He doesn’t sink in the snow when he leans down and offers Dean his hand.
Oberon, Dean thinks because this guy’s face is both sharp and smooth, pale and proud and other, but faerie is his gut’s strong suggestion.
But this guy’s too lean, too young, and there’s something wrong with the idea of ‘faerie’ although he glows under the full moon. His pale face is younger than Sammy’s, but Dean looks into blue eyes of dead calm and an assurance bred from a long, long life and considers, angel?
He’s dressed like a hunter, with his cheap cap, flannel, denim and leather, but the clothes hang too loose, too old and when he speaks --
“Dean Winchester?”
-- It’s like a call from his oldest dream, soft and deep and the guy’s pulling him out of the ditch with more ease than Dean expects is natural.
“You an angel?” Dean asks, voice still rough from that last shot of bourbon. Or was it whiskey?
It was the shot he didn’t need. That last bullet to his equilibrium that tipped him on the step’s black ice, through the snow and slush and into the bar’s ditch.
Sam’s inside somewhere, but Dean currently wouldn’t put it past his brother to leave the search until morning when the snow would have piled him into a frosty grave.
But now that’s just getting dramatic. Must be the bourbon talking.
The stranger hasn’t let go, but he pulls back when Dean glances at their linked hands.
“I’m a friend.”
The stranger side steps when Dean grunts and manoeuvres his way out of the ditch, sinking to his knees in the snow. It crunches in his boots, cold and wet and pretty soon that’s going to be really uncomfortable.
“Haven’t got many of those these days. If you plan on staying alive, I won’t be offended if you take it back.”
“I’ve lived longer than most should, Dean. Longer than even I anticipated,” the guy says.
Dean finally climbs his way back to the steps, too busy minding his feet to shake off the supporting hand at his shoulder. The guy is strong.
“So, not an angel? Should I be pulling out my gun or can this wait until morning?”
Because Dean could be lucky tonight: he can count on one hand the number of demons who were willing to negotiate in the past, but maybe this guy was one of them.
“You won’t need your gun against me,” The man says and Dean almost forgets himself, relieved.
Dean could really use a night off.
He’d had to struggle through another of those awkward conversations with Sam, this time trying to explain why too many lady friends in too short a time may not have been the best thing for his little brother at the moment.
Dean’s no saint to lead by example and there’s nobody Sam’s trying to impress, but… the old Sam wouldn’t have been so callous with sex. Sam held sex on that pedestal of sweet, heartfelt expression and this new, refined something rolls through it like it’s a walk through the supermarket: necessary, straightforward and uncomplicated.
Sometimes Dean wonders if Sam’s rubbing it in his face.
So, it’s safe to say that Dean’s not feeling his steadiest on his feet.
That fall didn’t do him any favours, Dean already feels tomorrow’s hangover winding in beneath the layer of sick and seedy he’ll have to deal with after cold and wet.
Dean grips the metal rail of the steps hard when he looks back over his shoulder at his good-and-possibly-demonic-Samaritan.
“So, you know my name. What’s yours?”
The man searches Dean’s face like he’s calculating the answer to life, the universe and everything. Dean could have just told him the answer was the sum of twenty and twenty-two. There’s a thin lock of blond-maybe-white hair peeking out at the guy’s ear from beneath his Lakers cap.
“Legolas.”
Dean blinks, mentally stumbling over the syllables.
“Leg-a-wha--?”
Legolas’s expression turns weirdly sympathetic. His hands slide into the pockets of his denim jacket and he glances back at the quiet parking lot behind them. When he turns back to Dean, his expression is almost shy.
“Do you need company tonight, Dean?”
Whoa.
Dean’s shaking his head, backing up the steps before Legolas even seems to notice the hands Dean’s put up in defense.
“No thanks, dude, it’s nothing personal, but I favour the other team. Maybe if you tried around the corner you’d find someone with thicker pockets –“
Legolas’s eyes narrow in understanding.
“Dean, I have taken many roles in my life – and it has been a long life – but one of your prostitutes is not among them. I’m a guardian. I’ve seen your family and believe me when I say I don’t think you should be alone tonight.”
“So you are an angel?”
“An elf.”
Dean stares and he can’t help it, he glances at the tips of the guy’s ears, but the cap is large enough it pulls down low covering any evidence.
“… An elf? Here?”
In Wisconsin?
Legolas shrugs so slightly, Dean almost doesn’t catch it. Everything is so subtle with this guy.
“Why not? I traverse where I’m needed. Don’t you?”
Well, if Bobby’s reports were the day’s gospel, nothing was staying where it was supposed to these days.
“An elf?” Dean can’t help himself. A life-size elf? He doesn’t believe it yet.
Legolas sighs and pulls his cap off. Short, white-blond hair spills into his eyes, but it’s been cropped at the sides in what might have once been a buzz cut. An elf in the armed services?
But it’s the ears Dean’s interested in and the huh escapes before he can swallow it. Legolas’ ears curve to a soft, but distinct point and there’s no lines of plastic surgery Dean can see. Still, he’s no expert.
“Are you satisfied?” Legolas asks.
“You here to cause trouble for me or my brother?” Dean counters, flailing for the rail when he makes the mistake of gesturing importantly.
The elf’s eyes slide shut as he shakes his head sadly and starts climbing the steps.
