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roxyTitle: Under The California Sun (impalas and big trucks)
Author: roxy
Pairings/Characters: Dean, Sam, OMC
Rating: various by chapter, NC-17 overall
Word Count: 1129
Summary: I wondered what happened to those Lodi boys, too
Under The California Sun (impalas and big trucks)
The stupid door bounces against the frame when he tries to open it, it rebounds and smacks him in the arm and hurts like a motherfucker.
"Shit, shit shit—" He's almost crawling across the floor, he kicks the door shut with one booted foot and when he wakes up again, he's laying face down on the bathroom floor. Which—good--because....
He vomits his fucking lungs into the toilet, and hangs off the edge, feeling his face suck up all the cool from the porcelain. "God…" What the fuck.
He draws himself up, panting, fumbling around the sink. The kit's up there somewhere. He pulls himself off his knees, just about rips the crappy little sink off the wall before he's completely upright and a wave of funk flows off of him—gags him. Jesus—he stinks. And he's crusty, and covered with a mix of blood, his and the bitch's. He's shaking by the time he gets his leather jacket off, his boots, the funky, sticky mess of his tee shirt and the ribbons of what used to be a pretty good pair of jeans. It says a lot about this dump that the rest of the tenants didn't turn a hair when he staggered down the hall, pretty much naked from the waist down, dripping blood and mud and fabric. He stifles a hysterical giggle, gasps when it turns to sharp-edged pain.
He looks over the leather with a critical eye—there's a small puncture on the shoulder where the harpy tried to grab him but missed, her talons only popping the leather and thank fuck, not his skin. Should have been so lucky elsewhere.
He starts the shower and stands under hot water, yelping and hissing and cursing when the hot water scalds open wounds but he knows just how damn dirty those things are, rotted meat on those claws, in their teeth. He fingers a puncture wound in his thigh, and thanks…God, that it didn't hit the artery, or fuck—his nuts. He turns so the water runs right into it, no matter how much it hurts. That's why God made curse words and he uses a lot of them, at the top of his lungs. There's a slice too, across his stomach, that only sheer, dumb, stupid luck had kept from being the wound his guts poured out of. Shit. That realization, and the hot water, makes him feel faint, makes the slashes bleed faster.
His head is swooping, heart hammering by the time he shuts the water off and stumbles into the bedroom with the kit. He sits on the edge of the bed and threads the needle, takes a deep breath, "Okay, okay…" and begins to stitch himself up. There's no one to look brave for, so he whimpers and whines a lot—even lets a tear or two roll down his cheeks—it makes him feel a little better. "Get you a milkshake later—promise…" pain zips through his nerves and he groans, "fucking get you laid later, promise…"
A splash of alcohol on the wounds wakes him right up for a minute of two….
This would be so much goddamn easier with a partner, he thinks, and not for the first time. He sounds like he's yelping instead of breathing by the time he's completely done. His head's pounding and his lip hurts from biting down. "Fuck, that was rough."
Makes sure salt's laid in straight and unbroken lines across the doorway, along the sill of the one window in the room and finally, gratefully, takes a painkiller. Two. He hitches up on the bed, until his shoulders are pressed against the headboard, and fingers his hair, and the ridiculous thought that if he fell asleep with it wet and uncombed it'd be a rat's nest in the morning makes him laugh. "Yo, you asshole," he snickers. "You coulda died tonight—you're fucking worrying about snarls? Shit." His head rolls and his eyelids flicker. "You're such a stupid fuck," he mutters. "No wonder you're alone...."
His eyelids drop shut, and stuttering images of a screaming rage-filled face swoops at him, the sword he used to take its head off twists in his dream hands and falls—blood slaps against his face again and the stink of it makes him gag again—he jerks upright, eyes wide before he slumps and laughs weakly. It's okay….
He's as safe as possible now. In the morning he'll add what he's learned about harpies into the journal, and let his contact know it was done. Right now, *real* sleep. Morning, he'd have breakfast, and call Alex and find another job and call Alex and….
He's deep asleep. snoring, dreaming, running and running in his sleep, there was something bad chasing him, something with--yellow eyes, no—black—red--
"Sam—help Sam--"
Shoots up straight in bed, with an invisible hand pressing down on his chest, and in his throat—
"Shit…" He *hates* when he wakes up with Sam on his mind. All this time, and still. He shakes his head, knuckles his eyes and yawns—winces when the abuse he took yesterday catches up with him. Sam. He always dreams of him when he's so beaten down, all his defenses are toilet paper thin.
