Chapter Text
One of the benefits of being one of the world’s wealthiest men was the ability to throw an instantaneous party. Food appeared on the picnic tables of the nearest pavilion, a band showed up within 30 minutes and a master mixologist from nearby Knoxville was shaking martinis and cosmopolitans at the hastily erected bar. Bruce Banner was busy eating sushi from Kabuki Fusion and Tony was enjoying the ribs from Calhoun’s. The banana pudding from Sweet Pea’s was disappearing fast; Steve Rogers was working on his second big helping. The band, a local group, was mixing swing with classic rock and, somehow, it worked. Clearing the tables off the concrete, people started dancing, the strangest mixture of superheroes, deities, SHIELD agents, and others.
Artemis had left in a huff after demanding Clint declare her the winner which he graciously did. Dean was surprised by how easily he gave in because that last shot was one in a million in more than one universe. Still, technically, Artemis had fired the last successful arrow in terms of the contest and Dean didn’t miss her wet blanket personality. Might be sexist to think it, but Artemis could really do with some healthy, energetic sex and glass or two of whiskey. Dean was certainly not opposed to that idea himself; now that this problem was solved, he knew Clint would be back on SHIELD business in the morning, so they had only one more night together.
Searching the crowd, Dean saw Sam sitting at a bench, his long legs stretched out before him and his back leaning against the tabletop. Carol was beside him, hand on his thigh, and Hecate was perched on the table, Sam’s shoulder pressed against her hip, her hand tangled in his hair. Oh, yeah, that was definitely going to be interesting. No way in hell Sam would let him watch, and Dean had plans to be busy anyway, but, damn, a three way with a goddess and a superhero? Their cut of the pay-per-view would fund them for a long time. Catching his brother’s eye, he winked and saluted him with his beer bottle. Way to go, Sammy, he mouthed. Sam rolled his eyes, but his grin was wide and infectious enough to put Dean in an even better mood.
Crowley’s black hair bobbed into sight; he was dancing with Hera – and someone should put a stop to that little confab right now, but damn it Dean wasn’t going to break in. Hera already coveted his ass enough as it was. The King of Hell was an energetic dancer, an eclectic mix of 1940s ballroom and body slamming that Hera matched step for step. They bumped hips like they were in Saturday Night Fever or something and Dean felt nauseous. At another table, Thor raised a bottle and slammed it back, drinking it all in one gulp before setting it in a line of other empty bottles. His drinking partner was Bacchus and wasn’t that going to be an epic battle? Dean paused a moment to wonder just how deep Stark’s pockets were before he moved on.
Bruce Banner, such a contradiction from his big green alter ego, was talking with Mielikki. Dean couldn’t blame the scientist; the Norse goddess was blonde, all slim muscles and quiet voice. Unlike Odin, that old blowhard, his daughter was quite affable after a few drinks, and, yeah, Dean had flirted a little. Just because he was currently … engaged … didn’t mean he was blind. Clint had thought it was funny, anyway, and Mielikki had gently shot him down. She seemed a better fit for Banner anyway, with her love of the world, and an environmental stance that dovetailed nicely with the man’s stand on things like fracking. Not that Dean had been reading up on the Avengers. Nope. Not at all.
He finally found Clint talking to Gabriel and Kali. Gabe had provided a whole table of every decadent dessert Dean had ever heard of, including seventeen different types of pies, and Dean had worked his way through four already. The plan was to swipe a few to take with him when he talked Clint into blowing this popsicle stand, particularly the Double Chocolate Cherry and the Turtle Pecan ones. Those looked perfect for later. Turning his head, Clint glanced over and, damn it, the man knew exactly what Dean was thinking because he just calmly raised an eyebrow and dropped his eyes to Dean’s crotch before going back to his conversation.
“Before you run off,” Stark said. “Check your phone.”
Rather than ask, Dean pulled his phone out and tapped on the message notification while Stark waited. A bank statement opened and Dean’s eyes widened at the amount listed there. “What the hell is this?”
