Royal Ascot Bottlegreen
Clouds of Roses
30 ml Rose Vodka,
20 ml Gin,
15ml Bottlegreen Apple & Plum Coridal,
10ml Lime Juice
5ml Sugar Syrup
Shake ingredients with ice,
Strain into a Martini glass,
Garnish with a red rose petal.
Benny’s boots sloshed through the rain-slick pavement of the back alley. The road was puckered and cracked and in serious need of repair. He shrugged into his coat as the chill of the damp night settled around him. It was dark but the glow of the neon lights, advertising one seedy dive bar or club after another, cast the alleyway into an odd relief, reflected off the puddles. The thrum of music drifted to him as he closed in on his destination.
An odd sense of calm flowed through him. His chest felt warm, his mind soothed, his body relaxed. It unsettled him. His large hand came up to rub small, pressured circles into the center of his chest. Normally in situations like this he would be tense, coiled, ready for an attack at any moment. He took a left, wandering deeper into the maze of alleys. The music from the club faded off and the chill of the night once again wrapped itself around Benny. He cast his eyes to the sky; thick, black-grey clouds drifted in front of a baleful yellow moon. He couldn’t find the emotion inside of him to raise his hackles; in his mind he knew he should be on guard, but he wasn’t.
Something wasn’t right; something was off. About him, about the scene, about the night in general. Somewhere in the back of his mind, red flags were waving, somewhere deep past the contentment, past the soft satisfaction and the warmth, an alarm was going off. Benny rolled his shoulders, his narrowed eyes scanning the grungy, back alley; large worn dumpsters, bags of trash, forgotten, empty liquor bottles. Everything was wet, sad looking, quiet and just slightly off.
“Cajun,” The slightly rough whisper caused Benny to spin on his heel putting the dark end of the alley at his back.
The younger woman smiled quickly, a slight shift in her lips. Her hands shoved inside the pockets of her worn leather jacket. She stood in the washed out orange light of the singular, and small, flood lamp attached to the high brick building. She looked nervous, but he guessed meeting with a man, who easily out weighed you by 160 pounds, in some seedy back alley, alone, at night, would be enough to set anyone on edge. And Benny, well, he was a vampire, so he really couldn’t blame her.
She cocked her hip out, the tight grey mini skirt she wore clinging to her slim hips and exposing a large swath of fishnet wrapped leg. She bit her lip, eyes flicking past Benny’s shoulder, at the alley behind him.
He fought the urge to turn and check. His ears strained for sound; nothing but the distant thrum of music and the drips and drops of a rain soaked alley met his ears. Delta’s heartbeat pulsed over the bass of the club, it was lifted, elevated, pulsing the blood around her body quickly.
Benny frowned, those alarms in his head buzzing louder through the unnatural calm he felt.
He needed to leave; he didn’t have time to stand around, having a staring contest. He didn’t want to be here, he wanted to be back at the Bunker, drinking with Dean, researching with Dean, he wanted to be with Dean, and it was obvious, Delta didn’t want to be here either.
Everything from the way she stood, like a rabbit on the edge of movement, ready to flee, ready to jump, to the way her eyes seemed to dart to every dark corner of the alley made it obvious.
Why was he feeling so clouded, so calm? Nothing about this was right, every nerve in his body should have been telling him to get the fuck outta dodge but it didn’t and he didn’t. If anything he wanted a nap. He felt cozy and far to warm for the chill in the air.
“Did you have something you wanted to say, Darlin’?”
Delta shifted, licking over her lips as he addressed her. She tucked some of her hair, short, brown waves, behind her ear and cleared her throat.
“About that…” she began shifting on her booted feet. “I, you know, I was definitely doing what you paid me to, but like, then…” Her eyes lifted to his and her smile was deep, predatory, and full of danger. “I got a better offer.”
Her hand rose, palm towards him, a symbol scratched into the flesh.
“Et adhuc in frigore!” she shouted
It was too late. The sound of feet coming up from behind him was so loud all of a sudden, he didn’t know how he could have missed their approach. His eyes went wide as Delta turned and darted back down the alley, cutting around the corner, back towards the club, towards the street, towards the city, towards safety, away from Benny, away from him, and whoever, or whatever was coming up fast from behind.
Benny tried to turn, to face his attacker. He was rooted, his legs frozen to the crack and puckered pavement below his feet. He jolted, lunging forward, his eyes lifting to where Delta had been, finally the panic and dread pushed through the cloud of comfort and clawed itself deep into his bones.
All the things about this place that were wrong, too quiet, too still, came into sharp relief. A curtain lifted, the sound of the club was louder, the beat of the music stronger faster, people yelled and laughed and the city was alive. It wasn’t quiet, it had never been still.
It was a spell, some kind of magic woven around the entire place.
