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SpN: Under The California Sun (impalas and big trucks) part 8
Title: Under The California Sun (impalas and big trucks)
Author: roxy
Pairings/Characters: Dean, Sam, OMC
Rating: various by chapter, NC-17 overall
Word Count:1721
Summary: I wondered what happened to those Lodi boys, too
Under The California Sun (impalas and big trucks)
Patrick slides into the car—grateful; he's finally got room for his knees….
"Your brother's in there," he says and jerks his chin at the Wash'n'Dry across the street.
"Yeah…I see him." Dean says, his voice flat and not inviting comment. Spins the wheel hard and rolls away from the curve, steadily accelerating. He tilts his head back, could be looking behind him, could be looking straight in front of them--black Ray-Ban knock-offs not revealing a thing.
"He saw us." Patrick twists a bit towards Dean and wishes he could read the parts of Dean's face he can see. Sam would know what he was thinking right now.
"Yeah, I know." Hostile.
Patrick nods, but something makes his mouth keep moving. He's pretty sure it's not his brain because to keep on about this…*thing*… is stupid and potentially dangerous and yet…"That's…not the girl he was flirting with the other day."
"I can *see* that," Dean snaps, and pulls away from the light with a jerk that he unselfconsciously mutters an apology to his girl for, strokes the dash.
Pat doesn't say anything until they're well on the way. His fingers drum against the door, he inhales once or twice, fidgets in the seat and bangs his knees against the glove box a couple of times, until Dean looks like he's about ready to smack the hell out of him. He licks his lips and then very carefully says, "So…Jess. Must be short for…Jesse, you think?"
"Shut the fuck up," Dean says and that's pretty much it for the next seven hours, until they switch off driving in Eugene and Dean bitches the rest of the way, and Patrick exhales a small gentle sigh of relief.
~~~o0o~~~
They get redirected when they get to Washington.
The brownies fall to the wayside when it turns out Patrick and Dean are the most experienced hunters in the area, and there's a suspicion of something pretty damn big going on, something nastier by far than needle-teethed, buggy-eyed little brownies. They're sent to Bennett, a busy tourist town at the foot of the mountains, full of antique stores, b&b's and upscale cafes…Patrick gets sent out as point man. He's tall and pretty and looks good in Dean's powder blue polo and khakis, even though Dean bitches it looks like he spray-painted his clothes on. He shut up with a load of attitude after Patrick asked him if he was jealous--or maybe curious?
Patrick walks around and smiles a lot, looking touristy and tame. He watches and listens, touches things in the shops and keeps an ear out for the odd—the frightened. He finds it.
Back at the motel, Dean's gathering information from local papers, from polices reports and medical examiner offices…there's enough information to clearly see what they're dealing with and Dean decides Patrick's buddies were pretty good at what they did. They'd guessed right. A werewolf is hunting the town.
Patrick comes in with dinner and they compare notes. Patrick spoons out fried rice between the two of them, and half-way through an egg-roll Dean says, "I'm calling my dad."
"What?" Patrick frowns. "We can do it on our own, Dean. We don't need help."
"Pat, he's close and if he's between jobs, you can't want a better man to join us. He's got serious experience. Hunting a were is no fucking joke, dude."
Patrick agrees, reluctantly. He's over his annoyance by the time they dig into desert—nothing's funnier than Dean with pie—unless it's Dean with pie and a scoop of ice cream. Patrick makes a game of watching Dean lick his fork clean with orgasmic little groans and not getting caught doing it. The game slowly morphs into something else…Patrick's not sure if Dean's doing it on purpose now, whether he's picked up on Patrick listening to him, watching his tongue curve around the tines of the fork and slip crust and thick sugary apple filling between his lips…maybe begins to play it up. Pat's cheeks flame, and he finds himself trying not to lick his lips, especially when a drop of filling clings gleaming in the center of Dean's plump lower lip like a drop of…Patrick swallows hard.
After a bit, He gets up and shuffles to the bathroom, feeling the heat on the back of his neck and right before he shuts the bathroom door, he's pretty sure he hears Dean's self-satisfied little chuckle. Oh fuck him, Pat growls to himself, he's not about to let that deep in denial closeted son of a bitch make him the object of amusement for however long it takes them to do the job....
He sobs out a little gasp of pleasure, squeezes his hand tight and a cloudy pearl of pre-come wells up and drips over the flared rim of his dick…he imagines Dean's horror at being the object of his fantasies and comes faster than he has in a long while. He leans a hip against the sink and waits until his breath eases down from shuddering jerks to regular breaths. He drags two wet fingers across his lower lip, closes his eyes and imagines…licks the wet away and sighs.