“Standard consulting fee for Stark Industries. JARVIS estimated your billable hours and, of course, we started you out on a lower pay grade since you’re new to the system. I know SHIELD offered you a deal, but I can cut you a better one AND I’m in no way affiliated with the federal government or law enforcement. If you prefer off the books, we can do that too, but the benefits of contractor status are pretty extensive including a complete reboot of any and all … and I do mean all … prior records and personal histories.”
“Yeah, had that done before. Didn’t take.” Dean shook his head. The money was good … really good … but working for anyone still made him feel uneasy.
“Amateurs. The key is not to erase it all … God, that screams ‘terrorist’ when there’s absolutely nothing there or the name just suddenly appears. No, you take the real facts and clean up, change a few pieces here and there; I left a couple of the vandalism charges, a few of the good police reports, that weird grave desecration thing in that southern town … I would love to know what you were up to on that one … and just enough to look like the kinds of things private security contractors would get into. Add in a second set of look-a-likes that are easy to pull up and go ‘oh, you mean these guys’ and, trust me on this, no one will know you’re the same Winchesters.” Tony grinned. “Yeah, I’m that good.”
“You already did it?” Dean wanted to get angry, really he did, but Tony Stark was like that. Act first and damn the consequences and, well, takes one to know one.
“Consider it a gift whether you take the job or not. And the money is non-negotiable. You did the work, it’s an untraceable transfer, so shut up and stay in a decent hotel for once. Just let Clint know what you decide while you’re doing the horizontal mambo sometime, okay?” Tony tipped his almost empty martini glass at Dean. “And while we’re on the subject, pictures, dude. There are far too many sex photos of me on the internet. Legolas over there needs to catch up. Just fuzz up your face and let me broker the sale.”
Dean let the man go; he really was a piece of work.
“I’d say Tony means well, but I know him. He really would sell them.”
Natasha Romanoff, a woman he’d been steadfastly avoiding, stood on his other side, watching Tony leave. In the midst of the music and chatter, she calmly surveyed the room, no doubt planning how to take them all out in two minutes or less.
“Actually, I kind of understand Stark. Smartass mask that protects his soft dangly bits. Good taste in porn actresses.” Dean knew it well since he went with snark most of the time as his first defense. “And, for the record, I really like my soft dangly bits right where they are, thank you. What do I have to do to keep them there?”
She smiled, a real honest-to-god smile with white teeth and crinkles at the corner of her eyes. “Oh, you two are so alike, aren’t you? How do you not filet each other with those tongues?”
“We use them for more enjoyable pastimes, although there is something to be said for sass as foreplay.” Good God, Dean thought, what the hell was he saying? This was Clint’s best friend who could strangle a man with just her thighs … and what a way to go that would be, huh? Might be third on his list of preferred deaths behind ‘in his sleep’ and ‘during sex.’
That one got him a chuckle and Dean figured he was going to survive this little encounter. “Be that as it may, Clint seems to like your … what did you call them … soft, dangly bits? … so I’d prefer to not have to cut them off. Just don’t hurt him and I think we’ll be fine.”
“Yeah, about that, look, I don’t have any intention of hurting him, but, well, I’m pretty screwed up if you hadn’t noticed and shit seems to happen to me, so, best case scenario, I piss him off and he hates me but is alive and well. Worse case … let’s just say I’m thankful he’s as much of a bad ass as he is.” Dean shrugged because it was all true. “Basically, all I can promise is I’ll fuck it up at some point and, really, it’s his choice in the end whether to do this or not.”
“I notice you didn’t leave an option for a happy ending,” Natasha said.
“Out of my realm of experience.” Dean nodded towards the crowd. “This is more my speed. Just surviving and moving on.”
“Are you sure you’re not Russian?” She asked and her smile was back.
“Whatever you said must have been the right answer,” Clint offered, his warm hand settling in the small of Dean’s back. “That’s a high compliment.”
“Shut up.” Natasha punched Clint in the shoulder, hard. “I like him, so don’t muck it up.”
