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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: 1433
Summary: I wondered what happened to those Lodi boys, too
Under The California Sun (impalas and big trucks)
Dean feels a little like he's filled with rice crispies and they're sliding in between his joints as he moves. Grimaces, wants a coffee…a shot, definitely a fucking cigarette but not in the car. It's hot as fuck. He rubs grit into his eyes, blinks hard. How fucking long is it going to take before his contact shows up?
He shifts on the seat, his jeans so wet from sweat it's like he peed himself or something…he glances at his phone. Nothing. He idly thinks about swinging by to check out Sam—long distance of course. He's not a fuckin' masochist. Not into having Sammy spit at him and tell him to fuck off. Besides, he's got some girl—Jess, or something--keeping him busy now. Dean shifts again, and tries to shift himself internally. Sam's *supposed* to have a girl, supposed to be loving school, getting laid, building a life for himself—that's what guys his age are supposed to want—it's normal. Dean experiments with a smile. Yeah. There's movement up the block and Dean's instantly awake—aware. Watches the person separate from the shadows across the street and come closer. It's a guy—a little older than him, with an impressive tattoo of scars scattered down one cheek, digging into his neck. There's a lighter landscape of scars, shiny but flat, spreading up into his hairline, altering and stealing big patches of skin out of where hair should be. He makes a beeline to the car—not worried about being seen. Good.
The guy is tapping at the open window with a twisted grin and Dean mutters, just because it's good policy, "Christo"—the dude laughs.
"Winchesters. Ya'll are funny as shit. Here's what you need. Bobby says hey."
Dean tips his head. "Thanks—we square, or—"
"Bobby got it. See ya 'round. I'm heading out Midwest. Lots of activity out there."
"I heard. Take care."
The guy licks powder dry lips. "Oh yeah. I'm gonna take care of something 'fore I leave."
Dean snorts and waves. freakin' creep.He puts the car in drive, drops the package in a box, a warded box. He's got no idea why Dad needs this stuff, but he needs it so Dean got it. Besides, this way he can check on the boy and him and Dad can both act like it's just…coincidence.
He's driving down the weird, hugely open street, baking under the glare of the sun, smells and music mostly new to him come floating in through the open windows. Ah, sunshine! Time for food, some booze and a little tail, before he checks on Sam, and takes off to catch up with Dad.
He's motoring along, watches people and looks for the kind of corner bar that's open at lunchtime and serves sandwiches. Bingo.
The place is cool inside, and noisy in a good way—pool tables off to the side and against the back wall, lighting the gloom, a couple of old-fashioned pinball machines and Dean's eyes light up. He heads straight back, and fishes the laundry money out of his pocket…yeah.
An hour or so later, his wrists are a little sore but he feels great. He sucks up another free beer—some boys bought him beers and watched him rack up points. There's a butt tucked behind his ear, and the end of one on his lip. He narrows his eyes against the smoke as he inhales. "Hell yeah," he crows as the ball ricochets down the table, racking up points—the machine's blinking and trumpeting, and he's getting his back slapped, and one girl is sitting at the table opposite the pinball machine, smiles, leans forward so her top opens, and licks her pussy pink lips. Dean feels a little tightness low in his gut. It's been a while and boy, she's not bad. Just the way he likes them. Tall, green eyes and a fall of dark, dark hair down her back.
He's about ask her what she's drinking when a kind of familiar figure struts past, his arm gripped up by some guy—the guy could be Gollem, could be Quasimodo. Dean shakes his head, about to let it go, when he hears the tall guy--Sammy tall--laugh.
A chill shoots up his spine, followed by the weirdest sense of déjà vu.