When he leaves the bathroom Dean's gone and for a quick, miserable bite of unease, he thinks Dean's taken off, but no. He's outside, perched on the Impala's hood, a cigarette pinched between his fingers and his face turned towards the setting sun.
~~~o0o~~~
They meet in a field outside of town. a black '86 GMC Sierra Grande parks tailgate to grill with the Impala, and a tall, broad-shouldered figure swings out of it, walks stiff-legged over to where they're leaning against a tree, sipping coffee. Dean hands his dad a steaming cup and a Lucky when he gets close and Patrick watches them closely. They smile at each other—not big, but John's eyes wrinkle at the corners and his whole face warms, the way Dean's does when he's pleased. He takes Dean's offering and squeezes his arm, quick, tight, and pulls off with a little pat to the shoulder. Patrick sees Dean's mouth curl in the corners, and his eyes crinkle just like John's and he colors a bit, a faint flush of pink over his cheeks that he hides with the take-out cup.
John lights the cigarette with total concentration, inhales like it's a gift from god and sips carefully at the steaming liquid, glances uninterestedly over at Patrick before doing a small double take. "Fuck me…Pat? Patrick—'sat you?"
"Yes sir," Patrick responds, absurdly pleased John remembers him.
"Well, well. Look at you." He looks Patrick up and down, checking him out like he's the answer to a puzzle. "You grew up good, Pat. Knew you'd come to handle yourself like a man. We got time to work out some," he says, that comment directed at Dean. "Try and sync up, right?"
Dean nods. "Pat's in damn good shape," he says, and glances at Patrick in a way that makes him stand taller, throw his chest out and plant his feet solidly.
"Yeah," John says thoughtfully. His eyes slide over Dean before resting on Patrick again. "He is at that. Well, boys, I don’t know if you've been driving as long as I have, but I'm ready for a piss and a shower and a half decent bed. Dean—got a base yet?"
"'Course sir. You'll like this place," he says, and grins wickedly at his dad. Patrick throws a puzzled look at Dean. The place they've found is a dump—not as horrible as the hotel in Cali but still…nothing to write home about. Purple wallpaper and brown rugs…Pat shudders.
John glances at Patrick and winces. "Dean has…unique taste in accommodations. Break it to me gently, Pat—does this place charge by the hour--or make you pay extra for sheets?"
John's eyes crinkle deeply at the corners. Pat laughs when Dean does, it makes him feel like one of the boys.
~~~o0o~~~
They lay in bed in the dark, Patrick in the bed closest to the door and Dean against the far wall—flipped for it, and Patrick has the feeling he won the toss but he wasn't sure why…he stares up at the measled ceiling and bites his lip. He speaks, softly enough so Dean can ignore him if he's asleep or pretending to be. "You know, I dreamed about you guys for so long…I really wanted to be part of your family." It surprises him when Dean answers right away, like he's been waiting for it.
"Even after knowing how fucked up we were?"
It's probably the most Dean was ever going to say about what happened between them all. "Wasn't fucked up— " Patrick snorts. Okay, yeah, but…. "It was…good. For me, it was good. And Sam. He really loves you, man. It must have hurt to leave you…is that why you spy on him—?"
"Get it straight--he left because he hates me, asshole." Dean slams a fist into his pillow and makes a sound like a laugh. "When he can finally be bothered to pick up instead of letting his phone go to voice mail our conversations are strictly words of one syllable, man. Sam is…real polite these days." Dean laughs louder. "Man, he couldn't *wait* to get away and I didn't…I didn’t start it…did I start it?"
There's a crack in Dean's voice, Patrick tries to breathe through it for him, like that was possible. He knows too much. "I—I—"
"I broke it off—I stopped! And he still left. He left, and every time…every time I see him he looks happier than he ever did. He's got what he wants." Dean coughs, clears his throat and when he speaks again his voice is light, amused. "Well. I guess he had to experiment on us to figure stuff out, hunh? Lucky fucking us, dude. Least he don’t hate you."
Patrick's eyes are tight shut in the dark; he can hear Dean shift to his side. His voice is muffled against a pillow. "Of course he doesn't hate you. You weren't the sick fuck who did what I did…."
Silence from Dean then, and for the rest of the night. Patrick though…he keeps rearing up out of sleep with panicked gasps, having dreams about Sam. A beautiful, burning black-eyed Sam, telling him all night long how much he loves him.
part 9
TBC
Author: roxy
Pairings/Characters: Dean, Sam, OMC
Rating: various by chapter, NC-17 overall
Word Count:1721
Summary: I wondered what happened to those Lodi boys, too
Under The California Sun (impalas and big trucks)
Patrick slides into the car—grateful; he's finally got room for his knees….
"Your brother's in there," he says and jerks his chin at the Wash'n'Dry across the street.
