Series Title: What If…
Chapter Title: Gunslinger
Author: Restive Nature
Disclaimer: Neither show represented in this fiction belongs to me. Dark Angel is the product of Cameron/Eglee and Fox, whereas Supernatural is the product of Kripke and The CW. No profits are made from this fiction and it is intended for private enjoyment only. I also do not own any other recognizable copyrighted material. It is included for cultural reference only.
Pairing: Dean and his little fantasy woman…
Summary: Costumes, guns and jealousy do not a great Halloween make.
Spoilers/ Timeline: This would have taken place after Sam left for college, on one of those hunts that Max and Dean were on together.
Feedback: Always welcome!
Distribution: Ask first please.
A/N: This story, while being in the same universe as When It Changes, does not actually occur within that storyline. This fiction is just an off-shoot of what might have happened.
"Why the hell did I let you convince me to play dress-up?" Dean demanded loudly of his sister in the next room.
"I already told you Dean," she called back. "We're hunting at the college campus. The thing is going to be there tonight and since they're having a Halloween party, everyone is dressing up. And since the frat boys are forcefully prepared to make sure that everyone is in costumes, isn't it better if we're already dressed up?"
"I'm not so sure about that," he called back. He picked up the battered hat that had come with the outfit she'd picked out for him. After settling it on his head, he turned to look in the mirror attached to the dresser that stood opposite the twin beds. Alright, he could handle this. An old west cowboy. His wary eye traveled down his reflection, taking in the aforementioned hat, the Mexican based grey poncho, his own ratty black jeans and brown boots, even the holsters affixed to each hip. He frowned. Something didn't look right.
"Well I certainly don't want to be caught dead in whatever those drunken frat boys would cook up for me," Max called back decisively. Dean rolled his eyes.
"Why couldn't we just you know, go as psychopathic killers? They look like everybody else, don't they?"
"And since everybody else," Max stressed the words, "is dressing up, psychopaths would dress up too."
"You know what I mean," Dean sighed, still trying to figure out what was wrong with his reflection. He squinted his eyes, going for a Dirty Harry look. Well, he had that, it looked good, but the picture still wasn't right.
"Yeah I do and so do they," Max continued explaining. "Costumes like that aren't allowed."
Dean, continuing in the vein of his cowboy pose, brought his hands to his hips, ready for the quick draw and there he found the mistake, which actually, had been on his list of complaints. He pulled one of the plastic toy guns from the holster. "And why can't I have a real gun again?"
"Sheesh Dean," he heard her chuckle. "Think about it. You really think after everything that's been reported in the media, they're really gonna let you walk in with a loaded weapon?"
"I wouldn't load it until after we arrived," he defended himself.
"Yeah, like that would work so much better," she scoffed. "Besides, you'll have your weapons. I stashed them when I was doin' recon."
"Well you better hope they're still there," he grunted. Man, if some snooty little frat boy started messin' with his guns; there'd be hell to pay. He gave himself one more once over in the mirror. Not perfect, but it'd have to do. "Are you about ready? I want to get this show on… the… road." Before he could help himself, a low whistle escaped his lips.
"You like?" Max giggled girlishly from her pose in the arch of the bathroom entry. She twirled around, making the flounces of her saloon girl dress stand out in a whirl. Dean just barely caught a glimpse of a black and cherry pink lacy little garter, perfectly matching the satin of the bodice of the barely there dress. One shoulder strap was dangling artfully down her arm and Dean wondered when the hell her waist had gotten so tiny. Was she going full out and wearing a corset for God's sake? No, with the way that satin clung to her skin, he was sure he would have seen the outline. "I thought it would be good if our outfits at least had the same theme," she explained. "Plus I figured I'd be pretty easy to find in a crowd, wearing this color." She gestured to the pink satin. It was bright all right. But it was the package inside that was eye catching.
"And where are your weapons?" Dean managed to garble out. Smirking, Max pointed at her head. Dean gaped at her until she sighed and very carefully pulled a slim dirk from the mounds of curls at the back of her head that cascaded down one slim shoulder. He nodded then and she pushed it back, her hands careful to make sure she didn't ruin her painstakingly created hair-do.
"And," she drawled, her hands dropping to the hem of the dress. She daintily pulled it up just enough for another glimpse of that garter and rotated her leg outward, showing off the hiding place of her anointed silver dagger.
"All right then," Dean cleared his throat. "Let's get a move on."
"Just a second," Max smiled as she approached him. Surprising him, she dropped to her knees before him, "Your laces are coming loose." She reached for the tie that went around his thigh and began to re-knot it.
