likedillinger | sixwordstories : I want you to hit me as hard as you can.

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sixwordstories : I want you to hit me as hard as you can.

Who: Dean and Sylar (

intuitivelyapt )
What: Dean and Sylar have a lot of manly issues to work out in a manly matter. So they kick the shit out of each other. It's how real men resolve things.
When: Thursday night. Immediately following this.
Where: NYC, an alley behind a bar.
Verse: Brave New World

If Sylar didn't have a clear idea of how pissed off Dean was from the way he banged the back door of the bar open hard enough to send it crashing against the wall, then he might have gotten a hint when he ignored Sylar's verbal jab and marched in silence down the steps.

He ran a hand over his face, taking a few paces down the dingy alley way. Something moved inside a dumpster, and he heard a cat rrowing. In the distance, there was the muted noise of traffic, and street bustle. Everything else in the world just moving along, all hunky dory, even if a couple days ago there were giant rocks of fire that killed people, destroyed property, wrecked cars. The city didn't seem to give a shit. It was like New York was daring the Apocalypse to try and touch it.

Dean had no doubt that if they didn't act soon enough, the Apocalypse was the one who'd win that game of chicken.

The city seemed just as oblivious now, to the fact that this guy who'd killed several innocent girls off the streets was just walking free. That he was rooming with the demon who'd screwed over him and Sam royally.

New York didn't care.

But he sure as hell did.

He turned back to face Sylar, fixing him with a baleful glare.

"Give me one good reason I shouldn't kick your ass all the way back to the Company myself, right now."

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Sylar blacking out for a moment gave Dean a few seconds to actually register the way his own face was just plain throbbing with pain, but he pushed that thought into a box. It was just pain. Sure, he wasn't gonna look very pretty tomorrow, but he didn't really fucking care.

He wasn't expecting the sudden violent tussle when Sylar's eyes opened again, and he wrestled for supremacy but the fight was short-lived when he found himself gasping for breath. His fingers scrabbled for purchase around Sylar's arm, even as he released strained noises from deep in his throat, and he put all his strength into resisting the weight bearing down on it. His eyes alternated being squeezing shut and bulging open against the pressure.

That dick.

He found enough strength to shove twice as hard, pushing Sylar's arm away as hard as he could and twisting his elbow up sharply in the direction of his head.

Sylar hadn't planned on keeping Dean in that position for too long, anyway. He wasn't trying to suffocate Dean out of existence, and he just plain expected more out of him. He could feel how badly Dean wanted to fight him pulsing just underneath his skin. It made him feel hurt, and the easiest way to combat that hurt was to turn it into rage and aggression. He'd give him a fight.

Dean fought back. That was more like it. He grabbed Dean's elbow with the arm he just shoved away, and used the other to land several punches in rapid succession, mainly in his chest area. Forget hitting his face. Those kinds of injuries were petty. Superficial, made to agitate. He wanted him to hurt.

"You all out of words already?"

One of the hits to his chest threatened to knock the wind out of Dean, but he managed to gather it back enough to say: "Oh boo friggin' hoo." The hits might have been solid, they might have hurt, but Dean had a pain tolerance built out of three decades on a rack in hell.

This was just a walk in the fucking park.

Dean's free hand came up and caught the wrist of the hand that Sylar was driving against his chest before he could land a third hit. The other was still holding on to his elbow, so Dean yanked both of Sylar's arms apart by snapping his in opposite directions, bringing his forehead up to crash against the other man's as it was pulled down abruptly.

The head trauma was getting really old right about now, he decided. But at least it wasn't another concussion. He tried to break free of Dean's grip on him, but his definition of "trying" was a directionless struggle. For someone so all-powerful, hand to hand combat was kind of a weak point, as Peter and Noah, and even Mohinder would be able to vouch. Sylar was in denial about it-- every fight he lost, he would have one if it weren't for some minor detail or another. He just had bad luck.

The truth of it was something closer to no matter what he tried to do to prove himself otherwise, no matter what lengths he went to, he was still some spoiled watchmaker from Queens.

Since he was getting nowhere, he decided to do what seemed perfectly logical at the time: headbutt Dean again.

Dean was expecting the retaliation this time, because he'd deprived Sylar of his other immediate limbs, and he was ready. He looped his leg through the other's and used the momentum of Sylar's movement to roll them again, even as their heads collided once more. Everything was spinning as Dean landed once more on top of the other man. His hands moved from their grip on Sylar's arms to roughly seize him by the collar, and he rose up to his feet, dragging him along. As soon as they were standing, he hurled all his weight against Sylar, ramming him towards the old dirty dumpster parked beside them.

"Do you even regret what you did, you sonuvabitch?" he spit.

