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Author: Guede Mazaka
Rating: PG.
Pairing: Sands/El/Dean Corso. Random other muses scattered about.
Disclaimer: Never mine.
Feedback: Yes, please. Whatever you can spare.
Notes: The Ninth Gate crossover with all my other fandoms. Because I'm certifiable.
Summary: So where does that gate lead, anyway?
***
Dean pushed through the blazing light and waited for his eyes to adjust. And waited.
"Not gonna work, you know," the tallest musician muttered as he adjusted his guitar. "Fucking Sands never goes away."
"Fuck off, birdbutt," a skinny pale man snapped. He was flopped down on another musician, who apparently was the Hispanic version of the Terminator, to judge by the size of the guns he was putting down. And the slink in his walk as he came up to Dean, freakishly unhindered by Sands, who continued to cling to his side like a starfish. "All right, El. Which do we have, one of yours or one of mine?"
"Yours," chorused the motley group of men and women that sprawled or snogged or flat-out fucked in the…room-like space. The animals just looked disdainful, when they weren't doing their own, highly disturbing form of cuddling.
"Oh, cool. So what are you-psychic? Pirate? Just plain psychotic nutball?"
For the first time in ages, Dean felt outclassed. It was an unpleasant feeling. "I'm a bookdealer who got hold of a book written by the Devil, which was supposed to give me access to incredible powers."
"Christ, that's pathe-hey, El!" Looking dangerously pouty, Sands winced when his ass hit the ground, then smacked at his partner. "You motherfucking prickless bastard. Seth, Miguel, Abberline, even Ichabod-you all got to try them fir-mmph!"
Satisfied look firmly in place, El held Sands down on the newcomer and watched the squirming. "That should keep him happy for a few days."
"You say that every…" Alec pushed ineffectually at James. "Every…damn it, Bond. I'm trying to make a po-never mind."
***