While the boys hunt down a pouka on the University of Illinois campus, Dean gets more than he bargained for when the chick he's trying to rescue fights back. He doesn't expect the umbrella and he sure as hell doesn't expect what happens next.
Disclaimer: The Winchester boys aren't mine, but I'd make Dean wear his boots if they were. Always.
Pairing: Dean/OFC, Dean/Jo (implied)
Rating: M ( Language, angst, adult situations and an umbrella )
Spoilers: Technically, this takes place after "Children Shouldn't Play With Dead Things" but there are references to things mentioned in later episodes. I'd say up to "Born Under a Bad Sign" to be safe.
Miscellaneous: I wrote this for pheebs1, who requested a story about a specific pairing between "modern" Dean and one of my Victorian-AU OFCs. I tried to give it a plot. I also debated tagging this as a "Romance" but erred on the side of caution for those who like their Winchesters with a slice of Gen.
Betas: I wanted this one to be perfect for pheebs and several people volunteered to help. wenchpixie read several drafts, as always, and stayed up just as late editing them as I did writing them. As always. cariadean once again gave me perspective, and the hook for the angst. miconic picked up the fabulous J's stick and thwacked me soundly for my overabundance of commas and haphazard phrasing. And last, though by no means least, gwendolynflight encouraged my wordiness even when I railed against it. Everything that rocks in this piece is because of them. The mistakes? Those are all me.
Geek Boy had outdone himself on the current gig.
Chicago wasn't high on Dean's list of favorite places – not after their run-in with Meg Masters. That blonde bitch had played them hard, setting up her trap for Dad with neither of them the wiser. They should have known something was up; it was too easy to find her, too easy to break in. Well, Dean should have known they were bait. He didn't have anything like the college excuse to blame for screwing up.
He wasn't taking second chances anymore; not that he was expecting the demon they sent to Hell to be wandering around the Windy City looking for revenge – but Dean had learned the hard way that you could never be too careful when it came to freaking demons. They played dirty and Dean wasn't too clean himself anymore, fighting the thing Dad had told him he needed to do; touched by enough of the dark that it was all he could do to hide the cracks.
It was a good thing that they were finally on a job. A job that hadn't been handed to them by a bartender because she was trying to keep her little girl safe or feeling sorry for the Winchester boys sitting at her counter trying to figure out what the hell to do, a job they hadn't stumbled across because they were in the right place at the right time. It didn't have to do with Sammy, or Dad's goddamn secret.
Even if it hadn't seemed like much at first – just something that killed a cute little coed on the University of Illinois campus. Authorities thought it was a wild animal, the kind of crack investigation you'd expect from the Feds, and were blaming a big dog for the first girl that was mauled. Then two others followed over subsequent nights, with an eyewitness who swore up and down that she saw some hot guy turn into a dog, and the whole thing just screamed 'Winchester' like a calling card.
So they were back in Chicago.
Their first guess – a werewolf – ended up being the wrong one when a fourth girl showed up dead and it wasn't the full moon. Sam changed the working theory to a Black Dog, an Unseelie pouka sporting a 'Glamourie' so powerful that it could shift forms; not to mention all those pesky little spells it could use. After that, it was just a matter of finding the thing. Sam's goddamn plan was to spend every night wandering around campus looking for potential victims.
Unseelie or not, the Black Dog was still Sidhe. One iron bullet would do the job, but they had to find it first.
After two hours trudging around a darkened campus in the wind and the rain, Dean wished fucking Fido went for dog biscuits instead of chicks because it'd be a hell of a lot easier setting a trap for the damn thing with something you could buy at PetSmart instead of waiting around and hoping you'd get lucky.
A door squeaked open nearby and Dean snuck around a tree just in time to see a girl walk past him. He looked at her ass but she was wearing loose jeans that made his imagination have to work too hard. Her hips looked nice underneath her jacket, though – one of those old coats like sailors used to wear. And she was cute, curly brown hair falling to her shoulders and a face that Sam would say had 'delicate features.'
The chick was so short a Black Dog wouldn't even keep her for a snack, but she was the first chick Dean saw with enough guts to walk around by herself and he wasn't taking any chances. A gust of wind almost ripped her umbrella out of her hands and she stopped underneath one of the lights on the path to close it; unwinding the scarf from her neck and covering her hair with it before walking briskly down the walkway, her book bag thumping against her right hip.
