Work Text:
The apocalypse is over. The whole mess of it. The angels have fucked off back upstairs. The demons are laying low, as far as Dean can tell. Sam's back where he belongs, a little shaken, a little confused, and missing some important memories that Dean hopes he never gets back. He's not quite ok yet, but he will be, eventually, he will be. That's good enough for now. Everything else is as back to normal as it's going to get. As back to normal as it can get. Which Dean is finding a lot harder to deal with than he'd expected. Because they've been living pretty desperate lives for a while now. They've been hunted by angels and demons, for so long that the sudden, quiet void feels strangely unreal. It leaves Dean's nerves trying to chew through his own skin.
Which is why, when he gets out of the motel room and sees the long, familiar shine of a red Mustang he's almost relieved. Because the rush of adrenaline makes him feel like himself again. The figure leaning back against the car tells him he's not just being paranoid. And if War's alive then who knows what else is going to be coming for them.
Dean puts himself between the Horseman and the motel room, even though Sam's at the library, burying himself in books and not thinking about anything. Instincts take a long time to fade away.
"What the hell are you doing here, and what do you want?" he demands.
War crosses his arms over his chest. He doesn't look bothered in the slightest by Dean's slow simmering anger.
"What makes you think I'm here for you?"
Dean jerks his head towards where his hand's folded down under his arm.
"We stole your ring."
War shakes his head, the corner of his mouth curling up.
"And believe me, getting you to do that was almost irritatingly easy - though, I should want a little payback for that, for cutting off my fingers, which was completely unnecessary."
There's not a chance Dean's going to feel guilty about that. Not considering what War was doing to that town when they got there. But he doesn't miss the beginning of that statement either. He frowns at what it means.
"Someone wanted us to have the rings."
"You're not the only one that has to bend over for destiny," War says, voice a growl. "We have a schedule just like you, and when the big guy says jump, believe me, you jump."
Dean's not surprised by that, too much of the crap they went through felt like someone's master plan. So, no, he's not surprised, but he's still allowed to be angry. He's gotten damn good at being angry about stuff after all.
"So, what, we didn't kill you?"
"Ruined my day, absolutely, killed me, not a chance," War says, then shrugs loosely. "The ring's a focal point. It's permission, if you like, to make a mess of this plane. No permission, no vacation." War lifts a hand, lets Dean see his empty fingers. "Or no apocalypse, just your usual wanton chaos, and constant, messy human warfare. Just war, no end of days."
Dean doesn't believe him. He knows better than most how demons can't help but screw you over, at the first opportunity. That's what they do, just for kicks.
War spreads his arms expansively.
"What, you think War is a job description. You think I interviewed for the position? I was made for this, to stir everything into a seething mass of conflict and destruction? I was carved into existence even before the first one of you picked up a rock and decided to bash someone else's brain in with it. "
War tips his head to the side, huffs something soft and amused.
"Not that you need much stirring. You're a very excitable species."
Dean's not sure if that's an insult or not. "So what, you're just passing through."
"Something like that," War says slowly, in a tone Dean doesn't like at all. "And, no free pass for you this time, Winchester. With the apocalypse packed up back in its box you're pretty much surplus to requirements. I don't have to give you anything. I don't even have to let you live."
Dean crosses his own arms. "And yet I'm not dead yet."
War shakes his head.
"So maybe I'm not here to kill you, though I could have done, you and your brother aren't exactly hard to find."
"Says the guy with the pretty freakin' obvious car. It's a bad idea to be that easy to spot."
War raises an eyebrow. "And yours fits just right in, doesn't it. But, seriously, you honestly think you could catch me?"
Dean makes a rough noise, all arrogance and bullshit that he's been pulling off since he was ten years old. He's fairly sure War's out of his arrogance and bullshit league - but then when has that ever stopped him.
"I know I could," he says. Because, hell, he'd really like to try.
War's mouth stretches into a smile that's wide and sharp.
"Your mouth has to be seen to be believed, you know that."
