I Have Many Skills

Fandom: Leverage & Supernatural
Pairings: Eliot Spencer/Nathan Ford; Past Eliot Spencer/Dean Winchester
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 5,959
Summary: Somehow the comment fic I wrote for nail polish and eyeliner (it’s not what you think!) mutated and started collecting other prompts such as Eliot grew up a hunter’s son.

 

Chapter 1

Eliot had just finished painting the thin black outline on his eyelid when he heard the gasp. He focused on the figure behind him in the mirror while he finished checking his appearance. A touch of mascara to the tips of his already dark eyelashes and he was done.

Nate was still speechless when Eliot pushed past him to pick up his leather motorcycle jacket and fingerless gloves.

The ‘Eliot’ that came out of Nate’s mouth sounded strangled and breathless. He turned around to face the older man.

“What?” He tugged the gloves on impatiently … Black nail polish reflecting the light as he flexed his hands to settle the gloves.

Wide blue eyes ran over the retrieval specialist’s appearance. Black leather pants lacing running ‘everywhere’. Down the sides of the muscular legs to flair out over heavy black boots. Black lace pirate shirt, *LACE!*, that gave tantalizing peeks of the sculpted torso underneath. Lace frothed from under the sleeves of the leather jacket and spilled over the fingerless gloves. The black clothes and eye makeup leeched all the blue from Eliot’s eyes making the pale orbs hypnotic. The Portland humidity caused the long dark hair to lie in ringlets over the broad shoulders.

Nate’s mouth went dry and his body tightened at the fey creature in front of him.

“Uh—um where are you going?”

“To meet a client I’ve done work for before.”

Eliot grabbed his keys and wallet off the dresser and headed for the door.

Nate attempted to gather his scattered wits, gravitating closer to Eliot.

“Solo job?”

“Yeah.”

“Tell me about it when you get back?” He licked his still dry lips.

Snake fast, Eliot grabbed the back of Nate’s neck and pulled him in for a hard kiss that was all teeth and tongue. When he felt the older man go limp he released him.

“You really wanna talk when I get back?” An arrogant smirk appeared on the handsome face.

“Um … No.” Nate shook his head trying to get his brain to work.

As Eliot opened the door, Nate called out.

“Eliot?”

With an eye roll he turned back. “What now?”

“You—uh,” Nate waved a finger back and forth, “you smeared your lipstick.”

The chuckle from the hitter was low and naughty. “So did you, Nate.”

Eliot stalked up to the doorman at Dark of the Moon. Stan saw the path Eliot was blazing through the crowd and had the door open before the man could growl his displeasure at being summoned to the club.

Jacob Dunham, is a retired hunter of the supernatural, collector of arcane weapons and artifacts, owner of a string of successful clubs that cater to the Goth culture, a flaming queen while at the club, and has known Eliot Spencer since he was born.

“This better be good.” Eliot growled at his mentor while throwing himself into the empty leather chair. “I have something cooking and I need to get back.”

“Ah, beautiful boy, you’re too intense. You need to take time to relax.” Jacob handed the younger man a cup Earl Grey, and planted a kiss on the top of his head.

“Could you focus, Jacob? What’s so all fired important that I had pull out my Goth!Ken doll costume and rush down here?”

“I need your abilities to ‘read’ something for me.” Jacob gushed.

Eliot’s chin dipped to his chest in exasperation as the former hunter swished across the room to his safe. It was hard to believe the man used to kill creatures that go bump in the night.

“That’s a crap safe, Uncle Jake, and not where you want to keep your kind of collectibles, and FYI, I don’t ‘read’ anymore.” Eliot fought to not curl his fingers, wishing he’d worn his full fingered gloves.

