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Lost Angels

Chapter Text

Title: Lost Angels (3/?)  
Fandom: Supernatural, BTVS; Dean/Castiel, Spike/Xander, Angel/Lindsay  
Warnings: Slash, AU, Post-Apocalyptic, violence, non-con, slavery, SneerVerse  
Rating: NC-17  
Summary: It's been a year since the world has been free from its plunge into hell and free from the rule of the vampire who started it all. It's been twelve months of recovery and hunting for the Winchester brothers as they helped to eliminate the things in the dark that still had a taste for human flesh. Now, after several long months of hunting they finally have the big bad himself cornered. What they didn't know were there other forces at work, ones who wanted to bring about a second Apocalypse and the Winchesters were the key. 



“Wai—” Dean started to object, pushing against Angel as the vampire moved forward and wrapped an arm around the hunter’s torso. “I can walk on my own!”  

“Master of Vegas says I grab you,” Angel smiled softly helping the man who could barely stand let alone walk. “I grab you.”  

“Well fuck the master of vegas,” Dean snarled.  

“Sorry, dance card’s full,” Spike said suddenly sweeping Xander up into his arms. He slipped into his vampire visage and growled against his pet’s neck. “Don’t think I didn’t notice someone forgot ta call me Master.”  

Spike grinned around his fangs. He could hear the sudden skip in Xander’s heartbeat and could smell the start of his arousal. Oh yes, Xander knew he was going to be punished and he was looking forward to it. 


Dean woke with his mouth so dry his tongue felt like it was a shriveled piece of jerky. He rolled to his side. Big mistake. A dull pain flared across his ribs. He groaned, pushing through the hurt, and sat up.  

It was the second time since hunting down the damned vampire Dean found himself coming back to consciousness. He supposed he shouldn't be surprised. He was temporarily the prisoner of a monster. In those situations if you didn't end up dead, you usually ended up unconscious; a lot.  

Dean resisted the urge to stretch, instead he took a breath and looked around. First he did a casual inventory down his body.  His chest was bare except for the large white bandages taped across his sternum and down his side where he'd been mauled by the hellhound. Across his lap was a sheet. 

Naked? Or nearly naked? It was an old betting game he played with himself back during The Fall. Back when... He took a deep breath and pushed those thoughts away along with the sheet. He was clad only in a loose pair of black boxer briefs. Nearly naked then. 

He looked around. He appeared to be in a small, but nice hotel room. At least it was swankier than the ones he and Sammy could afford. Sam. Dean's stomach clenched and it had nothing to do with hunger pangs or the pain from his wounds. Where was his little brother? How was he? Was he alive? 

Yes, damnit! Dean growled under his breath. He had to shut down any doubts in his head right now. Anything else isn't an option. 

Exhaling, he continued his survey. The bed he was on was big, maybe even a king, with a night stand on either side. There was a recliner in the right corner with a tall lamp next to it. Across from the foot of the bed was a large dresser with a decent sized TV perched on top. Off to the left corner was an open door leading to a bathroom.  

Further to the right of the recliner, at the end to of the room was another door. This one was closed. The way out? Dean stood. To try the closed door was tempting, but his bladder demanded he put aside any thoughts of pressing his luck and seeing what was behind it. For one, this was Vegas and the odds were definitely not in his favor. Two, he hadn't pissed his pants fighting a monster since he was seven and he wasn't about to do it now. 

He turned and moved toward the bathroom. He let out a low whistle as he entered the room. Wherever he was, it really was nice. Hot tub, walk in shower, and a full line of mirrors across double sinks. Hell, they even had the double toilet thing in here. The second one had a longer, more oval shaped bowl, and looked like it had some sort of faucet. There was some sort of French word for it. Sam would know. 

Dean shook his head and used the good old fashioned john, though he couldn't help but start at the other one. How do you even use that thing? Looks more like something you'd hand wash your underwear in...if the sink were stopped up.  

He finished draining whatever was left of the beer he'd had one or two nights ago, it was hard to say with all the bouts of unconsciousness, before turning around. He walked over the sink and flipped the water on. Dean washed his hands before cupping them together under the running water to collect a small pool. He leaned over the sink and splashed his face. Water dripped over his eyes, down his cheeks and nose, and splashed coldly on his chest.  

Fumbling he reached with one hand to turn the faucet off while reaching the other for a towel. The thick cotton felt good in his hand and it felt even better on his face. He stood, swiping it over his cheeks with both hands, pulling it down like a slow tease at a stripper joint and relishing the feel of soft and plush material against his skin.  