For a chick with short legs, the girl walked pretty damn fast.
Dean rushed to catch up with her, skirting the path by keeping to the trees. It was good to be doing something, trying to stay silent and thankful the roaring wind and falling rain masked any missteps he was making in his haste to catch up with her. She stepped off campus grounds, heading towards one of the old apartment buildings he and Sam had scoped out earlier that afternoon. She sucked at paying attention to her surroundings; hell, she didn't even see the lanky humanoid shadow off to her right.
The thing stalked her patiently – each movement so precise that the only thing giving away its position was the shadow itself – but the girl was too busy getting to where she was going to even notice it.
"Hey!" Dean called, stepping onto the sidewalk behind her. "You do know you shouldn't be walking around by yourself, don't you? Girls are getting killed!"
She whirled to face him and her umbrella was resting on her shoulder like she was holding a baseball bat. "Just turn around and leave," the girl warned, syllables clipped. "I mean it," she added, swinging the umbrella with an expression that might have been menacing if she was a guy. It was actually pretty damn cute – Mary Poppins in Chicago.
The shadow inched forward, its loping gait almost a crouch as it shifted on the balls of its feet behind her, but the girl's eyes focused on Dean. The chick had no clue that something was getting ready to pounce on her and he felt a little bad about using her as bait – not that he had any other choice. "Look, I'm here to help," Dean returned, hands in front of him as he stepped closer. He tried pushing Sammy's 'Trust me, I'm a puppy dog' vibe into his smile, but the chick's eyes narrowed. The umbrella was back over her shoulder. Who does she think she is? Babe fucking Ruth?
"Go ahead, asshole," the girl taunted, her eyes wide under the glow of the streetlight. "Take one more step, and you'll be eating plastic!"
"I'm not going to hurt you." Dean shook his head and took another step. The umbrella cracked as it connected with his mouth and it rattled like something was broken inside. Shit! The lanky shadow sped up, stepping right out of the trees, but the fucking bitch didn't notice. She swung the umbrella and smacked it right into his temple.
Dean staggered backwards, his head snapping into a tree trunk. The shadow just looked down at him as he slumped and Dean saw his brother's eyes materialize behind the girl's shoulder before he blacked out. The last thing he heard was Sammy shouting.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Dean was stretched out on something soft, and he heard the crackle of a nearby fire.
What the fuck?
He opened his eyes. 'Something soft' turned out to be one of those four poster beds – and the whole room looked like it was something out of that movie Cassie made him watch with her. That was something he really didn't want to remember, how she used to tease him by calling him Mr. Darcy. Dean Winchester didn't do Jane Austen.
But Dean Winchester was going to find the smartass who dressed him up like Mr. Prancy Dancy – down to the suspenders – and kick his ass. Sam was getting taken outside and down a peg or two. He had to be in on it, because there was no way in hell a chick that little could have dragged him into some reject room from the Molly Brown house.
Unless she's Fido.
It made sense; a hot guy for a cute little coed…and a cute little coed for a hot guy.
Someone had decided to drum on his forehead with a hammer while he was sleeping but that wouldn't keep him from figuring out why the cute little coed was sitting next to him on the bed, wiping his brow with a small washcloth. Or why she was dressed in old-fashioned clothes just like he was. Well, she wasn't wearing suspenders with her purple dress, but that cleavage wasn't natural. She'd gone all out, even putting lilacs in her hair, to make an impression.
The Sidhe were remnants of old-time magic – 'from a time when we lived peacefully with spirits,' Sam said; his little brother got downright bitch pissy when Dean tried to sell him some land in Florida after that. Old time magic could probably make the alley near the apartment building look like something else. Hell, he was probably still laying flat on his ass in the grass. She could use the Glamourie to make herself look however she wanted to look.
So why the hell was a Black Dog dressed up like Mary Poppins?
"You are going to be the death of me, Dean Winchester." Her voice was soft, and she didn't sound like some Midwestern college student. She had one of those fancy accents, like the guy on Buffy.
"You mind telling me what happened?" Dean asked. At least he still sounded the same.