“Ah, but I know a world class retrieval specialist that will get them back for me should they disappear.” He placed an antique box on the desk. “And you can feed that crap to someone else, son.” All traces of the flaming queen disappeared and only the ex-hunter sat next to him. “Your Grandaddy MacDonal knew what he was doin’ when he didn’t fuss about your mama marryin’ yer daddy. Brigit havin the ‘sight’ and Hawk comin’ from a long line of Cherokee shamans made a hell of a mix in you. Them abilities are in yer blood, boy, no way you git to deny ‘em.”

“Then he oughta be fuckin’ ecstatic while he rots in hell that his little breedin’ program worked. Hunter and psychic all in one. Shame mama ruined his plans by dyin’ on him.” Eliot slammed the cup down so hard it cracked, but resisted the urge to pace.

Jacob pulled back at the venom in the young man’s voice. He knew Eliot didn’t actively hunt anymore, but if he ran across something supernatural, he’d take care of it.

He’d watched Eliot grow up too fast. Having a foot in three worlds, the boy had grown a hard shell few people got through.

A chuckle drew Jacob from his memories. Like quicksilver, Eliot had quashed the memories of his Irish grandfather.

“What’s so funny?” Jacob relaxed.

“You look like Tim Curry in Rocky Horror, but sound like Bobby Singer.” His expression became serious again. “So let’s see whatever it is, I’d like to get back to more important things than your little dramas.”

Grinning knowingly, Jacob opened the box. Inside was a knife. Fashioned after a Scottish dirk, the silver wrapped iron handle and the blade were etched with runes and symbols. Bare fingertips hovered, but didn’t touch. Eyes narrowed as Eliot turned back to his old friend.

“Where did you get this, and what do you know?”

Queen persona back in place, Jacob’s voice was coquettish when he answered. “Samuel Colt had a ‘companion’ of many years. He was a blacksmith of the first order. Colt made his gun, and Dean Turner made a knife.” He let the implication dangle.

Keeping his usual scowl in place Eliot picked up the knife and lowered his internal shields. The power of the weapon rushed through his body as the life of the knife flashed through his mind. In a twist of his abilities, the knife ‘showed’ him two likenesses of Dean Winchester, and only years of controlling his body language kept him from reacting to what he saw. Dean Winchester was a direct descendant of Dean Turner and the knife wanted to go to the present day Dean.

Though he and Dean had stopped hunting together when Dean had gone to Stanford after Sam, the Winchesters still made use of Eliot’s abilities, and his information network. They even remained occasional lovers until after John died. John dying drastically changed the dynamic of the three men, but Eliot was still protective of the brothers.

Suspicious, Eliot replaced the knife. “Why did you really call me, Jacob? You already know about the knife.”

“You’re the only person’s that’s been able to handle the knife without nasty consequences.” Dunham hinted.

“You wanna know how that makes you a buck, old man?” Pale eyes narrowed as he watched Jacob.

“You wound me, my boy.” Jacob cooed. “I want to know what I’m supposed to do with it.”

“Give it to me.” Eliot shut the lid on the box.

“Are you outa your fuckin’ mind? Do you know how much that cost me?” Jacob yelled, the hunter overriding the queen again.

Eliot cocked an eyebrow. “You called me.”

“Absolutely not.” He stuck his nose in the air.

An evil grin crossed the retrievalist’s face. “Does Maurice still follow you around with his groupies?”

The club owner paled under his makeup. The one and only time Maurice and Eliot crossed paths Jacob had had to close the club for a month to repair the damage. Eliot had not taken kindly to Maurice trying to ‘persuade’ the mercenary to join his little clique.

“Fine, but you owe me.” He grumbled.

“I’ll have Parker steal you something pretty.” Eliot chided.

Tucking the dirk in the secure pocket inside his jacket, Eliot headed for the door.

“Don’t be such a stranger, sweetie.” Jacob checked his makeup before heading out behind the younger man.

“Yeah, well next time don’t make me come to the club.” Eliot growled. He turned and gave his mentor a hug. “Though I am about to enjoy the effects of the leather and lace.” He leered.

“Does he know about you?” Jacob was now concerned.

“They know what they need to know.”