It was a trap.
Benny didn’t remember the blow to the back of his head. He didn’t remember falling to the ground, his eyes rolling back; he didn’t remember his knees landing into the neon tinted puddle, the filthy pavement coming up to scrape along his cheek. He didn’t remember any of it, but he remembered the pain.
Dean sat up suddenly; he had fallen asleep reading, his forehead cradled on the age scented pages of an old book of lore. There was a warm wool blanket draped over his shoulders. His hand lifted to the back of his head, cupping his neck and running up through his hair. His eyes blurred out, his vision swimming; he shook his head, and that was a mistake. A migraine bloomed fast and strong across his scalp, pulsing from the back of his skull and echoing through his temples. He blinked, his eyes going wide, unfocused.
“Jesus…” He groaned running his fingers over his temples in small circles. “What the fuck.”
Dean stood slowly; an instant wave of vertigo hit him and his hand flew out to grip the chair had just vacated, his knees shaking, legs weak, as the pain ebbed slightly. He flexed his jaw and rolled his shoulders, trying to relieve some of the tension the sudden migraine was causing.
He shook his head again as the sound of his shout reverberated off the walls. His head spun, his eyes went in and out of focus; the lights were too bright. He felt bile rising up his throat.
The ground was coming up to meet him. That was strange. Darkness swam at the edges of his vision; his stomach flipped as gravity pulled him down. The chair he was holding onto clattered to the floor next to his head and then there was darkness.
Benny came to slowly, his body booting up like an old computer. First his hearing came back online. Whispered voices, scattered on the edges of his senses. He couldn’t make out anything they were saying, feminine voices, floating to him like waves on an angry sea. Drifting in and out. Hearts beat around him like drums, one, two, five, nine… at least twelve people.
He shook his head, pain blooming like violence through his system. Smells hit him suddenly. Wet and stale, mold, and the coppery tang of blood; over it all was the husky scent of burning herbs.
He felt the blood lust shudder through his system. Licking over his lips he groaned. When was the last time he fed? How long has it been since he left the Bunker? One day? Two? It couldn’t have been that long.
He blinked, groaning softly through the pain in his body. He sight came back to him slowly, blurry eyes, blinking them back into focus. He noticed suddenly that it was quiet. All of the voices had stopped.
He blinked again, squeezing his eyes closed tightly. He pulled his arm towards his face but grunted as it stopped. Looking up he saw his wrists bound in iron manacles, lifted high, stretching his arms to their full wingspan above his head. His shoulders were stiff and ached badly; his fingertips were numb and tingled in a way that gave him the impression he had been in this position for a while now.
“What..” his voice rasped past dry lips. He pulled hard on the chains binding him to the ceiling but they were sturdy, drilled right into the wrought concrete of the building’s skeleton.
His head swung around. The bleary light of the building he was in flickered and danced, orange and yellow and organic; there were fires, small torches lit around the space. There were sheets of thick white plastic hanging like curtains here and there obscuring his view making him unable to take in the full layout of his prison.
The sound of sharp heels on cement approached him quickly. The steps measured and confidant. He tried to stand straight, grabbing the thick chain links in his fists he pulled himself solidly to his feet, his bare feet. It was then he noticed, looking down over himself that he was nude. His pale skin flickered in the orange glow of the fire.
“Good Evening Sweetheart.”
Benny looked to where the soft feminine voice came from. He groaned, his chin dropping to his chest, defeat and despair flooding his system.
A small humm of agreement and amusement came from the woman. She was standing close, so close he could smell her, so close he could feel the waves of power radiating off of her.
“How kind of you to remember me.” She stepped closer, her long fingers gliding down his outstretched arm, dusting over his bare shoulder. “I heard you were looking for me, talking to people, my people…” Her fingers slid down to his chest and she curled them, her ruby red lips lifting in a snarl. “How silly…”
Her nail dipped on his skin, slicking like a knife through his flesh. Blood blossomed, a red slash against his pale flesh. It dripped down over his nipple before falling to the floor below. He grimaced, looking from the slash to the woman in front him.
“Darlin’ if you’re tryin’ to turn me on, you’re going about it all wrong.” he smiled a tight lipped smile as her other hand came up and her fingertips sliced along his pectoral. Matching rivulets of blood flowed openly on either side of his chest.
Benny shivered; his stomach turned and he felt queasy.
“Oh I’m not so sure, really,” she said calmly, turning her back on him and retreating a few steps. She was taking her time; every movement of her body was unhurried.
She wandered over to a small work table. On one side there were power tools, rolled up blueprints, plans. A construction site. Benny fought the urge to look around to confirm his suspicion.