"I suspect that you and Samuel visited with Mr. Singer, given that you are now speaking like him." Her eyes widened. She was close enough for Dean to notice that she had pretty eyes – a hazel that almost looked like there were gold flecks in the green – and she smelled just like the lilacs in her hair. Just like the lilacs Mom had in the backyard. "Then you went hunting," she added.
"It was a shapeshifter," she replied calmly. Not even a face twitch to give away what she was thinking and light fingers brushed his forehead, gentle against the bruise that was forming there. "Are you quite certain you are well? The shifter hit you rather soundly with the flat of a poker."
"Kind of like the time you tried to brain me with an umbrella."
She laughed, a bright sound like a bell. "I threatened you once with an umbrella but I never hit you with it."
"So why is my fricking forehead turning black and blue, sweetheart?" He folded his arms across his chest. "You hellspawn are all alike. Playing games and thinking we're not on to you."
"Games?" The damn thing had the grace to try and look confused. Her eyes narrowed. "Did it take my form?" The pouka might have said more but there was a sharp knock on the door. The woman gave Dean a searching look before frowning. "Come in!" she called.
The door to the room opened and a young girl dressed in a simple black gown stepped inside; she was carrying a tray with a pitcher of water and two glasses. "Here is the water you requested, Miss Penelope," the girl said. She put the tray near the bedside table and curtsied. "Is Mr. Winchester alright, ma'am?"
How many fucking people are in on this? Dean half expected Dad to show up with a grin, ready to tell him it was all a joke about Sam – that it was just a test to see how well Dean followed orders.
"Few things are made of stronger stuff than a Winchester," Penelope replied, and Dean could tell that it was forced – her eyes were too bright when she answered the question. "And, knowing this from personal experience, that would include his skull," the woman continued. "I believe that Mr. Winchester will be set to rights through an evening or two of judicious rest as long as we can keep him away from the whiskey."
What the hell kind of name was Penelope for a pouka? It was Greek, for Christ's sake. Sam had gone on for weeks about her after reading The Odyssey. Weeks.
"Meeks is already securing the cabinet."
"Excellent, Celia." Penelope smiled at the girl, a polite dismissal. "If Mr. Winchester has need of anything, I shall ring you."
Celia curtsied and left the room. The pouka's green eyes were full when she looked at him, and Dean wondered how something that was gutting girls on campus could seem so innocent – even knowing full well what she was, Dean half-believed in her. Half-believed what she said about him, that he belonged in this crazy place where his father never told him... Dean took a breath.
Because the whole damn thing was a trick. Sam had warned him about the Glamourie, how the pouka used it to lure victims to their doom. The Winchesters were fair game, given they were out to kill it. Even Dad used to tell stories about how tricky fairies were to deal with, and a pouka wasn't some freaking little flower pixie.
"I have never played games with you." Penelope's voice was soft, breaking into his thoughts.
"Yeah? Then why the hell am I being held captive in a bedroom?" Dean snorted, cocky grin on his face like a challenge. "Let me guess. You always knock your victims on the head before you gut them. It probably feels better when you feed if your victims are jacked up with sex and mind games."
Penelope's eyes flashed angrily, mouth a straight line – until a thought glimmered across her face. "Perhaps it is amnesia, Dean."
"Got a brother named Sam. My dad's name is John Winchester. My mom died in a fire. I kill demons. Drive a big black car." Dean ticked off each statement on his fingers. "Do I sound like I have amnesia?"
Penelope's brow furrowed. "You could be under some sort of spell…"
"A spell you put on me, bitch!"
Dean was going to say more but Penelope suddenly leaned forward, her lips touching his in a chaste kiss. She pulled back with a little catch in her throat, hands held tightly in her lap, and he almost thought she was going to start bawling.
It must have been the lilac smell reminding him of Mom or the fairy magic making him want to believe in her or the way she rested her forehead against his with a tiny sigh because that fucking kiss lanced through him; right into the place where he'd never been able to meet Jo Harvelle, no matter how hard the blonde girl tried. So many girls had tried to touch him there after Dad died, pulled in by the grief on his face and whispering his name like it mattered – none of them knowing that he pounded his anger into them until he was nothing but skin and a scream.