Not giving the older man a chance to scold, Eliot disappeared in the crowd.

Power from the arcane weapon, still running along his nerves, Eliot secured the knife before following his senses to where Nate sat on the balcony.

“Good thing you didn’t make me come lookin’.” Nate nearly came undone at the growled words.

Hand fisted in the short curls, Eliot pulled the older man’s head back and captured his mouth in a hard kiss. Eliot might let Nate be in charge at the office, but here—here he was the alpha.

Lust and power buzzing his brain, the enforcer did his best impersonation of a cave man, dragging Nate from the balcony to his bed. By the time Nate registered what was happening, he was naked, spread out, leaking and hard on the king sized bed. The sight of Eliot in nothing but his leather pants, cock pushing against the laces, was incentive to stay that way.

Nate’s mouth went dry as Eliot slowly unlaced the skin tight leather allowing his hard length to spring free. Watching the smaller man stalk over to the bed, Nate would swear the man glowed. He was so captivated by the feral man lowering himself to the bed that his mouth and body were captured, and he had yet to mutter a coherent word.

Overloaded, overwhelmed and fucked out, Eliot tucked the covers around Nate. He rolled out of bed, shucked his leather pants, and headed for the shower.

Checking that Nate was still dead to the world, he grabbed a phone from his desk and hit #1.

“Where are you?”

“How soon can you head this way?”

“Meet you at Jacob’s club in Vegas in two days.”

Tossing the phone back in the desk, Eliot moved quietly back to the bedroom. Curling around Nate’s sleep warmed body he started making a list of things to do before meeting Dean Winchester in Vegas. Top of the list—getting his leather pants cleaned.

He did love Dean in leather and eyeliner.

Chapter 2

Two days later, Eliot arrived at the Las Vegas Dark of the Moon around 11, figuring Dean would roll in around midnight. The manager was another retired hunter who knew Eliot and Dean, so there was no trouble arranging for one of the private rooms.

While he waited, his last conversation with Nate kept playing through his mind. The older man had not been happy and had been very vocal about his unhappiness.

Finally losing patience, Eliot had snapped that he had a life before Leverage and would hopefully have one after Leverage that was no one’s business but his.

“Dammit Nate. There’s just some stuff I can’t tell ya. Has nothin’ to do with trustin’ ya. There’s only a couple other people I trust more than you.”

He pulled Nate down on the couch and just held him.

“I’m sorry Eliot, I’ve just gotten used to being in this bubble of the team. I forget sometimes that we all had lives before we got together.”

“Yeah … Well … You’re an honest man you don’t have to worry about your past showin’ up on your doorstep.” Eliot snarked as he ran his tongue over the nape of Nate’s neck while his clever fingers created magic with his body.

He hated leaving his warm bed and the heavily sleeping Nate to venture into the dreary Boston morning.

Eliot mentally shook himself to focus on the here and now as a familiar presence tickled the edge of his awareness.

He’d just ordered a couple beers when Dean’s essence flowed across his mind. It was familiar—yet different. Eliot wondered what could have happened to his sometimes lover to cause such a drastic change.

The retrievalist turned his vision outward to see Dean standing at the end of the bar in tight leather pants, black wife beater and his leather jacket.

The kohl rimmed green eyes weren’t as bright with mischief as they had been when they’d last been together, and there were many shadows lurking behind the hunter. He opened a crack in his mental shields just enough to read …

*Fucking Christ on a crutch!* Dean was literally walking with the angels.

In spite of the purity of his aura, there was something out of kilter, but Eliot had no intention of opening his mental shields any further during amateur poetry night in a Goth bar.

Many hungry eyes followed the leather clad men as they met in the middle of the bar.

Letting his bare fingertips run over the handsome face he ‘read’ what had transpired since he last saw Dean. He pulled the younger man in for a hard kiss.

“Dammit, Dean! Why didn’t you tell me?” Eliot snarled in his ear.

“I tried, Eliot, I really tried. I didn’t want you pissed at me, too.”

