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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: 3587
Summary: I wondered what happened to those Lodi boys, too
remember this story? *g*
Under The California Sun (impalas and big trucks)
Dean wakes up with a groan. His head's crushed against the immovable fake headboard. His neck's aching, his back's aching and his head's pounding with headache and it's not even fucking seven yet….
He blinks; his eyeballs feel sticky, gritty. He stares at the bed across from him and after a bit, he realizes the bag and stuff scattered across it is his stuff, and realizes too the bed he's in, is Pat's. damn… He ignores the quick clench in his gut and looks down—still dressed. That realization comes with a bizarre mixture of relief and disappointment. Not disappointment…just….
That weird clench comes right back when the fact he's alone in Pat's bed sinks in and he hates that the first thing he thinks is Pat's gone off and he's alone and he hates that it hurts.
There's noise in the bathroom, the door's open. Dean lets out a long breath, licks the place where his teeth pinched his lip. Okay. Clearly, an invitation.
He peers around the door. Feels a quick, hot flash at the sight of Pat's long brown back, the swell of his ass swathed in a threadbare terry towel…he's very fit, Pat is. Dean looks critically at the stitches holding the slice and the puncture wounds shut. They look good—clean. He's painted with bruises, and it brings back unpleasant memories….
Pat's looking at himself in the mirror; rather, he's frowning at his hair. He grins ruefully at Dean when he realizes he's been caught. "I never thought I was particularly vain but…" he shakes his head."My, uh--my hair's gone. Weird." He tries to say it lightly, but there's a definite catch in his voice. Dean catches the undercurrent of sadness, and looks away.
"Yeah, well, you're alive. Now get out, I gotta piss."
He comes out of the bathroom, and he means to tell the poor guy he'll cut his hair—hell, he used to cut Sam's hair all the time and Sam never complained—much. "Hey, Pat…"
Pat's flat on his stomach in the bed, cheek pillowed on his crossed arms and a thoughtful look on his face. "I've been thinking…I guess I am kind of glad that I met up with you again, you know? You and your dad…I always thought of you guys as the way to be. Decent. Kind."
Dean huffs, uncomfortable with being described that way, especially since when he thinks back on that summer, decent and kind are hardly the words he'd use to describe how he was to Pat. Dad. He'd been the one…Sam and him…not so much. "I don’t know about all that."
"Not everyone thinks like that. You guys…and Sam. You know you're heroes to me, right? You treated me pretty decent, even if…well, Sam always thought of me as…breakable. And you--I know you liked me but you kind of looked down on me too. Or maybe, I was you guys' summer pet that year, hunh?"
It's like Pat's talking about the weather, he's so fucking calm, and Dean kind of admires his control—or maybe it's just creepy how calm Pat is. "I was broken when I went home with you. I went because I'd given up. Couldn't take it anymore."
Dean drops down on the bed, his hip against Pat's. Just sits, and hopes the touch telegraphs what he wanted to say—that Pat is no way weak, that he's one tough, smart motherfucker and Dean would have his back anytime he wanted. 'Course, that's not enough for Pat. What Pat does is scoot closer, and grab Dean's hand like a middle school girl….
Shit Dean's palm goes sweaty, instantly. He fucking *hates* this touchy-feely shit but…okay. All right. It's Pat, and Pat's different. He needs it--touch, reassurance--not like him and Sammy. Pat tightens his grip on Dean's hand. Sighs.
Oooh, man…that's not a good sign, Dean thinks, and takes a breath himself. He bets Pat's about to unload and figures what's coming is going to be rough…Sharing and caring. Channel Sam and let it ride.
"So…my mom's husband. I let that dick kick my ass. Didn’t fight back because if I did, he'd just go after my mom. He was…I never thought of him as my dad. He wasn't. What he was, was a fucking bastard and I hated him. But I didn’t fight him. He was smart--always stopped short of putting me in the hospital, that fuck." Pat stopped and licked dry lips. He peered up at Dean and grinned. "Taught me excellent reflexes, though. I was never really scared of him. I *wasn't*. I just let him beat on me instead of my mom. I loved my mom. You know."
Dean nods. He picks up that Pat speaks about loving his mom in the past tense.
"I kept my mouth shut, and if stuff…if it got too bad, I slept in the woods. Or at Mike's, you remember him?"
Dean snorts—'course he did. Crazy Mike. Pat went on. "Yeah, whenever Mike's creepy Uncle Touchalot was out, I'd stay there. I shoulda gone and salted and burned *that* asshole…"
Dean growls under his breath…why didn't these guys ever *say* anything? Pat rolls to his back, moving gingerly until his shoulders are supported by one of the bed pillows. "So, that's how it worked for me…since. I guess, thirteen? Last couple of times he went to beat me, he didn't stop until I hardly knew who I was. Pretty sure he was beginning to lose it, but I had nowhere to go. Not until you guys showed up." He covers his eyes with arm. "You know my mom was *pissed* at me for chasing him away? Can you believe that?" Pat laughed softly.
