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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: 1905
Summary: I wondered what happened to those Lodi boys, too
Under The California Sun (impalas and big trucks)
There's noise out in the hallway, and the paper thin walls aren't doing a damn thing to muffle it, and it's really fucking annoying when a guy is trying to do a little research…or nap. Dean hangs his head out the door, and there's Pulled Pork guy, banging on a door at the end of the hallway.
"Hey buddy," Dean yells out. "Knock it the fuck off, some of us are trying to sleep!"
P.P. Guy stares at him like he's the one who's done something socially unacceptable. Dean's apparently violated some law of the hotel he's unaware of. Another door opens.
"Yo, everybody just shut the hell up out here—oh, crap."
Dean stares at his nightmare come to life, if he had any of his nightmares which he doesn't but still…this is not good. Not good at all.
"…Dean."
Dean steps back into his room and starts to shut the door—stops when he realizes how supremely dickish that is. He opens it slowly, hates that he can feel the flush ride right down his cheeks to his neck. "Ah, Patrick, right? I…hi. What are you, um." Oh god…fucking awkward, much?Figures. Patrick must be working out of this hotel. Hopes like hell for Pat's sake, Pulled Pork isn’t a client because Pork is crazy and smells like a zombie.
"I'm on a job." Patrick says, eyebrows lifting like he's trying to communicate something that Dean knows all about, and that's not the fucking case because he's never given head for money. Not really. Once. Not like Patrick. He tries to seize the high moral ground—gives it up. Yeah, not really able to go there.
Patrick meanwhile, is staring at him all narrow-eyed, like he's part snake. Dean expects him to hiss any moment…he's getting that Patrick picked up something he didn't like in Dean's expression. He's pretty sensitive for a guy who fucks strangers for dough, Dean thinks.
"And by job," Patrick says all icy like and draws himself up to his full height, "I mean the kind of job you're on. I assume." Dean stares…he's forgotten that old Pat could be as prissy as Sam sometimes. It makes him smile unwillingly. Patrick narrows his eyes so much Dean figures the guy can’t possibly see, and then…a wobbly little smile twists his lips upward and there he is, that broken, scared, but trying hard to be brave, boy…Dean feels part of the lumpy knot in his chest loosen a little, unwrap from a bigger hurt. "Well, you wanna join me, have a drink? Just a drink," he says hastily, so Patrick knows that it's not business.
Patrick locks his door and saunters up the hallway towards his room. Dean's interested to see that Pork practically breaks his neck plastering himself against the dingy wallpaper, trying to get out of Pat's way. Not a client than. Thank God. Pork is seriously creepy as fuck.
Patrick walks into the room like he expects the ceiling to fall, and then…there he is. Big green eyes, and a fall of long dark hair, nothing's changed. Unexpectedly, Dean's fingers twitch, wanting to touch….
He wipes his fingers on his thigh. It creeps him out, that impulse, but he's had worse desires he's wrestled to death, much worse. "Pat…how are you? How've you been—why the fuck did you walk out on us?" Dean is shocked at what just fell out of his mouth. He feels stupid, and uncomfortable.
Pat gulps like a fish. "I. I didn't—I had to leave. You guys. You—"
Dean stands up and gives Patrick his back. He digs through his duffle, muttering "I think I got some JB in here, hold up. Yeah, here it is. Got it a few states ago, me and Dad. Job went down just like we planned, it was fuckin' smooth as hell so we—" Dean tilts the bottle, inspects the level and the single forty watt overhead makes the liquid glow gold, "--this okay with you? Straight? Got no ice, naturally, this fucking dump, but really, I'd fuckin' be afraid to put ice from this place in my mouth, it's like the fucking bubonic plague waitin' to hap—" Dean stops and blushes, feels the flush ride his neck like he was seventeen instead of twenty-two.
Pat's wearing a wry smile. He takes the proffered bottle and swirls it a little. "Glasses?"
"Wait," Dean says, and heads for bathroom. "So." He holds out a plastic cup and a paper coffee cup. "Here." Hands Pat one. Pours him a drink and smiles so that his teeth show.
"Drink up." He gulps the JB and it burns going past the knot in his throat.
~~~o0o~~~
Patrick can't help staring at Dean. He's smiling, and it almost makes Patrick forget about everything, everyone. Almost. He listens to Dean ramble on and on can’t get over how *much* Dean talks, the way he talks. It's…weird.