“So you ignore my calls, don’t see me and left me to wonder if you’d finally had enough of my freak show.”

“No … NO! You know better.” He rested his forehead against Eliot’s in weary resignation.

“Is there somewhere we can talk away from all this emo shit? I get enough of that from Sam.”

The smile lacked its usual spark, but Eliot just grabbed Dean by the belt and pulled him toward the back.

“I didn’t know it was amateur night when I suggested we meet here. I really just wanted to see you in those pants.” The hitter teased.

When that didn’t get a response, Eliot’s eyes slid sideways to Dean.

“Dean?”

Eliot pulled them to a stop. Worried green eyes met his.

“We can’t go back there. Is there an exit out the side?”

Eliot didn’t question, just took them down a side corridor. Soon they were standing in warm desert night. Dean didn’t stop until the Impala was rumbling down the Strip.

“What was that all about?” The hitter turned on the bench seat to face Dean.

“Unwanted company.” Dean frowned.

“I didn’t sense anything … Jacob wards all his clubs.” Eliot reminded him.

“Against demons, not angels.”

“Angels? Why are we running from angels?” Eliot asked.

“Long story.” Dean sounded tired.

The mercenary wrapped a rough hand around the nape of Dean’s neck. He felt the younger man flinch.

“Dean?”

“Why did you call, Eliot?” Dean asked as he pulled into one of Vegas’ older motels.

“Got a call from Uncle Jake a couple days ago–he’d bought a knife he couldn’t touch so he called me to ‘read’ it. The knife says it belongs to you.” Eliot explained as they climbed out of the Impala. He grabbed Dean’s arm.

“Where’s Sam.”

“Not inside, huh?” His tone was resigned.

“No.”

“Figures.” At Eliot’s expression he sighed. “Another long story.”

“You need to come stay with me for a week or so and tell me all these long stories.” Eliot invited. “I’ll cook …”

“No.” Dean unlocked the door.

“What!?” Eliot was truly shocked.

“You have a new life. You don’t want my crap anywhere near that.” Dean said on his way to the fridge.

“Tell me about the knife.” Dean deflected, handing Eliot a beer careful not to touch the psychic.

The retrievalist’s expression told Dean he’d only stalled that conversation, not avoided it.

“Have you ever heard of Samuel Colt?” Eliot asked.

Green eyes narrowed sharply at the question.

“Yeah, we had his Colt for awhile … Someone else has it now.” Dean took a long drink of beer. “So what’s Colt got do with Jake’s knife?”

Dean’s answer caught Eliot flat-footed. It made him realize how far out of touch he really was with the man he’d cared more about than anyone in his life … Until he met Nate and the others. It caused a pang of regret that he’d let this special man fall out of his life.

“Then you know the gun could kill anything.”

“Been there—done that.” Dean said more to himself than to Eliot.

“Colt had a long time companion.” He pulled a bundle of black silk out of his jacket.

Dean was reaching before he realized what he was doing. He stopped and pulled his hand back. Eliot frowned at Dean’s reaction. The hunter had never been shy about touching Eliot.

“Dean Turner wasn’t just a blacksmith—various accounts say there wasn’t anything he couldn’t do with a hunk of metal.” He unwrapped the dirk. “When I touched the knife, I saw you—well you and Turner—you could be twins. I got the feeling you’re a descendant …  Anyway, Turner tells me the knife yours … Only yours. The only reason I was allowed to touch it was to get it to you.”

Taking the dirk off the silk, feelings and images assaulted Dean’s mind. It felt like Turner had embedded a piece of himself into the blade. The blood, sweat and tears the blacksmith had given to the knife and its arcane symbols gave heart to the symbols … Life to the blade. He felt as though he was holding onto something the likes of Claíomh Solais or Excalibur, and like the Colt, the dirk could kill anything—mundane or supernatural.