Dean remembers standing on her doorstep, asking for Pat, and her complete indifference. "Bitch." He should have let Sammy beat the hell out of that bitch like he'd wanted to. The sudden sharp stab under his ribs shocked Dean into hissing.
"Hey, I'm good now, okay? I like what I'm doing," Pat says. Hesitates, and snorts--loud. "Well, you know what I mean."
Oh yeah, Dean gets it. Like it? No—but this was—this job was everything. It made you feel alive, made you feel like you were doing something worth-while. Dean nods. Yeah. Save someone, kill some evil fucking thing and keep moving and that way, no one ever knows you aren't worth anything. Dean drops his head. Sometimes, there was no moving fast enough…ever since Sam left, Dean could feel it, the knowledge that he just. Wasn't good enough. Wasn't as good as Dad. Wasn't worth much more than what Dad wanted him for--taking point and drawing fire, whatever--
He's digging his thumbs into his eyes, hard, until Pat grabs at him and says, "Hey—stop that--" Big hands wrap around his wrists, hot, dry, the calluses on the edge of his palm dragging against Dean's skin. He shudders, the feeling suddenly weirdly intense.
"Dean…" Pat pulls him closer. "Dean, you don’t get it, do you? Believe me, Sammy wouldn't love you if you were less than what you are—a hero."
"Fuck that shit. Sam left. Fuck him." Dean does his best to pull loose, but can't—he's surprised, but he shouldn't be, he knows. Pat's a strong motherfucker.
"Yeah, well, that didn't have as much to do with you, as with him. I said he loves you, I didn't say he wasn't screwed up," Pat says with a wry smile.
It's like Pat's doused him with gasoline and tossed a lit match on him. He's so fucking furious it makes him nauseous. "Him? Us, you mean. We're so fucked. What we did, that shit was *wrong*," he spits out. Fuck, fuck—he hasn't thought about it, not really, in years and Pat, the bastard…he has to drag it up into the light and poke at the fucker.
"Hey!" Pat yanks at Dean until he falls across him. Dean freezes against Pat's chest, feels Pat stop breathing for a long second before his eyes widen and he yelps, "Ah—that *hurts*!"
"Idiot! Rip open all your stitches why don’t you? End up looking like Frankenstein," Dean growls and manhandles Pat to his side, checks to make sure the stitches are holding. Pat laughs, kind of breathy with pain, but truly amused.
"If I was worried about that, I'd be selling grills, dude. So…" he twists, cups Dean's face. "Tell me, Dean. When are you going to walk out on me?"
Dean rips away from those too warm hands—it burns when Pat's fingernails accidentally scrape down his cheeks. "Man, fuck you, Pat—fuck you." Does Pat think he's stupid, that he can't hear like 'Sam walked out on you'? "I don’t do that—that's your thing, you and Sam, I stayed with Dad. Like we were supposed to. Sam's the one who ran away."
"Sam didn't run away, dude. He went to Stanford--you know, college? Like most folks expect to do? You left him--a long time before he took off. What do you think hurt more, Dean? Watching Sam walk away, or Sam learning how to live without you before he was even gone?"
"You don’t know what you're talking about—you weren't even there!" Dean's shouting, trying to shout down the punch in the gut Pat delivered without blinking an eye. Cold slice to the heart like a fucking surgeon.
Pat's expression says it all—what a fucking ass Dean's being, that he's completely stupid if he can't get that Pat hurts too, and for reasons that are pretty much the same.
"You know what, forget it. You'll never get it." Dean fishes out a hard pack from his pocket, taps out a cigarette and fiddles around lighting it. He wastes a few seconds looking for the Zippo, forgetting for a moment he'd sacrificed it to burning the warg's skin. He finds a half empty box of camping matches—good to light under any condition. And that reminds him—he breathes out a cloud of smoke and fixes Pat with a glare. "What happened in the woods, Pat? What did that wolf-bitch really say to you?"
"Told you already, Dean--nothing." Pat shook his head hard, and turned Dean's face so he was gazing right into his eyes. "There was nothing, nothing that made sense. I swear on my mother'."
Dean can't find anything off in Pat's wide, bright eyes, sincerity shining in them like altar candles. Pat blinks, his lips quirk in a shy, little smile. "I was just freaked Dean, that's all. Sometimes, I'm not as brave as I should be."