On the other side of the table were the tools of a witch, basins and bowls, herbs and crystals, bones of animals and a sharp silver blade. It was this blade Sedelca lifted then. She carefully dipped it into one of the dark carved bowls.
“You’re going to tell me everything you know about the Winchesters.”
Benny laughed as she turned back to face him. The gown she wore was deep indigo and it clung to her body like a second skin. The color made her eyes glow brighter as her manicured brows arched high towards her dark hair. The blade dripped with some dark liquid.
“Something funny, handsome?” She smiled deviously and suddenly she was in front of him. She had closed the distance of a few yards in the blink of an eye.
Her face was serene as she lifted her blade, the copper scent of blood filling the air, rushing into his nose, flooding his senses. His lips curled back; he could feel the itch in his gums, the tingle of his fangs sliding forward. She was so close to him now that the heat of her body washed over his bare skin and he could see her pulse, pumping blood through the veins in her long delicate neck.
She ran the flat side of the blade against the soft inner skin of his upper arm, smearing deep crimson against his skin. Benny shuddered and his pupils dilated as her fingers followed the path of the blade through the blood.
“I think you’re barking up the wrong tree here…,” he grit out forcing his fangs back, forcing his eyes to her face. He wouldn’t submit; he wouldn’t betray Dean.
Sedelca hummed again, a soft, sweet sound. It would have been soothing if Benny wasn’t currently chained, standing spread eagle, in some abandoned construction site. Maybe it was meant to be soothing, motherly. The tip of the blade bit into his upper arm, slicing through the soft skin, one, two, three, small cuts. They burned, they stung and ached. They should have been nothing, simple little slices, they shouldn’t have even registered to him but they did.
“Dead man’s blood…,” he gasped out his eyes going wide as the burning lanced down his shoulder and speared into his gut. He shivered, a full body shudder; his knees threatened to waver below him. The links in his palm pinched against his skin as he gripped them to force himself to keep standing. His stomach twisted and he fought the urge to vomit.
“Oh my sweet little Lamia,” Her hand was cupping his face bringing it towards hers. Her lips parted and her teeth dragged over the edge of his jaw before sucking it between her lips. “We are just getting started,” she whispered against his cheek. Her body twisted against him, plunging the blade deep into his arm, forcing it between the muscle and bone.
The sun was coming up; he could feel it, feel the warmth spreading over his skin, feel it tingle and burn along each deep line sliced into him. He groaned groggily; his throat was sore and dry. The muscles in his shoulders and neck burned. At some point in the night his knees had given out. Deep ruts were dug into the flesh at his wrists where the iron cut into him. Blood coated his forearms from where he bled from the gashes; his hands were purple and blue and swollen and he couldn’t feel any of his fingers or his arms. The ache in his shoulders and neck was enough to chase the numbness from them.
Slowly he tried to pull his feet under him, to take the pressure off his wrists and shoulders; pain radiated up from his souls. Thin slices littered the bottoms of his feet and the rough concrete floor caused them to open and bleed.
Benny looked down; one of his eyes was crusted shut. The floor was splattered with blood, tinted with varying colors of red and copper, dried dirty brown smears and fresh crimson smudges.
There were other things too, splattered liquids in blue and green, wax and feathers, bones, small white bones, of animals and birds. There were symbols painted in his blood, on the tops of his feet on the floor and on the cement columns he stood between.
Carefully he drew a breath - pain, blinding pain; it unfurled inside of his gut and crawled its way up into his chest, digging into his ribs and lungs, nesting inside of him. It lanced down with sharp claws to bite into his hips and thighs, echoing back up through his body like lightning lacing across the sky.
“Shhh, shhh, shhh.” A hand, soft and warm, was sliding over his cheek “Now, now, my sweet, it’s ok, it will be ok,” the voice hummed to him soothing, soft and comforting. His eyes drifted closed and he leaned towards the warmth of the body, leaned into the soft hands on his face.
“Andrea…,” he mumbled “Help me… D… Dean… please… ” His mind succumbed to the darkness as husky feminine laughter filled his ears.
It had been going on for hours. It had started suddenly not long after he blacked out and it hadn’t ended. Cas and Sam were arguing, but they were far away. Their voices drifted in and out; he was drifting in and out.
His door creaked open and someone pulled a chair over to the side of his bed. A cool cloth was pressed against his forehead and a soft whisper came to his ear. “Shh, Dean, shh.”
Why was Meg in his room? Why was she touching him? He tried to force his eyes open; his breath hitched and pain lanced over his body.
It had started hours ago. It had been going on all night. He remembered every second. He remembered his screams.
Something was being shoved into his mouth. It was small and soft and tasted like animal, tanned leather, no, suede maybe? Benny tried to turn away, tried to move his head, but his body wouldn’t respond. Carefully his mouth was pried open, deft fingers pressed into the joint of his jaw and he felt it fall, his cut and cracked lips parting to accept the small pouch.