“Let me buy you a drink, Dean. I’m going to tell you a story.”
Oberon, Dean thinks because this guy’s face is both sharp and smooth, pale and proud and other, but faerie is his gut’s strong suggestion.
But this guy’s too lean, too young, and there’s something wrong with the idea of ‘faerie’ although he glows under the full moon. His pale face is younger than Sammy’s, but Dean looks into blue eyes of dead calm and an assurance bred from a long, long life and considers, angel?
He’s dressed like a hunter, with his cheap cap, flannel, denim and leather, but the clothes hang too loose, too old and when he speaks --
“Dean Winchester?”
-- It’s like a call from his oldest dream, soft and deep and the guy’s pulling him out of the ditch with more ease than Dean expects is natural.
“You an angel?” Dean asks, voice still rough from that last shot of bourbon. Or was it whiskey?
It was the shot he didn’t need. That last bullet to his equilibrium that tipped him on the step’s black ice, through the snow and slush and into the bar’s ditch.
Sam’s inside somewhere, but Dean currently wouldn’t put it past his brother to leave the search until morning when the snow would have piled him into a frosty grave.
But now that’s just getting dramatic. Must be the bourbon talking.
The stranger hasn’t let go, but he pulls back when Dean glances at their linked hands.
“I’m a friend.”
The stranger side steps when Dean grunts and manoeuvres his way out of the ditch, sinking to his knees in the snow. It crunches in his boots, cold and wet and pretty soon that’s going to be really uncomfortable.
“Haven’t got many of those these days. If you plan on staying alive, I won’t be offended if you take it back.”
“I’ve lived longer than most should, Dean. Longer than even I anticipated,” the guy says.
Dean finally climbs his way back to the steps, too busy minding his feet to shake off the supporting hand at his shoulder. The guy is strong.
“So, not an angel? Should I be pulling out my gun or can this wait until morning?”
Because Dean could be lucky tonight: he can count on one hand the number of demons who were willing to negotiate in the past, but maybe this guy was one of them.
“You won’t need your gun against me,” The man says and Dean almost forgets himself, relieved.
Dean could really use a night off.
He’d had to struggle through another of those awkward conversations with Sam, this time trying to explain why too many lady friends in too short a time may not have been the best thing for his little brother at the moment.
Dean’s no saint to lead by example and there’s nobody Sam’s trying to impress, but… the old Sam wouldn’t have been so callous with sex. Sam held sex on that pedestal of sweet, heartfelt expression and this new, refined something rolls through it like it’s a walk through the supermarket: necessary, straightforward and uncomplicated.
Sometimes Dean wonders if Sam’s rubbing it in his face.
So, it’s safe to say that Dean’s not feeling his steadiest on his feet.
That fall didn’t do him any favours, Dean already feels tomorrow’s hangover winding in beneath the layer of sick and seedy he’ll have to deal with after cold and wet.
Dean grips the metal rail of the steps hard when he looks back over his shoulder at his good-and-possibly-demonic-Samaritan.
“So, you know my name. What’s yours?”
The man searches Dean’s face like he’s calculating the answer to life, the universe and everything. Dean could have just told him the answer was the sum of twenty and twenty-two. There’s a thin lock of blond-maybe-white hair peeking out at the guy’s ear from beneath his Lakers cap.
“Legolas.”
Dean blinks, mentally stumbling over the syllables.
“Leg-a-wha--?”
Legolas’s expression turns weirdly sympathetic. His hands slide into the pockets of his denim jacket and he glances back at the quiet parking lot behind them. When he turns back to Dean, his expression is almost shy.
“Do you need company tonight, Dean?”
Whoa.
Dean’s shaking his head, backing up the steps before Legolas even seems to notice the hands Dean’s put up in defense.
“No thanks, dude, it’s nothing personal, but I favour the other team. Maybe if you tried around the corner you’d find someone with thicker pockets –“
Legolas’s eyes narrow in understanding.
“Dean, I have taken many roles in my life – and it has been a long life – but one of your prostitutes is not among them. I’m a guardian. I’ve seen your family and believe me when I say I don’t think you should be alone tonight.”
“So you are an angel?”
“An elf.”
Dean stares and he can’t help it, he glances at the tips of the guy’s ears, but the cap is large enough it pulls down low covering any evidence.
“… An elf? Here?”
In Wisconsin?
Legolas shrugs so slightly, Dean almost doesn’t catch it. Everything is so subtle with this guy.
“Why not? I traverse where I’m needed. Don’t you?”
Well, if Bobby’s reports were the day’s gospel, nothing was staying where it was supposed to these days.
“An elf?” Dean can’t help himself. A life-size elf? He doesn’t believe it yet.
Legolas sighs and pulls his cap off. Short, white-blond hair spills into his eyes, but it’s been cropped at the sides in what might have once been a buzz cut. An elf in the armed services?
But it’s the ears Dean’s interested in and the huh escapes before he can swallow it. Legolas’ ears curve to a soft, but distinct point and there’s no lines of plastic surgery Dean can see. Still, he’s no expert.
“Are you satisfied?” Legolas asks.
“You here to cause trouble for me or my brother?” Dean counters, flailing for the rail when he makes the mistake of gesturing importantly.
The elf’s eyes slide shut as he shakes his head sadly and starts climbing the steps.
“Let me buy you a drink, Dean. I’m going to tell you a story.”