blue flamingos

One Wild Night

Fandom: Stargate Atlantis/Supernatural

Category/Rated: Slash, R

Year/Length: 2009/ ~3859 words

Pairing: Dean Winchester/Evan Lorne

Disclaimer: Supernatural and Stargate Atlantis belong to their respective creators

Summary: Dean hates Pasadena, but there's a chance it might grow on him.

Prompt: Aliens/supernatural beings make them do it.

Spoilers: Set just before season 1 of Supernatural and between season 1 and 2 of Atlantis, but no spoilers beyond the basic premise of both shows.

Beta: Thanks to dossier and skieswideopen for beta-reading.

Feedback: Yes please. Even if it's bad. Especially if it's bad.


Dean's not a fan of Pasadena. It's hot, it's full of super-geek science students who remind him of Sam, even if they are spouting techno-babble instead of creepy occult trivia, and did he mention it's too hot?

The only thing that makes it just about bearable is that the vengeful spirit of a woman who was stuffed under a bed for ten days is now gone, and the only reason she's now gone is that Dean spent last night digging up her bones and burning them.

It's a hell of a lot less satisfying to do it on his own, and that's before he adds in having a victory drink on his own.

He's got no real reason to be hanging around – Dad could meet up with him on the road when he finishes up his own hunt just as well as he could in Pasadena like they planned – but he's been on his own for a while now, isn't quite ready to be back in the Impala with no-one sitting next to him.

Instead, he's leaning one elbow on the bar of the kind of dive that he knows like he knows his way around a shotgun or the engine of his baby, drinking mostly-okay beer and wondering how he ended up in the one bar in Pasadena that isn't full of hot young students looking to get laid by someone they know they won't have to see again. Even the bartenders don't look interested, or interesting; maybe because the place is near-empty and no-one looks like they'll tip well.

He's thinking about cutting his losses, looking for someplace else, when movement a couple of stools down catches his eye. When he turns, there's a new guy sliding onto the stool, slicked down hair, Guinness, so tidy it hurts, and Dean thinks, Easy mark, even before the guy meets his eye and offers a friendly smile.

Dean smiles back. He's heard rumors of nymphs over on the east coast, though that's got to be someone getting it wrong because there's no way they exist and he's never run into one in twenty years of hunting, but he's still not gonna turn down that possibility. For which he needs gas money, and this guy doesn't look like a pool player. Dean's as good at picking them out as he is at hustling the contents of their wallets away from them.

"Hey," he says.

"Hey," the guy says back. He hesitates for a minute, then holds out a hand and says, "Lorne."

Dean has to lean a little further than he wants to shake, but Lorne's hand is tight on his and Dean thinks military without exactly knowing why. There's nothing about him that says it, except maybe the neatness. Military clerk, maybe. "Winchester. Dean. You got a first name?"

"Most people call me Lorne," Lorne says. He jerks his chin at the bar stool next to Dean's, then moves when Dean nods.

"Okay, Lorne." Little weird, but Dean knows the kind of weird most people have nightmares about. "You in town on business?"

Lorne gives him a look like he's the weird one, but shakes his head. "Visiting my sister before I start a new job."

"Huh," Dean says. He's gotten used to the way thinking about Sam makes him feel, what he thinks homesickness would feel like, if he had a home to be sick for. He hasn't seen Sam in nine months, but even though he's less than a day's drive from Stanford now, he knows he won't go. "Good times?"

Lorne's smile goes soft and affectionate, and it makes something twist in Dean's chest before he thinks, Easy target again. "Yeah. I don't see much of her."

Dean doesn't ask why he's in a bar instead of with her if he misses her that much. He knows all about family you have to get away from before you kill them, even if he's never run as far or as long as Sam has. Even if he's always gone back to them, because he might want to kill them sometimes, but he'll always kill for them, and that's always mattered most. "Pool table's free," he says instead.

Lorne looks over. "You play?"

"I hold my own," Dean agrees, calculated false bravado in his tone. It works every time.

Including this one. Lorne's smile goes close to predatory, and he reaches for his wallet. "Put your money where your mouth is?"

"Sure," Dean says. "Ten bucks?"


