Title: Mardi Gras
Fandom: Pairing: Supernatural: Demon!Sam/evil!Dean
Concrit: Please. If you spot a typo or a grammar glitch, feel free to tell me in comments.
Disclaimer: Not mine, never will be. No harm, no foul, no money made.
Spoilers: References S4 events and early S5 characters.
Warnings/Squicks: AU, immolation, mind-control, off-screen probable non-con, non-graphic mention of underage sex, mild references to drug abuse and child prostitution, adult sex on a carnival float. Demon!Sam and evil!Dean.
Summary: Demon!Sam and evil!Dean do Mardi Gras.
Note1: This is another peek into the Medlar!verse. If you don't care how they turned to the dark side, and what else they've been upto, you don't need to read the others to enjoy this one.
(Medlar: a fruit which is ripened by its own corruption.)
Note2: Written for alldunn's prompt at comment_fic.
The celebrations are already in full swing when they arrive. The music is so loud it makes their bones hum. The air is redolent with the scents of sex and booze, of sweat and candy, of beignets and barbecue sauce. The streets are swarming with a chaotic blend of barely-clothed, fantastically costumed party people, blasé locals and wide-eyed, camera-toting tourists.
It's a smorgasbord of untold delights and delectations.
It's Mardi Gras.
Their first plaything is selected by Dean. She's small and tan, with long, dark hair, darker eyes and full lips. She's not Ruby, but she's similar enough that Sam gets the point immediately.
Dean's possessive and he doesn't like to share. When he'd found out that Sam was spending time with Ruby while he was dangling from meat-hooks like a side of beef, slowly roasting in hell, he'd been pissed. It didn't matter that Sam had learned a lot of new tricks under her tutelage, or that he'd sent her off to Dallas the day Dean came back. She'd been there when he hadn't; had given comfort and aid and who knows what else to Sam, and that… wasn't acceptable and would not be forgiven.
Understanding Dean's motives, Sam reaches out and cranks her libido up so high her superego can't hope to keep control. He lets her id loose – the tiny proto-demon that exists in the hearts and minds of every living human on the planet. And then he gives her a mental push towards the gang of youths gathered on the nearest street corner. She peels clothing off with every step.
The boys show their appreciation for the unexpected show with shrill whistles that barely reach the ears of their benefactors. They can't seem to believe their luck when she drapes herself around the closest, smallest of the boys and starts to grind and moan.
Sam doesn't bother to watch her go, he's already towing Dean through the crowds on the lookout for another toy – a substitute for him. It takes him an hour, two beers and a bagful of sugar-dusted, deep-fried goodness to find the right one, and then suddenly there he is, shimmying in place on a slow-moving, gaudy, rainbow float. The eyes are the same and the wings are… Well, okay, the wings are rainbow too, which in no way resembles his appearance, but they’re wings, and that's enough.
Dean laughs and rolls his eyes when he sees Sam's choice.
"Dude, you know I'm not...?" He runs a hand up Sam's arm and palms the back of his neck, pulling him down into a slow, sultry, open-mouthed kiss. "I wouldn't do that, man. Besides, he's too white bread, you know? And I'm not having feathers getting stuck between my teeth; you know how I like to bite."
Sam lets Dean draw the kissing out until they're both sore of lip and out of breath. Then he drags Dean down the block and a half that's all the parade has managed to cover while they were orally engaged.
When they're level with the rainbow float again, Sam slides his mind inside his chosen one and pulls a few strings. The man's eyes glaze as his hands lock tight around the metal rails that are there to keep him safely on the float. Sam knows they'll have to break his fingers to make him let go.
Setting fire to the wings is as simple as breathing. One second, they're a work of art; a sculpture of brightly colored fabric and wire held together by glue and glitter. The next, they're ablaze, gobbets of liquid flame falling like rain from the outstretched tips.
He doesn't scream.
He doesn't blink.
He doesn't let go when they try to pull him free.
Sam and Dean are long gone from the scene before the sirens start their rise and fall wailing in the distance. No-one notices them go.
They move between parades, leaving fighting and fucking and occasional flame-outs in their wake. They instigate a bloody, violent battle over a broken string of beads that couldn't have cost five cents. Their influence reduces a marching band to madness and a Boy Scout troop to orgiastic antics in full view of stunned parents.
Towards the end of their week of revelry and debauchment, they charm their way onto a Bacchus float. Sam lets Dean fuck him all the way from Tchoupitoulas on down to Canal Street, in full view of everyone along the route. Not a single person blinks or reacts unfavorably… or at all. Not one realises exactly what they've just seen, until the float carries Sam beyond the not inconsiderable radius of his influence. And by then, most of them are much too embarrassed to mention it now that it's passed and no longer their problem. Children's questions are hushed and shushed and stifled with bribes of chocolate, donuts and ice cream. Denial is easier than explanation.
As a final touch, Sam plants delayed suggestions keyed to obscure triggers in the minds of random tourists and then shoos them off home. He's content to imagine the chaos and carnage they'll cause a day, a week, a month down the line, seemingly out of nowhere. That he doesn't know where things will happen, or exactly when, leaves him feeling strangely accomplished, artistically fulfilled by demonic acts of whimsy.
When he shares his little game, Dean just laughs and calls him pussy, tackling him down to the bed and wrestling him into a headlock Sam could easily escape, but he doesn't.
"I haven't seen you have this much fun since before you found out the monster in your closet might be real enough to eat you. It's like I finally got my Sammy back."
Slick as oil, Sam snakes free of Dean's headlock and twists around to pin his brother to the bed, wrist and ankle, groin to groin.
"If you wanted a five year old boy in your bed you should have told me, Dean. I'm sure we could find a mother who's stoned enough to sell us one. Why steal a soul when you can buy one and get one free?"
Dean wriggles one leg out from under and hooks it tight around Sam's thigh, rubbing off along the sleek curve of his hip.
"You're a sick fuck, Sam Winchester, but I love you anyway. Always have, always will; you know that, right? Seeing you happy, really happy…"
When he doesn't finish his sentence, Sam shifts so Dean is suddenly humping empty air instead of solid thigh. He whines, and Sam cranks an eyebrow up and gives him an expectant look.
"Seeing me really happy…?"
Dean shrugs awkwardly beneath him.
"It makes it all worth it."
"Uhuh." With a smirk, Sam leans in to mouth Dean's collarbone. "Now who's the pussy?"
Dean lands a sharp smack to the back of Sam's head.
"Shut up and fuck me, bitch."