When his mind finally turned outward, Dean found himself stretched out on the bed resting against Eliot’s broad chest. He was off the bed and across the room so fast his head was still reeling from the images and rapid change of position. He bypassed his beer for the pint of Jack that was never far away.

Eliot frowned as he sat on the edge of the bed. Dean was going at the pint like Nate on a bad day, and by the time he set the bottle down, half of the whiskey had disappeared. Blue eyes narrowed as he watched the hunter pace the room. He could see no effects that downing that much liquor usually caused.

Feeling the eyes, Dean stopped pacing. “Hell teaches you a high tolerance for—‘things’.” He shrugged and went back to his pacing.

“What things, Dean?” Eliot’s rough voice softened.

Talking wasn’t his strong point, but he was a hell of a listener. Unfortunately Dean wasn’t cooperating.

“Don’t you have a plane to catch or something, Spencer?” Dean tucked the knife in a hidden pocket inside his leather jacket.

“Between jobs.” Eliot remained patient.

“Then I’m sure you got more important things to do than play twenty questions with me. I’ll drop you at the airport.” Dean started toward the door.

“Dean!” Eliot snapped. “Sit your ass down and talk to me.”

Dean’s ass was in the chair before he realized he responded to the command in Eliot’s voice.

“Fuck you, Spencer.” He went to the refrigerator and pulled out another beer. “You’ve got a brand new shiny life that has nothing to do with any of this. You came … You saw … You delivered. Now. Go. Home.”

Eliot was a patient man, but even he had his limits. He was about to walk out when his brain caught up to what his sixth sense was trying to tell him. He could ‘see’ the cracks in the Dean Winchester façade. If he was patient just a little longer. He wrapped his arms around Dean from behind, warm breath against his bare neck.

“Just talk to me, Dean. I know I haven’t been here, but don’t shut me out.” He dropped his voice to the one he used on skittish horses and small children.

”I can’t. I don’t want this shit gettin’ on you, man. You’re out. You need to be runnin’ in the opposite direction from anyone named Winchester.” Dean leaned his head against Eliot’s.

“Yeah, well, I’ve always been a sucker for green eyes and a pretty mouth.” Eliot teased.

Dean closed his eyes. He wanted to accept what Eliot was offering, but he cared deeply for the psychic ex-hunter so there was no way he was letting him anywhere near the cluster fuck that was his life.

With a pained sound that Dean would forever deny, he pulled away from Eliot’s solid warmth.

“Go back to Robin Hood and your merry band, Eliot. Keep them safe.” Dean handed him a flash drive. “There’s information you’ll need along with sigils and wards, plus signs and omens to watch. Keep your head down and your mojo to yourself. You should be okay as long as you don’t come chasin’ after my sorry ass.”

“Dean.” Eliot moved toward him to gather him back in his arms.

Dean held up his hand to halt Eliot’s progress.

“There’s a firestorm coming. Sam and I are right in the thick of it. I have to know someone I care about is safe … Will make it out the other side.” Dean took off his jacket and threw it over the chair.

He picked the long sleeved shirt off the bed, but before he could pull it on, he heard Eliot gasp. He took a step back as the psychic reached out to touch Castiel’s hand print.

“Dean, what the hell is going on?”

“Apparently it wasn’t enough I was Hell’s bitch … Heaven wants me to be its bitch, too.” Dean snarked as he covered the angel’s mark.

He peeled off his leather pants and was soon in his usual blue jeans and boots.

“You wanna change or am I takin’ ya to the airport lookin’ like a reject from a Harlequin romance cover?” His pistol was back in his belt, the dirk resting comfortably against his ribs.

“Where’s Sam in all this?” Eliot tried to sound casual as he grabbed his duffel.

“Somewhere between Hell and a hard place.”

The bitterness in Dean’s voice made Eliot pause, but he remained silent.

That silence carried through until they reached the airport. For the sake of what they’d had, he had to try.

“Come with me. You and Sophie’d make a kick ass team.” Eliot pulled out his best persuasion tactics.