"Y'are too," Dean mutters, but he feels the weird, dim sense of fear that had been crowding up against the back of his brain all evening work loose…nothing concrete, just...a sense of unease, and Sammy, that had been gnawing at him all night. He tilts his head back and inhales deep, when he exhales he feels like he's pushing out some kind of poison. He crushes out the butt like he's killing all the worry left. "Well, good. Okay than."
"I'd never tell you less than the truth, Dean. I owe you that, right?"
Dean nods slowly. Maybe Pat did—though Dean really can't see why he'd think that. Of course, many years later, when he remembers this day and what happened long after, he realizes a little too late that one of the first things a thirteen year old would have had to do in order to protect himself and his mother was learn to lie with deep sincerity….
But this day, he sort of lets Pat pull him to his mouth and kiss him. Pat's mouth is hot, very soft. Dean automatically tries to pull away, and again, Pat pulls him back….
"It's just a kiss, idiot. It's not going to kill you."
"It might," he mumbles against Pat's mouth. This close up Pat's a blur…he could be anybody. A girl…Pat groans a little and pushes up against Dean. Well, no, no fucking way was he a girl. No one's imagination is that good—it's like colliding with a brick wall. Dean blushes. Feels good, actually….
"Hey, touch me—it's okay—"
Dean's hands come slowly to Pat's hips. So different now. Broader. They'd been so thin back then—so thin, all skin and hair and knobby bones. He slides his hands up until they come to rest in the jagged ends of Pat's hair, grips what he can at the base of his skull and Pat moans, his legs spread a bit and Dean settles in between them. He can feel heat and hardness and blushes harder when he feels…different. Sure, he's done this before. Sort of, anyway. Stuff like this, sometimes, it just--happens. Any hand in a foxhole, right? But this is…it's just different. It's hot, and…Dean closes his eyes…feels a breeze blow over his wet skin, smells pine, and hot sand, and the dry hay smell of sun-burned grass…smells shampoo and water too full of iron to be drinkable and humid, and….
Dean's panting, as much from the assault of memory as from what Pat's making him feel, and then, Pat twists and thrusts up and anything else Dean's thinking about flies to bits. He loses himself to the smooth slide of Pats' tongue over his, the wet cling of his mouth. He's moaning, so hard, loud, and a second grips him when he thinks he should be quiet—he almost laughs. No one to hear him, no one to care.
"Dean, Dean can we—" Pat's pulling at his own clothes and Dean gets it, shrugs and pulls and yanks his own clothes away.
The touch of bare skin against bare skin almost makes him cry. It's been a long, long, time. Not for fucking—just for touch, touching someone who knows him and wants…him, not just his dick. It's a good feeling. So good he's slicking Pat up, drooling precome all over him, his dick is jumping, spitting, sliding over Pat's and getting caught in the hair there and that feels, yeah. "Good."
Pat grabs his head, and arches against him, driving their dicks together with a purpose now, and he laughs right into Dean's neck. "Good? Wow, thanks, faint praise."
Dean snorts, bites the shell of Pat's ear. "So? Not like you're working hard."
"Oh, really?" Pat says, like he's been challenged. Drops lower and sucks Dean's dick right into his throat—at least that's what it feels like, when Dean comes back to earth. He's got practically his whole fist shoved in his mouth, his eyes are leaking from being screwed shut so tight and he's humping Pat's face and it's possible he might choke him to death.
Pat shoves at his hips to hold him back—"needa breath," he gasps, and then sucks Dean right back in. Dean laughs and groans and moans all at once. He moans even louder when Pat lets him go, with a wet smack. He's staring hard into Dean's eyes. Thinking hard enough to make Dean wince and then he wipes his chin, and says, "I want you to fuck me."
Dean swears stars explode in his gut. "Yeah? I mean—yeah."
Pat makes lube and a condom appear out of nowhere…fucking Boy Scout, he is…and fast as shit. He's got the condom out, and rolling it on Dean before he can even blink. Grins at Dean like he's making a quarter walk his knuckles. Beginning to think maybe the guy is a little magical. Pat strokes Dean's stomach, drags his nails over his skin until he's ready to give Pat any fucking thing he wants. Pat just looks up at him and asks, "You good?"
Dean nods and Pat slides out from under him, there's more amazing skin flowing against skin and Dean might have made some noise at that—he'd deny it if asked. Pat pours himself onto the bed next to Dean, like a cat. Dean blinks. Pat's more than good-looking—he's sexy as hell, and Dean deals with the fact he's finding a guy…*sexy*. Like, I really want to touch and lick and kiss and fuck yousexy. He shivers. "So, what do you need—?"
Pat hands him the lube. "Some of this, and enthusiasm." He shoves a pillow under his hips. "Come on." and Dean adds more slick to the condom, shudders at the touch of his own hand, the dark, hot look Pat gives him and it makes him…uncertain? Kind of scared…something.