"Say," Dean grinned cheekily, "while you're down there…" Max's head snapped up, glaring at him, daring him to just try and finish that thought. "Could you check my spurs?" Her lips pursed and he could see she was trying to hold back a laugh, not wanting to encourage his typically licentious flirting. Her hands moved over the pair of authentic spurs she'd brought back, making sure the straps on those were correctly attached and buckled. She patted the toe of his dusty boots and then climbed back to her feet.
"You're good to go cowboy," she announced and then flounced her way out the door. Dean watched the way her hips unconsciously swayed, the pink satin glimmering back the light of the neon motel sign and he sighed. It was going to be a hell of a long night.
Two hours later and they were still 'mingling'. And Dean had about had enough. He was ready for the mangling portion of the evening. Oh, the first part of the evening had gone just as Max had assured him it would. They got in to the party just fine. She'd showed him where she'd stashed his real guns, though she wouldn't let him replace the plastic guns yet and then they'd checked out the room they were supposed to. Nothing yet and there wouldn't be anything until after midnight, if this thing stuck to its M.O. So now they were amidst a throng of drunken, horny, mostly still teenaged college kids. That would have been fine with Dean, but he'd had to decline drink after drink, nubile young lady after Cleopatra clad young lady, all to keep his head in the game. But by far the worst, was trying to keep an eye on Max.
He wasn't the only guy, of course, that appreciated the cleavage on that cheap little dress. Not the only one that had been watching it hug the curves of her ass. And if he had to watch another guy run a damn finger down her arm, he was going to…
"I said get the hell off me!" Max's angry shriek reached his ears. Dean's eyes automatically flew back to the spot that he'd seen her last, just moments ago, but she was no longer there. He scanned the room rapidly, his feet moving when he caught a glimpse in the far corner of that distinctive pink satin.
"I said no!" her shriek had several effects. One, it alternately encouraged drunken bastard all that more, two it caught several more people's attention and three, had Dean reaching for his weapon before he even recalled that they were just puny plastic wannabe's. Well, that just left him the most satisfying weapon of all.
"Get the hell off her you bastard," he snarled, catching the burly, probably there on a football scholarship, guy in the shoulder and spinning him around. He couldn't even register what the guy was wearing, or what he looked like. All Dean could concentrate on was the satisfying feel of his fist in the guy's gut. That was followed up by an even more solid feel of his fist catching the guys chin with his right cross. Frat boy went down and the snickers went up. "The next time a lady says 'no', you better damn well listen!" Dean warned.
Two people, perhaps friends, perhaps not if Dean were to judge by the annoyed looks on their faces, helped the burly guy up, and Dean realized now he was wearing a badly done Frankenstein costume. Disgusted, he turned to check on Max, surprised to see that she was trembling slightly. He opened his arms and took a step forward, relieved when she ducked into the comfort of his embrace. His arms folded around her, his heart sighing.
"You okay?" he questioned softly into the curls tickling his nose.
"Yeah," she mumbled back. He felt her shrug. "I could've handled it you know."
"I know," he chuckled. Yeah, he knew that well. "Sorry, got caught up in the moment you know. Had to live up to my costume and all that crap." That got a giggle out of her.
"Oh lord," she half-groaned, "don't tell me you were gonna shoot him?"
"Obviously not," Dean teased, "because somebody wouldn't let me have my guns tonight."
"And somebody was completely justified, wasn't she?" Max leaned back to smirk up at him, her eyes darkening and Dean was aware that whatever shock she'd endured was wearing off. Definitely aware that something else was now taking place. "You know, maybe now it's my turn to live up to my costume."
He couldn't help it, his eyes flickered downward momentarily. Was she saying what he thought she was saying? She wiggled out of his arms, one hand still holding his and began to tug him towards the staircase. "Max…"
"I'm sure I heard someone say that there were a few… unoccupied rooms upstairs."
Well hell, a little wiggle and a wink like that and he'd follow her anywhere. Dean was barely aware of the show they were putting on until catcalls and whistles followed them up the stairs. He paused a moment, turning to look out over the crowd, a good many of whom were watching the pair of them. With a gallant tip of his hat, he drawled out, "evenin' folks" and promptly forgot them as the crowd returned to its party.
The first door they tried was locked, the second they hit pay dirt. Dean followed Max in, shutting the door soundly, only to be nudged back to lean against it. Dean felt his heartbeat picking up as Max ran her hands down his chest, her lips curved in a sexy pout.
"Mm, you remember what you were gonna ask me earlier?" she asked in a whisper. Before Dean could even begin to form coherent thought about the past few hours, she was on her knees before him. The slide of his zipper brought him fully to attention, his body already humming with anticipation.