He pulled Dean against his chest and nipped at the full lips until the hunter cooperated. He didn’t let go until he felt Dean relax against him.

When Dean pulled away, regret showed in misty green eyes.

“Dude, seriously bad karma moving an old lover into the new one’s territory, but maybe after the dust settles, Sammy and me, we’ll drop by, check the place out.” Dean pasted on his devil may care smile as he moved around to the driver’s side.

Eliot watched the black beast carry her precious cargo away from the curb wondering if he’d hear from either of the Winchesters again.

Dean’s final kiss hadn’t said ‘see you down the road’…  It said, ‘Goodbye’.

Chapter 3

Eliot stared blankly at the screen, unheeded tears falling freely down his face, Dean’s words skittering through his mind like cockroaches in the light.

Using discipline born from years of practice, the psychic ex-hunter, retrieval specialist caged his thoughts and emotions. A few splashes of cold water cleared any leftover cobwebs.

He spent the rest the evening in deep meditation listening to and arguing with his ancestors and spirit guides. Frustrated that they gave him the same advice Dean had given—use whatever means necessary to protect yourself and keep under the supernatural radar.

He received infrequent messages from Dean … Enough to let him know he was alive, an occasional email containing information about the pending apocalypse, and any new protections they found, which led to phone calls to Bobby to find out what was really happening, which led to bouts of temper that left everyone but Nate and Parker giving the hitter a wide berth.

A dream vision that left him gasping in a cold sweat with a concerned Nate wrapped around him, had him on his Hunter phone calling Dean.

When Sam answered, he told him Dean was in the hospital because Alastair escaped and nearly beat Dean to death. Eliot started to pack his bag to go kick angel ass until he realized … He. Couldn’t. Leave.

They were in the middle of a job. By the time the job was wrapped, Eliot was a mass of snarling surliness. Even the bad guys ran instead of mixing it up with bristling hitter.

Seeing the confusion and hurt on Nate’s face, Eliot got a hold of himself and unbent just enough to explain he was worried about an old friend.

He turned from where he was staring out the window and snagged the older man against his chest.

“Sorry, I’ve been such a bastard. This is the first time my ‘new’ life has clashed with my old, and I took it out on you guys.” Eliot explained sheepishly.

“Close friends?” Nate ventured.

“Yeah.”

“You want to visit them?” Nate pushed back enough to watch Eliot’s face.

“Naw. They’re long gone by now.” Eliot ducked his head so his expression was hidden by his hair. “Besides … This. Is. My. Life. Now. You and the team, I don’t want to go back there.” He pulled Nate in for a hard kiss.

As Nate sometimes lost himself in scotch, Eliot lost himself in Nate.

Two weeks later Dean called to say they were passing through Boston the next day. Not wanting his worlds to clash, Eliot hesitated.

Hearing that hesitation, Dean hid his hurt behind his smart mouth. “Dude, you got somethin’ goin’, we’ll take a rain check.”

Feeling guilty for his hesitation, he gave Dean the office address telling him he’d be there ‘til four.

They had settled in the lounge area with a beer when the door opened with a bang. Sophie and Nate arguing good naturedly, Parker and Hardison were following behind them, snickering. At the edge of the carpet, Parker stopped, unable to go any further.

The three hunters exchanged a look. Eliot grabbed a bag of salt and laid lines along the doors and windows while the Winchesters approached the thief.

Inky blackness spread across dark blue eyes, a language unknown to the others spewed at Dean. Dean paled but held his ground as he answered in the same language.

Nate, hating that he didn’t know what was going on, inserted himself into the silent conversation Eliot seemed to be having with the two strangers.

“Eliot?” He started, but Eliot cut him off.

“Dean and Sam Winchester … Friends. Boys … Nate, Sophie, Hardison, and the possessed girl is Parker.”

“Possessed!” Sophie gasped as she fell backward onto the couch.

“Seriously?” Hardison looked confused. “You punkin’ us, man?”