It's easier to lose to Lorne than he thought it would be – Lorne's good. Good enough that Dean keeps getting distracted from losing, wanting to pony up to Lorne's challenge. He's gotten too used to hustling people who are almost too drunk to win when he lets them.

He still gets Lorne to take the first ten bucks, and the next. Lorne pockets his winnings, leans his hip against the table, and says, "Easy money."

There's an edge to it, enough for Dean to wonder. Enough to make him wonder about other things, because Lorne's hair's a little mussed, his body looser, and Dean's equal opportunity about where he gets it when his dad and his brother aren't around to notice.

And he's starting to wonder if maybe Lorne's looking at him like he's looking at Lorne, if maybe that's why Lorne's at a bar instead of his sister's. It's the leaning, he's pretty sure; body language he can read like a book.

Lorne nods to Dean's empty bottle and says, "Buy you another?"

"You keep taking my money, spend it on what you want," Dean offers.

He concentrates on racking the balls again instead of watching Lorne walk over to the bar, even while he feels Lorne's eyes on him, but it's not crowded, and Lorne's taking way too long about ordering a couple of beers. It's obvious why when Dean looks over – he's leaning on the bar the same way he leaned against the pool table, body turned in Dean's direction, but talking to a woman who wasn't in the bar last time Dean looked around. She's standing too close to him, hand on his arm, all big eyes and attentive nodding over tight jeans and a t-shirt that doesn't leave anything to the imagination. Lorne's doing a good job of keeping his eyes above her neck, but he's still leaning into her –

Dean loses his balance, takes a stumbling, clumsy step forward that makes Lorne and the woman look over. Dean waves them away, turning back to the table, feeling like his fifteen year old self in a brothel for the first time, practically drooling over women in flimsy tops and heels. He likes to think he's a little more sophisticated than that these days, and that even if he's not, he's not like that for some guy in jeans and a boring green t-shirt.

"Making new friends?" he asks when Lorne joins him.

"I guess," Lorne says doubtfully, and that's actually interesting, because she was pretty damn into him, but Lorne's at the pool table with Dean instead, and the woman's still over at the bar. Dean feels a second of the same tug he felt before, towards her, looks away before Lorne sees it.

"So give me a chance to win my money back before you ride off into the sunset with her," Dean says. "Double or nothing, let's go."


Lorne's up a hundred bucks and out another round – but still in some places, since his girl's still lurking – when he steps too close to Dean, moving past him, and says, low in Dean's ear, "I know when I'm being played."

Dean looks over in time to catch his grin before he ducks his head and adds, "In case you were wondering."

"Don't know what you're talking about," Dean says innocently. He wants to smile back, little bit of glee because Lorne's not bad looking, moves like he's comfortable in his skin, and Dean pretty much wants him now he's got the buzz of alcohol to make it easier. He kind of likes that he's picked up someone who's not stupid.

Lorne just shakes his head. "I'm guessing this is round about the point I realize the error of my ways, right?" he asks, counting out the bills he's taken from Dean and laying them on the edge of the table, then counting out the match from his wallet. "Last chance to win it back?"

Dean could keep it going, spin it out for a few more games and a couple more bucks. He knows Lorne would let him, but maybe it'd be fun to play against him for real.

Dean's never backed down from a chance to prove himself, show off what he can do, and he's done it in worse places than the back of a bar with the guy who's going to make Pasadena something to be a bit more of a fan of. "Your funeral," he says, and breaks. He watches the balls starburst, drop away, and lets his grin turn slightly feral. "Low, four in the corner."

He can feel Lorne watching him as he takes his shot – attraction, interest. Enough to make him knock Lorne aside with his hip when he lines up his next shot. "You're in my light."

"Apologies," Lorne says, sandpaper dry, and doesn't move far enough away for it to make much difference.

Dean sinks his shot anyway. It's an easy table, he could win it without Lorne moving, but he's not quite there yet, doesn't just want to put on a show. Still, when he flubs his next shot, he makes sure it's real obvious he did it on purpose.

"Bad luck," Lorne says, edging him away, then lining up his shot, body bent at an angle that says Dean's not the only one trying to make something obvious.