Dean watched her walk away. “Damn. She’s completely and utterly hot. Might have to tap that after all.” She turned and arched one elegant eyebrow at Dean before heading straight towards Kali. “Or maybe not.”
“Wrong equipment, dude. Glad to see Kali’s into boys or I’d really be worried.” Clint eyed the introduction of two powerful women and grimaced a little as the Indian goddess took Natasha’s hand.
“Actually, Kali is indiscriminate in her lovers,” Castiel said from beside Dean. Clint jumped and Dean sighed.
“Cas.” No use trying to explain personal space for the twentieth time. Cas never seemed to grasp the concept.
“I do not think, however, that a relationship between the two women would be able to bring about an apocalypse. The estimated casualties would be relatively small.”
“Really? You sit around and figure those sorts of things out?” Clint asked.
“There are angels whose job it is to do just that. Cupids. They ensure certain bloodlines are continued and other unions prevented based up the percentages,” Cas stated. “They are in charge of watching for catalysts like you and keeping you apart.”
“Obviously, they’re not very good at their jobs,” Clint said.
“Yeah, well, if you met one you’d understand.” Dean wasn’t all that impressed with the lesser angels. Could have something to do with them being naked. “Why are you here, Cas? Is something wrong?”
“Yes and no. Morwen is gone, her atoms scattered into far too many worlds to be put together again like your Dumpy Egg.”
Clint looked at Dean who mouthed ‘Humpty Dumpty.’ “Okay, what’s the downside?” There was always a downside with angels. Always.
“I did mention that the more of you are gathered in one place, the more the likelihood of unintended consequences?” Cas asked, serious eyes turned their way.
“I remember something about that, yeah. Three for the rumble with Lucifer was a lot, Hyperion said,” Dean answered.
“There are more than three here,” Cas said, scanning the people around them. “Do you honestly think there will be no repercussions from what’s happened today?”
“Hey, you’re the one who said she was a big baddie. So we went for a big bang,” Dean argued. What difference did it make? They were fine, Morwen was toast, and there were pies to be eaten.
“Big bang, indeed. We’re still feeling the effects of the creation of the universe, Dean.” Cas was so serious as he looked them both over. “Right now, I can’t see what this moment has wrought, but, believe me, there will be ripples for a long time to come.” Then he was gone.
“Dramatic exits all around, it seems,” Clint groused. “You going to worry about that pronouncement of doom?”
“Tomorrow. The world is always ending so I think I can have one night off, don’t you?” Dean drained the last of his beer and tossed the bottle into the growing recycle bin. “And speaking of exits …”
“I was coming to show you this.” Clint dangled a key in front of Dean. “Look what J.D. passed over. Seems Bill stashed the Chevy in his garage and kept it running. Needs some TLC, but she’ll drive us back to the hotel if you don’t mind Sam taking the Impala.”
Dean could read Clint’s intent in his eyes; the man planned to christen the car and Dean couldn’t find any fault in that, considering the times they’d already been in Dean’s car. “Give me a second to tell Sam and I’ll be right with you.”
Sam smirked, damn him, when Dean told him; Hecate and Carol were nice about the whole thing and Dean promised himself to give his brother grief tomorrow when they were on the road again. Gabriel appeared with two boxed up pies with that shit-eating grin he had that said he knew exactly what the plans were for the evening. Thank God the newly-returned-from-the-dead Archangel didn’t say anything; Kali motioned and he slouched over to where she sat talking to Natasha. Dean got to give Gabe a smirk at that one.
Clint made it to the Chevy with a six pack of bottled microbrews in both hands. Stowing their bounty in the back, Clint slid behind the wheel and turned the key in the ignition. The engine fired up with an easy purr that turned to a rumble when Clint gave it some gas.
“Shit,” Clint breathed. “That’s a good sound, isn’t it?” His blue-green eyes sparkled as he popped the car into reverse and backed out onto the small side road. Flipping on the headlights, he resisted the urge to floor it, depressing the pedal slowly, keeping a reasonable speed through the state park until they turned onto the two lanes that led back to town. Then he put on some speed; the Chevy smoothly accelerated, rumble turning to a full-throated roar of a muscle car. “Oh, hell yes.”