"Doesn’t mean it isn't true," Dean says.
War's smile turns into a laugh, dark and deep.
"You can try." War waves a hand at the Impala.
It's unexpected, and Dean has to backtrack the conversation, wariness giving way to a thread of something jagged, something hot and excited.
"You're serious?" he asks.
"Got something better to do?" There's a tone there like War knows he doesn't. Like he knows Dean would give pretty much anything to chase something down right now. Dean thinks he's just crazy enough to do it.
He opens the door of the Impala.
"Get in your damn car."
War slowly pushes himself off the Mustang's paintwork and slides the door open.
Dean drops himself into the driver's seat of the Impala, glances across at the steady, rolling thrum of the other car. He tries to decide how likely it is that War will cheat. The Mustang's engine sounds like a fucking beast, it's a noise that snags at something in his spine and sends a shiver all the way through him. Dean revs the engine, pushes himself back in the seat and grits his teeth. The road they drove into town is about seven miles. It's straight enough, wide enough and flat enough to make it fair.
Dean's swallowing, foot twitching, hands sliding and catching on the wheel.
He has no idea how they manage to both rip out of the lot at the same time, but they do. Gravel hits the wall and sprays up behind them. Dean's too busy concentrating on not getting left behind.
The road's close enough that they slide onto it together, the wheels of the Impala digging into the dirt. And Dean’s briefly worried that he's going to smash into the side of the other car and rip up the paintwork, before they're straight again - devouring the road in pieces, and the Mustang accelerates like a son of a bitch.
The Impala hasn't had to work this hard for years but she's good for it. She's more than good for it. She's had to chase down monsters before; she's had to slam into monsters at speed. She's fucking beautiful.
There's a rough stretch halfway to the crossroad, surface worn away by farm vehicles. Dean decides to hell with it, if he needs to pull right he'll take a little paint off both their cars to win. Though he's not all that sure that whatever makes War's car shine is entirely paint. There's a high whining vibration that tells him Dean's going too damn fast. But War's fast, faster than him, faster than hell. He slides past him in one fierce push. Sharp and effortless, like he's been driving for years, for centuries.
Dean's going to tear the damn car apart trying to catch him. Hell, it doesn't stop him from wanting to try though. From still trying a second after he realises the horseman is going to walk it. He lets the engine get high, lets it roar and shake and he's still dropping back by feet.
Until the flash of red is so far up the road it's just a glint in the distance.
Yeah, Dean's fairly sure he's lost it. But his heart's pounding so damn hard, hands clenched tight around the wheel and the road is flaring out behind him like water and he hasn't feel this good in too fucking long. By the time he gets to the end of the road, War's leant against the glossy red stretch of his car. He stays motionless until Dean slides to a stop beside him.
He pushes the door open and gets out. The sides of the Impala are spattered with dust and grit and he's going to regret the state of the tires later but fuck, fuck.
"Feel better now?" War asks. Though the expression on his face says he knows exactly how Dean feels. It says he knows what that heavy, bright rush of blood feels like. How long it takes to drain out. How high it leaves you.
Dean grunts.
"Not exactly fair though, huh? I'm willing to bet this is about seventy percent car and thirty percent whatever - hellfire for all I know." He waves a hand, to indicate the whole thing, though it comes out more appreciative than anything else. It's still too pretty to be really in the sunlight. Giving off waves of heat and barely restrained violence.
"Oh, it's all car." War reaches out, before Dean can process, or react, grabs his wrist and presses it down against the hood, where it's slick and hot and humming with power. Real and solid metal, so red between his fingers.
He's damned if he can stop the low, hard noise he makes - at the feel of it. At the slippery, delicious perfection of it, before he's tugging his hand out of War's grip.
"The car's not real," Dean insists. "Pretty as hell but it's still fake."
War crowds in close, spreads his own hands down on the hood either side of him.
"It's as real as I want it to be. Which is pretty damn real at the minute."