"Don’t be afraid," Pat says, his hands hot on Dean's biceps, smoothing, soothing. "It's no big deal…" and Dean feels hurt, a little anger, and that makes the fear vanish like smoke, makes him less than cautious. He pulls Pat's legs toward him and pushes in with a growl. Pat gasps, and they both freeze--
Memory floods him…Pat. Sam. Summer, hot, wet, hurt…memory makes him move….
"Fuck. Like that," Pat groans, and throws his head back. "Do it."
It's hot, tight and better than memory, and watching Pat's face is turning him on more than he imagined he'd be. He's pushing in and in, and Pat—oh shit—Pat flushes a tide of red, his neck, his chest, beautiful, lips, and cheeks, so red…Dean leans in and kisses him, awkward and sloppy, and so good. "Pat, Pat oh god, Pat…"
Pat's long arms wrap around his neck and yank Dean down to him. "Call me Patrick—"
He does, and moves, in, out, steady thrust and Pat breathes hard, moaning, whispering encouragement….
They move together and it's amazing, and gets better and better. Heat grows, pressure, an urge that makes Dean push with everything, wanting to get in deeper, faster, his muscles jump and quiver, his dick jerks, jerks. Mouth is moving and whatever he's saying, Pat likes it, judging by the way his head is whipping back and forth. For a second, Dean misses all that long, black hair. "Patrick, you feel so good, Patrick, love fucking you, I remember, I remember—"
Shit, damn it. Sex makes you stupid, Dean thinks, but it must have been the right thing to say--Pat clamps down on him, shouts, "oh fuck", and he's coming, dick jerking in between them and spurting hot little jets that drip and smear on their bellies, their chests. Dean strokes in a last time, his back arches and he has a moment to feel a quick spasm of embarrassment. He's never been this loud with any girl—he doesn't think he's come this hard in…ever. "Patrick!"
Drowning in fire, that's what it feels like. No--no, it's like all his blood's alive and fizzing, or, no--like his muscles are knotting and unknotting and trying their best to come too—oh, okay, yeah, this—it's like—it's like every *part* of him is coming. "oh god, shit, Pat…coming."
Pat groans, "Yeah, I can feel you, feel you…" Pat's knees are digging in his ribs, ankles locked over his spine and it feels pretty good. Like being locked up in a warm cage. Pat sighs and sounds so content it makes Dean smile too. A wash of heat fills his chest, his heart. He's laid out over Pat, smiling, drifting into the dark behind his eyelids. He feels so good he hates to open them. He just wants to sleep, sleep, and his arms are wrapped around Pat because Pat's in the way of the pillows, that's all….
"Dude…really, wow…."
Dean pries his eyes open and squints. Pat's a mess—he looks like he's melted, like he's a big old popsicle in the sun. He's wearing a goofy grin just makes him all that more sexy and Dean has to kiss him. He hasn't kissed anyone this much since…a really long time. He kisses Pat and unexpectedly his eyes fill. It's kind of awful, and it makes him feel guilty for a hundred reasons, but right at this moment, he misses Sammy--the smell, the touch, his voice--so very, very, much.
He pushes the feeling away violently, locks it back up in his head. It's sick to even think about his brother right now. Sick. Pat's looking at him, like he knows what he's thinking. When he catches Dean looking back, he rolls his head to the side and closes his eyes. "Gotta move, dude. I'm a mess."
Dean pulls out a lot more carefully than he went in and Pat makes a tiny noise, and then snickers—and somehow, they're laughing. Why, Dean has no idea. Probably Pat doesn’t know either, but it's okay. A part of him thinks laughing with him is almost as good as fucking him.
Almost.
Dean gets rid of the condom, rubs his belly with a tee-shirt that turns out to be Pat's. Oh well. Pat smiles, and starts to get up and Dean pushes him back down, plants a hand in the center of his chest. "Hold up." Drops the messy tee-shirt on Pat, and grins when he gets a disgusted grimace from him. "Let's just…ah, fuck, let's just relax for a little bit, okay?"
Pat's face brightens, fucking lucky he's not a spy, or anything….kid's an open book. He stretches out next to him and drops one of his humongous giant thighs over Dean's. "Sounds like a plan, yeah…." Beaming like Dean just gave him a fucking present or something. Shit.
Fucking Patrick. He can't help but like him.
part 12
TBC
Author: roxy
Pairings/Characters: Dean, Sam, OMC
Rating: various by chapter, NC-17 overall
Word Count: 3587
Summary: I wondered what happened to those Lodi boys, too
remember this story? *g*
Under The California Sun (impalas and big trucks)
Dean wakes up with a groan. His head's crushed against the immovable fake headboard. His neck's aching, his back's aching and his head's pounding with headache and it's not even fucking seven yet….