He remembers the quiet, thoughtful, dangerous guy he left back in Lodi. This guy…he smiles a lot--too much. He talks a lot, like he's not thinking...he sounds like a cross between a mobster and a teenager. Patrick's confused by this odd new person, not sure he likes this guy all that much, and that disappoints him. He'd always had these goofy fantasies that they'd meet, and after he magnanimously forgave them, it'd be like old times. *Him*—he meant him.
And then Dean sits on the bed, takes a sip from his cup, rolls the liquor in his mouth and swallows, eyes on Patrick as he does…it's still there, coiled in his eyes. The smile doesn't reach his eyes at all. The killer's in there, he just covers it better now. Pat watches him drink and listens to him talk and clown, thinks now that Dean doesn't have Sam to focus on, he fills up the air, all the extra space around him, with talk. Dean says something harsh and laughs, and Pat shudders a little.
He misses his silent, scary killer. This Mr. Howyadoin' Bozo…he's not much to his taste.
"Bozo? Really?" Dean smiles in a way that makes Patrick still and become very aware of the Sig tucked in the back of his pants. What the fuck—he must have drank more than he thought--he said that out loud?
Dean cocks his head, drawls,"Bozo, hunh? Whadya think Pat, 'sat better than bein' you? Bein' a whore?"
"Who--you think I'm hooking?" Patrick spits out, ice stiffening his spine. "I—I—okay, all right. So lucky fucking you, you don’t know about times getting that fucking hard…but get it straight, asshole. That's not who I am. It's what I have to do--*sometimes*. What I am is…" and suddenly his face burns and he ends up mumbling, "a hunter, jerk-off. A hunter, like you." Patrick rolls eyes at himself—admitting to sometimes turning tricks is less embarrassing than telling Dean he's a hunter?
Dean looks at him, his mouth drops in surprise and then…he falls off the bed laughing. He laughs until his eyes water, he rolls to his side, curling up like a pillbug, laughing and laughing.
"Fuck you," Patrick yells. "Fuck you, you insufferable bitch!" He jumps to his feet and stomps over to where Dean is acting like a shithead. "Laugh it up, you fucking assmonkey."
"Assmonkey?" Dean gasps, and laughs again, high pitched now with a total lack of control, until Patrick stands over him over him, rips his shirt over his head and throws it to the ground next to Dean, who looks up and stops laughing like Patrick's put his foot on his throat.
"Holy motherfuckin' shit…Pat…"
Patrick's been tagged a few times by the job. The slices across his belly are pinkish and a bit crusty but thank god, not hot. There's a twisted scar running across his shoulder where a pissed off ghost shoved a sharp wooden splinter through it, angled it up trying to cut his throat. That was the night Patrick found out some ghosts don’t *want* to go on peacefully to whatever comes next. There's a network of white scars lacing his arms, and along one forearm, a long evil looking scar, a knife wound that…okay, Patrick will go to his grave never telling anyone that he did it to himself opening a box…but the rest are one hundred per cent courtesy of the job.
Dean is staggering to his feet, staring at Patrick like he's a fairytale monster come to life or something.
"Dude," he says, and reaches out, almost touches before dropping his hand. "What the fuck did you do to yourself? Dude…why?"
And Patrick laughs like Dean'd been laughing. "Why? Why? What was I supposed to do after what we did, Dean—sell potting soil?" He stepped up to Dean, invaded his personal space. "What did I have left? You took the last freakin' bit of safety out of my life. I had to…besides, after what I found out, how could I not help? This job needed me. So I went."
Dean turns away. When he turns back towards Patrick, he grabs the bottle off the nightstand. "So tell me what you've hunted."
God damn emotionally stunted Winchesters *fucks*, Patrick growls to himself. Grabs the bottle away from Dean. "Okay…."
~~~o0o~~~
"--so I got on a bus and just…went. I knew what I wanted to do…" Dean hears the catch in Pat's voice, and smiles at him, and Pat smiles back, and goes on, more confidently. "I met some people who knew about the Job, and they helped me get started. First job was a salamander—this town had all these unexplained poisonings and it turned out to be a salamander. Iron kills them pretty good, but you've got to bury the body deep, and in sand. Won't burn—boy, not a good idea to set those things on fire…."
Dean shoves back against the headboard, gets comfortable, and watches Patrick talk about life after Lodi.