Pulling the silver knife from its sheath, Dean flipped back the corner of the carpet showing the devil’s trap on the floor. The demon gasped when it saw the knife in the hunter’s hand.

“Where’d you get that?” It snarled.

“A going away present.” Dean smirked, his eyes cutting to Eliot.

Afraid of what he’d see if he looked at Nate, Eliot focused on Parker.

The lapsed Catholic, ex-divinity student, man of brilliant plans, stared stupefied at the tableau playing out before his eyes, as did Sophie and Alec.

“Dean … We have to be careful. She’s Eliot’s friend.” Sam spoke softly.

“I know, Sam, but this is one of the old ones … Alastair class demon.” Dean hissed.

“Damn.”

“Yeah.”

“What did it say?” Eliot asked.

“We were just reminiscing about the bad ole days. She’s in the same line of work as Alastair, not quite the level of proficiency as Alastair, but close.” Dean shivered at the memory.

“Phoenicia.” Dean shook off the memory. “The demon known as Phoenicia.”

“Demons have names!?” Hardison squeaked.

The demon lunged, but bounced off the boundary of the ancient sigil. “Everything has a name, boy.”

Dean grabbed Eliot’s arm and turned him from the others.

“I’m sorry, man. If I thought something like this was gonna happened, we’d have never stopped.” He took a moment to lean into Eliot’s strength. “Why don’t you take the others somewhere else. We’ll do the best we can for your friend, but I gotta tell you, it’s gonna be hard. You’re out. We can keep you out of the line of fire while we do this.”

“No. I … We … Won’t leave Parker. If we leave her … When she’s herself again … She’ll feel like we abandoned her.”

Dean sighed as he rubbed the back of his head. “This isn’t gonna be your standard exorcism. The host isn’t always in the best shape when we’re done.” Serious green eyes clashed with blue. “Keep them out of the way.”

With a heavy heart and feet, Eliot approached the others.

“Eliot? What’s going on?” Nate asked calmly.

“My old life just collided with my new.” He rubbed his face tiredly. “Dean and Sam are the best at what they do … They’ll do everything they can for Parker.”

As the remaining members of Leverage watched, Dean used the etched blade to slice his thumb open. The demon eyed the hunter warily.

“Dean?” Sam reached for his brother as Dean stepped into the devil’s trap with the demon.

Before she could move, Dean had smeared the blood that had been in contact with the spelled blade across Parker’s third eye, immobilizing her.

“Sam, get a chair and rope.” Dean ordered.

Years of conditioning had the younger man moving to fulfill his brother’s order before he could question Dean about the blood.

Using the skills carved into his soul by John Winchester and Alastair, Dean shut out the world outside the devil’s trap, ignored the stories the frightened demon was telling about Dean’s time in hell, and concentrated solely on Phoenicia, Parker, and what his knife was showing him.

He could ‘see’ Parker hidden in the darkened corner of her mind, watching him with wide eyes that reminded him of those velvet paintings of the big-eyed kittens. His face softened as he tried to reassure the bent little thief that he’d do his best not to hurt her more than necessary to get rid of the demon.

Parker gave him a tight smile and a small nod that indicated she was okay with whatever he had to do.

Eliot and Sam exchanged a look as they watched Dean staring into Parker’s eyes while the demon continued to spin her tails of torture, blood and pain.

Eliot placed a comforting hand on Sam’s arm.

“Demons lie, Sam.” Eliot kept his voice low.

The ex-hunter was surprised when the hazel eyes that met his were calm, clear of any concern about what he was hearing.

“Not when the truth causes more damage.” He said just as softly. “Dean told me what happened. Other than the gory details, she’s not saying anything I haven’t heard from Dean.”

He looked over his shoulder.

“Your friends on the other hand are looking a little green.”

“They did just get thrown in the deep end of the pool.” Eliot’s tone was droll.

“Phoenicia would rather have your meat suit than Parker’s.” Sam said bluntly.

