50scenes!fic - The Valley and the Stars
Title: The Valley and the Stars
Prompt: 50scenes prompt table 3, number 41, 'kiss'
Warnings: Non-explicit sexuality, crossover with Janet Fitch's White Oleander.
Characters/Pairings: Dean Winchester and Astrid Magnussen. Sam Winchester mentioned.
Summary: Astrid and Dean, the valley and the stars, it's like oil and water but they lie together pretty well. Cut text from A Fine Frenzy's "The Minnow and the Trout".
Dean doesn't have girlfriends; he has one-night stands, he has broom closet hookups. And then there's her, and he's not sure what to think about that, except that it won't last, it can't last, and that's okay. Broken beauty's never been his type. He likes his girls less smashed up inside than he is, like it's just the last little bit of normalcy he can grab and hold on to for an hour or two. Maybe it is, but it doesn't matter when it comes to her.
Sam teases him about it until he gets that he's serious, slow and careful around the girl in the art room, the sensitive type in her black and lime green PVC, her artist's blue eyes, long blonde hair she pushed back over her shoulder when she painted and didn't care about any other time. Dean flirts but not too much, and he's almost ready to let it go by the time he figures out that she's interested, too, offers him a black cigarette, brand he doesn't recognize, on the lunch break; her foster mother smokes them, she says, Russian, they're good.
He doesn't take it, but he sticks around anyway, breathing in the acrid smoke like a penance, a payment made to talk to her. She doesn't talk about herself and neither of them talk about him; they talk about the school, graduation in a few months, who cares. She quotes Dickinson and he doesn't get it until she reminds him it's the girl poet they're talking about in English class, and he wonders why she bothers explaining it to him. She says her mother's a poet, she's in prison somewhere upstate, it's probably nicer there than it is here, and he gives a look to their side of the weak, sputtering stream that runs behind the school and agrees, yeah, probably it is. Dean asks where she'll go when she graduates, just a question, something you ask people when you're both seniors. She says she doesn't know and he laughs, says he doesn't either, and neither of them mention college because it's not even on their radars.
She has a room she shares in a flat a few blocks from the school, and they go there once, exploring each other to find out the cracks, two broken people trying to find a way to fit. Astrid and Dean, the valley and the stars, it's like oil and water but they lie together pretty well, and they both know what they're doing and it's not bad. The blue blanket's stained but it brings out her eyes, her skin ghost-white against his, and they linger for a little while, talk low and nobody can hear them over her foster mother's loud music, Russian metal and American rock a couple of decades removed. They're having a party, and Dean grins and suggests they're missing out on the real entertainment up there.
He doesn't stay the night, but he stays most of it, and he's not sure how many times they're together but they spend most of the time naked, the blanket pulled up over them, pale limbs, blonde hair, blue. They both know it won't last, so they hold on as long as they can, and then he's pulling on his jeans, his boots, and she pulls a dress over her head so she can walk him to the door, kiss him and leave her scent on him, pale like violets, something pink and iridescent, counterpoint to her black clothes, her cynicism.
They leave the next day; Dad pulls Dean out of classes halfway through the day, and he sees her in the hallway on the way out. Tells her he's going, see you around. She presses a piece of paper into his hands and walks away without a word, both of them damaged just a little bit more by the bungled goodbye, the cracks spreading like seismic fault lines. Her picture is an oil pastel painting of the two of them, tangled up in the navy blanket, stain-free in her rendition. She doesn't minimize his scars or hers, dog-bites and gunshots. He keeps it in his bag, caught between the pages of a notebook, something he doesn't want to leave behind somewhere by accident.
Prompt: 50scenes prompt table 3, number 41, 'kiss'
Warnings: Non-explicit sexuality, crossover with Janet Fitch's White Oleander.
Characters/Pairings: Dean Winchester and Astrid Magnussen. Sam Winchester mentioned.
Summary: Astrid and Dean, the valley and the stars, it's like oil and water but they lie together pretty well. Cut text from A Fine Frenzy's "The Minnow and the Trout".
Dean doesn't have girlfriends; he has one-night stands, he has broom closet hookups. And then there's her, and he's not sure what to think about that, except that it won't last, it can't last, and that's okay. Broken beauty's never been his type. He likes his girls less smashed up inside than he is, like it's just the last little bit of normalcy he can grab and hold on to for an hour or two. Maybe it is, but it doesn't matter when it comes to her.
Sam teases him about it until he gets that he's serious, slow and careful around the girl in the art room, the sensitive type in her black and lime green PVC, her artist's blue eyes, long blonde hair she pushed back over her shoulder when she painted and didn't care about any other time. Dean flirts but not too much, and he's almost ready to let it go by the time he figures out that she's interested, too, offers him a black cigarette, brand he doesn't recognize, on the lunch break; her foster mother smokes them, she says, Russian, they're good.
He doesn't take it, but he sticks around anyway, breathing in the acrid smoke like a penance, a payment made to talk to her. She doesn't talk about herself and neither of them talk about him; they talk about the school, graduation in a few months, who cares. She quotes Dickinson and he doesn't get it until she reminds him it's the girl poet they're talking about in English class, and he wonders why she bothers explaining it to him. She says her mother's a poet, she's in prison somewhere upstate, it's probably nicer there than it is here, and he gives a look to their side of the weak, sputtering stream that runs behind the school and agrees, yeah, probably it is. Dean asks where she'll go when she graduates, just a question, something you ask people when you're both seniors. She says she doesn't know and he laughs, says he doesn't either, and neither of them mention college because it's not even on their radars.
She has a room she shares in a flat a few blocks from the school, and they go there once, exploring each other to find out the cracks, two broken people trying to find a way to fit. Astrid and Dean, the valley and the stars, it's like oil and water but they lie together pretty well, and they both know what they're doing and it's not bad. The blue blanket's stained but it brings out her eyes, her skin ghost-white against his, and they linger for a little while, talk low and nobody can hear them over her foster mother's loud music, Russian metal and American rock a couple of decades removed. They're having a party, and Dean grins and suggests they're missing out on the real entertainment up there.
He doesn't stay the night, but he stays most of it, and he's not sure how many times they're together but they spend most of the time naked, the blanket pulled up over them, pale limbs, blonde hair, blue. They both know it won't last, so they hold on as long as they can, and then he's pulling on his jeans, his boots, and she pulls a dress over her head so she can walk him to the door, kiss him and leave her scent on him, pale like violets, something pink and iridescent, counterpoint to her black clothes, her cynicism.
They leave the next day; Dad pulls Dean out of classes halfway through the day, and he sees her in the hallway on the way out. Tells her he's going, see you around. She presses a piece of paper into his hands and walks away without a word, both of them damaged just a little bit more by the bungled goodbye, the cracks spreading like seismic fault lines. Her picture is an oil pastel painting of the two of them, tangled up in the navy blanket, stain-free in her rendition. She doesn't minimize his scars or hers, dog-bites and gunshots. He keeps it in his bag, caught between the pages of a notebook, something he doesn't want to leave behind somewhere by accident.