"Yeah…I see him." Dean says, his voice flat and not inviting comment. Spins the wheel hard and rolls away from the curve, steadily accelerating. He tilts his head back, could be looking behind him, could be looking straight in front of them--black Ray-Ban knock-offs not revealing a thing.
"He saw us." Patrick twists a bit towards Dean and wishes he could read the parts of Dean's face he can see. Sam would know what he was thinking right now.
"Yeah, I know." Hostile.
Patrick nods, but something makes his mouth keep moving. He's pretty sure it's not his brain because to keep on about this…*thing*… is stupid and potentially dangerous and yet…"That's…not the girl he was flirting with the other day."
"I can *see* that," Dean snaps, and pulls away from the light with a jerk that he unselfconsciously mutters an apology to his girl for, strokes the dash.
Pat doesn't say anything until they're well on the way. His fingers drum against the door, he inhales once or twice, fidgets in the seat and bangs his knees against the glove box a couple of times, until Dean looks like he's about ready to smack the hell out of him. He licks his lips and then very carefully says, "So…Jess. Must be short for…Jesse, you think?"
"Shut the fuck up," Dean says and that's pretty much it for the next seven hours, until they switch off driving in Eugene and Dean bitches the rest of the way, and Patrick exhales a small gentle sigh of relief.
They get redirected when they get to Washington.
The brownies fall to the wayside when it turns out Patrick and Dean are the most experienced hunters in the area, and there's a suspicion of something pretty damn big going on, something nastier by far than needle-teethed, buggy-eyed little brownies. They're sent to Bennett, a busy tourist town at the foot of the mountains, full of antique stores, b&b's and upscale cafes…Patrick gets sent out as point man. He's tall and pretty and looks good in Dean's powder blue polo and khakis, even though Dean bitches it looks like he spray-painted his clothes on. He shut up with a load of attitude after Patrick asked him if he was jealous--or maybe curious?
Patrick walks around and smiles a lot, looking touristy and tame. He watches and listens, touches things in the shops and keeps an ear out for the odd—the frightened. He finds it.
Back at the motel, Dean's gathering information from local papers, from polices reports and medical examiner offices…there's enough information to clearly see what they're dealing with and Dean decides Patrick's buddies were pretty good at what they did. They'd guessed right. A werewolf is hunting the town.
Patrick comes in with dinner and they compare notes. Patrick spoons out fried rice between the two of them, and half-way through an egg-roll Dean says, "I'm calling my dad."
"What?" Patrick frowns. "We can do it on our own, Dean. We don't need help."
"Pat, he's close and if he's between jobs, you can't want a better man to join us. He's got serious experience. Hunting a were is no fucking joke, dude."
Patrick agrees, reluctantly. He's over his annoyance by the time they dig into desert—nothing's funnier than Dean with pie—unless it's Dean with pie and a scoop of ice cream. Patrick makes a game of watching Dean lick his fork clean with orgasmic little groans and not getting caught doing it. The game slowly morphs into something else…Patrick's not sure if Dean's doing it on purpose now, whether he's picked up on Patrick listening to him, watching his tongue curve around the tines of the fork and slip crust and thick sugary apple filling between his lips…maybe begins to play it up. Pat's cheeks flame, and he finds himself trying not to lick his lips, especially when a drop of filling clings gleaming in the center of Dean's plump lower lip like a drop of…Patrick swallows hard.
After a bit, He gets up and shuffles to the bathroom, feeling the heat on the back of his neck and right before he shuts the bathroom door, he's pretty sure he hears Dean's self-satisfied little chuckle. Oh fuck him, Pat growls to himself, he's not about to let that deep in denial closeted son of a bitch make him the object of amusement for however long it takes them to do the job....
He sobs out a little gasp of pleasure, squeezes his hand tight and a cloudy pearl of pre-come wells up and drips over the flared rim of his dick…he imagines Dean's horror at being the object of his fantasies and comes faster than he has in a long while. He leans a hip against the sink and waits until his breath eases down from shuddering jerks to regular breaths. He drags two wet fingers across his lower lip, closes his eyes and imagines…licks the wet away and sighs.
When he leaves the bathroom Dean's gone and for a quick, miserable bite of unease, he thinks Dean's taken off, but no. He's outside, perched on the Impala's hood, a cigarette pinched between his fingers and his face turned towards the setting sun.