He stared up at Dean in a dazed stupor as he somehow found himself under him again. Everything was a blur as Dean dragged him upright. He tried to throw a punch at him again, but his sense of balance was off, making it more of a vague swipe. As he was rammed into, he crashed against the dumpster, making a loud clanging metallic noise that scared off the previously lurking alley cat.

"How can you say that?" Sylar stared at Dean with an expression that made clear his words hurt him more than any of his displays of violence had. "Of course I'm sorry! I've spent this entire time being sorry! I don't remember what it's like to be anything else anymore."

"Don't you pull that melodramatic bullshit on me," Dean said, accentuating it with another violent shove, keeping him pinned in place. "Moping around feeling bad for yourself? Isn't what I'm talkin' about. I'm talkin' about wantin' to really change. Part of you was glad when Ruby busted you out of there, wasn't it? Because you were free from takin' responsibility for what you did, and you could blame it on her, and hope that everything would somehow just go back to the way it was."

His hands tightened around Sylar's collar, face held close so that he had to look him in the eye.

"Tell me if that wasn't it."

Brown eyes searched hazel for some kind of understanding, some kind of sympathy... and found nothing. "Maybe you're right." He admitted, breaking his eyes of the other's gaze. "But it's not-- it wasn't like that. I was tired of that option. It wasn't working. So yeah, part of me was glad she busted me out," he made an attempt to shove Dean away from him, "because I hated it there."

"I still want to change. I just need a Plan B."

Dean wasn't about to be pushed off that easily. He grabbed Sylar's right arm as soon as he extended it, and attempted to twist him around into a lock.

"Fine, so think of one. Right now," he demanded.

It was hopeless to just think that he was going to violently threaten some kind of miraculous solution out of Sylar. He knew that, somewhere, deep down. But the whole situation had him on edge for other subconscious reasons. Because if there wasn't a Plan B, wasn't a real way to absolution for guys like him...

Guy like both of them...

He didn't want to let those thoughts rise to the surface, and so his hold tightened.

"We got all night."

Instead of struggling when Dean pulled him into a lock, he let him. "I don't know." He hissed from behind clenched teeth. "I'd probably be able to think if you weren't still assaulting me."

That was when he made his move, and tried to pull away from Dean with a sharp jerking motion.

Sylar's accusation actually did give Dean momentary pause and his muscles slackened up just enough so that Sylar was able to shove out from his grasp. He didn't move after him this time, just stood staring at him, tasting the blood in his mouth and turning his head slightly to spit some of it out. At least there weren't any teeth in the mix.

On his guard still, he stared him down. "So fine. Think."

Now that Dean wasn't trying to end his immortal life, Sylar had time to attend to his needs. Like popping his broken nose back into place. With an irritated grunt, he wiped the blood that had amassed on his face off on his sleeve and spat blood out of his mouth, almost mirroring Dean. His ability to regenerate had already done its work; he knew as soon as he got a chance to properly clean off, he'd look like tonight had never happened. The feelings would remain, though. Fighting with Dean left him with an uneasy anxiety that welled in his stomach, an anxiety that was far from leaving because there was a chance that this could only be a brief reprieve from violence.

"I... need to talk to Peter and Angela, obviously." He started, tone unsure. "Tell them what really happened. Come clean."

Yeah, there was a little bit of jealousy there that his bruises were gonna blossom and stick around for awhile whereas Sylar could just clean up like he was washing off a stain.

But at the same time, he liked carrying the badge that he'd been in a fight. He had a lot of scars, but they all told a story.

Both of them carried a lot of those scars on the inside, but at least those emotional ones didn't leave outside indicators. Not if you played it right.

"Yeah, alright. There's a start," he said. "Keep talkin'."

Sylar stared pacing again, but not at his frantic monologue speed. This time he was calm. Deliberate. Well, not really calm. Inside he was panicking, because he was being forced to come up with a solution on the spot and if he didn't, it could cost him one of the few people remaining who still cared about him in some shape or form. He just hid it well, that was all.

"I could keep taking the pills. That way I wouldn't be a danger to anyone because of my powers." He didn't like that idea, but it was all he had short of shipping himself back to the Company.

"What pills?" he asked, though what Sylar said about them made it pretty clear.

Power suppressors. "They make pills for that? Does it do anything for your... you know..." Yeah, Dean had never heard anyone say the phrase 'the Hunger' and he would think it was pretty gay anyways.

But if this was a solution, how had people been letting Sylar walk around without them all this time? It showed just how much faith they'd had in him, and made it all the worse for everyone else that he'd fucked it up. Dean wondered if they were feeling as guilty about this as Sylar was, Peter and Angela and whoever else was involved with him bein' where he was.

Sylar realized that Dean couldn't just read his mind and automatically know what he was talking about, so he backpedaled a bit to explain. "They call them Haitian pills. I've never heard anyone use the official name, if they even have one. But, yes, they block out powers. I wasn't sure they still made them after the Company went under, but I guess Angela got it done."