They drove for a time, just meandering along different kinds of roads – winding mountain one lanes, out on Interstate 75 and back off again to 25W, a double highway. The heater worked all too well, so they rolled down the windows to let in the cooler air and turned up a classic rock station. Dean didn’t feel the need to talk, just enjoyed the sense of a job completed and a moment without a looming crisis. Finally, Clint turned onto Melton Lake Drive, winding along the Clinch River, and he pulled off into one of the small parks that ran along the edge of the water, a gravel parking area hidden among trees with nothing more than a couple picnic tables and one metal BBQ stand. Raising an eyebrow, Dean asked without asking.
“I hear this is the best place to come watch the submarine races.” Clint fiddled with the radio, switching the stations until he tuned into 93.1 halfway through Pat Benatar’s “Love is a Battlefield.”
“Lover’s lane, dude?” Dean had to laugh. Leave it to Clint to find a way to ease into sex. “What, are we 17?”
“Nah, we’re adults with pie and beer and 80s music. Just go with it.” He faked a yawn and stretched his arm out along the top edge of the bucket seat. “I’ll still respect you in the morning.”
Dean nudged him sharply in the side with an elbow as he reached over to get two bottles. “Okay, but if you knock me up, Sam will find you with a shotgun.”
They shared a laugh and a drink before Clint spoke again. “So, here’s how I see. I’m going make a move on you, and we’ll get all hot and heavy for a bit. But I’m getting old and my knees aren’t what they used to be, so after a good blow job for each of us, I figure we head back to the nice big bed in the room and I can fuck you slow and thorough first. You can have a turn later after the pie and the shower.”
Pretending to think it through, Dean nodded. “Sounds like a solid plan, except there should be some pie here too. We’ll need to recoup before the second round anyway.”
“Done.” And Clint leaned over and ran his thumb along Dean’s stubble, tracing the line of his jaw to his ear and then back to his lips. He dragged the calloused pad along the edges of the upper lip then across the full lower one before he slid his whole hand around the side of Dean’s face, cradling it as he brushed his lips against Dean’s.
Modern English’s “I’ll Melt with You” came on and Dean’s laugh was caught up in Clint’s mouth. In retaliation, Clint started humming along and the vibrations ran down Dean’s spine and pooled in his crotch, stirring his cock’s interest in the proceedings.
It had been years since Dean just sat and kissed someone with no other goal in mind. Knowing they didn’t have to rush things freed him to just enjoy the slide of lips against lips, the way Clint clenched his fingers in Dean’s hair, and the steady beat of Clint’s heart under Dean’s hand that was splayed on his chest. They shifted and settled more comfortably on the seat, Clint moving out from behind the steering wheel and Dean turning his body to the left, opening his legs so Clint could switch hands and rest his left on Dean’s thigh. So much skin to be tasted; Clint shivered when Dean nipped at his earlobe and Dean bit back a moan when Clint found the little v at the bottom of his throat.
They kissed through a series of commercials, the news at the top of the hour, then Culture Club’s “Do You Really Want to Hurt Me,” The Rolling Stone’s “Start Me Up,” (Dean actually sang along quietly in Clint’s ear with that one as Clint’s hands slipped under his t-shirt and his mouth sucked little round bruises down the side of Dean’s neck), and through the extended version of Dead or Alive’s “You Spin Me Round.” Condensation formed on the rolled up windows despite the cooling ticks of the engine; neither of them felt anything but heat as they added touches, light and easy, that caused little tendrils of warmth wherever their fingers went. More music played but it faded into the background, a soundtrack underneath lips and hands and quiet breaths.
The news cycled again before Clint’s fingers unbuttoned Dean’s jeans, and then time slowed even more. Eyes closed, his head laid back on the seat, Dean dropped one arm on the door’s arm rest and curled the other over Clint’s shoulder, burying his hands in the short brown hair. The whole night narrowed down to the feel of Clint’s mouth on him, the rasp of tongue along the sensitive flesh of Dean’s cock, the barely there drag of teeth, the touch of cheeks as Clint sucked hard then released, and the warmth of Clint’s palm as he cupped Dean’s balls. Slow, achingly so, Clint played with him, working him up then slipping off to kiss him on the mouth before returning to his cock.
