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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: 1186
Summary: I wondered what happened to those Lodi boys, too
Under The California Sun (impalas and big trucks)
Alex calls and Patrick and he talk for nearly an hour before he gives him the location and what information they have for a new job. It's small, and simple—they suspect an infestation of brownies. Not exactly dangerous, but still…there's also been some signs of demonic activity in South Dakota and talking to Alex, he gets the sense that's it's rare for the area. Demons…Patrick runs quickly through what he knows about them, and it's not much. Not his forte. More experienced hunters will take the job on, but if he's lucky, someone will let him tag along.
Patrick wipes the parts of the gun he's broken down with oil, buffs the parts clean. There's a knock on the door--so tentative that at first he doesn't hear it over Niles' love-sick babbling over Daphne…
"Who?" he yells against the door and "Dean," is the answer. Dean stomps through as soon as he opens it. He's carrying his war bag, he's got a huge shirt tied around his waist…and a huge scowl darkening his face. He slams the bag to the floor and Patrick winces. "Jeez, Dean, what the hell—"
"I'm getting ready to leave. You coming?"
Patrick gapes at this totally insane individual barking what is apparently an invitation to travel with him, and that just seems all kinds of *stupid*. He and Dean can barely be in the same room together—they've never hunted together besides the one time he got used as bait, they have no idea how the other works, not to mention there's this…complicated history. And it might screw things up with Alex. Not that there's anything to screw up, not really, not yet…and besides…"I've got a job, in Washington, and—"
"Great. Fine. Then after we can meet up with my Dad. There's a possible possession out by Bobby's way—family friend—so, you're coming."
Not even a question—a statement. Until he sees past the scowl, sees the uncertainty coiled in the corners of Dean's mouth and the way his eyes shift, the green darkening…fuck. Patrick curses himself for a big fucking girl. "Okay."
"Good," Dean smirks. "I got your tab, you're cool. Need me to help you put that thing back together?" He jerks his chin at the piece in Patrick's hand.
"Fuck you," he mutters and reassembles the Glock as Dean offers what he probably thinks is helpful advice. "So…I'll follow you, right?"
"Oh god, hell no. You leave that piece of shit at the next place that caters to hunters. You're riding with me."
Patrick stretches his legs out in front of him, clasps his hands over his stomach. "Well...depends…do I get to drive, too?" He's got to bite his lip to keep from giggling. Dean's face is wide open with horror.
"No! Maybe. If I'm bleeding out. Oh fuck, okay, but you hurt her and I'll hurt you right back."
"Promises," Patrick grins and enjoys Dean's blush.
~~~o0o~~~
Sam wanders across the street, pushing a cart loaded with dirty laundry. Jess was great, Jess could cook like an angel—miraculously turn heaps of nothing into real food, and kept their crappy little apartment so clean it made the place look better than it was, looked hot as hell and invented sex—but laundry was not on the menu. Sam doesn't mind. He kind of likes sitting in the Laundromat, reading while the clothes go through the cycles. The noise in the place is the kind of noise he associates with comfort and safe and family. Little kids bitching at each other, the squeak-thrum of the machines, the mutter of radio or TV…it might be an odd thing to like, but there it was. How many afternoons or late nights in his childhood had been spent watching Dean load and unload the machines, helping him fold clothes…eating M&Ms and spinning stories for his brother. He closes his eyes, and can see Dean's small patient smile, the way he'd cock his head towards him like 'I'm listening hard Sammy I hear you.' Sam can almost taste the dollar store chocolate coins in his mouth, bloomed chocolate that still tasted wonderful, tasted even better if he had to pick them off Dean's sweaty palm….
Sam shakes himself. Not going down that path, not when he fought so hard not to. He thumbs though his book; looking for the place he left off at….
He's in the middle of folding a pair of boxers with 'kiss the cook' printed across the front and something makes him turn, look out of the window behind him. It's almost not a shock to see Patrick on the sidewalk across the street. The sun's making his black hair shine, still long, pulled back and braided…he got bigger. Wider. He's staring at Patrick, wondering if maybe, he should go out and say hi. Wonders if he can say hi without cursing him out.