All that mattered was focusing on the job. Even when he was fucking a girl every night, his body doing what his body always did, all that mattered was doing the job his father had left for him. Doing the job his father had died for him to do. The one thing Dean was brought back to do.
"There must be some part of you that still remembers me." Penelope didn't wait for a response, just bent forward and kissed him again.
Dean didn't know how long he could resist and part of him wanted to give in to this thing that smiled like she knew him better than himself, especially with Penelope's tongue suddenly playing against his; a breathless dance, where she knew all of his steps – could reach inside and touch that place where he'd kept himself safe, where he kept all the secrets that Sam could never know locked down tight like a drum.
The demon's got a plan for your brother. You've got to try and save him, Dean. But if you can't, you're going to have to stop him. And the only way to do that is to kill Sam. Remember that.
He shook his head sharply, feeling her hand curling against his cheek. Dean opened his eyes to find her staring up into his face. "You really do not…" she began before lowering her head, taking a breath. "I will make you remember me," Penelope declared.
Dean didn't want to remember. He wanted to forget. To feel the skin and lose himself in the scream.
He brought his mouth down hard on hers, his hands tight on her arms as Dean pulled her into his lap. She started licking the freckles across his nose with a feathery touch that had her trembling, followed by the soft murmur of his name across his cheekbones. When she was done, Penelope sucked on his lower lip and scratched against his chest so slowly that his back arched – not even Cassie knew about that – and the spell was cast.
Dean Winchester was going to screw the pouka.
"I believe we should start with these," Penelope said, pulling back his left suspender and letting it slap against his chest. It brushed his nipple, already fully erect from the jolt. She started sliding them off down his shoulders, scratching down his arms with the same slow pressure she used on his chest. When his hands went down to start unbuttoning his shirt, Penelope shook her head and took both of his hands into hers – kissing their palms before letting them go.
It took him three tries to realize that she was telling him 'no.'
Her finger trailed the fly of his pants, slipping between some of the buttons, before she pulled up his shirt and licked the skin right near the waistband. The rough friction against his skin felt good, especially when she began unbuttoning the fly. "A pity Samuel removed your shoes," she said softly, and there was a hungry look in her green eyes when she looked up at him – gold flecks more pronounced every time she popped open a button. "You could search my senses for sweet excess in public if you were but wearing your boots."
Penelope's voice was a whisper, a breath against his belly. Dean had no fucking idea what she was talking about, but he was bursting against whatever passed for underwear in his fancy getup. She gave a contented sigh.
Dean swallowed. "You want to try that?"
Penelope kissed his hip bone, hands reaching underneath the waistband of his pants and pulling them down past his knees. "You are injured and I would not wish to overtax you." A smile played across her lips as she slipped her hand inside and Dean's eyes widened. He was wearing freaking long john's. What the hell? "At least not until I have ascertained that all your pertinent parts are in full working order," she added, tongue making another stripe against his hip.
"I'll slip those bad boys on once I'm all systems go," Dean managed.
She sure as hell didn't sound like a monster when she giggled. "You are spending entirely too much time in your younger brother's laboratory." Penelope shook her head, fingers curling into the waistband of the long john's and inching them off as methodically as she had his pants. "All systems go? You cannot remember me and yet you can easily recall shocking American vernacular with disturbing ease." She actually grinned at him, squeezing his thighs, but there was a shadow in her eyes.
"Dean Winchester's got special skills."
Penelope snorted right before her lips encircled him. Her mouth was warm and slick, and Dean groaned – grabbing fistfuls of hair, her hands on his hips. Penelope's breath was hot against his skin. And just when he thought it was over, she slowed down; sucking gently while his back arched. "Fuck," he whispered. He rode it out, and he almost thought she knew how much his body was ready to lose because suddenly she stopped completely – resting her head on his belly. "Anyone ever tell you how fucking hot your mouth is?" Dean demanded.
"You are the most perverse man I know, Dean Winchester," she returned. Penelope's hair was spilling out into curls, brushing her shoulders, and she brought a crumpled sprig of lilacs up to his nose. "You have been sorely abusing my good nature since I was four."
"Are you going to harass me or are we going to fuck?"