“In my life, there’s been heartache and pain.” Lou Gramm’s voice came out of the speakers as Dean groaned, gripping Clint’s head and bucking up into his mouth. “I don’t know if I can face them again.” Muscles tightened and he arched up as he came. “I’ve traveled so far to change this lonely life.”
Clint sat up, wiping his thumb along the corner of his mouth to catch the stray liquid, sucking it in his mouth, and Dean dragged him in for another kiss, tasting himself on Clint’s tongue. Then he was pushing Clint back against the seat and fumbling with the button fly jeans. Clint’s cock was hot and heavy in his mouth as he slipped down; Dean banged his head on the steering wheel once before he shoved Clint into the door, pushing a leg up on the seat, opening him wider and taking him in all the way to the root. Dean dragged it out through Bon Jovi’s “Living on a Prayer” and Prince’s “Kiss” but the opening notes of AC/DC did them both in. Dean squeezed his fingers around the base and sucked hard as Clint climaxed with a loud groan just as Brian Johnson sang “She told me to come but I was already there.”
“Perfect timing,” Clint said with a breathy laugh. “The walls were shaking, the earth was quaking …” he sang.
“Hey, 1980 counts right?” Dean arranged himself and zipped back up before picking up his beer and passing Clint his. “No better way to christen a car than with AC/DC, man.”
Headlights illuminated the inside of the car; an older model Toyota Camry pulled in not far away. The driver cut the engine and the doors opened. Four teens piled out, carrying a cooler and a Coleman lantern. The kids glanced over at the Chevy and Clint turned the key, an unspoken agreement that now was a good time to leave.
The hotel was quiet when they got there; no one was in the lobby or the hallway to even blink at the pastry boxes and beer. Clint used his key card to his junior suite; sitting the boxes on the table, Dean opened the first one to find small tarts nestled together. The second turned out to be chocolate bourbon with a pecan crust after a taste test that elicited a moan of pleasure from Dean’s happy mouth. Over the last few days – or however you told time when you were jumping around in it – they’d gotten used to sharing a room, so Dean kicked off his boots and shed his outer shirt, pulling a chair close enough to prop his feet up on the bed as he ate. Clint picked a strawberry tart and did the same, rolling his shoulders a couple times before he sighed and settled. They shared the quiet for a few minutes of chewing and swallowing, alternating bites with beer.
“So. Tony’s offer.” Clint looked at Dean from the corner of his eye, watching for his reaction.
“I distinctly remember tonight’s agenda and talking about life shit wasn’t on it,” Dean replied. “Parking. Blow job. Hotel. Pie. Fucking. Shower. Fucking. Sleep somewhere in the mix. That’s it.”
Clint took another bit and waited.
“Yeah, fine, you know how I feel about it. Connections mean people can trace us; last thing we need are more files with our names on them.” Dean’s frustration was mitigated by the fact he was eating an amazing piece of pie and had already gotten off once tonight. Plus, he was going to have more of both, so, yeah, he wasn’t that upset.
“Tony’s different than SHIELD. Did he wipe your profiles? He usually does that. After New York, I woke up one day to find that all my juvie records were gone. Not just sealed, gone. He means well; only way Tony knows how to say thank you is with money or by doing stuff for you. After I saved his ass one time, he made me my own floor in Stark Tower. Plus, he’s just as paranoid about the government and official agencies as you are, maybe more.” Clint twisted off the top of another beer, tossing it into the trash can on the other side of the room. “All I’m saying is take the money; you know you’re going to help if something weird ass comes up again and Tony can afford it. That’s a lot of pie he’s offering.”