"You distracted me," Dean says. Lorne looks up, one eyebrow raised, and he adds, "You were in my light."

"Right, I forgot." Lorne circles the table, ends up right next to Dean again. "And this is payback?"

"You could ask me to move," Dean offers.

"I could," Lorne agrees, but doesn't. He's fluid now, easy movement, and Dean thinks he wasn't wrong when he thought military. Was maybe wrong when he thought clerk though – Lorne's not the kind of military Dean knows from his dad's Marine buddies, but he's some kind, Air Force, maybe, or Navy. Something a little bit removed, that reminds him of Sam before he stops that train of thought. Out of the trenches, not quite out of the war. Sam'll never be all the way out, no matter how much time he spends in college, being normal.

"You're up," Lorne says, nudging Dean with his cue.

"Right." Dean really needs to stop thinking about his brother right now, before it gets weird. "Seven, corner pocket."

He could still drag it out, but Lorne's leaning against the wall, one knee bent, hands loose on his cue, watching Dean, and Dean's pretty much used up his patience for the night. He wants out of here, and if he gets that faster by showing off his moves at pool, he'll take it, rattling round the table like he could do it in his sleep. He probably could.

"Eight ball, corner pocket." It slides in easy, and Dean palms the pile of bills, then swipes Lorne's beer and drains the last of it. "Ready to get out of here?"

Lorne laughs a little. "I was gonna be more subtle about it, but yeah."

Dean nods, grabs his jacket. "Take my car?"

"Unless you want to wait while I call a cab," Lorne says, and Dean remembers, visiting his sister.

He's not thinking about pool or cash or siblings when they walk out of the bar, and he's sure as hell not thinking about the girl, so it takes him a second when a female voice says, "Leaving so soon?" from the darkness of the parking lot to realize it's her, that she's talking to them. To Lorne.

Then she steps under the streetlight, fluid movement like Lorne around the table, except this isn't easy like he was. She's forced. Familiar. Dean's sure he doesn't know her – he'd remember if he'd met her before, got a good memory for faces – but there's something, as she gets up close and personal to Lorne, one hand light on his chest.

"But we were having such a good time," she purrs, and Lorne's frozen, but Dean can feel himself leaning into her, familiar as she is, and he gets it the second before her mouth closes over Lorne's in something like a kiss.

He's distracted by a completely inappropriate contemplation of how hot that is, because she might be a sex-crazed succubus, but she's a sex-crazed succubus who knows how to work a pair of fitted jeans, and then he gets his mind back on track, enough to wish for the heavy cross in the trunk of the Impala.

Hand sign it is, and he sketches a cross in her direction, hopes like hell that no-one chooses now for a cigarette and that Lorne's as clean-living as he looks, other than the one-night stands with another man, the drinking and gambling. At least he knows this works, a hunt with his dad six months ago that he'd rather wipe from his memory.

"Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum." It's the one bit of Latin that falls off his tongue, and he doesn't remember how he learnt it, but it's burned into his skin now. The succubus keeps kissing Lorne, who's still frozen. "Benedicta tu in mulieribus, et benedictus fructus ventris tui, Iesus. Sancta Maria, Mater Dei, ora pro nobis peccatoribus, nunc et in hora mortis nostrae. Amen."

Dean raises his hand, draws the cross again, and she pulls away, face gone dark with fury. "Bye," Dean adds, bright grin firmly in place. She half turns to him, hissing, but the words and the sign wrap around her. For a moment, he can see her being pulled away, then she's gone and Lorne's falling to his knees.

"What the hell?" Lorne hisses.

Dean crouches next to him, resists the urge to touch him. There's really no good way to explain this, not that he's trying that hard, when Lorne's on his knees, denim drawn tight over the obvious shape of his erection. "A succubus."

"What?" Lorne asks. He shakes his head, and Dean remembers that kind of confusion. "I thought they appeared in dreams."

Dean's a little surprised that Lorne knows that, that Lorne isn't more shocked by the whole thing. There's just no way that this guy can be a hunter, because Dean's met a lot of hunters and they're not like this. Maybe it's the effects of the succubus – Dean's own memories aren't that clear – but Dean's not looking forward to when it wears off and the questions start.