"Anyway," Patrick says, finishing his story, "Things worked out and here I am and it's not bad. I really get your dad now—the way he did the things he did," and Dean has to fight wincing. "There is one thing though," Patrick sighs. "I miss, I mean, jeez, I miss it like crazy—"
"Lodi?"
Patrick looks at him like he's crazy. "*Hell*, no—I miss cheese steaks. I mean, come on damn it. How hard is it to make a damn cheese steak? Meat and cheese and a real roll, y'know? Or pizza, for shit's sake. Pizza, how do you screw pizza up?"
Dean's grinning. He remembers cheese steaks, they were pretty good. He smiles at Patrick, a sudden flash of fondness sweeps through him. "You’re a good guy, Pat. I'm glad you found something good for yourself."
Pat stops, his eyes widen in surprise and he sits on the end of the bed. "Yeah, well. You're okay too." He gets up and rummages around the room, comes back with a package of crackers and a small block of cheddar cheese. "Hungry?"
Dean rolls his eyes. "Always. Some pie would go nice with that cheese, man."
Patrick stares before snorting. "I don't remember you being so high-maintenance, dude."
"What? I just said it would be nice to have some pie, I didn't say *get* me some pie. Bitch."
TBC
Author: roxy
Pairings/Characters: Dean, Sam, OMC
Rating: various by chapter, NC-17 overall
Word Count: 1905
Summary: I wondered what happened to those Lodi boys, too
Under The California Sun (impalas and big trucks)
There's noise out in the hallway, and the paper thin walls aren't doing a damn thing to muffle it, and it's really fucking annoying when a guy is trying to do a little research…or nap. Dean hangs his head out the door, and there's Pulled Pork guy, banging on a door at the end of the hallway.
"Hey buddy," Dean yells out. "Knock it the fuck off, some of us are trying to sleep!"
P.P. Guy stares at him like he's the one who's done something socially unacceptable. Dean's apparently violated some law of the hotel he's unaware of. Another door opens.
"Yo, everybody just shut the hell up out here—oh, crap."
Dean stares at his nightmare come to life, if he had any of his nightmares which he doesn't but still…this is not good. Not good at all.
"…Dean."
Dean steps back into his room and starts to shut the door—stops when he realizes how supremely dickish that is. He opens it slowly, hates that he can feel the flush ride right down his cheeks to his neck. "Ah, Patrick, right? I…hi. What are you, um." Oh god…fucking awkward, much?Figures. Patrick must be working out of this hotel. Hopes like hell for Pat's sake, Pulled Pork isn’t a client because Pork is crazy and smells like a zombie.
"I'm on a job." Patrick says, eyebrows lifting like he's trying to communicate something that Dean knows all about, and that's not the fucking case because he's never given head for money. Not really. Once. Not like Patrick. He tries to seize the high moral ground—gives it up. Yeah, not really able to go there.
Patrick meanwhile, is staring at him all narrow-eyed, like he's part snake. Dean expects him to hiss any moment…he's getting that Patrick picked up something he didn't like in Dean's expression. He's pretty sensitive for a guy who fucks strangers for dough, Dean thinks.
"And by job," Patrick says all icy like and draws himself up to his full height, "I mean the kind of job you're on. I assume." Dean stares…he's forgotten that old Pat could be as prissy as Sam sometimes. It makes him smile unwillingly. Patrick narrows his eyes so much Dean figures the guy can’t possibly see, and then…a wobbly little smile twists his lips upward and there he is, that broken, scared, but trying hard to be brave, boy…Dean feels part of the lumpy knot in his chest loosen a little, unwrap from a bigger hurt. "Well, you wanna join me, have a drink? Just a drink," he says hastily, so Patrick knows that it's not business.
Patrick locks his door and saunters up the hallway towards his room. Dean's interested to see that Pork practically breaks his neck plastering himself against the dingy wallpaper, trying to get out of Pat's way. Not a client than. Thank God. Pork is seriously creepy as fuck.
Patrick walks into the room like he expects the ceiling to fall, and then…there he is. Big green eyes, and a fall of long dark hair, nothing's changed. Unexpectedly, Dean's fingers twitch, wanting to touch….
He wipes his fingers on his thigh. It creeps him out, that impulse, but he's had worse desires he's wrestled to death, much worse. "Pat…how are you? How've you been—why the fuck did you walk out on us?" Dean is shocked at what just fell out of his mouth. He feels stupid, and uncomfortable.