Penelope's eyes widened, and her grin was wicked. "Consider your state of undress compared to mine."
He snorted. "You think I'm perverted? You're the one dressed like you want to give me a spoonful of sugar." Dean began sucking on the curve of her neck, flicking against it with his tongue as his hands moved to her waist. He'd definitely gotten the raw end of this deal; there must have been some fifty buttons he'd usually just rip off up her freaking back. But there was something to be said about every shudder he pulled from her when the top of her dress started sliding off her shoulders. He suspected that whatever she was wouldn't take too kindly to someone ripping off her dress.
Penelope stood up next to the bed and shimmied out of her dress. She looked so goddamn cute the way she did it, kicking it off with pointy-toed boots that were the hottest fucking things a chick could wear – if you could get past her corset. The damn thing was laced tight enough, and came down so low you could even see the tops of her nipples peeking up over the fabric. She didn't say anything when he bent down to kiss the right, just put her hands in his hair and pulled his head closer. Started kissing his freckles again when he looked up at her.
She trembled when he began pulling off her underwear, realizing that he was wrong about the corset. Penelope looked like she was wearing the bottom of one of those old bathing suits, with frilly lace around each of her thighs – but once those were off, Dean saw the freaking garter belt. Holding up tights almost as white as her skin. He didn't even give her a warning – just shoved her onto the bed so that she was on her knees in front of him, listening to her moan when his fingers played against her and realizing she was saying his name with each shiver.
"You like that?" he asked, voice gruff.
"You do not need to be gentle." Penelope moved against him like she wanted to forget as much as he did, losing herself in the way her body suddenly went still.
The corset had to come off. He tugged experimentally on the cords – but there was no way the thing could be pulled apart. Dean leaned forward, brushing the back of her right ear with his lips. "Any particular way you want to do this?"
"The drawer," Penelope whispered.
Dean didn't need to be told twice. He scrambled off the bed and slid open the drawer, pulling out something Swiss Army knife. "You're kind of freaky," he said softly, coming back onto the bed, flicking open the blade. It slipped into the first cross, sliced through the cords. He pulled apart the opening as much as he could and kissed her spine. Her back arched every time the blade snicked through the lacing, and she shivered every time his lips touched her back. Done, Dean tossed the knife to the floor and pulled the damn corset off.
As soon as his hands found her breasts, Penelope's hips crashed backwards into his. "Please," she asked, green eyes looking at him over her shoulder. "Will you not…fuck me?" She was blushing.
What kind of stone cold killer actually blushed when you were screwing her?
"You can ask me nicer than that," Dean returned. "All those fancy words and the only thing you can think of is fuck?" But he was already feeling her swell around him as his hands clutched her hips. She was rocking and they were both going to walk away with bruises. Penelope bunched the comforter in her hands and he bit her shoulder when she cried out – hips moving, but not nearly fast enough for him. "I like it when you use the fancy words," he added, letting go of her hips. Her skin had red marks where his fingers had been.
Penelope's head was bent towards the mattress. "You did not reach the tenderest fires," she observed softly. Dean could see the sweat on her back, the way she shivered when he breathed softly between her shoulder blades.
"We're not done yet, sweetheart."
Sam would think he'd gone soft, screwing some girl who might be a pouka – but the way Penelope acted almost had Dean wishing the whole damn thing was true. He might even get used to the fucking suspenders if a hot chick was part of the deal.
Dean rolled her over, pushing her up until Penelope's back was against the headboard. Her cheeks were flushed, but her eyes were soft when she touched his cheek with her hand. "Every time you go hunting, I worry that you will never return," she said, her hand trembling. "Every single night." Penelope shook her head, brown curls brushing against her nipples, her stomach.
Dean's throat was so sore, he couldn't say anything to that; just opened her thighs. When he was drunk, Dad used to say that the closest you ever got to God was the moment you slipped your head between a woman's thighs. Dean went slow, listening to her moan. "Suck my bee's sting," she begged. The girl was coming the moment his lips surrounded her pulse, pounding against his mouth with a deep sigh.
Dad said a lot of things before he died.
You've got to try and save him, Dean.