“Jesus, okay, okay. We’ll take the money, but we’re not working for him. It’s a one-time thing.” Yeah, right, Dean knew he was blowing smoke. If one of the Avengers called again … or Coulson … he and Sam would be there. And not having to look over his shoulder every time he talked to a cop or sheriff? That was pretty damn nice.
“One-time. Sure.” Clint nodded, knowing it was bullshit. “Not like we didn’t just spit in the eye of Fate and invite new crazies to come on down.”
“That should be the Winchester motto. Crazy ass monsters, come on down!” Dean laughed; he was really relaxed and the banter only helped him come to terms with having money in a bank account somewhere for once in his life.
“Now that that’s solved,” Clint sank his balled up napkin into the garbage can as well. “Can we move on to the fucking part? It’s been like, 30 minutes, dude,” he said in his best ‘80s voice. “Like, we can put on some tune, oh my god, and totally rock out while I blow your mind.”
Dean hit him square in the chest with his bottle top. “No way you’re getting anywhere near my ass with that Valley Girl shit.”
“Ass, shit … I see what you did there.” Clint stood, shucked his t-shirt and shimmied out of his jeans, and left them in a pile on the floor. “Mood music. That’s what you need.” He tapped a few times on his Starkphone and Olivia Newton John’s “Let’s Get Physical” started playing.
“Oh, no. Hell no. Rock or nothing,” Dean insisted, but he was kicking off his own jeans and stripping down just as Clint started dancing around, singing along. Catching up the phone, Dean swiped at it, going back to the station selection and hitting the tab for classic rock of the 70s.
“Hey,” Clint grabbed it back and they started wrestling for it, Clint taking Dean down on the bed and both of them squirming around. Arms outstretched, Clint switched it again, coming in halfway through Madonna’s “Like a Virgin.” He pinned Dean underneath him, both of them laughing; Dean surged up and kissed Clint, distracting him long enough to get the phone and flip over to the Doobie Brothers’ “Taking it to the Streets.”
Back and forth they went, bodies sliding together, hands grabbing, knees planted, holding each other down, first one then the other. If their cocks rubbed together far too much to be accidental, well, Dean wasn’t going to complain. The trash talking about music was fun and the distractions moved from kissing to long licks to sucking little bites across exposed skin. When Clint caught the edge of Dean’s briefs and yanked them down, Dean rolled out of them and did the same to Clint; at some point, the phone slipped off the edge of the bed, silent now, and they barely noticed, content to sing snatches of songs at each other instead. Clint did his best Tina Turner impression when he managed to get on top of Dean, using his weight to hold him face down on the bed while slick fingers opened Dean up, lube and condom ‘magically’ appearing.
“You must understand, oh, the touch of your hand, makes my pulse react,” he crooned and Dean forgot everything except the burn and pleasure of Clint’s touch, his voice rich in Dean’s ear, going straight to his cock. When Clint lined himself up, his hands pressing down on either side of Dean’s waist, pulling Dean back until his ass was in the air and his chest flush on the bed, the song switched to George Michael and Clint sang the words as he slid inside.
“There’s things that you guess and things that you know. Boys you can trust and girls that you don’t.”
Dean closed his eyes and pushed back, urging Clint faster, but the hands just griped tighter and Clint kept the pace of the song with slow thrusts, all the way out and all the way in. Squirming, Dean tried to get his hands under him so he could lift up, but Clint wouldn’t give him any ground.
“Be patient,” Clint said, pausing with the tip of his cock just barely inside the tight ring of muscle. “We’ll get there.”
“You’re going to drive me crazy one day, you know that?” Dean said with a long groan as Clint eased back in, brushing right across the sensitive spot as he did.
“Oh, Prince. Right! I’ve neglected him, haven’t I?”
Half expecting “Let’s go crazy,” Dean got “Little Red Corvette” instead, Clint timing his thrusts to hit the beat of the song. When Clint plunged into and sang “Baby, you’re much too fast,” Dean started laughing at the absurdity of it.
“Stop it,” Clint laughed and groaned at the same time. “You clench up when you laugh.”