He blinks; his eyeballs feel sticky, gritty. He stares at the bed across from him and after a bit, he realizes the bag and stuff scattered across it is his stuff, and realizes too the bed he's in, is Pat's. damn… He ignores the quick clench in his gut and looks down—still dressed. That realization comes with a bizarre mixture of relief and disappointment. Not disappointment…just….
That weird clench comes right back when the fact he's alone in Pat's bed sinks in and he hates that the first thing he thinks is Pat's gone off and he's alone and he hates that it hurts.
There's noise in the bathroom, the door's open. Dean lets out a long breath, licks the place where his teeth pinched his lip. Okay. Clearly, an invitation.
He peers around the door. Feels a quick, hot flash at the sight of Pat's long brown back, the swell of his ass swathed in a threadbare terry towel…he's very fit, Pat is. Dean looks critically at the stitches holding the slice and the puncture wounds shut. They look good—clean. He's painted with bruises, and it brings back unpleasant memories….
Pat's looking at himself in the mirror; rather, he's frowning at his hair. He grins ruefully at Dean when he realizes he's been caught. "I never thought I was particularly vain but…" he shakes his head."My, uh--my hair's gone. Weird." He tries to say it lightly, but there's a definite catch in his voice. Dean catches the undercurrent of sadness, and looks away.
"Yeah, well, you're alive. Now get out, I gotta piss."
He comes out of the bathroom, and he means to tell the poor guy he'll cut his hair—hell, he used to cut Sam's hair all the time and Sam never complained—much. "Hey, Pat…"
Pat's flat on his stomach in the bed, cheek pillowed on his crossed arms and a thoughtful look on his face. "I've been thinking…I guess I am kind of glad that I met up with you again, you know? You and your dad…I always thought of you guys as the way to be. Decent. Kind."
Dean huffs, uncomfortable with being described that way, especially since when he thinks back on that summer, decent and kind are hardly the words he'd use to describe how he was to Pat. Dad. He'd been the one…Sam and him…not so much. "I don’t know about all that."
"Not everyone thinks like that. You guys…and Sam. You know you're heroes to me, right? You treated me pretty decent, even if…well, Sam always thought of me as…breakable. And you--I know you liked me but you kind of looked down on me too. Or maybe, I was you guys' summer pet that year, hunh?"
It's like Pat's talking about the weather, he's so fucking calm, and Dean kind of admires his control—or maybe it's just creepy how calm Pat is. "I was broken when I went home with you. I went because I'd given up. Couldn't take it anymore."
Dean drops down on the bed, his hip against Pat's. Just sits, and hopes the touch telegraphs what he wanted to say—that Pat is no way weak, that he's one tough, smart motherfucker and Dean would have his back anytime he wanted. 'Course, that's not enough for Pat. What Pat does is scoot closer, and grab Dean's hand like a middle school girl….
Shit Dean's palm goes sweaty, instantly. He fucking *hates* this touchy-feely shit but…okay. All right. It's Pat, and Pat's different. He needs it--touch, reassurance--not like him and Sammy. Pat tightens his grip on Dean's hand. Sighs.
Oooh, man…that's not a good sign, Dean thinks, and takes a breath himself. He bets Pat's about to unload and figures what's coming is going to be rough…Sharing and caring. Channel Sam and let it ride.
"So…my mom's husband. I let that dick kick my ass. Didn’t fight back because if I did, he'd just go after my mom. He was…I never thought of him as my dad. He wasn't. What he was, was a fucking bastard and I hated him. But I didn’t fight him. He was smart--always stopped short of putting me in the hospital, that fuck." Pat stopped and licked dry lips. He peered up at Dean and grinned. "Taught me excellent reflexes, though. I was never really scared of him. I *wasn't*. I just let him beat on me instead of my mom. I loved my mom. You know."
Dean nods. He picks up that Pat speaks about loving his mom in the past tense.
"I kept my mouth shut, and if stuff…if it got too bad, I slept in the woods. Or at Mike's, you remember him?"
Dean snorts—'course he did. Crazy Mike. Pat went on. "Yeah, whenever Mike's creepy Uncle Touchalot was out, I'd stay there. I shoulda gone and salted and burned *that* asshole…"
Dean growls under his breath…why didn't these guys ever *say* anything? Pat rolls to his back, moving gingerly until his shoulders are supported by one of the bed pillows. "So, that's how it worked for me…since. I guess, thirteen? Last couple of times he went to beat me, he didn't stop until I hardly knew who I was. Pretty sure he was beginning to lose it, but I had nowhere to go. Not until you guys showed up." He covers his eyes with arm. "You know my mom was *pissed* at me for chasing him away? Can you believe that?" Pat laughed softly.