The desire to put that part of is enough of a distraction to knock him back into familiar patterns. He puts both hands on Lorne's shoulders, looks him in the eye. "Everything Hollywood has told you is a lie," he says, solemn as he can.

Lorne laughs, then shudders, his head dropping. "Oh, fuck."

Touch. Dean's a fucking idiot some times, and this is one of them. He lifts his hands away, like that'll make any difference now, but Lorne grabs his wrists, keeps him close. "Please," he says, still looking at the ground. "Oh, God, please." His hips jerk, and Dean's good at a few things, but refusing something like that will never be one of them.

"Not here," he says.

Even in the dark, he can see Lorne blush. "I can't –"

"I know," Dean says. He reverses Lorne's grip on his wrists, then uses it to pull Lorne up. For a second, they're pressed close together, Lorne hard against his hip, before Dean steps back. "Not on the front step of the bar though. Wouldn't wanna get arrested."

It's like every dive bar Dean's ever been in, outside of, passed, nice dark alley down one side for all kinds of things to lurk in. Or not lurk. He pushes Lorne up against the wall, reaches for Lorne's belt, soft leather, zipper, and when he shoves his hand into Lorne's boxers and wraps it around Lorne's cock, Lorne groans and shoves desperately into it, hands tight on Dean's shoulders. Dean shifts his balance a little, gets a better angle, and works Lorne quick and hard.

Lorne's fucking gorgeous when he comes, moaning and panting, head flung back against the wall. Dean strokes him through it, hand slick with Lorne's come around the still hard length of Lorne's cock. Succubus bodily fluids are like a high dose of serious aphrodisiac, rarely that easy, or that quick to get past.

"God," Lorne says, and then Dean's being pulled close, Lorne's hand shifting to the back of his neck so they can, whoa, okay, kiss.

Not that Dean doesn't kiss – hasn't kissed – guys. He likes sex and kissing's part of it, guys or girls. He just wasn't expecting to be kissed in a dark alley by a guy whose first name he doesn't even know, and he sure wasn't expecting to be kissed like *this*, tongue fucking into his mouth, wet and hot, by the neat, slightly boring guy he met at the bar, or even the guy he turned into at the pool table.

Not that he's complaining, hell no. Even if he could get the breath to complain, because Lorne on his knees and hard is hot, but Lorne trapped between Dean and a wall, smelling of sweat and sex and faintly of alcohol, is some whole other level of hot.

And still hard, rocking into Dean's hand still on his cock, less urgent but still insistent. Dean gets his free hand onto Lorne's hip, urges him on, and if Lorne's not the only one turned on right now, Dean doesn't think anyone's going to complain.

"I want," Lorne says, breaking away and shifting to kissing Dean's neck. "I want to fuck you. In the bar, I was – wanted to bend you over the pool table and..."

"Oh God," Dean says weakly, tightening his grip on Lorne's cock until he moans. Dean doesn't do that, not really, but the mental images are enough to make him think about making an exception for Lorne. "You got anything?"

"Condom," Lorne says. He kisses Dean's neck again, shuddering. "No lube."

Dean still wants to say yes, half-formed imaginings of his hands against the wall, being slicked open with Lorne's fingers and Lorne's come, but that's another thing he'd rather not remember. It's always disappointing to remember that porn lies as badly as Hollywood. "Not here," he says. "Back at the motel."

Lorne laughs, trailing off into another groan. "Don't – think that's likely," he manages, then comes again, cock spasming in Dean's hand like he needs the reminder that he's rock hard and no-one's touched him.

Lorne twists around to kiss him on the mouth again, sloppy and careless, and Dean slides his hand free, trying to wipe it on Lorne's boxers without being obvious about it. "Feeling better?" he asks.

"One word for it," Lorne says. "How long does this thing last?"

Dean shrugs. It took Dean one painfully embarrassing orgasm, but Bobby said it was different for different people, different succubi. Maybe because he and Lorne already wanted to... Not going there. Again. Still.