“Good.” Dean took the opportunity to try and break Clint’s hold, surging up only to be met by a hand in his hair, yanking his head back so Clint could kiss him.
“Fast it is.” Clint bit Dean’s lower lip, got up on his knees, grabbed Dean’s hips and snapped in hard. “Like this?”
“Fuck, yes,” Dean answered. When Clint set his mind to it, he could hit Dean’s prostate on every thrust and Dean saw sparks as they stopped joking around. Nothing but groans and gasps and grunts of pleasure as Clint fucked him, both intent on the final destination, Clint driving and Dean letting go to be taken home. Bed springs squeaked, sweat beaded on his forehead and ran down his spine, and Dean’s arms threatened to give out under the onslaught. Then Clint brought a hand around and stroked Dean’s aching cock once, twice, and Dean was gone, coming all over the bedspread, arching his back and grinding into Clint as he followed.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Dean breathed when they collapsed together, Clint weighing him down. “You’re heavy. And if you sing ‘He ain’t heavy’ I’m going to smack you.”
Rolling onto his back and off Dean, Clint grinned. “I liked that, making you laugh while I was inside you. We’re putting that on the checklist.”
Dean turned his head to the other side to look Clint’s direction. “Checklist?”
“Sex in public … I’ll count the blow job in the Chevy since we were almost caught … pie sex … we’ve still got plenty of pie and you haven’t had your round yet … and now coital laughter.” Clint poked Dean in the shoulder. “Things we do when we’re together.”
“Then it should include getting shot at, tied up, and almost dying too.” Dean pushed himself up. “Dude, I’m in the wet spot. I think the whole freakin’ bed’s a wet spot right now.”
“Just the spread. We can take it off.” Clint’s eyes turned serious. “I mean it. I like this. What we’re doing. I want to keep doing it when we can.”
“I can’t make any promises,” Dean warned him. “But, yeah. I can do again if it works out that way.”
“Something tells me there’s always going to be some new big bad to deal with. Kind of like having you at my back,” Clint lifted up on one elbow. He kissed Dean then, a kiss that wasn’t a joke or rushed or dirty or frantic. It was the kind of kiss between two people who cared about each other and just wanted to remind themselves of that.
“Yeah. Me too.” Dean said with a smile.
THEN – 2 months, 7 days, 12 hours and 27 minutes in the future
His name was Marvin. Marvin Denmead. He was silently cussing out his mother for making him mow the grass because it was his father’s week to do the big embankment behind their house, not his, but the bastard was working late, again, and couldn’t be bothered with stupid things like chores. Marv, as he liked to be called, knew that his dad was really doing his secretary, the red headed bimbo he’d hired last month who couldn’t even chew gum and walk at the same time but looked damn fine in a mini-skirt. He’d seen the two of them coming out of the Fairlane Motel when he’d cut school last week to hang out with Jimmy at the pond. Not even subtle, Dad, he thought, swinging the push mower around and starting on the steepest part of the bank. Midlife crisis, that’s what it was. A toupee, a new car, and now an affair with his secretary – could his dad get any more clichéd? And then there was him mom, keeping her head down, running to her house showings, trying to keep her real estate agency afloat and take care of the twins while dad was out playing. She needed to get a clue and dump him before he left and took everything with him.
The mower jumped, almost bucked out of Marv’s hands and he panicked for a second, but, thankfully, the engine stalled and ground to a halt as it settled back on all four wheels. Rolling it out of the way, Marv put the break on and then went back to look for the rock or branch he’d hit. Bending down, he saw a glint of metal and brushed aside the cut weeds to find a round silver sphere about the size of a tennis ball with yellow designs traced along the curves. Curious, he held it up to the fading autumn light and squinted at it; the yellow shifted, forming words in a language he’d never seen. He jerked his hand back, but the ball stayed where it was, floating now, emitting a yellow light. Opening his mouth, he started to yell for his mom, but the flash enveloped him.
Later, when his dad stormed out of the house, pissed about the half-finished mowing job, Marv was nowhere to be found. There was nothing but the lawnmower, still in park, sitting halfway down the hill.