Dean remembers standing on her doorstep, asking for Pat, and her complete indifference. "Bitch." He should have let Sammy beat the hell out of that bitch like he'd wanted to. The sudden sharp stab under his ribs shocked Dean into hissing.
"Hey, I'm good now, okay? I like what I'm doing," Pat says. Hesitates, and snorts--loud. "Well, you know what I mean."
Oh yeah, Dean gets it. Like it? No—but this was—this job was everything. It made you feel alive, made you feel like you were doing something worth-while. Dean nods. Yeah. Save someone, kill some evil fucking thing and keep moving and that way, no one ever knows you aren't worth anything. Dean drops his head. Sometimes, there was no moving fast enough…ever since Sam left, Dean could feel it, the knowledge that he just. Wasn't good enough. Wasn't as good as Dad. Wasn't worth much more than what Dad wanted him for--taking point and drawing fire, whatever--
He's digging his thumbs into his eyes, hard, until Pat grabs at him and says, "Hey—stop that--" Big hands wrap around his wrists, hot, dry, the calluses on the edge of his palm dragging against Dean's skin. He shudders, the feeling suddenly weirdly intense.
"Dean…" Pat pulls him closer. "Dean, you don’t get it, do you? Believe me, Sammy wouldn't love you if you were less than what you are—a hero."
"Fuck that shit. Sam left. Fuck him." Dean does his best to pull loose, but can't—he's surprised, but he shouldn't be, he knows. Pat's a strong motherfucker.
"Yeah, well, that didn't have as much to do with you, as with him. I said he loves you, I didn't say he wasn't screwed up," Pat says with a wry smile.
It's like Pat's doused him with gasoline and tossed a lit match on him. He's so fucking furious it makes him nauseous. "Him? Us, you mean. We're so fucked. What we did, that shit was *wrong*," he spits out. Fuck, fuck—he hasn't thought about it, not really, in years and Pat, the bastard…he has to drag it up into the light and poke at the fucker.
"Hey!" Pat yanks at Dean until he falls across him. Dean freezes against Pat's chest, feels Pat stop breathing for a long second before his eyes widen and he yelps, "Ah—that *hurts*!"
"Idiot! Rip open all your stitches why don’t you? End up looking like Frankenstein," Dean growls and manhandles Pat to his side, checks to make sure the stitches are holding. Pat laughs, kind of breathy with pain, but truly amused.
"If I was worried about that, I'd be selling grills, dude. So…" he twists, cups Dean's face. "Tell me, Dean. When are you going to walk out on me?"
Dean rips away from those too warm hands—it burns when Pat's fingernails accidentally scrape down his cheeks. "Man, fuck you, Pat—fuck you." Does Pat think he's stupid, that he can't hear like 'Sam walked out on you'? "I don’t do that—that's your thing, you and Sam, I stayed with Dad. Like we were supposed to. Sam's the one who ran away."
"Sam didn't run away, dude. He went to Stanford--you know, college? Like most folks expect to do? You left him--a long time before he took off. What do you think hurt more, Dean? Watching Sam walk away, or Sam learning how to live without you before he was even gone?"
"You don’t know what you're talking about—you weren't even there!" Dean's shouting, trying to shout down the punch in the gut Pat delivered without blinking an eye. Cold slice to the heart like a fucking surgeon.
Pat's expression says it all—what a fucking ass Dean's being, that he's completely stupid if he can't get that Pat hurts too, and for reasons that are pretty much the same.
"You know what, forget it. You'll never get it." Dean fishes out a hard pack from his pocket, taps out a cigarette and fiddles around lighting it. He wastes a few seconds looking for the Zippo, forgetting for a moment he'd sacrificed it to burning the warg's skin. He finds a half empty box of camping matches—good to light under any condition. And that reminds him—he breathes out a cloud of smoke and fixes Pat with a glare. "What happened in the woods, Pat? What did that wolf-bitch really say to you?"
"Told you already, Dean--nothing." Pat shook his head hard, and turned Dean's face so he was gazing right into his eyes. "There was nothing, nothing that made sense. I swear on my mother'."
Dean can't find anything off in Pat's wide, bright eyes, sincerity shining in them like altar candles. Pat blinks, his lips quirk in a shy, little smile. "I was just freaked Dean, that's all. Sometimes, I'm not as brave as I should be."
"Y'are too," Dean mutters, but he feels the weird, dim sense of fear that had been crowding up against the back of his brain all evening work loose…nothing concrete, just...a sense of unease, and Sammy, that had been gnawing at him all night. He tilts his head back and inhales deep, when he exhales he feels like he's pushing out some kind of poison. He crushes out the butt like he's killing all the worry left. "Well, good. Okay than."
"I'd never tell you less than the truth, Dean. I owe you that, right?"