He tilted his head and squinted at Dean, not sure what he was asking at first. "My...? Oh." There was a shrug, then a reluctant nod. "It's part of my ability. When that's gone, then... well. You get it."

As he finally started discussing this, guilt he had been trying to push away and suppress started seeping in.Everything he'd done since breaking out, it'd just been avoidance. Dancing around the inevitable.

"I was getting better, though. I can control it. It's not like I killed those girls for their powers. It was just--" He shook his head. "A lapse in judgment."

"A lapse in judgment," Dean repeated. "Murdering somebody. A couple somebodies. Yeah, that one's gonna hold up in a court." It was almost tongue in cheek humor - neither Dean nor Sylar really had much to do with the actual justice system aside from avoiding it like the plague.

He shook his head, feeling the pain in his shoulders and chest and neck and not giving a shit about it right now.

"And you really think it's fair that just because you wanna learn to live pill-free, somebody else might have to risk losing their life?"

The annoyed look he shot Dean said that he wasn't in the mood for his sense of humor, regardless of how tongue in cheek it might have been.

"I've been fine. Everything's been fine until just now. I shouldn't have to cut out a part of me just because..." because he was a cold-blooded killer who couldn't control his urges? He couldn't say that. The instinct was always there. He'd just gotten better at shoving it to the side, thanks to all the years alone in his head.

But when it came to it, maybe Claire was right. All that time ago, when he wanted to make connections again, Claire suggested getting rid of his powers. That ended with Parkman tricking him, and... well, he'd connected with Peter, hadn't he? That wasn't so bad. That'd been enough. For awhile.

But that was the problem when you put all your faith in one person. Maybe it was time to revisit Claire's theory.

"Yeah, there's a selfless attitude, if I've ever heard one," Dean retorted, not about to give an inch of sympathy. Not on this. "Guess what, Sylar? You're the one who fucked up, so you're the one who has to make a sacrifice or two to make up for it. Not them."

He paused, tongue jutting against the side of his cheek, as he shook his head and surveyed the mess in front of him. He might be all stitched up on the outside, but he was a mess all the same.

"If you can't wrap your head around that one, I can't help you." He almost didn't wanna say it, but it rolled off his tongue anyway. "And I wouldn't wanna."

He didn't respond at first, but slowly started to nod. He knew Dean was right, as much as he didn't want to admit it. As much as he hated it. Just like killing, his first impulse was also to be selfish. Look out for himself. Watch his own back. Being with Peter made him want to change, and he tried, but... old habits died hard.

"I'm hungry." It wasn't a completely on purpose subject change, as he really was hungry. Regenerating had a tendency to kickstart his metabolism.

Look, this conversation was going to go one of two ways - either they'd start fighting again, or it'd get way too touchy feely for Dean. So he wasn't averse to subject changes at this point. Especially because that slight nod meant Sylar wasn't just changing it because he didn't want to argue.

"Getting your ass kicked'll do that," was his knee jerk response, but there was something of an olive branch of humor embedded in the way he said it. "... I could use something too, I guess."

He allowed them to slide off topic and the message was pretty clear. He knew Sylar'd need time to sort this through, now that he'd been forced to confront it.

Edited 2010-07-07 02:43 (UTC)

"I guess." He rubbed at the back of his neck, accepting Dean's humor and trying to get their lives out of this horrible, dark depressing place. Both in a metaphorical and literal sense.

"I think I passed an Applebee's on the way here."

"Sounds good," Dean agreed quickly. "I'm gonna run in the bar quick and clean up."

He'd told Liz he was going to swing by there, figuring he might as well get lucky tonight and forget about Claires, but... all that stuff was pushed out of his mind by this. So he was going to stand her up. Again.

He really wasn't sure why woman put up with him, at all. Then he remembered that when it came to the long term - they just didn't.

"Me too." Sylar realized that despite the lack of bruising or otherwise tell-tale signs of injury, he probably looked like shit and needed to take care of that. Going to Applebee's would suck if they got turned away for looking like they just came back from a fight club meeting.

So without waiting for Dean, he started off back into the bar.

Dean was right behind, and he pushed his way back towards the bathroom, ignoring any of the slight stares they got. People fighting outside a bar wasn't exactly earth shattering news. They'd forget it shortly.

He ran water in the sink, scoping out the damage to his shirt, which was stained with some blood. Pretty standard hazard of the job. He pulled a tiny pouch of salt out of his pocket, and mixed that in as he scrubbed at it, surveying the damage to his face in the mirror.

"They better still have that two for twenty thing," he commented to Sylar, without looking over at him.

sixwordstories : I want you to hit me as hard as you can.

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