Characters: Sam and Dean Winchester, Crowley
Word Count: 1100
Disclaimer: Don't own them.
MeAzrael looked ever so slightly dazed as she stepped out into her garden carrying a tray laden with two glasses of iced tea.
She loved her garden and with good reason; it was a beautiful green retreat, tended with skill, pride and a lot of love, but a harsh winter had left it looking rather sorry for itself and in need of a lot of work to restore it to its former glory; work that she didn't relish having to do.
Pausing for a moment she tried to steady her shaking hands, the ice in the drinks tinkling against the two glasses on the tray betraying her failure.
One of the two reasons for her state of happy stupefaction stood and turned toward her, wiping muddy hands on his jeans.
She still had not the faintest idea how or why Sam and Dean Winchester had turned up on her doorstep this morning offering their services to help her in her garden, but gift horses and mouths sprung to mind; as if she was ever going to turn them away …
"Ah that's great, thanks." Dean's smile was radiant as he took one of the glasses.
"No problem," she responded as casually as she could manage, trying not to stare as he lifted the glass to those sinful lips which really should come with a public health warning, and disposed of the drink in two mammoth gulps. She stood mesmerised; her fight not to stare hopelessly lost, as his throat convulsed, and stray trickle of iced tea rolled down his chin, mingling with the droplets of sweat that glistened sweetly among the light dusting of stubble there.
Letting out a deep sigh of satisfaction, he swiped the back of a hand across his mouth, leaving a faint trail of dirt across his cheekbone as he turned to his brother. "Hey Sammy," he called; "come get your drink before I take yours as well."
Sam lay down the shovel he'd been digging the flowerbeds with and slowly walked toward Dean and his smiling blonde companion, impossibly long legs covering the lush grass in barely three strides, and took the remaining glass with a nod of grateful thanks.
"Thank you." He smiled the kind of smile that could melt granite, and downed the tea even faster than his brother.
She was beginning to think her knees were made of iced tea.
"There's, uh, apple pie in the kitchen for when you're ready," she stammered; inwardly congratulating herself on still maintaining the power of coherent speech.
"Awesome," Dean grinned; "but first - can you do my back for me?"
She blinked as Dean produced a bottle of sunscreen from the back pocket of his jeans, and worked hard to avoid her jaw taking a fast-track to the ground.
It wasn't that she hadn't noticed they were both stripped to the waist. It was hard to miss that acreage of tawny, sweat-slicked skin and sculpted muscle, presented before her in all its firm, broad-shouldered glory; it was simply that her brain hadn't managed to process that information yet. It was still working through 'Sam and Dean have turned up to work in my garden', with no particular degree of success.
She noted that Dean, in particular, had started to sport a pink glow across his pale shoulders, a testament to too much exposure to the unseasonably warm German sun, and that was going to sting before much longer.
"Uh, yes – of course' she babbled, fighting to put down the tray before the rattling glasses smashed themselves to pieces.
"Of course, I could ask Sasquatch here," Dean added casually pointing a thumb toward his brother, "but why would I wanna do that when I've got a cute babe to do the job for me?"
She groaned. Thank you ladies and gentlemen but brain has left the building.
Taking the bottle from Dean's hand, she squeezed a generous amount of the oily lotion into her clammy palms, pausing as Dean dropped down to one knee to give her better access.
As her hands worked nimbly across his broad back, slathering the cool cream over his hot skin, she felt him sigh deeply; "oh man, you're good," he murmured, his voice nothing more than a deep rumble vibrating through his back, as her clever hands carried on their sterling work. Her agile fingers roamed upwards to knead his shoulders, working in between hard, overworked muscles, feeling him relax beneath her touch.
He sighed again; "I guess you'd better do Sasquatch too – I don't wanna have to listen to him whining for the rest of the week about being burnt."
"Yes, of course," she stepped away from Dean and picked up the bottle again, turning to face Sam, but she halted abruptly as Dean's hand gently grasped her by the wrist.
"But not yet," he smirked, throwing a killer wink before he presented his back to her once more.
Sam grinned; "get a room, Dean," he snorted.
"Bite me," Dean grunted back in response.
Oh, how she was tempted …
Meanwhile, in England.
Dizzo loomed over a scowling, black-suited figure who was sitting locked into a devils trap sketched in white pastel on the floor. With a firm grasp on his short hair, she was pointing a large syringe at his neck.
"Now Crowley, dearest," she cooed sweetly; "you've arranged for my good chum to have this nice visit from Sam and Dean for her birthday, but let's get one thing clear between us. You're not getting your grubby mitts on her soul, or mine for that matter, because if you even try to make a wrong move, I'll shoot you up with so much human blood, you'll be taking sponsored walks and posting cat videos on Facebook for the rest of eternity".
She waggled the syringe in front of his sulky frown; "now this is a damn fine vintage," she added, pointing at the small plaster on her arm; "a fruity little number, with notes of Sauvignon Blanc and just a hint of too much caffeine."
She paused to see if any response was forthcoming.
"Do we have an understanding?" She prompted.
She was met with a sullen silence.
Bending down, she cupped her ear to Crowley's face. "Sorry, darling, didn't quite catch that."
"YES!" Crowley snapped; "yes, yes, we have a sodding understanding you bloody devious, vicious little bint."
"Ooh, such a smooth talker, Crowley," Dizzo grinned; "flattery will get you nowhere."
She smiled as she twiddled the syringe between her fingers; "now while they're eating their apple pie, if you could just arrange for Dean to get over-enthusiastic with the whipped cream …"