He didn't ask if she was ready, just pulled her down and thrust deep inside. Dean thought he'd start crashing into her as hard as he could, but Penelope slowed him down; swelling as she danced beneath him. Her hands reached underneath his shirt, fingers digging into the muscles on his back as Dean began matching his tempo to her heartbeat. She brought her legs up, shifted to open herself wider for him when he began to moan; the sharp heels of her boots scratching his thighs.
"Dean!" she cried, her entire body stiffening. He'd seen her come enough times to recognize it again but even her scream couldn't drown out his father's voice. But if you can't, you're going to have to stop him. Dean stopped moving, only for her to dig nails into arms with another moan. Her hips began rocking again, his shoulders loosening as her hands circled his neck. Penelope brought up her mouth to his, gasping as she kissed him. Hips crashed against his, pulling him in and pushing him out from between her thighs, and suddenly she was climbing right back up that hill with him.
Penelope leaned up on her elbows and her entire body flushed – breasts pushing up into his chest as he moved, his lips on her neck as his breath stuttered past his lips. She shivered. "Can you not pierce me any faster?"
"Fuck, yeah," he breathed. The way she was moving against him, he knew – his entire body languid, her breath flowing through him. They surged against each other, and the shudder that stirred through his abdomen – fighting against the sluggish eddy of memory – suddenly exploded right through him. He brought his lips down hard on hers and screamed right into her mouth.
Penelope took a deep breath, trembling against him. She kissed his shoulder, green eyes full of something he could see in the flush of her skin. And not even Cassie had known enough to play him like that, like he was some kind of instrument she'd spent years learning how to improvise – and he never thought it could be…like that…again. Like it had been before the secret, when Dean loved the job – before the family business became anger and duty and being left alone to do something no brother should ever be asked to do.
Dean Winchester could actually breathe a little. Maybe as screwed as Dad had made things, there was still a chance. He and Sammy would just have to figure it out. Dean swallowed. "What are you?"
Green eyes looked back into his, completely guileless. "I am yours, Dean Winchester." Her hand touched his forehead, shivering as it felt the pulse throbbing through his right temple.
He took her hand in his and kissed it. Dean started to feel something tugging at the back of his skull, and he heard his own voice right before he sank back into the dark – only it was cool and calm and had an accent just like hers.
"I never forgot you, Penny."
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
His head fucking hurt, like someone had stuck it in a vise and decided to twist it just for shits and grins – which would have been bad enough, without the rain pouring onto his face.
Dean was splayed out against the grass, staring up at the bare branches of a big tree, and the only thing keeping him from getting really pissed about his ass getting soaked was a pair of green eyes looking down at him. Dean grinned, reaching up to put his hands behind her neck and pull that mouth back down onto his. He could still taste her breath, could hear her voice crying out his name.
He still wanted to screw the goddamn pouka.
"Easy there, Cassanova." It was Sam's voice, and his little brother's face came into view across from the girl. She was pressing something onto his right temple; something that was marked with her perfume, the soft scent of lilacs that he remembered in her hair. She kept her hand on his forehead as Sam reached two arms behind Dean and pulled him upright.
"Fuck you," Dean snapped.
"Don't mind Agent Ford," Sam continued genially. "People say strange things after they've been hit in the head." Right. Dean blinked, the light from the streetlight dimming but it still bored into his skull with a sharp pounding noise. Damn girl hit me with her umbrella. "How many fingers am I holding up, Dean?" his little brother asked.
Dean squinted. "I'm kicking your ass, Sammy!" The little bastard was holding up his index finger. Dean braced himself by putting both hands on the ground beneath him, the grass and mud slick beneath his palms. The smile on his little brother's face looked just like the one Sam had back in Texas, only without the super glue and the beer bottle. "As soon as I can stand up by myself," Dean added.
There was no fucking way Dad was right. No way. Sammy was Sammy and no freaking demon was going to change that.
"It's almost like something put a spell on you," Sam replied. The freak almost sounded amused. Crap. "You went down fast."
"I'm sorry," the girl apologized. "I didn't realize you were with the FBI until your partner identified himself." Her eyes narrowed and she looked at his face critically, gently pulling away the scarf. There was a pounding across the temple, a pressure that matched his heartbeat. "Isn't that standard operating procedure?" she asked. "And your language…"
Sam coughed. "When we're undercover, Agent Ford never breaks character." He looked at Dean. "She scared off the suspect when she hit you."