Pat gulps like a fish. "I. I didn't—I had to leave. You guys. You—"
Dean stands up and gives Patrick his back. He digs through his duffle, muttering "I think I got some JB in here, hold up. Yeah, here it is. Got it a few states ago, me and Dad. Job went down just like we planned, it was fuckin' smooth as hell so we—" Dean tilts the bottle, inspects the level and the single forty watt overhead makes the liquid glow gold, "--this okay with you? Straight? Got no ice, naturally, this fucking dump, but really, I'd fuckin' be afraid to put ice from this place in my mouth, it's like the fucking bubonic plague waitin' to hap—" Dean stops and blushes, feels the flush ride his neck like he was seventeen instead of twenty-two.
Pat's wearing a wry smile. He takes the proffered bottle and swirls it a little. "Glasses?"
"Wait," Dean says, and heads for bathroom. "So." He holds out a plastic cup and a paper coffee cup. "Here." Hands Pat one. Pours him a drink and smiles so that his teeth show.
"Drink up." He gulps the JB and it burns going past the knot in his throat.
Patrick can't help staring at Dean. He's smiling, and it almost makes Patrick forget about everything, everyone. Almost. He listens to Dean ramble on and on can’t get over how *much* Dean talks, the way he talks. It's…weird.
He remembers the quiet, thoughtful, dangerous guy he left back in Lodi. This guy…he smiles a lot--too much. He talks a lot, like he's not thinking...he sounds like a cross between a mobster and a teenager. Patrick's confused by this odd new person, not sure he likes this guy all that much, and that disappoints him. He'd always had these goofy fantasies that they'd meet, and after he magnanimously forgave them, it'd be like old times. *Him*—he meant him.
And then Dean sits on the bed, takes a sip from his cup, rolls the liquor in his mouth and swallows, eyes on Patrick as he does…it's still there, coiled in his eyes. The smile doesn't reach his eyes at all. The killer's in there, he just covers it better now. Pat watches him drink and listens to him talk and clown, thinks now that Dean doesn't have Sam to focus on, he fills up the air, all the extra space around him, with talk. Dean says something harsh and laughs, and Pat shudders a little.
He misses his silent, scary killer. This Mr. Howyadoin' Bozo…he's not much to his taste.
"Bozo? Really?" Dean smiles in a way that makes Patrick still and become very aware of the Sig tucked in the back of his pants. What the fuck—he must have drank more than he thought--he said that out loud?
Dean cocks his head, drawls,"Bozo, hunh? Whadya think Pat, 'sat better than bein' you? Bein' a whore?"
"Who--you think I'm hooking?" Patrick spits out, ice stiffening his spine. "I—I—okay, all right. So lucky fucking you, you don’t know about times getting that fucking hard…but get it straight, asshole. That's not who I am. It's what I have to do--*sometimes*. What I am is…" and suddenly his face burns and he ends up mumbling, "a hunter, jerk-off. A hunter, like you." Patrick rolls eyes at himself—admitting to sometimes turning tricks is less embarrassing than telling Dean he's a hunter?
Dean looks at him, his mouth drops in surprise and then…he falls off the bed laughing. He laughs until his eyes water, he rolls to his side, curling up like a pillbug, laughing and laughing.
"Fuck you," Patrick yells. "Fuck you, you insufferable bitch!" He jumps to his feet and stomps over to where Dean is acting like a shithead. "Laugh it up, you fucking assmonkey."
"Assmonkey?" Dean gasps, and laughs again, high pitched now with a total lack of control, until Patrick stands over him over him, rips his shirt over his head and throws it to the ground next to Dean, who looks up and stops laughing like Patrick's put his foot on his throat.
"Holy motherfuckin' shit…Pat…"
Patrick's been tagged a few times by the job. The slices across his belly are pinkish and a bit crusty but thank god, not hot. There's a twisted scar running across his shoulder where a pissed off ghost shoved a sharp wooden splinter through it, angled it up trying to cut his throat. That was the night Patrick found out some ghosts don’t *want* to go on peacefully to whatever comes next. There's a network of white scars lacing his arms, and along one forearm, a long evil looking scar, a knife wound that…okay, Patrick will go to his grave never telling anyone that he did it to himself opening a box…but the rest are one hundred per cent courtesy of the job.