"Dean?" Max barked sharply. She snapped her fingers in front of his face. "Dean? Are you drooling?"
Dean came back to himself suddenly, his eyes focusing on Max's concerned face. "I what?"
"You're drooling," she pointed out dryly. Dean swiped at his mouth, horrified at having been caught, well, not paying attention. "What were you thinking about?"
"Nothing," he denied quickly. He cast around desperately for something to explain… "Hey is there gonna be food at this party? I'm getting hungry."
"We just ate two hours ago?" Max pointed out, slightly exasperated. She turned to pick up the bag containing her costume and headed to the bathroom with it, leaving Dean to change in the main room of the motel.
"So?" Dean demanded, wincing as the bathroom door slammed shut. He dropped his glance down to the pile of clothes he held that constituted his costume. Thank the stars she hadn't noticed a certain strained member if his anatomy.
"Oh fine," he heard her grumble. "We'll pick up a burger or something on the way."
Dean piled the clothes upon the dresser, determinedly avoiding the mirror that was attached to it. "So what costume did you get?" he called, louder now so that she could hear him.
"Oh you'll love it," she called back. "It's perfect."
"What is it?" Dean asked again, not realizing that his eyes were beginning to twinkle.
"Dance hall girl?"
Oh damn. Dean's eyebrows furrowed, trying to think of something else that would go with his cowboy outfit. Ooh, maybe she could be a little schoolmarm, just fresh from the big city out on the Texas plain. She'd be riding in a stagecoach, that a group of roving banditos was about to rob and… what the hell was he thinking? Dean snorted. Max must have been reading too many of those goopy historical romances and somehow they were rubbing off on him. But damn if she wouldn't look cute as a button with her hair pulled back and itty bitty glasses perched on the end of her nose… Damn it!
"You're not guessing Dean!" she reminded him.
"Oh, are you a schoolmarm?" He hastily began shucking his regular clothes.
"You know, one of those old time school teachers?"
"Why would I dress up as that?"
"Well you better not be a cow!"
There was a thump. That didn't sound good and then her head was poking through the slim opening of the door and frame. "Did you just call me a cow?"
"No," he hastened to reassure her. "I asked if you were dressing up as one."
"Who the hell would dress up as a cow?" she asked as she ducked back into the bathroom. Dean shrugged. He assumed that was a no. But what else would go…?
"Oh, a cowgirl?"
"What's with this Wild West theme you've got going?" she laughed.
"Well I just assumed," he shrugged, even though she couldn't see him.
"That what, we were gonna be the Bobsey twins?" she was still laughing at him. "No, I got you that outfit so you'd have somewhere to stash your weapons. Mine is for the same reasons."
That made sense. "So again I say… cowgirl?"
"That'd be good but for the fact that I don't do guns," she reminded him.
"Well what is it?" Dean asked as he pulled on the button up shirt she'd provided. His own jeans would definitely suffice.
"Give me a few more minutes and I'll show you."
Dean sighed and continued alternately finishing getting into his costume and entertaining brief fantasies about what Max could possibly be dressing up as. Put on the belt, Little Red Riding Hood? Strap on the first holster, Xena, Warrior Princess? Strap on the second, Vampire Slayer? Slide the poncho over his head, Lara Croft? Nah, she did guns too. That wasn't it.
"Are you decent Dean?"
"When am I ever?" he called back teasingly. He heard a very exasperated sigh.
"Are you dressed?"
"Pretty much yeah."
The door opened and he turned his head to look and then looked again, his jaw dropping.
Max stood in the doorway, her arms stretched up as high as they could go, her legs crossed one over the other.
"You're uh… you're, wow!"
"Uh huh," Max looked sultry, sinful and ready to play. "I mean honestly Dean," she simpered. "Skintight black leather, stiletto heels and a whip, how could I resist?" She carefully straightened the tiny ears on her head, flipped her hair back over her shoulder, adjusted the whip coiled around her body a la Michelle Pfeiffer and sauntered past him. "You ready to go?"
"Darlin' I'm always ready," he assured her in a husky voice that she didn't seem to notice. "Oh hey, could you check my spurs?"
"I'm sure they're fine," she grinned back at him. She yanked open the front door. "Don't forget your wallet, you're paying for dinner."
Dean barely noticed the moisture pooling in his mouth at the sight of her ass, hugged so delectably by that skintight leather swaying slowly out the door.
Well hell, maybe this Halloween holiday wasn't going to be so bad after all. Dean grabbed up the hat that went with his outfit and hurried after her.
"Hey you punk! Get away from my girl! I mean, my Cat woman! I mean… Get the hell away from my sister!"
Then again, maybe not.