“Good boy, good boy,” the voice crooned into his ear, fingers petted along his cheek, slid through his sweaty hair. “That’s it, that’s it now, swallow and I’ll give you a treat.”
Benny tried to swallow; he tried to listen. Something stopped him; something was wrong.
‘Dean,’ the name fluttered across his mind, bright and severe. Hope filled him, and then it was gone. He was alone, no one knew where he was, he didn’t even know where he was. Dean wasn’t coming, no one was.
His throat was so dry, his mouth arid and hot. He was so thirsty, he was so, so thirsty.
“Please…,” he whispered, his voice guttural, raw from his screams. “Thirsty…” The bag in his mouth made it hard to speak.
There was a disappointed sigh before the sharp clicking of retreating footsteps. Beny tried, his tongue was heavy, too thick and hard to move, but he tried, he tried to force the little bag out of his mouth. It was stuck to his dry lips, stuck on his heavy tongue; he couldn’t open his mouth wide enough, he couldn’t get it out; he couldn’t breathe, he couldn't open his eyes. Why couldn’t he open his eyes?
“Ah, ah, ah. No, no my sweet Lamia,” she crooned to him, her hand coming up to push the little pouch back in. “I need you to swallow it, that’s it, good boy.”
A cup was being pressed to his lips. He inhaled and his body lurched forward on its own, his mouth opening, his muscles tensing all at once.
The contents of the cup spilled over his chin and lips at his sudden movement. The woman laughed as she pressed the goblet roughly into his mouth. The cold rim of the cup split open the long cut that slashed across the right side of his face from temple to chin.
“Yes, yes, my sweet.” she purred, her voice light and melodic and pleasant. Her free hand was rubbing soft circles against his cheek. “Thats a good boy, good boys get treats, don’t they?”
Benny drank, the little pouch washed down his throat, his tongue darting out to lap at the goblet, swiping over his lips and chin trying to get every drop.
His fingers clenched and relaxed. His one good eye opened and fell on her; she was smiling, she was calling him a good boy, she was touching him with soft loving caresses. Her violet eyes were full and warm as they looked at him.
“Are you my good little Lamia?” she asked stepping in, her body hovering.
Benny breathed, his eyes narrowed, his body full of pain and anger. His numb fingers clenched, the skin of his hands so swollen it felt as if they would burst. ‘NO!, NO!’ his brain screamed, his teeth clenched; he wanted to kill her, no, he would kill her. He would rip out her throat and drain her of every drop of blood she had. He would never be hers, her pet, her good little Vampire. Never! He wouldn’t, he was Dean’s, he was… Dean’s? The thought startled him but not as much as what he said next.
Her smile curled up over her delicate features turning them wicked. She leaned in kissing him, her tongue sliding along his lips and he opened his mouth for her. His body pulled against the chains, fighting to get closer to her, his arms straining as he leaned into the kiss.
Dean lurched up, his gasp deep and wrenching. His lungs pulled in air as if he had just broken through the surface of some fathomless, dark water. The air was sweet and hot and his breath came in deep gulps, his eyes wide, searching, unseeing.
“P… pen!” he grit out, “pen, get me a pen.”
The chair next to his bed fell over as Meg rushed to the desk, a seconds pause and a pen and pad were being shoved into his outstretched fingers. Dean didn’t hear what she said but there was a commotion outside his door as Cas and Sam fought to enter at the same time.
He was writing feverously, the pen digging into the pad, ripping at the pages with the force of his strokes. His mind was spinning, the fog threatening to overtake him again.
Someone was running a cool cloth over his neck and shoulders, someone was talking to him. None of that mattered.o Only one thing mattered - Benny.
He said it over and over again. He didn’t even realize he was saying it. His shoulders went limp, his eyes came up large and cloudy, and his hands shook as he looked around the room. He found Cas, finally, Cas, he was squatting, hunched at the side of Dean’s bed. His features broken his eyes wide, he gripped at the sheets next to Dean’s hips. Dean shoved the pad into his hands, his fingers shaking sweaty as it slipped away.
“Dean?” his eyes were wide, searching, boundless questions held in their warm azure depths.
“Cas,” he whispered “Benny…” Dean’s eyes rolled back and he collapsed against the bed again.
a.n Sorry about the short chapter. You know I don't like to push them, they end when they want to lol. I am strictly a vessel for my muses. I'm really trying to get better at this whole writing thing, this chapter, I think, is my best so far. Let me know what you think.
Also I decided I hated the name Royal Ascot Bottlegreen, So I want to call this drink Clouds of Roses. I thought the cloudy white drink with the singular red rose petal was really fitting for this chapter. Let me know your thoughts <3