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

Current Mood: testosterone-fueled
Current Location: Some shitty alley, & then Applebee's
Current Music: Saturday Night's Alright (For Fighting) - Nickelback

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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 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.

"I don't know why they wouldn't." Sylar shrugged, wetting a paper towel from the dispenser and trying to scrub off the remains of blood that the back of his sleeve missed. Other than that, he looked fine. His shirt was black, making it hard to tell where blood had stained if any had at all. There was a reason he favored black.

"You're paying, right?" He remarked casually, also still not looking over.

Dean turned to shoot Sylar a Look on that one.

"What, you leave your wallet back at your Company cell?" Hey, if Sylar was going to seriously suggest that Dean had to pay for his dinner after he'd gotten to walk away from their fight looking fresh as a daisy, then Dean wasn't going to be above a cheap shot in return.

He finished wiping off his face, and dried it with the bottom of his shirt.

"Let's go."

"Yes, actually." Well, it was true. Most of his possessions that were usually on his person were at the Company in holding. Wallet, cellphone... he was past the point of sounding bitter about it. It was just an annoyance now.

He wadded up the wet paper towels and threw them away, then grabbed one more to dry off with. Sylar acknowledged Dean with a nod, throwing the paper towel in the trash and heading out the door.

Dean followed after him closely. It was strange, how easily they could slip from beating the crap out of each other to just... walking next to each other through the bar. Planning to go to Applebee's. Sam would still be moping, or running off to go whine to Claire, probably.

It was nice having someone around who understood him.

"Lead the way," he commented as they headed back out onto the sidewalk.

"It was only a couple blocks away, I think." He shrugged, leading the way just as Dean requested.

At least the worst was over now. His relationship with Dean hadn't seemed to have changed, for better or for worse. There was something reassuring about that. Until the next time he managed to ruin things for himself, anyway.

"How're things?"

"Oh you know," Dean said, more than a little sardonically. "If it weren't for this whole end of the world deal, I'd feel like my life was a freaking princess cruise right now."

The truth was, everything sucked, and continued to suck, or got worse. At least things between him and Sam weren't so strained right now. Especially not with the direction they were heading - he couldn't handle it if they weren't fully on each other's sides when it came down to...

Anyways.

"How's life with the wicked bitch of the west?" Two could play at the tactless questions game.

"Cocktails with little paper umbrellas and all, eh?" Sylar's response to Dean being sardonic was to throw it right back at him.

He tried not to grimace when Dean asked about Ruby, failing miserably. It was a pleasant little reminder of how much he despised his current life at the moment. And to think, a few years ago-- lifetimes ago, it seemed more like-- the prospect of spending all that time with someone like Ruby would have excited him. Fascinated, even. Now it was just an annoyance, if only because of how trapped it made him feel.

"She keeps trying to seduce me." Like hell he was going to tell Dean any of his inner monologue.

"Still waiting for the strippers to show." A dry chuckle accompanied his statement and it was clear that despite everything, he was slipping back into himself a little more.

Dean shot an incredulous look over at Sylar, as if sizing up his little comment, before he said, "Trying and failing, I hope." It was a shot, just a joke, but there was an edge to it. After all, Ruby loved to rub in everything that had happened with Sam... Lord knows she didn't need more ammunition.

The look that Sylar gave him said that Dean shouldn't have even bothered asking. Not that he blamed him for asking. But it was unnecessary. "And failing." He affirmed.

He started kicking a rock along as they walked. Talking wasn't necessary, when it came to guys like them. Words just got in the way. Sylar used to take advantage of it-- you could manipulate anything out of anyone with the right words, if you knew them.

But he was kind of tired of it now.

Dean's hands shoved into his pockets as they walked. His eyes raked across the various buildings they passed, or the odd passerby on the street, but he didn't look at Sylar or say anything else as they went. The tension had dissolved, however. There was an understanding there.

He wished it would work that way with Sammy sometimes. But whenever him and his brother got in a physical fight over something actually serious, it just brought up more tension. Sam wasn't really built that way. Unfortunately, Dean was, and so it often came back to that anyway.

When they finally arrived, he ducked inside, where it was brightly lit and full of people talking cheerily, despite what things were like right outside. Despite the fact that the sky was falling this week.

People were resilient. Dean found a certain amount of comfort in that.

"Bar?" he asked back over his shoulder.

The bustle made Sylar smile slightly. People never really changed, did they? Always eager for a distraction. An opportunity to ignore the world around them, even as it was probably ending.

And who could blame them? Hell, Sylar wanted a distraction, too.

He made an incredulous face at Dean. It didn't really surprise him, but he acted the part anyway. "Table. You were just at a bar, Dean. Don't worry, you can order beer from the table just as easily."

And then there was a nice hostess there to guide them to a table. As Sylar was so nice to specify to her and put a damper on any of Dean's acloholic dreams.

Oh, right. Dean's natural instincts steered him in the direction of alcohol, but his stomach was also bitching at him that it was long past food time.

"Yeah, alright. I'm starvin'," he admitted, as they slid into a booth. He slung an arm across the back of it, glancing around and picking up a menu. There was something comforting in restaurant chains: no matter which one you walked into, the whole U.S. over, they'd be serving the same things. "You wanna split the two meal deal?"

Sylar picked up a menu and scanned it over, not really paying much attention to Dean at this point. It was hard to pay attention to anything besides food when the non-power-associated Hunger kicked in.

"Yeah, okay." He shrugged, still not looking up. Dean was paying, so it didn't matter much to him.

Dean wanted to keep conversation veered back away from Ruby and murder and probably Sam and Claire too, all things considered, so he searched his mind for other stuff of interest.

"So I ran into Buffy at the bar. She told me Faith's in the slammer."

The waitress walked up in time to hear that and cast judgmental eyes in his direction for his choice of friends, so he just afforded her a charming smile and a wink. "I'll take a beer."

"Faith? Really?" He raised his eyebrows at that, and bit his tongue on what his next comment was about to be ('I always knew she was too much like me for her own good') as the waitress walked up. He gave her an equally charming smile and ordered a coke. There wasn't much point in drinking if you couldn't get drunk, he'd discovered.

By the time she was gone, his comment had simmered down to a "It doesn't surprise me."

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

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