Before The Fall Dean had been an unabashed sensualist. Hey, if it felt good, you might as well do it because who knew if tomorrow you were gonna be the main ingredient in some big and ugly's soup of the day? During The Fall, his hedonistic nature had been used against him, breaking him. After The Fall, he was grateful for the little luxuries and savored them.  

With a heavy sigh he finally put the towel down on the counter then stared at himself in the mirror. He had a serious case of the three-day stubble going on, there dark circles under his eyes, and he was pale enough that his freckles stood out like he was twelve again. He'd looked worse. 

He stood and glanced down at his chest and stomach. Clean white bandage were taped neatly over his chest and side where the hellhound had gouged him. He gently prodded at the wounds and hissed. They were tender, but not as raw as he'd expected. Nor did the cotton gauze immediately start to stain red. Stitched up?  He wasn't gonna look. He was sure it was going to be ugly. More scars. Good thing chicks dig 'em. 

He glanced back at the mirror. His gaze went automatically to his left shoulder. There was the grand-daddy of all of his scars, a man-sized hand print across the whole of his deltoid. It looked like a brand, five fingers and the edges of a palm. Chicks loved scars because of the stories behind them. Dean didn't know the story behind this one.  

He sucked in a breath and reached out to trace it with a his right forefinger. It was a compulsion, this odd need to touch it, especially when he was stressed. He didn't know why. The thing frightened him. It wasn't the adrenaline charged fear that came with hunting. It wasn't the overwhelming terror he'd drowned with while he'd been Ali...during The Fall. No, this was an uneasy sense of dread, like something had gone horribly wrong. It was the pricking sensation on the back of his neck when a hunt had gone south because they'd missed the big picture: the happy Cunningham couple in the matching Christmas sweaters were really pagan gods eating people. 

Dean exhaled slowly and covered the scar with his hand. It was warm, always. Still, as much as the handprint frightened him, it also comforted him. It was a reminder he'd made it. He survived The Fall. He'd survived Ali... 

He closed his eyes and swallowed. He tried not to think of those times. He tried not to think of when he'd been just a raw bundle of nerves endlessly exposed for a demon's pleasure. He tried not to... Dean squeezed down on the handprint. It almost seemed to pulse slightly, like a heartbeat or the faint brush of wings.  

During The Fall, Dean and Sam had been separated for several years. Most of those Dean had been a prisoner. He'd been torn and tortured so much, he'd lost himself. Then one day, he'd woken up free. He'd been alone and baking in the hot South Dakota sun with the strange scar on his arm, but he'd been free.  

He had no clue as to how or why. At first he'd thought it was another trick, a new cruel game to play. Dean had laid low for weeks reaching out to no one not risking the chance of leading demons to any fresh playthings or helping them along in their games. However, when it seemed that by some act or feat he didn't remember, that he he had escaped, Dean had gone in search of his little brother.  

"Sam." The name slipped out softly like a prayer and a promise. Dean shook his head and turned away from the mirror. He exited the bathroom.  

Once again he was tempted to head straight toward the closed door. While he had no issues facing the world in just his skivvies, clothed was always best. Especially around demons and vampires. He quickly skirted his way around the bed and began going through dresser drawers. He arched his eyebrows in surprise. 

Spike must be playing by his own monster manual. Not only were there clothes in the drawer there were a couple of different sets. They all looked to be Dean's size, and something he'd wear; jeans, t-shirt, and a comfortable flannel. His boots were even in the bottom drawer. 

Dean could only wonder at the situation as he quickly dressed, it was so outside the norm. Hey, maybe he even left me my gun? He didn't another quick check for weapons, but didn't find so much as a toothpick. Was worth a shot. 

With a final roll to his left sleeve, Dean faced the closed door. He wasn't sure what was on the other side, but now was the time to find out. He paused a moment as he wrapped his hand around the shiny brass door knob. Wouldn't it be anti-climatic if was locked? 

He twisted the knob. It turned easily. Cautiously, he eased the door open. The door opened up into what looked like a sitting room area with a couches and a bar. Sammy, scored the high roller suiteHe stepped into the room. 

"Mimosa?" A smiling green demon wearing sapphire blue suit and red ascot scarf which matched color of its lips, eyes and horns stood beyond the door holding out a flute glass full of sparkling orange juice. 