Fucking Sam. He wouldn't even be in Cali, if it wasn't….He shifts on the bed and groans. "Oh man..." He's only got the room for tonight but…there's no way he was hustling, not this beat up. He's going to have to call in some favors if he wants to eat—and fuck if he was gonna sleep in that stupid matchbox of a car in this condition. He gingerly, carefully dresses, pulls the leather jacket on and heads out. Something would turn up, it always did.
He winds up in an alley behind some grungy bar anyway, beat up or not—in fact the piece of work who's willing to pay sixty for a blow job seems to like pressing his fingers into the bruises. Every time he pulls off to hiss, the fucker's dick jumps in his mouth. He finishes him off as fast as he can, acting like he can't get enough of the guy's mini dick.
When he's folding money into his pocket he let himself think about Alex. Maybe…maybe he should call him. Just to check in, that's all.
He wanders back inside, and drops down at the end of the bar. He pulls the phone out of his pocket, punches in the number quickly. He leaves a message. "Yeah, it's me. I'm back in the land of sunshine. You too busy to meet me for breakfast? Oh, um…this is...it's Patrick. Call me? If you want."
part 2
tbc
Author: roxy
Pairings/Characters: Dean, Sam, OMC
Rating: various by chapter, NC-17 overall
Word Count: 1129
Summary: I wondered what happened to those Lodi boys, too
Under The California Sun (impalas and big trucks)
The stupid door bounces against the frame when he tries to open it, it rebounds and smacks him in the arm and hurts like a motherfucker.
"Shit, shit shit—" He's almost crawling across the floor, he kicks the door shut with one booted foot and when he wakes up again, he's laying face down on the bathroom floor. Which—good--because....
He vomits his fucking lungs into the toilet, and hangs off the edge, feeling his face suck up all the cool from the porcelain. "God…" What the fuck.
He draws himself up, panting, fumbling around the sink. The kit's up there somewhere. He pulls himself off his knees, just about rips the crappy little sink off the wall before he's completely upright and a wave of funk flows off of him—gags him. Jesus—he stinks. And he's crusty, and covered with a mix of blood, his and the bitch's. He's shaking by the time he gets his leather jacket off, his boots, the funky, sticky mess of his tee shirt and the ribbons of what used to be a pretty good pair of jeans. It says a lot about this dump that the rest of the tenants didn't turn a hair when he staggered down the hall, pretty much naked from the waist down, dripping blood and mud and fabric. He stifles a hysterical giggle, gasps when it turns to sharp-edged pain.
He looks over the leather with a critical eye—there's a small puncture on the shoulder where the harpy tried to grab him but missed, her talons only popping the leather and thank fuck, not his skin. Should have been so lucky elsewhere.
He starts the shower and stands under hot water, yelping and hissing and cursing when the hot water scalds open wounds but he knows just how damn dirty those things are, rotted meat on those claws, in their teeth. He fingers a puncture wound in his thigh, and thanks…God, that it didn't hit the artery, or fuck—his nuts. He turns so the water runs right into it, no matter how much it hurts. That's why God made curse words and he uses a lot of them, at the top of his lungs. There's a slice too, across his stomach, that only sheer, dumb, stupid luck had kept from being the wound his guts poured out of. Shit. That realization, and the hot water, makes him feel faint, makes the slashes bleed faster.
His head is swooping, heart hammering by the time he shuts the water off and stumbles into the bedroom with the kit. He sits on the edge of the bed and threads the needle, takes a deep breath, "Okay, okay…" and begins to stitch himself up. There's no one to look brave for, so he whimpers and whines a lot—even lets a tear or two roll down his cheeks—it makes him feel a little better. "Get you a milkshake later—promise…" pain zips through his nerves and he groans, "fucking get you laid later, promise…"
A splash of alcohol on the wounds wakes him right up for a minute of two….
This would be so much goddamn easier with a partner, he thinks, and not for the first time. He sounds like he's yelping instead of breathing by the time he's completely done. His head's pounding and his lip hurts from biting down. "Fuck, that was rough."
Makes sure salt's laid in straight and unbroken lines across the doorway, along the sill of the one window in the room and finally, gratefully, takes a painkiller. Two. He hitches up on the bed, until his shoulders are pressed against the headboard, and fingers his hair, and the ridiculous thought that if he fell asleep with it wet and uncombed it'd be a rat's nest in the morning makes him laugh. "Yo, you asshole," he snickers. "You coulda died tonight—you're fucking worrying about snarls? Shit." His head rolls and his eyelids flicker. "You're such a stupid fuck," he mutters. "No wonder you're alone...."
His eyelids drop shut, and stuttering images of a screaming rage-filled face swoops at him, the sword he used to take its head off twists in his dream hands and falls—blood slaps against his face again and the stink of it makes him gag again—he jerks upright, eyes wide before he slumps and laughs weakly. It's okay….