He watches the two walk out, sucks a deep drag off his cigarette. He orders another beer and sits at the bar. Game's on, so he sits and sips and eyes the chick, who eyes him back with a sly grin. He's thinking about it. Car, alley, her place…and just then, the long haired freakishly tall guy comes back, alone, and sits at the far end of the bar—orders whiskey neat. He's licking at the inside of his red, red lips…Dean grimaces. Fuck…no doubt what he was doing. And on second glance, this can't be the guy he thought it was. This guy's got fresh bruises, was holding himself like he had broken ribs, or took some serious hits. There was a gnarled thick scar peeking out of his shirt collar. Whatever freaky shit this guy's into, it's obvious he's a fighter—at least, no stranger to getting his ass kicked, and from the size of him, kicking back—hard. Couldn't be. Maybe some fucked up part of his brain wants it to be. And he flushes, feels the heat sweep his face. Maybe, he's afraid it's him. He slaps his glass down on the bar top, and signals to the chick, and no stranger to this, she's headed towards him before the bills he drops land on the bar.
She rides him in the back of the Impala. She's hot, and it's good—hell, any sex is good. She's got great tits, and he spends time on them, rosy nipples she likes having him play with, he bites a bit and gets a moan of approval—bites down hard and she clamps around him, tight and wet—fuck, yeah.
He takes that as permission and lifts her up and slams her down on his dick—wet flesh slaps together and in the quiet of the car, it sounds nasty--obscene. He fucks into her as hard as he can and she only moans, thank god, she doesn't talk—he kind of hates that. Throws him off. His mouth, his eyes, are squeezed tight with the effort, and his arms flex and shift and her knees dig into him. She's panting now, so he reaches between them, finds her clit and rolls it between his fingers, and she's off—snaps her head back and yelps, "shit" and comes in long waves…he grinds into her and his own orgasm snaps through him, he shudders and fills the condom.
The minute he comes down, he wants her out…but he smiles and kisses her and pets her, until she's ready to go…he's so fucking relieved when she does. Offers to drive her home, but no—her car's in the lot, thanks. Walks her to it, though. Least he can do.
She hops in and smiles at him, winks, and he winks back. Grins and waves as she drives off. Thank fuck, she's finally gone--like dodging a fucking bullet, he thinks. The inside of the Impala stinks of sex, and he lights a cigarette and rolls the windows down, because he hates the smell of smoke in his baby.
He rolls a couple of blocks up the street and he spies a motel that looks like it was designed by Walt Disney's crackhead cousin or something. It's got kind of a sixties look, apricot tinted stucco walls looming over a sad looking swimming pool.
He drags his bag into the lobby and stops dead when the smell hits him. "Holy shit," he mutters and wrinkles his nose. "This must be where cabbage comes to die." Dean's pretty sure it's okay to talk to yourself here. He has the feeling it's most of the tenants only way of communication. He knows his gun's visible when he goes to pay the guy…the dude doesn't even look.
Thanks Dad. Some place you sent me too. Probably safe, though—no self respecting monster would hang out here. He swings the key into his palm and walks across the lobby floor. He can actually feel the soles of his boots trying to pull loose from it as he walks. He glances to the side and there's an old dude staring at him like he's pulled pork on a bun…Dean shivers. Room, sleep, and get the fuck out of Dodge….
part 3
TBC
Author: roxy
Pairings/Characters: Dean, Sam, OMC
Rating: various by chapter, NC-17 overall
Word Count: 1433
Summary: I wondered what happened to those Lodi boys, too
Under The California Sun (impalas and big trucks)
Dean feels a little like he's filled with rice crispies and they're sliding in between his joints as he moves. Grimaces, wants a coffee…a shot, definitely a fucking cigarette but not in the car. It's hot as fuck. He rubs grit into his eyes, blinks hard. How fucking long is it going to take before his contact shows up?
He shifts on the seat, his jeans so wet from sweat it's like he peed himself or something…he glances at his phone. Nothing. He idly thinks about swinging by to check out Sam—long distance of course. He's not a fuckin' masochist. Not into having Sammy spit at him and tell him to fuck off. Besides, he's got some girl—Jess, or something--keeping him busy now. Dean shifts again, and tries to shift himself internally. Sam's *supposed* to have a girl, supposed to be loving school, getting laid, building a life for himself—that's what guys his age are supposed to want—it's normal. Dean experiments with a smile. Yeah. There's movement up the block and Dean's instantly awake—aware. Watches the person separate from the shadows across the street and come closer. It's a guy—a little older than him, with an impressive tattoo of scars scattered down one cheek, digging into his neck. There's a lighter landscape of scars, shiny but flat, spreading up into his hairline, altering and stealing big patches of skin out of where hair should be. He makes a beeline to the car—not worried about being seen. Good.