War watches Dean's face twist in irritation for long enough that Dean raises a hand. Moves to shove him out of the way and straighten up again. But the horseman leans sideways, rests his hip against the car instead.
"Shall I tell you what you're doing here Dean? Out in the middle of nowhere with something that can eat you alive. The apocalypse left everything so very safe and normal and bland and you're just itching to do something stupid and reckless, aren't you?"
"Like racing a horseman?" Dean offers. "Maybe I just can't resist a challenge."
War smiles like that was a compliment, or a flirtation.
"You want something you can mistrust, something you can dig your nails in, until it bleeds. Something that you don't have to feel guilty about. Something grubby and burning and just right. Because you picked up a layer downstairs that left you wanting things which are bad for you, things which make your blood run hot."
"Fuck you," Dean says tightly. Ever-present anger flaring in him bright and hot, but he doesn't have the breath or the words to protest. Heart thudding in his chest as he watches the smirk on War's face grow. He wants it bloody. Wants it - fuck.
War moves again like he sees it, hands flat on the hood, voice so damn close.
"It's in your blood, there's no shame in it. In being greedy, in wanting it. You'll drive yourself insane trying to stuff it down and pretend it isn't there."
Dean shoves at him, but finds him solid and immoveable.
War catches the hard line of his jaw and holds it there, body leant in, mouth suddenly hot over his own. War kisses exactly like Dean thought he would. It's hard and greedy and full of teeth. It doesn't give a damn whether he's going to protest or not. Doesn't care whether he wants it. But War's not expecting Dean to push into the movement, metal popping when their weight shifts, when Dean braces a boot on the metal and shoves in - gets a grunt of surprised satisfaction. He's fairly sure the whole situation is getting way, way away from him. He's blaming it on the adrenaline, on the cooling heat of the cars. It's not every day you get to race a horseman of the fucking apocalypse. So what if this is maybe the craziest thing he's ever done. He knows it, he accepts it, it's not like he's fooling himself. He doesn't stop. He has one hand fisted in shirt and tie, holding him right there while his teeth bite into the softness of War's mouth, and the edge of his jaw, smothering laughter and quiet noises of appreciation. Dirtier noises of triumph.
The Mustang makes perfectly real sounds underneath them. At every shift and lean of their weight, at every bracing press of a hand.
War pulls back, turns Dean's head to the side, and leaves him looking at his own dishevelled reflection in the Impala's door.
"Think she's jealous?" War rumbles against his cheek and Dean grunts something offended that doesn't sound all that convincing. Because the Mustang's hood is hot under his hands, still vibrating, though the engine's not running. The scrape of his jeans on the metal is loud, studs on the back of his pockets that he didn't even notice. But War doesn't even narrow his eyes. He just presses in close and tight, warmer than the car, warmer than everything. Like he doesn't care if Dean scratches the paintwork, like he doesn't care if he leaves it rough and dented and messy as long as he stays put. It's not a thought that should leave him swallowing arousal and shoving his hips up against one of the things he's always been taught is a monster. Dean's insane, he's insane and this is so fucking stupid.
But when War pulls his head back round he kisses him again before he can tell himself not to. He loses himself in the rough burn of his mouth, and the way his hands hold him against the Mustang's slippery surface. Just before it gets deep and messy Dean pulls away.
"You're a fucking demon," he says accusingly, an excuse, the first excuse he can catch hold of.
War laughs. "No, I'm not, I'm something else. Something older and nastier. Something you don't have any rules for."
"That's supposed to help?" Dean's fingers are still dragging at the edge of War's shirt, unconsciously digging for skin to drag against his own.
War makes a noise like he doesn't particularly care.
"Consider this a detente."
Dean snorts laughter.
"War metaphors, really?"
"I thought it was appropriate."