He's as safe as possible now. In the morning he'll add what he's learned about harpies into the journal, and let his contact know it was done. Right now, *real* sleep. Morning, he'd have breakfast, and call Alex and find another job and call Alex and….
He's deep asleep. snoring, dreaming, running and running in his sleep, there was something bad chasing him, something with--yellow eyes, no—black—red--
"Sam—help Sam--"
Shoots up straight in bed, with an invisible hand pressing down on his chest, and in his throat—
"Shit…" He *hates* when he wakes up with Sam on his mind. All this time, and still. He shakes his head, knuckles his eyes and yawns—winces when the abuse he took yesterday catches up with him. Sam. He always dreams of him when he's so beaten down, all his defenses are toilet paper thin.
Fucking Sam. He wouldn't even be in Cali, if it wasn't….He shifts on the bed and groans. "Oh man..." He's only got the room for tonight but…there's no way he was hustling, not this beat up. He's going to have to call in some favors if he wants to eat—and fuck if he was gonna sleep in that stupid matchbox of a car in this condition. He gingerly, carefully dresses, pulls the leather jacket on and heads out. Something would turn up, it always did.
He winds up in an alley behind some grungy bar anyway, beat up or not—in fact the piece of work who's willing to pay sixty for a blow job seems to like pressing his fingers into the bruises. Every time he pulls off to hiss, the fucker's dick jumps in his mouth. He finishes him off as fast as he can, acting like he can't get enough of the guy's mini dick.
When he's folding money into his pocket he let himself think about Alex. Maybe…maybe he should call him. Just to check in, that's all.
He wanders back inside, and drops down at the end of the bar. He pulls the phone out of his pocket, punches in the number quickly. He leaves a message. "Yeah, it's me. I'm back in the land of sunshine. You too busy to meet me for breakfast? Oh, um…this is...it's Patrick. Call me? If you want."
part 2
tbc
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![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
6/16/09 02:03 am (UTC)Goes off to read. . .
(no subject)
6/16/09 02:13 am (UTC)Seriously, I knew when I started that there had to be more to it than just Dean kinda fucked up again, and Sammy being away at college. . . and, boy, was I right! Whoo-doggy, has Pat embraced the hunter's life. I feel bad that he's still alone after all this time, although this Alex might be something? I expect some double-hunter-on-case action coming up, with Dean maybe? Or both? *bats eyelashes seductively*
He kept his hair! I *love* his hair long (at least, that's what I gathered from the fuzzy concern over snarls. . . )!!!
(no subject)
6/16/09 02:24 am (UTC)*G* yeah, he kept his hair--so far, anyway! :)
(no subject)
6/16/09 02:27 am (UTC)That's for sure! Are we gonna get back story on how he "got into it?"
And you totally fooled me on it being Pat's POV, you clever devil, you!
(no subject)
6/16/09 02:36 am (UTC)Heee! You make me happy!
(no subject)
6/16/09 02:33 am (UTC)*pets him*
Poor thing. But, it's kind of inevitable, isn't it.....
(no subject)
6/16/09 02:37 am (UTC)(no subject)
6/18/09 05:27 am (UTC)I want to feel bad for Patrick, but I really don't have it in me. I just think it's hot :)
(no subject)
6/18/09 05:34 am (UTC)I know, right? *G*
(no subject)
6/18/09 05:40 am (UTC)(no subject)
6/18/09 11:40 am (UTC)Looking forward to more!
(no subject)
6/18/09 03:16 pm (UTC)(no subject)
6/19/09 05:15 am (UTC)"You're such a stupid fuck," he mutters. "No wonder you're alone...."
This made me sad when I thought it was Dean, and even sadder when I thought it was Patrick. I'm glad you're following up with these boys!
(no subject)
6/20/09 03:27 am (UTC)(no subject)
6/20/09 07:04 am (UTC)This is NOT what I meant when I said I wanted Happy!Patrick!
*sobs*
But I guess in a realistic world, this makes sense.
Goddammit.
So glad to see more of this 'verse.
Even if it does make me SADZ.
(no subject)
6/20/09 06:19 pm (UTC)(no subject)
6/19/11 02:52 am (UTC)(no subject)
6/20/11 12:06 am (UTC)I'm ridiculously pleased that it was a surprise to you! :)
(no subject)
12/24/12 12:40 am (UTC)(no subject)
12/24/12 12:45 am (UTC)eta: Stand By Me is fun, even if it's threesomes! Besides, how can you resist a sex-fiend, sorta mind-controling Whitney? ;)