The guy is tapping at the open window with a twisted grin and Dean mutters, just because it's good policy, "Christo"—the dude laughs.
"Winchesters. Ya'll are funny as shit. Here's what you need. Bobby says hey."
Dean tips his head. "Thanks—we square, or—"
"Bobby got it. See ya 'round. I'm heading out Midwest. Lots of activity out there."
"I heard. Take care."
The guy licks powder dry lips. "Oh yeah. I'm gonna take care of something 'fore I leave."
Dean snorts and waves. freakin' creep.He puts the car in drive, drops the package in a box, a warded box. He's got no idea why Dad needs this stuff, but he needs it so Dean got it. Besides, this way he can check on the boy and him and Dad can both act like it's just…coincidence.
He's driving down the weird, hugely open street, baking under the glare of the sun, smells and music mostly new to him come floating in through the open windows. Ah, sunshine! Time for food, some booze and a little tail, before he checks on Sam, and takes off to catch up with Dad.
He's motoring along, watches people and looks for the kind of corner bar that's open at lunchtime and serves sandwiches. Bingo.
The place is cool inside, and noisy in a good way—pool tables off to the side and against the back wall, lighting the gloom, a couple of old-fashioned pinball machines and Dean's eyes light up. He heads straight back, and fishes the laundry money out of his pocket…yeah.
An hour or so later, his wrists are a little sore but he feels great. He sucks up another free beer—some boys bought him beers and watched him rack up points. There's a butt tucked behind his ear, and the end of one on his lip. He narrows his eyes against the smoke as he inhales. "Hell yeah," he crows as the ball ricochets down the table, racking up points—the machine's blinking and trumpeting, and he's getting his back slapped, and one girl is sitting at the table opposite the pinball machine, smiles, leans forward so her top opens, and licks her pussy pink lips. Dean feels a little tightness low in his gut. It's been a while and boy, she's not bad. Just the way he likes them. Tall, green eyes and a fall of dark, dark hair down her back.
He's about ask her what she's drinking when a kind of familiar figure struts past, his arm gripped up by some guy—the guy could be Gollem, could be Quasimodo. Dean shakes his head, about to let it go, when he hears the tall guy--Sammy tall--laugh.
A chill shoots up his spine, followed by the weirdest sense of déjà vu.
He watches the two walk out, sucks a deep drag off his cigarette. He orders another beer and sits at the bar. Game's on, so he sits and sips and eyes the chick, who eyes him back with a sly grin. He's thinking about it. Car, alley, her place…and just then, the long haired freakishly tall guy comes back, alone, and sits at the far end of the bar—orders whiskey neat. He's licking at the inside of his red, red lips…Dean grimaces. Fuck…no doubt what he was doing. And on second glance, this can't be the guy he thought it was. This guy's got fresh bruises, was holding himself like he had broken ribs, or took some serious hits. There was a gnarled thick scar peeking out of his shirt collar. Whatever freaky shit this guy's into, it's obvious he's a fighter—at least, no stranger to getting his ass kicked, and from the size of him, kicking back—hard. Couldn't be. Maybe some fucked up part of his brain wants it to be. And he flushes, feels the heat sweep his face. Maybe, he's afraid it's him. He slaps his glass down on the bar top, and signals to the chick, and no stranger to this, she's headed towards him before the bills he drops land on the bar.
She rides him in the back of the Impala. She's hot, and it's good—hell, any sex is good. She's got great tits, and he spends time on them, rosy nipples she likes having him play with, he bites a bit and gets a moan of approval—bites down hard and she clamps around him, tight and wet—fuck, yeah.
He takes that as permission and lifts her up and slams her down on his dick—wet flesh slaps together and in the quiet of the car, it sounds nasty--obscene. He fucks into her as hard as he can and she only moans, thank god, she doesn't talk—he kind of hates that. Throws him off. His mouth, his eyes, are squeezed tight with the effort, and his arms flex and shift and her knees dig into him. She's panting now, so he reaches between them, finds her clit and rolls it between his fingers, and she's off—snaps her head back and yelps, "shit" and comes in long waves…he grinds into her and his own orgasm snaps through him, he shudders and fills the condom.