"Okay," Lorne says. He reaches behind himself, brings his hand back with a small foil packet between two fingers.

"Planning on getting lucky?" Dean asks dryly.

"Last minute," Lorne corrects, and Dean can imagine him on his way out a door – in his head, Lorne's sister's guest room is like a nicer motel room, fucked up reference points – sliding a condom into his back pocket, just in case. It's kind of cute. "You mind?"

Dean's about to ask about what? when Lorne slides out from under Dean's hands on him and goes down to his knees again. It's not the cleanest bit of ground in the whole of Pasadena, and Lorne probably doesn't have clean pants with him, but Lorne's reaching for Dean's belt, fingers made slightly clumsy from two orgasms in a small number of minutes, and Dean's got better things to do than worry about Lorne's clothes. Better things than answering Lorne's question, like he's going to say anything other than, God, yes, please.

Lorne pushes his jeans and underwear down, enough for Dean to feel thick, warm night air against over-heated skin before Lorne rolls the condom over him. Dean thinks military again, with a bright-fire burst of arousal along with it, and maybe Lorne's just careful before he sucks off random strangers in back alleys, but maybe he's careful over more than just catching something. Maybe Dean wants to close his eyes and imagine Lorne on his knees in his dress uniform, getting it dirty.

Lorne licks down the underside of Dean's cock, leans back a little and makes a face. "Hate that taste," he grumbles. Dean's got nothing to say to that, which turns out not to matter, because apparently Lorne doesn't hate it that much – he doesn't hesitate to wrap his mouth around Dean's cock.

Dean sighs, tips forward until he's resting his palms against the wall and can look down at Lorne at his feet. Lorne's not going slow or trying to make it last, just sucking on Dean, head bobbing with the rhythm, and it feels really good. Even better when Dean lets his hips rock forward to meet Lorne's mouth, fucking his face a little and Lorne takes it. Dean can't see much of him in the dark, just the shape of him, but he can imagine Lorne's face, eyes fluttering near closed, mouth wrapped slick around Dean's cock, and he feels like he was the one got messed with by a succubus, happy ending coming up damn soon. Sooner than he wants.

He drops one hand to Lorne's hair, tugs a little in warning, but Lorne just groans and sucks harder, and that's more than any man can be expected to reasonably resist.

Dean's pretty sure he's shaking when he finally pulls back, cock slipping from Lorne's mouth. His hands are definitely shaking as he ties off the condom, wincing a little at the feel of his own hand against his softening cock. He tosses it away into the darkness, figuring he's not likely to be the first person doing that, and that's when his shaken brain finally catches up with him and he looks down to check on Lorne.

Who's shifted, opened his knees further, and is tugging at his cock with one hand, the other curled around his balls. It's unexpected and dirty-hot, and Dean's cock decides to make his opinion felt, twitching like the end of his orgasm all over again, thin stream of come hitting Lorne's cheek.

Dean closes his eyes, fuck, talk about making assumptions, but Lorne groans like he likes it, like he gets off on it. Dean doesn't even think, just drops to his knees next to Lorne, one hand on his arm, the other sliding over the wet head of his cock, and Lorne makes a startled, pained noise, and comes, collapsing against Dean and shaking hard.

"I got you," Dean tells him. Lorne's panting heavily, and Dean kind of wants to kiss him.

He wonders if Lorne can get it up again, later. If he'll want to. Dean already knows they'll go back to Dean's motel together. There's no way he can put Lorne in a cab back to his sister like this, fucked out and messed up. "Okay?"

"Oh God," Lorne says, voice gone raw. "Is that punishment for pointing out you were trying to hustle me?"

"You came three times," Dean points out. "I bet you can hardly walk. Pretty sure that doesn't count as a punishment."

Lorne makes a little assenting noise. "Show you punishment when we've got a bed," he says. "Give me a hand up."

"Given you nothing but hands," Dean grumbles, pulling him up anyway, and helping him zip up. He's not exactly in a hurry, but he's kind of impatient to see if Lorne lives up to his words.


He does. For five hours, until Lorne's not the only one who can hardly walk.

Totally worth it, even if Lorne does have one hell of a lot of questions when he wakes up.


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