“It couldn’t get past my spirit guides.” Eliot nodded at the pair of black wolves watching Dean.

“Holy … I can see them.” Sam’s voice was full awe as the twin black heads turned and eerily human blue eyes looked at him before turning their attention back to Dean and Parker.

Dean had stripped down to his t-shirt and taken off Parker’s shoes and socks and pulled her shirt off her shoulders.

Alarmed, Sam moved toward his brother when Dean laid open his arm and calmly watched his own blood run into a bowl sitting on the table. He was stopped in his tracks as Eliot’s wolves put themselves between the brothers. His head snapped around to Eliot who shrugged in helpless frustration.

Heating the edge of the knife with his Zippo, Dean calmly closed the cut, ignoring the stench and pain of seared flesh as he picked up the bowl and walked over to the blonde tied to the chair.

Phoenicia fell silent as black eyes took in the bowl of angel blessed blood and the en-scorcered knife that that could kill anything.

“Say ‘Hi’ to gang for me.” Dean said softly.

He began to recite an exorcism so old even Phoenicia didn’t recognize its origins. The demon was so intrigued by this Dean Winchester she barely felt the silver knife slice the sole of her foot until his blood hit the open cut. He did the same to the other foot. The demon felt her essence being pushed upward.

The recitation and the cuts continued. Navel, left palm, right palm, the demon was being chased out of the human by the blood of the man who’d been pulled from hell by an angel. Heart, throat until Phoenicia’s essence was trapped between Parker’s third eye chakra and her mouth. As the exorcism ended Phoenicia felt herself ripped from the thief, and the demon knew no more.

Using the last of his blood, he swiped his finger across Parker’s lips, as an ancient benediction fell from his. He untied the slim woman, gently brushing the hair from her face and calling her name.

The Leverage team watch in amazement as the touch-me-not thief threw herself into Dean’s arms, wrapping around him like a limpet causing Dean to stagger.

The look of ‘help me?’ Dean threw Eliot and Sam caused them to chuckle. Dean always had that effect on children and animals. They knew a safe place when they saw one.

When the others heard the two laughing at Parker’s antics, the atmosphere in the room lightened considerably. They all turned to see Dean whispering in Parker’s ear. Dark blue eyes lit up as she nodded her head in agreement. She gave the hunter a blazing kiss, her tongue mapping his mouth and most of his face before turning him loose and launching herself at Eliot.

The hitter set the thief gently on her feet. “Let me see your cuts, Parker. I wanna get them bandaged.”

Parker lifted her hands. “No blood … No cuts … No bandages … No more demon.” She said brightly.

She leaned heavily against Eliot’s chest and yawned. “I’m really tired. That bitch was hard to fight.”

“Phoenicia was a very old and powerful demon. You did good Parker.” Eliot soothed as he carried her to the couch.

The blonde nodded against his chest. “She really hates Dean. She was Alastair’s favorite until Dean.” Eliot paled at Parker’s words.

Everyone turned around to see what Dean’s reaction was to her statement, but the brothers were gone.

Eliot started to lower the thief to the couch, but strong fingers clung to his arms.

“Don’t go.”

“We won’t.” Eliot motioned for the shell-shocked Hardison to sit on the other end of the couch.

Parker wiggled her toes under his t-shirt and against the hacker’s stomach as her head rested on Eliot’s broad chest. Sophie threw an afghan over her to ward off a chill, while Nate poured them all a stiff drink.

Parker was almost asleep when she spoke again.

“Dean says he’s sorry about tarnishing your shiny new life.” She words began to slur with sleep. “He loves you … Oh and Goodbye.”

Eliot tipped his head back as pain lanced through his chest. He closed his eyes tightly against the tears that threatened.

*Damn you, Dean Winchester.* He thought until he felt Nate’s hand on his clenched fist.

He relaxed his hand and laced his fingers with the older man’s. Taking a long drink from his glass and a deep breath, he started to talk.

~ Fini ~