The minute he comes down, he wants her out…but he smiles and kisses her and pets her, until she's ready to go…he's so fucking relieved when she does. Offers to drive her home, but no—her car's in the lot, thanks. Walks her to it, though. Least he can do.
She hops in and smiles at him, winks, and he winks back. Grins and waves as she drives off. Thank fuck, she's finally gone--like dodging a fucking bullet, he thinks. The inside of the Impala stinks of sex, and he lights a cigarette and rolls the windows down, because he hates the smell of smoke in his baby.
He rolls a couple of blocks up the street and he spies a motel that looks like it was designed by Walt Disney's crackhead cousin or something. It's got kind of a sixties look, apricot tinted stucco walls looming over a sad looking swimming pool.
He drags his bag into the lobby and stops dead when the smell hits him. "Holy shit," he mutters and wrinkles his nose. "This must be where cabbage comes to die." Dean's pretty sure it's okay to talk to yourself here. He has the feeling it's most of the tenants only way of communication. He knows his gun's visible when he goes to pay the guy…the dude doesn't even look.
Thanks Dad. Some place you sent me too. Probably safe, though—no self respecting monster would hang out here. He swings the key into his palm and walks across the lobby floor. He can actually feel the soles of his boots trying to pull loose from it as he walks. He glances to the side and there's an old dude staring at him like he's pulled pork on a bun…Dean shivers. Room, sleep, and get the fuck out of Dodge….
part 3
TBC
Tags:
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
6/19/09 02:21 am (UTC)(no subject)
6/19/09 02:27 am (UTC)Girls that look like Sam, or Patrick. ;)
(no subject)
6/19/09 03:25 am (UTC)Well, it's bleak, my friend. Damn bleak.
*pets Dean*
(no subject)
6/20/09 02:59 am (UTC)*crosses fingers*
I mean, it's not like they're going to go to prom together, but it should stop short of gunplay.
*G*
(no subject)
6/20/09 03:24 am (UTC)I just don't get you.
*prods at you*
(no subject)
6/20/09 04:49 am (UTC)It just kind of creeps in for some reason. I think I never got over the sad, sad stories I used to tell myself, using little plastic animals, (a collie and some kind of beagle or something) and acting out epic stories of love and loss and huge amount of h/c...*sigh*.
Best part was when I would force my friends to play along. *G*
(no subject)
6/20/09 02:03 pm (UTC)*props chin on fists*
You were one strange kiddo, weren't you.
:)
*i would go out into the woods and talk to the trees and pretend that the animals would come to me to settle disputes and things....*
(no subject)
6/19/09 05:20 am (UTC)(no subject)
6/20/09 03:02 am (UTC)Goodness, wow, thank you! Thank you, that's such a nice thing to say! I'm smiling all over here!
I hope this keeps your attention! :)
(no subject)
6/19/09 03:49 pm (UTC)Man, I both love and hate Stanford-era stories. They're so good and painful. . . and they're *painful*, you know? :) I like where I think you're going with this. . . ! More, more, more!
(Plus, naughty, *naughty* Pat. XD)
(no subject)
6/20/09 03:03 am (UTC)I agree with you about Stanford stories. They are painful on so many levels, aren't they?
(no subject)
6/19/09 11:51 pm (UTC)""This must be where cabbage comes to die."
might be my favorite so far:)
(no subject)
6/20/09 03:06 am (UTC)(no subject)
6/20/09 03:41 am (UTC)This is excellent so far :)
(no subject)
6/20/09 04:41 am (UTC)(no subject)
6/20/09 07:08 am (UTC)this is so tense and upsetting!
I LOVE IT.
Can't wait for more!
(no subject)
6/24/09 04:53 pm (UTC)I'll be posting soon--my Smallville BigBang has taken up large areas of my brain, but I'm working on this too. Thanks a million for reading!
(no subject)
6/20/09 06:38 pm (UTC)(no subject)
6/24/09 04:53 pm (UTC)