Dean's the one that kisses him this time, just to prove that he can. War opens his mouth and lets him, lets him try and wreck it with tongue and teeth. It barely takes a shove before Dean's sliding off the hood, twisting War back and round and pushing him against the metal. And it has to be digging through his suit a damn site harder than it dug through Dean's jeans. But he relaxes there like he knows his own car. Like it's a part of him, every warm, smooth inch of it.
Like he wouldn't object - and Dean thinks, for just a second, what it would be like to fuck War over the hood of his own car. Of what it would feel like, and if anyone else, anyone who knew exactly who and what he was, has ever done the same. He's not going to deny that he wants it, Christ, he wants it. But he knows he shouldn’t give into it. Knows his head's been a mess since the world didn't end, since he got Sam back, since Cas left. He's been feeling some strange mixture of reckless and indestructible. Far too easy to take advantage of.
But Dean wants it, and he's never really backed down from anything messed up in his life. The consequences can screw up his life later.
He tips his head away, takes a breath, two.
"Your car doesn't eat people, right?"
War smiles against his mouth. "Not lately."
Dean grunts, and shoves at him.
"Move."
It takes War an irritated second before he gets it.
Dean's barely managed to straighten up, uncomfortably hard inside his jeans, before War's shoving him against the side of the car and tugging the door open. He gets out a breath before War's pushing him down with a hand on his head, until his ass hits leather. Dean was almost certain the damn thing hadn't had any sort of back to speak of last time he looked. But now there's enough space for War to slide his knees down and in, crushing Dean's hip and thigh.
The interior of the Mustang is cold, much bigger than it should be, and it smells like blood and fire. Dean's still cursing while War's stripping his shirt over his head and tugging his jeans open, hands too strong and too hot. There shouldn't be enough space in here, shouldn’t be enough space to do anything. But somehow Dean ends up shoved down into the leather anyway, with War pressing him back into it with a slow, sliding squeak. He can hear the engine again, though he's certain War never went anywhere near the front with a key. It's a low, rumbling vibration like the car is alive, like it's an extension of the horseman's power. But then War slides up over him, kisses him hard enough to knock his head against the door, bare back twitching at the chill of the seat.
Dean knows he's caved when he finds himself wrenching War's shirt out of his slacks, tugging open his belt and murmuring 'get the fuck on with it' against his mouth - listening to War's low growl, like he objects to being told what to do.
It's cramped and vicious and rough in a way that's messy and good, rough in a way Dean doesn't want to stop.
He's pretty sure this is the first time he's been the one with his legs spread in the back of a car and he should be ashamed of that. He should be angry and ashamed. Because he's not supposed to let any of this happen. He's got a hundred damn rules and this is breaking pretty much every one of them. But it's far too damn good and War laughs and bites and makes it something so sharp-edged and close and hot that Dean can't say no. Not even when they're pressed so tight together he can barely breathe, not even when War's all the way inside him, teeth buried in Dean's shoulder and hand pressing down hard on the leather to brace every shove.
There's no question which of them is in charge, and Dean should hate that, should have fought every single moment of it. Instead he ends up digging his fingers into War's burning skin and demanding roughly, obscenely, everything he has to give.
Dean ends up feeling like he's been fucking conquered.
Spread out on the leather, sore and relaxed in a way he hasn't been for years. War's stretched out behind him, still too warm, and they shouldn’t fit, there's no goddamn backseat like this in a Mustang.
"It's supposed to be a horse," Dean complains, for want of anything better to say.
"It was a horse, a long time ago," War says slowly.
Dean honestly hadn't been expecting anything. Because War's pretty much won, or screwed him over at least. Literally. Christ, he's insane. Either way, he's fairly sure he should be mocking him about now, or killing him, or something. Instead War examines the hard juts of his spine, pressing just hard enough for Dean to feel it.
"I shouldn’t be here," Dean says.
War makes a low noise of amusement. Like he knows how little that actually means now. But his fingers stray down, curve round the bare, soft length of Dean's thigh.
"Let me fuck you again, and I might let you drive the car back."
Dean groans in his throat.
Because how the hell is he supposed to say no to that?