It is a shock, a deeply painful, full body shock that makes him think it must be like this to be electrocuted, when the Impala rolls up, hunkers at the curb to pick Patrick up. The way he smiles….
Sam's torn between the desire to dive under the table, and to run out in the street and pull Pat away from the car. He sees Patrick's got a backpack, looks heavy—it's lumpy and lopsided from being packed with stuff, and he can see Dean's arm, tan, flecked with copper freckles, resting along the doorframe. He knows the music blasting from the car's speakers; those songs were almost his fucking lullabies, until he grew old enough to pretend to hate them. He's staring out the window so hard, he doesn't hear the footsteps behind him, jumps a million miles when hands land on his hip and a deep voice goes "boo" in his ear.
"Jesus fucking Christ—Jess!"
"Sam!" Jess' eyes are huge, a little frightened. Sam's fist is inches from them, his knuckles brushing messy, blonde bangs….
Sam swallows. He's made two huge mistakes—he's let his attention wander, and he's let his real reflexes show. Reflexes he fought to cover so he could appear to be normal, average, to be just like everyone else.
"Fuck…Sam. You. Did you use to box or something?" Jess asks with a shaky laugh. "Cause, wow, you're *good*. And thanks for not kicking my ass, lover."
Sam pulls Jess into a hug, "I'm sorry, baby. I—yeah, I used to train with my brother. He—he was the boxer, not me." The lie trips off his tongue so easily, and Sam wonders why he even bothers. Glances at the window where the Impala isn't anymore. When he looks back down, Jess is staring up at him in a speculative way.
"Your brother…would be…the Dean?"
Fucking hell—Jess is too fuckin' smart…Sam curses himself--his fault for going for looks *and* brains. "Give you a dollar if you help me fold these clothes," he says and dimples. Sam knows damn well how dangerous his smiles are. Not like he hasn't worked on it….
Of course, Jess calls him on his shit, and then kisses him stupid. And doesn't help him fold.
TBC
Author: roxy
Pairings/Characters: Dean, Sam, OMC
Rating: various by chapter, NC-17 overall
Word Count: 1186
Summary: I wondered what happened to those Lodi boys, too
Under The California Sun (impalas and big trucks)
Alex calls and Patrick and he talk for nearly an hour before he gives him the location and what information they have for a new job. It's small, and simple—they suspect an infestation of brownies. Not exactly dangerous, but still…there's also been some signs of demonic activity in South Dakota and talking to Alex, he gets the sense that's it's rare for the area. Demons…Patrick runs quickly through what he knows about them, and it's not much. Not his forte. More experienced hunters will take the job on, but if he's lucky, someone will let him tag along.
Patrick wipes the parts of the gun he's broken down with oil, buffs the parts clean. There's a knock on the door--so tentative that at first he doesn't hear it over Niles' love-sick babbling over Daphne…
"Who?" he yells against the door and "Dean," is the answer. Dean stomps through as soon as he opens it. He's carrying his war bag, he's got a huge shirt tied around his waist…and a huge scowl darkening his face. He slams the bag to the floor and Patrick winces. "Jeez, Dean, what the hell—"
"I'm getting ready to leave. You coming?"
Patrick gapes at this totally insane individual barking what is apparently an invitation to travel with him, and that just seems all kinds of *stupid*. He and Dean can barely be in the same room together—they've never hunted together besides the one time he got used as bait, they have no idea how the other works, not to mention there's this…complicated history. And it might screw things up with Alex. Not that there's anything to screw up, not really, not yet…and besides…"I've got a job, in Washington, and—"
"Great. Fine. Then after we can meet up with my Dad. There's a possible possession out by Bobby's way—family friend—so, you're coming."
Not even a question—a statement. Until he sees past the scowl, sees the uncertainty coiled in the corners of Dean's mouth and the way his eyes shift, the green darkening…fuck. Patrick curses himself for a big fucking girl. "Okay."
"Good," Dean smirks. "I got your tab, you're cool. Need me to help you put that thing back together?" He jerks his chin at the piece in Patrick's hand.
"Fuck you," he mutters and reassembles the Glock as Dean offers what he probably thinks is helpful advice. "So…I'll follow you, right?"