Dean is staggering to his feet, staring at Patrick like he's a fairytale monster come to life or something.
"Dude," he says, and reaches out, almost touches before dropping his hand. "What the fuck did you do to yourself? Dude…why?"
And Patrick laughs like Dean'd been laughing. "Why? Why? What was I supposed to do after what we did, Dean—sell potting soil?" He stepped up to Dean, invaded his personal space. "What did I have left? You took the last freakin' bit of safety out of my life. I had to…besides, after what I found out, how could I not help? This job needed me. So I went."
Dean turns away. When he turns back towards Patrick, he grabs the bottle off the nightstand. "So tell me what you've hunted."
God damn emotionally stunted Winchesters *fucks*, Patrick growls to himself. Grabs the bottle away from Dean. "Okay…."
"--so I got on a bus and just…went. I knew what I wanted to do…" Dean hears the catch in Pat's voice, and smiles at him, and Pat smiles back, and goes on, more confidently. "I met some people who knew about the Job, and they helped me get started. First job was a salamander—this town had all these unexplained poisonings and it turned out to be a salamander. Iron kills them pretty good, but you've got to bury the body deep, and in sand. Won't burn—boy, not a good idea to set those things on fire…."
Dean shoves back against the headboard, gets comfortable, and watches Patrick talk about life after Lodi.
"Anyway," Patrick says, finishing his story, "Things worked out and here I am and it's not bad. I really get your dad now—the way he did the things he did," and Dean has to fight wincing. "There is one thing though," Patrick sighs. "I miss, I mean, jeez, I miss it like crazy—"
"Lodi?"
Patrick looks at him like he's crazy. "*Hell*, no—I miss cheese steaks. I mean, come on damn it. How hard is it to make a damn cheese steak? Meat and cheese and a real roll, y'know? Or pizza, for shit's sake. Pizza, how do you screw pizza up?"
Dean's grinning. He remembers cheese steaks, they were pretty good. He smiles at Patrick, a sudden flash of fondness sweeps through him. "You’re a good guy, Pat. I'm glad you found something good for yourself."
Pat stops, his eyes widen in surprise and he sits on the end of the bed. "Yeah, well. You're okay too." He gets up and rummages around the room, comes back with a package of crackers and a small block of cheddar cheese. "Hungry?"
Dean rolls his eyes. "Always. Some pie would go nice with that cheese, man."
Patrick stares before snorting. "I don't remember you being so high-maintenance, dude."
"What? I just said it would be nice to have some pie, I didn't say *get* me some pie. Bitch."
TBC
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![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
7/6/09 11:39 pm (UTC)(no subject)
7/7/09 04:41 am (UTC)(no subject)
7/6/09 11:40 pm (UTC)Don't laugh, Dean. And Patrick's right - Dean's so off-kilter without Sam.
*sniffle*
At least this chapter didn't tear my heart out and stomp on it.
:)
(no subject)
7/7/09 04:42 am (UTC)(no subject)
7/6/09 11:40 pm (UTC)I've always liked Patrick, and continue to like Patrick. Now... where's Sammy? *grin*
(no subject)
7/7/09 04:43 am (UTC)(no subject)
7/6/09 11:43 pm (UTC)*pushes them together* Kiss, damn you! Now quit being stubborn. XD
(no subject)
7/7/09 04:44 am (UTC)*falls down laughing*
For real--they need to kiss!
(no subject)
7/6/09 11:47 pm (UTC)I think Patrick's really brave. It's interesting actually...We're always so focussed on all of Dean and Sam's angst, how hard their life has been, but at least they've never been truly alone.
Wow, look at that. You got me all thinky... ;-)
(no subject)
7/7/09 04:45 am (UTC)(no subject)
7/7/09 01:33 am (UTC)(no subject)
7/7/09 04:46 am (UTC)(no subject)
7/7/09 04:36 am (UTC)ehehehehehehe.
(no subject)
7/7/09 04:46 am (UTC)(no subject)
7/7/09 12:00 pm (UTC)(no subject)
7/7/09 07:23 am (UTC)I feel so tender towards Patrick... I just want him to be happy.
Thanks for the update!
(no subject)
9/7/12 07:55 pm (UTC)(no subject)
9/7/12 10:23 pm (UTC)(no subject)
9/7/12 10:40 pm (UTC)