Dean nods slowly. Maybe Pat did—though Dean really can't see why he'd think that. Of course, many years later, when he remembers this day and what happened long after, he realizes a little too late that one of the first things a thirteen year old would have had to do in order to protect himself and his mother was learn to lie with deep sincerity….
But this day, he sort of lets Pat pull him to his mouth and kiss him. Pat's mouth is hot, very soft. Dean automatically tries to pull away, and again, Pat pulls him back….
"It's just a kiss, idiot. It's not going to kill you."
"It might," he mumbles against Pat's mouth. This close up Pat's a blur…he could be anybody. A girl…Pat groans a little and pushes up against Dean. Well, no, no fucking way was he a girl. No one's imagination is that good—it's like colliding with a brick wall. Dean blushes. Feels good, actually….
"Hey, touch me—it's okay—"
Dean's hands come slowly to Pat's hips. So different now. Broader. They'd been so thin back then—so thin, all skin and hair and knobby bones. He slides his hands up until they come to rest in the jagged ends of Pat's hair, grips what he can at the base of his skull and Pat moans, his legs spread a bit and Dean settles in between them. He can feel heat and hardness and blushes harder when he feels…different. Sure, he's done this before. Sort of, anyway. Stuff like this, sometimes, it just--happens. Any hand in a foxhole, right? But this is…it's just different. It's hot, and…Dean closes his eyes…feels a breeze blow over his wet skin, smells pine, and hot sand, and the dry hay smell of sun-burned grass…smells shampoo and water too full of iron to be drinkable and humid, and….
Dean's panting, as much from the assault of memory as from what Pat's making him feel, and then, Pat twists and thrusts up and anything else Dean's thinking about flies to bits. He loses himself to the smooth slide of Pats' tongue over his, the wet cling of his mouth. He's moaning, so hard, loud, and a second grips him when he thinks he should be quiet—he almost laughs. No one to hear him, no one to care.
"Dean, Dean can we—" Pat's pulling at his own clothes and Dean gets it, shrugs and pulls and yanks his own clothes away.
The touch of bare skin against bare skin almost makes him cry. It's been a long, long, time. Not for fucking—just for touch, touching someone who knows him and wants…him, not just his dick. It's a good feeling. So good he's slicking Pat up, drooling precome all over him, his dick is jumping, spitting, sliding over Pat's and getting caught in the hair there and that feels, yeah. "Good."
Pat grabs his head, and arches against him, driving their dicks together with a purpose now, and he laughs right into Dean's neck. "Good? Wow, thanks, faint praise."
Dean snorts, bites the shell of Pat's ear. "So? Not like you're working hard."
"Oh, really?" Pat says, like he's been challenged. Drops lower and sucks Dean's dick right into his throat—at least that's what it feels like, when Dean comes back to earth. He's got practically his whole fist shoved in his mouth, his eyes are leaking from being screwed shut so tight and he's humping Pat's face and it's possible he might choke him to death.
Pat shoves at his hips to hold him back—"needa breath," he gasps, and then sucks Dean right back in. Dean laughs and groans and moans all at once. He moans even louder when Pat lets him go, with a wet smack. He's staring hard into Dean's eyes. Thinking hard enough to make Dean wince and then he wipes his chin, and says, "I want you to fuck me."
Dean swears stars explode in his gut. "Yeah? I mean—yeah."
Pat makes lube and a condom appear out of nowhere…fucking Boy Scout, he is…and fast as shit. He's got the condom out, and rolling it on Dean before he can even blink. Grins at Dean like he's making a quarter walk his knuckles. Beginning to think maybe the guy is a little magical. Pat strokes Dean's stomach, drags his nails over his skin until he's ready to give Pat any fucking thing he wants. Pat just looks up at him and asks, "You good?"
Dean nods and Pat slides out from under him, there's more amazing skin flowing against skin and Dean might have made some noise at that—he'd deny it if asked. Pat pours himself onto the bed next to Dean, like a cat. Dean blinks. Pat's more than good-looking—he's sexy as hell, and Dean deals with the fact he's finding a guy…*sexy*. Like, I really want to touch and lick and kiss and fuck yousexy. He shivers. "So, what do you need—?"
Pat hands him the lube. "Some of this, and enthusiasm." He shoves a pillow under his hips. "Come on." and Dean adds more slick to the condom, shudders at the touch of his own hand, the dark, hot look Pat gives him and it makes him…uncertain? Kind of scared…something.
"Don’t be afraid," Pat says, his hands hot on Dean's biceps, smoothing, soothing. "It's no big deal…" and Dean feels hurt, a little anger, and that makes the fear vanish like smoke, makes him less than cautious. He pulls Pat's legs toward him and pushes in with a growl. Pat gasps, and they both freeze--
Memory floods him…Pat. Sam. Summer, hot, wet, hurt…memory makes him move….
