Author: Britani Gael
Fandom: Supernatural/Devil May Cry
Characters: Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester, Dante
Summary: Planning on hunting a monster, the Winchester brothers end up befriending him instead.
Author's Notes: It was decided that Dean and Dante had to have a conversation. Nothing could stop them.
They came here to take out a monster and now they were taking him out for drinks, something Sam was having a hard time wrapping his head around. It was Dean's idea, too, which was the part that made it all the more confusing. Dean was usually pretty keen on the difference between people and monsters.
And this man was definitely some kind of monster.
"Hey, can we get another beer down here?" the demon in the man-suit called, chuckling and shoving his shocking white hair off his face.
"Make that two," Dean chimed in, flashing the cute waitress a grin. He and the monster had been vying for her attention all night, and Sam honestly couldn't tell who was winning.
"Hell," the monster said, glancing at Sam. "Make it another round. It's on me."
"No thanks," Sam said. "I'm done."
The monster shrugged.
He called himself Dante. Yeah, like Dante Alighieri, which was a joke and a half. As if that wasn't clue enough to the rest of the world, he had that hair, and those chilling blue eyes. The combination looked otherworldly, creepy even, but no one seemed to notice. No one except Sam, anyway.
Maybe the coat distracted them. It was hard to miss, what with it being bright red, leather, and nearly as long as the man was tall.
"So," Dean started, and meaningless gesture that accompanied the word nearly sent some bottles flying. "You ever face a shape shifter?"
Dante paused with his bottle in his mouth, his expression glazed. He was almost as drunk as Dean was, probably. "Shape shifter?"
"Y'know, looks like a man, but only 'cause it stole his face?"
Dante considered that, then took a long swing. "Yeah, I know the kind. Nasty sons of bitches."
"You're tellin' me." Dean took a long drink himself. "Those things fucked my life up more than all the rest, I think. Framed me for murder, tried to kill my brother, here – hey, aren't you drinking anymore, Sammy?"
"Someone's gotta drive," Sam said. He thought about adding the fact that Dean had done enough drinking for both of them, and in fact had been doing that quite a bit recently, but didn't bother. It wasn't worth it.
Dean leaned forward, lowering his voice like he was plotting something. "How'd you kill it?"
"The shape shifter."
"Oh, him." Dante tipped his bottle back. "Hacked him up 'til there wasn't enough left to change into anything."
"You got a magic sword, it does."
It was hard to tell whether the guy was serious or not. Dean was the same way half the time. More than half the time. Hell, if Sam didn't have the advantage of being Dean's brother, he had a feeling he wouldn't get the guy at all.
He didn't have any leverage like that here, so he asked, "Magic sword?"
"Sure," Dante answered, grinning. "I've got a whole collection, back at the office."
Dean laughed, the monster joined in. Sam didn't, because he was pretty sure Dante hadn't been joking.
"I hate them the most," Dean decided suddenly, loudly, and for a second Sam forgot what he was talking about. Oh, shape shifters. Right. "I hate 'em more than all the rest put together. Well," he said, considering. "Well, 'cept demons."
Sam glanced at Dante. He was too busy gulping down cheap beer to answer.
"Those're the worst," Dean continued. "They're just… they're the fucking worst, man."
Dante finished his drink and slammed the bottle down on the tabletop, making everyone within fifteen feet of them jump. Sam thought for a second that he might be mad, but no, he still had that dumb grin. "How the hell can you two stand each other?" he asked.
"Whnn?" Dean said, sounding like the words were just running out of his mouth. He got like that when he was drunk, really drunk, or if he'd hadn't slept for more than seventy-two hours.
So Sam translated. "What are you talking about?"
"Living out of a car, seeing the same face day after day, same thing day and night." Dante frowned, and it really seemed like he was talking to himself more than anything else. "Even if it was my brother – shit, especially if it was my brother – seems like it'd get old."
He wasn't wrong, it did get old sometimes, but that wasn't the point he was trying to get at. Problem was, Sam didn't know what his point was.
Dean's head was on the table, and Sam was pretty sure it wasn't coming up again. But Dean surprised him, looking up, almost sitting up, even. "He's my brother, y'know?" he managed thickly. "Gotta look out for him."
Dante looked at him for a long time, his eyes completely clear and lucid, and Sam realized he wasn't drunk at all. "'Course," he said. "I get that."
Dean nodded sleepily, and then he put his head back down on the table. Now it really wasn't coming up again.
That hung in the air, the silence stretching out a few seconds longer than it should have. Dean was snoring.
"I really should get him back to the motel," Sam said, standing.
Dante stood up, too, and tossed a few tens onto the table. "I'll help," he said.
Between the two of them, they didn't have much trouble getting him out to the parking lot, and shoving the collection of limp arms and legs into the passenger side of the Impala. Dean settled into the seat without a fuss, immediately slumping forward and drooling on the collar of his shirt.
"He's gonna regret waking up, tomorrow," Dante said, as Sam shut the door.
"No, he's gonna make me regret he woke up."
Dante flashed that same carefree grin, that was about as much of a lie as everything else about him. He never insisted that you believe it – that the smile was real, that the clothes were normal, that he was human – but he made damn sure you did anyway.
It was almost comforting, in a way. because that too reminded him a little bit of Dean.
"So," Sam asked. "What happened to your brother?"
Dante shrugged. "Dead."
Sam flinched, though he'd kind of been expecting that. "Demon?" he asked.
"Could say that."
There wasn't much more to say, not to that, so they stood in awkward silence with nothing but the wind to fill in the gap. Sam gave it a minute, then two, and then he started, "Well, we should get—"
"Hold up, kid," Dante said, and handed him a piece of paper, torn around the edges and about the size of a business card. "The number of my shop's on the front. Password's on the back."
Sam peered at the paper, and the thick block letters that spelled out Devil May Cry. "I don't get it."
"Nothing to get. You need any information, or you and your brother get over your heads in this demon shit, you give me a call."
Sam turned the paper over, and then put it in his back pocket. "Why?" he asked.
"Why the hell not?" Dante pulled out a set of keys. "I know things you don't, that I promise."
"Everything we'll ever need to know about magic swords?"
"Could be." That silence also stretched out for a few seconds, and then the guy stuck his hands on his pockets and walked off. "See ya around, Sam."
"Yeah, you too."
He got into the car, glancing over at his sleeping brother. They hadn't put his seatbelt on him, he realized, so he leaned over to do it now.
"We goin' home, Sammy?" Dean slurred, rolling his head to rest it on the window.
"We're going to bed, anyway."
It didn't matter, no response. Dean had fallen asleep, again,
"Devil May Cry," Sam muttered, turning the ignition, watching the Harley pull out of the parking lot in the review mirror. "Right."