That meant that the chick wasn't the problem but he had to admit that it was kind of nice not feeling his chest tighten when some girl smiled at him. Whatever had caused his little interlude with one hot corset-wearing babe helped him breathe without the stitch in his side. Since the Unseelie weren't all that keen on helping people, it must have been something else that had plucked the nearest chick and stuck her in his brain.
Maybe it was just the umbrella. Or Mary fucking Poppins.
"I probably shouldn't have used my home run swing on your partner, Agent Hamill."
Sam smiled at her. "It was a good swing." Screw you, Sam! She smiled back, which sucked. It wasn't fair that the goddamn puppy dog eyes worked for his little brother and never for him.
"Home run swing?" Dean snorted. "You knocked me flat on my ass with some move you learned in PE?" Now that Dean was sitting up, it was a hell of a lot easier to focus his eyes – and he wasn't feeling sick to his stomach, which was a pretty good sign that he didn't have a concussion. He could still feel Penelope's hand on his forehead, though, and the pressure of her lips against his when she kissed him – smelling lilacs on the scarf pressed into his hand.
"Playing baseball with my older brothers, actually." Her voice was soft.
"The next time I catch you hindering a federal investigation by playing baseball, I'm taking you in," Dean retorted. "You got that, Miss – ?" He looked at her, mouth a thin line and hoping like hell she'd buy it.
"Hillsworth," she supplied. "Penny Hillsworth."
Son of a bitch! That was close enough for Sidhe magic and government work. Maybe the whole thing was Fido's fault but it still didn't fit. There were lots of things out there that liked to pick open scabs and the Winchesters had pissed a lot of them off through the years. Payback was coming. But why make him feel a little calm before the storm? Dean was going to say something to her, but Sam's hands were underneath each shoulder and his little brother was picking him up off the ground. Dean swayed a little before he got his bearings.
Penny Hillsworth stared at him, a frown on her face. "Agent Ford?"
"I know you're undercover, but is there a number where you can be reached?" she asked, rising to her feet and picking up her umbrella. Penny grabbed the strap of her book bag with her free hand. "I didn't mean to hurt you." She shook her head. "Well, I wouldn't have tried to hurt you if I had known you were one of the good guys. I guess I just need to know that you're okay." She grinned. "I'd hate to think I'd permanently scarred one of America's finest with the umbrella my mom gave me for Christmas."
"866-907-3235," Dean answered, returning her grin. Sam's sigh was just a little exaggerated, and his little brother shifted so that Dean was leaning against him. Even when he was unconscious and flat on his ass – even when he wasn't looking for it – Dean Winchester could still pick up a chick. His right hand closed around the scarf. "Uh, hey. You want this back?"
"Keep it. In case that cut on your head opens up on the way to the hospital." Penny had both hands behind her back, standing on the tips of her toes.
"Thanks." Dean guessed she wouldn't look so concerned if she realized she'd just been conned and that Sam was going to be the one stitching up his older brother's forehead if it needed to be done.
"I hope you catch him," Penny said. She nodded once and turned away from them, walking towards the building. They watched her unlock the door, and she looked at them before she went inside – met Dean's eye and held up her hand in a small wave, returning his smile with one of her own, before she closed the door behind her.
And Sam thinks puppy dog eyes are a match for me.
Sam actually rolled those puppy dog eyes when he saw Dean smirking at him. "Yeah, you've still got it." Sam snorted. "Not."
"What the hell do you mean by that? Girl wanted me so much, she knocked me down."
"She didn't even write your phone number down."
I did my best to tone down the sex scene based on what I posted over on my Livejournal. If more work is needed in that regard, please let me know and I would be happy to modify.
'Gobsmacked' is a British slang term that means 'to be astonished or flabbergasted, as stunned as if you had been suddenly smacked (struck) in the mouth.'
I left it open-ended. I don't plan on writing any more stories featuring the Modern Dean and Victorian Penny pairing, but having a little 'verse for the occasional ficlet isn't a bad thing.
And, yes, there had to be a pea coat somewhere in the story… Mentioned the boots and the suspenders, too. buffs nails on shirt