They meet in a field outside of town. a black '86 GMC Sierra Grande parks tailgate to grill with the Impala, and a tall, broad-shouldered figure swings out of it, walks stiff-legged over to where they're leaning against a tree, sipping coffee. Dean hands his dad a steaming cup and a Lucky when he gets close and Patrick watches them closely. They smile at each other—not big, but John's eyes wrinkle at the corners and his whole face warms, the way Dean's does when he's pleased. He takes Dean's offering and squeezes his arm, quick, tight, and pulls off with a little pat to the shoulder. Patrick sees Dean's mouth curl in the corners, and his eyes crinkle just like John's and he colors a bit, a faint flush of pink over his cheeks that he hides with the take-out cup.
John lights the cigarette with total concentration, inhales like it's a gift from god and sips carefully at the steaming liquid, glances uninterestedly over at Patrick before doing a small double take. "Fuck me…Pat? Patrick—'sat you?"
"Yes sir," Patrick responds, absurdly pleased John remembers him.
"Well, well. Look at you." He looks Patrick up and down, checking him out like he's the answer to a puzzle. "You grew up good, Pat. Knew you'd come to handle yourself like a man. We got time to work out some," he says, that comment directed at Dean. "Try and sync up, right?"
Dean nods. "Pat's in damn good shape," he says, and glances at Patrick in a way that makes him stand taller, throw his chest out and plant his feet solidly.
"Yeah," John says thoughtfully. His eyes slide over Dean before resting on Patrick again. "He is at that. Well, boys, I don’t know if you've been driving as long as I have, but I'm ready for a piss and a shower and a half decent bed. Dean—got a base yet?"
"'Course sir. You'll like this place," he says, and grins wickedly at his dad. Patrick throws a puzzled look at Dean. The place they've found is a dump—not as horrible as the hotel in Cali but still…nothing to write home about. Purple wallpaper and brown rugs…Pat shudders.
John glances at Patrick and winces. "Dean has…unique taste in accommodations. Break it to me gently, Pat—does this place charge by the hour--or make you pay extra for sheets?"
John's eyes crinkle deeply at the corners. Pat laughs when Dean does, it makes him feel like one of the boys.
They lay in bed in the dark, Patrick in the bed closest to the door and Dean against the far wall—flipped for it, and Patrick has the feeling he won the toss but he wasn't sure why…he stares up at the measled ceiling and bites his lip. He speaks, softly enough so Dean can ignore him if he's asleep or pretending to be. "You know, I dreamed about you guys for so long…I really wanted to be part of your family." It surprises him when Dean answers right away, like he's been waiting for it.
"Even after knowing how fucked up we were?"
It's probably the most Dean was ever going to say about what happened between them all. "Wasn't fucked up— " Patrick snorts. Okay, yeah, but…. "It was…good. For me, it was good. And Sam. He really loves you, man. It must have hurt to leave you…is that why you spy on him—?"
"Get it straight--he left because he hates me, asshole." Dean slams a fist into his pillow and makes a sound like a laugh. "When he can finally be bothered to pick up instead of letting his phone go to voice mail our conversations are strictly words of one syllable, man. Sam is…real polite these days." Dean laughs louder. "Man, he couldn't *wait* to get away and I didn't…I didn’t start it…did I start it?"
There's a crack in Dean's voice, Patrick tries to breathe through it for him, like that was possible. He knows too much. "I—I—"
"I broke it off—I stopped! And he still left. He left, and every time…every time I see him he looks happier than he ever did. He's got what he wants." Dean coughs, clears his throat and when he speaks again his voice is light, amused. "Well. I guess he had to experiment on us to figure stuff out, hunh? Lucky fucking us, dude. Least he don’t hate you."
Patrick's eyes are tight shut in the dark; he can hear Dean shift to his side. His voice is muffled against a pillow. "Of course he doesn't hate you. You weren't the sick fuck who did what I did…."
Silence from Dean then, and for the rest of the night. Patrick though…he keeps rearing up out of sleep with panicked gasps, having dreams about Sam. A beautiful, burning black-eyed Sam, telling him all night long how much he loves him.
part 9
TBC
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Someday.
For now, you do your angsty thang and I'll be the happy one ;)
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Change is going to be big for Patrick. It's kind of in the background, but it's building.
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Go, Roxy!
Heeeee!!
Heck yeah!!!! *GRIN*
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*hugs everyone*
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Had to come from somewhere.
Anyway, I like that Pat and Dean actually *talked* (a teensy-weensy bit) about Sam, and the decor of that motel? *shudders*
Great job! (Go Pat!)
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Patrick's good for Dean. :)
Maybe.
*evilgrin*
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*flails a bit*
*gnashes teeth*
*hates*
I mean, you know, *loves*, but *hates*, too, 'cause you....*You*.....
*flails more*
Oh, John....
:)
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Next bit will be full of fun! It's werewolf huntin' season. ;)
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And I LOVE your John. Just wait 'til the journal, it'll be perfect...
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This is all so deliciously tense. I love it!