing it, but I didn't need to. I knew."

Then his smile falters just a bit, and he looks like he's slipping back to scared again. "Didn't ask what the sign said. I asked why."

"Yeah well..." And he grins as Dean straightens a collar that doesn't need straightening. "We both know you'd pull up your skirt right about now if I asked you to."

But he sighs and pulls his arm away from the wall as his hands slide into his back pockets. He's not sure what Dean's so wound up about. The why isn't nearly as important as the what in this situation. But it's...definitely the harder one to talk about, strangely.

"Don't really consider the whys, actually. I just know that I worry like hell about you. When you're gone. When you get all closed up. Or when you have a nightmare. I know that I trust you enough to sleep soundly with you by my side, and that's not nothing. I know you have my back. That you'd die for me-" Okay, that might be cheating. He's using Tuck's lines, but that doesn't make it any less true. "I'd die for you. That's just what love is, man. The flaws, the imperfections, they just make you more unique. They make you honest and real. And...in this line of work it's like a breath of fresh air. You're damaged and dented, and its-" And he shrugs, "I wouldn't want you any other way."

The hand that is toying with FDR's collar moves up to tease along the back of his neck, and then into his hair to grab a fistful. He likes tugging on that mess of overly coiffed hair. He might not swoon over three stupid little words, but he is a sucker for that grin.

But what settles his worries isn't that smile. It's the why. Because he comes from a world where the why matters above all else. It's what makes everything else worth it. And what FDR says is... just the right thing. He's heard the same things before, but it's not always it comes from someone he can trust to actually understand how damaged he really is. That's what makes all the rest mean something.

"Y'know, I got an in with Death. He's actually kind of a cool dude. There's no way I'd let him take you," he says with a careful smile. He means that. He would cast every spell and hex and summon needed to keep FDR breathing.

He pulls FDR closer and chuckles. The threat of a kiss is there, but their lips aren't touching. "So. How ticked off would your pal be if we fooled around on his pool table?"

"You should really not talk to me about Death." He mutters, and there's a hint of...pain in the words before his arms settle on Dean's hips and he closes the distance between them. Because he likes that hand in his hair, he's always been a little weak to a good hairpull.

"He'll probably throw me out of another plane." He grins, and if Dean won't close the deal, he will, and he leans down to kiss him hard on the lips. He feels like he hasn't been intimate with Dean since that damn car came into the picture and he's not sure what the hell Tuck did with him for now, but he knows he'll owe the guy for it later.

Dean shuts his eyes and mutters a soundless curse at the momentary slip of mind. He should have known not to mention Death, yeah, and guilt washes over him for having done so. "Maybe- Maybe ask me about heaven some time..." he all but whispers. Sometime, but not now. Dean knows all too well how they both have the ability to completely kill the mood, however unintentional it may be, and god-freaking-dammit, right now he needs his makeup sex.

It's the part that makes the fight worth it, and he's not about to let that go. His body was set for three full days of naked debauchery and they barely got one before it got interrupted. Dean's hellbent on catching up on lost time.

He answers the kiss in kind, hungry and hard, and the hand not playing painfully with FDR's hair digs into his hip so he can guide the man back towards the pool table. He does have every possible intention of tainting it for all time.

"Trust me, there are plenty of parts I leave out." And maybe he didn't handle it the best way, since he's now divorced and has a kid that doesn't much like him.

But Baby is gone and he watches him flip through the jukebox, which is fine and normal. And then...he's dancing and he could just see FDR killing him for letting anyone see that. Sure, FDR dances...but not like that. And he certainly doesn't sing in public.

Ah well. And he waves over a couple of beers.

Seriously, Dean? You go from Death to Heaven and think that any of this is going to be any better? He's posed to respond to that particular comment when that kiss becomes hard and insistent and he's being walked back to the pool table, and he can't help but sit on it once they're there.

He could wrap his legs around Dean's hips, he could pull him back onto the table and ruin it and listen to Tuck's complaints until he buys him a new one-but he's stuck.

So he shoves just enough on Dean's chest to get those lips off his own. "You went to heaven too? Just how many damn times have you died, Dean?" God, and he can't even jump out of planes or moving vehicles on the street, and face down criminals with guns and other weapons of mass destruction and fucking die once.

It might be embarrassing for FDR, but dancing around is making Baby's mood improve to something more resembling happiness. Once the song ends, though, and he's been completely oblivious to some of the leers and looks that have been sent his way, he realizes that Dean would have liked to have been here and he feels bad for leaving. He's been a bad car.

Making his way back to the table, he sits down and frowns at Tuck. "Do you think Dean is going to be mad at me? I was supposed to wait." He has no idea what that beer is or that it might be for him, so he only spares it a glance.

Tuck shrugs and nudges a drink in Baby's direction before pointedly taking a sip of his own. "Doubt it, really. He's probably a little distracted with FDR. And...he never told you to wait." Just, pointing that out.

He looks at the beer and looks at Tuck, and then mimics the action, taking a sip of the beverage before he nearly chokes on it before he looks at the label. So this is what Dean likes to drink? Beer? There's been boxes of it in him before. It doesn't taste that good, but he'll drink it anyway.

"He never tells me to wait. I'm supposed to wait anyway."

Dean chases FDR's lips, perfectly willing to fight against that push and not let them get distracted, but he finds it impossible to ignore that question. They have gotten themselves lost down this path enough times that he knows the best way to deal with it is to just answer.

"A few times. It doesn't matter. I'm still here, right? Not going anywhere."