"Oh god, hell no. You leave that piece of shit at the next place that caters to hunters. You're riding with me."
Patrick stretches his legs out in front of him, clasps his hands over his stomach. "Well...depends…do I get to drive, too?" He's got to bite his lip to keep from giggling. Dean's face is wide open with horror.
"No! Maybe. If I'm bleeding out. Oh fuck, okay, but you hurt her and I'll hurt you right back."
"Promises," Patrick grins and enjoys Dean's blush.
Sam wanders across the street, pushing a cart loaded with dirty laundry. Jess was great, Jess could cook like an angel—miraculously turn heaps of nothing into real food, and kept their crappy little apartment so clean it made the place look better than it was, looked hot as hell and invented sex—but laundry was not on the menu. Sam doesn't mind. He kind of likes sitting in the Laundromat, reading while the clothes go through the cycles. The noise in the place is the kind of noise he associates with comfort and safe and family. Little kids bitching at each other, the squeak-thrum of the machines, the mutter of radio or TV…it might be an odd thing to like, but there it was. How many afternoons or late nights in his childhood had been spent watching Dean load and unload the machines, helping him fold clothes…eating M&Ms and spinning stories for his brother. He closes his eyes, and can see Dean's small patient smile, the way he'd cock his head towards him like 'I'm listening hard Sammy I hear you.' Sam can almost taste the dollar store chocolate coins in his mouth, bloomed chocolate that still tasted wonderful, tasted even better if he had to pick them off Dean's sweaty palm….
Sam shakes himself. Not going down that path, not when he fought so hard not to. He thumbs though his book; looking for the place he left off at….
He's in the middle of folding a pair of boxers with 'kiss the cook' printed across the front and something makes him turn, look out of the window behind him. It's almost not a shock to see Patrick on the sidewalk across the street. The sun's making his black hair shine, still long, pulled back and braided…he got bigger. Wider. He's staring at Patrick, wondering if maybe, he should go out and say hi. Wonders if he can say hi without cursing him out.
It is a shock, a deeply painful, full body shock that makes him think it must be like this to be electrocuted, when the Impala rolls up, hunkers at the curb to pick Patrick up. The way he smiles….
Sam's torn between the desire to dive under the table, and to run out in the street and pull Pat away from the car. He sees Patrick's got a backpack, looks heavy—it's lumpy and lopsided from being packed with stuff, and he can see Dean's arm, tan, flecked with copper freckles, resting along the doorframe. He knows the music blasting from the car's speakers; those songs were almost his fucking lullabies, until he grew old enough to pretend to hate them. He's staring out the window so hard, he doesn't hear the footsteps behind him, jumps a million miles when hands land on his hip and a deep voice goes "boo" in his ear.
"Jesus fucking Christ—Jess!"
"Sam!" Jess' eyes are huge, a little frightened. Sam's fist is inches from them, his knuckles brushing messy, blonde bangs….
Sam swallows. He's made two huge mistakes—he's let his attention wander, and he's let his real reflexes show. Reflexes he fought to cover so he could appear to be normal, average, to be just like everyone else.
"Fuck…Sam. You. Did you use to box or something?" Jess asks with a shaky laugh. "Cause, wow, you're *good*. And thanks for not kicking my ass, lover."
Sam pulls Jess into a hug, "I'm sorry, baby. I—yeah, I used to train with my brother. He—he was the boxer, not me." The lie trips off his tongue so easily, and Sam wonders why he even bothers. Glances at the window where the Impala isn't anymore. When he looks back down, Jess is staring up at him in a speculative way.
"Your brother…would be…the Dean?"
Fucking hell—Jess is too fuckin' smart…Sam curses himself--his fault for going for looks *and* brains. "Give you a dollar if you help me fold these clothes," he says and dimples. Sam knows damn well how dangerous his smiles are. Not like he hasn't worked on it….
Of course, Jess calls him on his shit, and then kisses him stupid. And doesn't help him fold.
TBC
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7/15/09 04:39 am (UTC)Thank you so much--your comment made me feel like I'm heading in the right place with this!