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blue_bells» Title: Brothers in Grievance
» Fandom: Supernatural, Devil May Cry
» Warnings: Crossover
» Pairing(s)/Characters: Dean Winchester/Vergil
» Summary: A hunter and a demon aristocrat bond over beer and their polar grievances about little brothers.
» A/N: Originally written here for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
emerald_embers in ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
comment_fic.
Dean collapsed into the free chair at the bar-side table and heaved a sigh of relief.
Vergil raised an eyebrow at the hunter as he sagged, boneless, and pushed the cold beer across the table without a word.
Dean glanced at it side-long and swiped the bottle from its coaster.
“Thank God,” He twisted the cap off and threw two-thirds of it back in one swig. “You have no idea how much I needed that.”
“Thank me, or the man who manufactured it; but not God,” Vergil said, tersely, attention already wandering back to the bar's other patrons.
Dean scanned the demon across the table over the rim of his bottle, in his blue-green suit with silver hair slicked back.
“You’re looking well. Bastard.”
Vergil peered down his nose with an air of boredom. “You’ve seen hell.”
Well, wasn’t that true?
“I’m peachy, thanks for asking.”
“Is that brother of yours still addicted to demon blood?”
“Is your twin still kicking you up the ass every time you try to start an apocalypse?”
Vergil’s mouth quirked up at the corner. “I heard your Sammy beat me to it.”
Dean’s fingers clenched around the bottle and he scowled at the coaster. “I’m not here to talk about Sam.”
He drains the rest of his bottle and slams it back on the table. Another bottle materialises by his hand and Dean narrows his eyes at Vergil in suspicion. The demon’s face is carefully blank.
“You trying to get me drunk, Vergil? You should know you ought to at least buy me dinner if you’ve got other plans.”
Dean cracks the bottle open anyway, because, hell, he just wants to stop thinking tonight.
Vergil purses his lips thoughtfully. “I’m thinking of making another bid for my father’s heritage. It’s wasted on Dante.”
Dean groans and rubs a knuckle against his brow. “Please… don’t.”
Because he knows how that went the last two times Vergil had tried. That’s how he’d met the guy in the first place, and then they got drinking. And talking. Dean found an eerily kindred spirit in the darker twin when it came to bemoaning the trials as an older brother. Which was odd, because they were polarised on almost every view, but Vergil ranted in the way Dean never could or would about the pains Sam put him through.
He sure as hell wasn’t about to trash talk his brother in front of a demon, but Vergil didn’t share his reservations. It made him some of the funnier demonic company Dean had tolerated. Spades better than his brother Dante because Dante’s conversation was limited to poses and stares, with a narky comment thrown over his shoulder just when you were out of earshot. And he was an pompous, womanising exhibitionist.
Sam told him Dante had been like an amped version of himself with fewer clothes. Dean told Sam where to shove it.
“Dean, there are at least three other causes to end the world at any single moment in time. At this moment I count Perth, Prague and California: it’s my turn.”
“Are you sure you’re the older brother? Maybe Dante just told you that so you’d quit your whining.”
“Drink your beer.”
“I’m not drinking alone, bitch. I’ll get you an appletini, that sounds like your kind of—“
“I’ll drink your beer,” Vergil reached across the table, but Dean held the bottle out of reach with a bewildered face that plainly asked Vergil what insanity he was asking.
With a resigned look, Vergil leaned back in his chair and a moment later a bottle like Dean’s shimmered into his hand. Cocking an eyebrow, Vergil held his bottle out. Glass clinked noisily when Dean toasted it with his own.
“To little brothers,” Dean said.
“To hell with ‘em,” Vergil muttered against the rim of his bottle.
“Shut your face,” Dean warned, but couldn’t repress the smile when Vergil snuck a look at him, face pinched in mild annoyance, and the mask cracked.
They both smirked and Vergil tipped his bottle back.
» Fandom: Supernatural, Devil May Cry
» Warnings: Crossover
» Pairing(s)/Characters: Dean Winchester/Vergil
» Summary: A hunter and a demon aristocrat bond over beer and their polar grievances about little brothers.
» A/N: Originally written here for
emerald_embers in comment_fic.Dean collapsed into the free chair at the bar-side table and heaved a sigh of relief.
Vergil raised an eyebrow at the hunter as he sagged, boneless, and pushed the cold beer across the table without a word.
Dean glanced at it side-long and swiped the bottle from its coaster.
“Thank God,” He twisted the cap off and threw two-thirds of it back in one swig. “You have no idea how much I needed that.”
“Thank me, or the man who manufactured it; but not God,” Vergil said, tersely, attention already wandering back to the bar's other patrons.
Dean scanned the demon across the table over the rim of his bottle, in his blue-green suit with silver hair slicked back.
“You’re looking well. Bastard.”
Vergil peered down his nose with an air of boredom. “You’ve seen hell.”
Well, wasn’t that true?
“I’m peachy, thanks for asking.”
“Is that brother of yours still addicted to demon blood?”
“Is your twin still kicking you up the ass every time you try to start an apocalypse?”
Vergil’s mouth quirked up at the corner. “I heard your Sammy beat me to it.”
Dean’s fingers clenched around the bottle and he scowled at the coaster. “I’m not here to talk about Sam.”
He drains the rest of his bottle and slams it back on the table. Another bottle materialises by his hand and Dean narrows his eyes at Vergil in suspicion. The demon’s face is carefully blank.
“You trying to get me drunk, Vergil? You should know you ought to at least buy me dinner if you’ve got other plans.”
Dean cracks the bottle open anyway, because, hell, he just wants to stop thinking tonight.
Vergil purses his lips thoughtfully. “I’m thinking of making another bid for my father’s heritage. It’s wasted on Dante.”
Dean groans and rubs a knuckle against his brow. “Please… don’t.”
Because he knows how that went the last two times Vergil had tried. That’s how he’d met the guy in the first place, and then they got drinking. And talking. Dean found an eerily kindred spirit in the darker twin when it came to bemoaning the trials as an older brother. Which was odd, because they were polarised on almost every view, but Vergil ranted in the way Dean never could or would about the pains Sam put him through.
He sure as hell wasn’t about to trash talk his brother in front of a demon, but Vergil didn’t share his reservations. It made him some of the funnier demonic company Dean had tolerated. Spades better than his brother Dante because Dante’s conversation was limited to poses and stares, with a narky comment thrown over his shoulder just when you were out of earshot. And he was an pompous, womanising exhibitionist.
Sam told him Dante had been like an amped version of himself with fewer clothes. Dean told Sam where to shove it.
“Dean, there are at least three other causes to end the world at any single moment in time. At this moment I count Perth, Prague and California: it’s my turn.”
“Are you sure you’re the older brother? Maybe Dante just told you that so you’d quit your whining.”
“Drink your beer.”
“I’m not drinking alone, bitch. I’ll get you an appletini, that sounds like your kind of—“
“I’ll drink your beer,” Vergil reached across the table, but Dean held the bottle out of reach with a bewildered face that plainly asked Vergil what insanity he was asking.
With a resigned look, Vergil leaned back in his chair and a moment later a bottle like Dean’s shimmered into his hand. Cocking an eyebrow, Vergil held his bottle out. Glass clinked noisily when Dean toasted it with his own.
“To little brothers,” Dean said.
“To hell with ‘em,” Vergil muttered against the rim of his bottle.
“Shut your face,” Dean warned, but couldn’t repress the smile when Vergil snuck a look at him, face pinched in mild annoyance, and the mask cracked.
They both smirked and Vergil tipped his bottle back.