"Fuck. Like that," Pat groans, and throws his head back. "Do it."
It's hot, tight and better than memory, and watching Pat's face is turning him on more than he imagined he'd be. He's pushing in and in, and Pat—oh shit—Pat flushes a tide of red, his neck, his chest, beautiful, lips, and cheeks, so red…Dean leans in and kisses him, awkward and sloppy, and so good. "Pat, Pat oh god, Pat…"
Pat's long arms wrap around his neck and yank Dean down to him. "Call me Patrick—"
He does, and moves, in, out, steady thrust and Pat breathes hard, moaning, whispering encouragement….
They move together and it's amazing, and gets better and better. Heat grows, pressure, an urge that makes Dean push with everything, wanting to get in deeper, faster, his muscles jump and quiver, his dick jerks, jerks. Mouth is moving and whatever he's saying, Pat likes it, judging by the way his head is whipping back and forth. For a second, Dean misses all that long, black hair. "Patrick, you feel so good, Patrick, love fucking you, I remember, I remember—"
Shit, damn it. Sex makes you stupid, Dean thinks, but it must have been the right thing to say--Pat clamps down on him, shouts, "oh fuck", and he's coming, dick jerking in between them and spurting hot little jets that drip and smear on their bellies, their chests. Dean strokes in a last time, his back arches and he has a moment to feel a quick spasm of embarrassment. He's never been this loud with any girl—he doesn't think he's come this hard in…ever. "Patrick!"
Drowning in fire, that's what it feels like. No--no, it's like all his blood's alive and fizzing, or, no--like his muscles are knotting and unknotting and trying their best to come too—oh, okay, yeah, this—it's like—it's like every *part* of him is coming. "oh god, shit, Pat…coming."
Pat groans, "Yeah, I can feel you, feel you…" Pat's knees are digging in his ribs, ankles locked over his spine and it feels pretty good. Like being locked up in a warm cage. Pat sighs and sounds so content it makes Dean smile too. A wash of heat fills his chest, his heart. He's laid out over Pat, smiling, drifting into the dark behind his eyelids. He feels so good he hates to open them. He just wants to sleep, sleep, and his arms are wrapped around Pat because Pat's in the way of the pillows, that's all….
"Dude…really, wow…."
Dean pries his eyes open and squints. Pat's a mess—he looks like he's melted, like he's a big old popsicle in the sun. He's wearing a goofy grin just makes him all that more sexy and Dean has to kiss him. He hasn't kissed anyone this much since…a really long time. He kisses Pat and unexpectedly his eyes fill. It's kind of awful, and it makes him feel guilty for a hundred reasons, but right at this moment, he misses Sammy--the smell, the touch, his voice--so very, very, much.
He pushes the feeling away violently, locks it back up in his head. It's sick to even think about his brother right now. Sick. Pat's looking at him, like he knows what he's thinking. When he catches Dean looking back, he rolls his head to the side and closes his eyes. "Gotta move, dude. I'm a mess."
Dean pulls out a lot more carefully than he went in and Pat makes a tiny noise, and then snickers—and somehow, they're laughing. Why, Dean has no idea. Probably Pat doesn’t know either, but it's okay. A part of him thinks laughing with him is almost as good as fucking him.
Almost.
Dean gets rid of the condom, rubs his belly with a tee-shirt that turns out to be Pat's. Oh well. Pat smiles, and starts to get up and Dean pushes him back down, plants a hand in the center of his chest. "Hold up." Drops the messy tee-shirt on Pat, and grins when he gets a disgusted grimace from him. "Let's just…ah, fuck, let's just relax for a little bit, okay?"
Pat's face brightens, fucking lucky he's not a spy, or anything….kid's an open book. He stretches out next to him and drops one of his humongous giant thighs over Dean's. "Sounds like a plan, yeah…." Beaming like Dean just gave him a fucking present or something. Shit.
Fucking Patrick. He can't help but like him.
part 12
TBC
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![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
8/14/09 04:31 am (UTC)*pets them*
*happy sigh*
Luff it, bay-bee.
(no subject)
8/14/09 05:22 am (UTC)(no subject)
8/14/09 06:55 am (UTC)don't mean to sound hokey...
*hides*
(no subject)
8/14/09 08:46 am (UTC)(no subject)
8/14/09 01:23 pm (UTC)These boys need each other so much and it's all fucked up and GAH! *adores*
(no subject)
8/14/09 07:44 pm (UTC)Thank you!
(no subject)
8/19/09 01:53 am (UTC)That's the smiley face, representing my jaw dragging on the ground. If I was a more talented smiley face artist, I could make it drool as well, and then it would be totally accurate.
I love how the past and the present blend together in parts. And that last line is PERFECT!
*hurries to next bit*