"Whoa!" Dean raised his hands in defense and jumped back half a step nearly crashing into the door frame.  

The demon frowned, studied Dean for a moment. "Perhaps an Irish coffee." Then it turned and walked to the bar setting the cocktail down. 

Dean followed it with his gaze but remained rooted to the spot. He'd never seen a demon that remotely looked like this thing. He didn't know what it was, what it good do, or what it wanted. He didn't know how to kill it, and he sure as hell didn't have anything to kill it with. However, a shot of whiskey and some coffee did sound good.  

"I'm Lorne," the demon said as it began to fill a small coffee pot from an unseen water source behind the bar.  

Dean arched an eyebrow. Lorne. He'd heard the name before, but where? 

"Spike's floor manager?"  the demon explained as if it were question, a prompt.  "I work for Spike, Master of Las Vegas, your host. You do remember Spike, don't you, cookie crumbles?"  

"Cooki..." Damn freckles. Dean pushed away from the door frame and growled. "I remember, and the name's Dean Winchester." 

"Pleasure to meet you, Dean," Lorne chirrped cheerily as he started the coffee. "Now let's get a shot of morning go juice into you then we're off." 

"To where?"  

"To see the grand sour-puss himself. He's a whole new level of tartness since Angel rolled into town with you in tow. However, since this mess seems to have given Claimant Xander that certain do-gooder spark Spike can't resist, he wants to you see shortly," Lorne explained.  

Dean snorted. He wasn't that thrilled at the prospect of another meeting with the blonde vampire and its pet human, but he had the feeling he really didn't have much choice. Plus, maybe the sooner he met with Spike, the sooner he could leave and find Sam. 

"Fine, mickey up the cup of joe and let's get going," Dean said stomping over to the bar.  

"Just one more thing, crumbles," Lorne said pulling out a bottle of Jameson's. "I gotta hear you sing." 

"You what?" Dean tilted his head and stared at the demon like it sprouted a third horn. "You want me to do a karaoke routine?" 

"Oh nothing so elaborate." Lorne waved its hand. "I just need you to hum a few bars, quote a few lyrics...anything that brings out your inner song bird." 

Dean gave a half shake of his head. What kind of crazy demon mojo was this? "Why?" 

"Because you need Spike's help, and this is the first step to getting it," Lorne said taking a half step away from the bar and crossing his arms over his chest. "I'm afraid it's non-negotiable." 

"Hey, I never asked for it. Angelus...Angel is the one who drug my ass here," Dean argued. 

"Well that certainly sounds like him...both hims," Lorne muttered softly before speaking up, "but whatever the case Spike and Xander seem about to stick their necks out to help you and while some of use can live with a little head lopping most of us can't. So, sing, and depending on what I hear, Spike will decide how far he's willing to stretch those necks." 

"Spike is going to decide how far he'll go to help me, depending on how well I sing?" Dean scoffed. "What, is this an audition for demon town American Idol?" 

"If that's what it will take to get you to bust open those pipes, crumbles. Now sing." Lorne put unfolded his arms and tapped his fingers on the bar. 

Dean sighed. Maybe he was dead. Maybe the hounds or Angelus, had actually killed him and he was once again trapped in some sort of hell dimension. A crazy one with cocktails, ascots, and karaoke. 

He took a deep breath and let it slowly. What the hell was he going to sing? He had no idea, but he had to think of something. He was beginning to think he wouldn't he belted out a tune he wouldn't be let out of the room, let alone be taken to see Spike.  

He closed his eyes and thought of Baby. He imagined sitting behind the steering wheel, the windows rolled down, a dark line of highway in front of him, and the sounds of the engine purring around him. He imagined a sunset on the horizon and the smell of night close behind. He began to hum under his breath. He could almost hear the melody of one his two favorite songs, and he began to sing, 


"Leaves are falling all around 
It's time I was on my way 
Thanks to you I'm much obliged 
For such a pleasant stay 
But now it's time for me to go 
The autumn moon lights my way 
For now I smell the rain 
And with it pain 
And it's headed my --" 


"Stop!" Lorne's cry interrupted him. 

Dean opened his eyes. The demon stood behind the bar almost shaking, it had gone from a vibrant tree frog green to a pale puke green. It grabbed the forgotten mimosa and downed it like a drunk at last call. Then it focused its bright red eyes on Dean. 

"Oh, Crumbles, Spike's really not going to be happy. It's only Monday. This kinda trouble? We save for Tuesdays."