"It's an acquired taste." Tuck mutters, its hard not to recognize that face of dislike. Even though it's someone else, that face is still that of his best friend.

"Well, he might need to start treating you differently now. But, soon as you're ready, I'll take you."

That's not his problem with it. Not at all. Dean can't make that promise, and FDR doesn't expect him to. But, the man has been to hell and back. And...heaven and. It makes his head hurt sometimes, as much as he's willing to accept this lifestyle. Sometimes it's just hard to swallow.

So fine, they won't broach the real subject. It's better not to anyway.

Instead he slides up to sit on the pool table, hooks his legs around Dean's hips as he does so and he reaches out to grab the collar of his shirt to pull him back in and down against him. "Get to it, then."

"I'm afraid he doesn't like me because he already has one of me." He still doesn't really understand why he looks like Frank and why Frank looks like him and the only real explanation he has right now is that they're the same kind of car that's been turned into a human. Which means Dean already has another Impala-human, or whatever he is.

"I've always been with a Winchester. I'm not sure what to do if he doesn't want me anymore. What do you do when your owner doesn't want you anymore, Tuck?"

He's very happy to answer questions, just not right now. Not when they're trying to make things not hurt. And he has every intention of taking advantage of the fact that they're still not fully over to the point where they can't block it out anymore.

He runs his hands down FDR's sides and lets out an appreciative groan. Muscle memory alone is enough warm his engines. Now normally he would take an unholy amount of time to undress the guy in front of him (if only because he knows what his partner likes), but this isn't one of those times. He needs fast and hard, and to tear that shirt open and ruin it--probably piss FDR off in the process--and dive in to bite hard at any flesh that's exposed. It's a day to leave marks.

"Already has one of you? What the....the mustang?" And he gestured toward the street with a shrug, "That's not it, mate."

And he takes a long sip of his beer at that question. Because he shouldn't be able to make parallels to Katy, but he does anyway. "Well. That's-that's um." Nope, another drink. "I suppose you move on. Eventually. You go pursue your own interests and you do your job and you just keep going."

Sorry, he's not exactly positive about that divorce yet.

"Hey!" He doesn't care if they're in the middle of making out or not, you don't tear one of his work shirts, those are expensive pieces of clothing! "You're crawling on the floor until you find every one of those buttons."

He doesn't fight the mouth on his skin though, or the bite that he knows is meant to leave bruises in it's path. Right now he doesn't mind the reminder.

His hand cards through Dean's hair before he tugs on it roughly, just for the sake of making it ache. He knows this mood. He can feel it buzzing around Dean. They're not making love, or having sex, they're fucking. And he's fine with that.

"What? No, not the mustang. That's-- That abomination is beside the point. I mean Frank. I look like him, I sound like him. Or he looks like me. I don't know. But that means he was an Impala before, right?" Follow his logic here, Tuck. Baby's not crazy.

He also doesn't like the idea of moving on. The Winchesters have literally been his whole life. Dean was conceived in Baby, which sounds weird, but is fact. Baby's been there for nearly every pivotal point in Dean's life. He wants to be there for every pivotal point to come, too.

"Maybe that's easy for you because you're human. I'm a car. I've only got one purpose. I've only got one interest."

"Like you don't have a hundred shirts that look exactly the same," Dean laughs against his skin.

He finds he doesn't like this angle. It's hard to get close enough with one of them sitting and the other one standing and even if he's heading straight for the warp 10, raw fuck here, it doesn't mean there's not an emotional aspect to this. Because there is, and it's more genuine than if he'd had the control to slow down and play Lover Boy.

Dean pushes FDR back on the table and climbs after so he can get on top of him. Still scrambling to get whatever fabric is between them out of the way so he can taste every exposed inch of skin.

...That's terrible logic, Baby and it the judgement shows on Tuck's expression.

"FDR has always been FDR. He's never been a car. He was always human." There, he's said it three different ways for you, Baby. Pick up on one of them please. "What happened to you, it isn't normal. Cars don't turn into people. And for whatever reason, you took on FDR's features when you became one."

And he shrugs at the rest. "Well, 'til they can figure out how to turn you back, B, sorry to say, but you're just about as human as they get."

"God damn it." He curses, sliding back along the table to make room for Dean when he realizes what he's doing, and he works the zipper and button off his own pants, not interested in them becoming a casualty under Dean's eagerness either, and he scoots them down off his hips until they bunch up at his feet. It takes some maneuvering to hook the heels of his shoes on the edge of the table and nudge them off, but he does before kicking his pants off the rest of the way.

Now that he doesn't have to worry about anymore destruction, he works on Dean's pants, unsnapping them and taking the time to slide his hands around the open hem of them, to hook his fingers onto the pants right above Dean's ass so he can drag fingers down rounded flesh even as he undresses him.

There's kink in clothing, Dean's been with him long enough to know that, to know how the simple dress and undress can get FDR riled up, but he's not all that interested in foreplay right now. He's been frustrated and hurt and angry, but it's speckled with those good feelings, like Dean cooking Nana's stew and pie, like chasing him into Tuck's home and cornering him into emotions. It's all a knot in his stomach and sex is always the easiest way to get at it.

Don't judge, Tuck. Baby's only, like, a day and a half old, okay? He's still a little simple.

"So... we're not the same." Now he doesn't know what to make of that or why he's identical to FDR. Or Frank. Or whatever his name is. So he looks like FDR for... reasons. Unknown reasons. Okay.

He scrunches his face up, confusion evident. This is not helping his understanding of the world.

"I just have to try to fit in for now, then. Am I a weird human? How do I be more human?"

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More than Magic

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