More failing at the comment part of comment fic
Another 5 Acts fill! This time for xarixian, for the prompt "Smoking/Shotgunning" and the pairing Dean/Patrick (the man-witch from 5.07).
Coffin Nails, Dean/Patrick, PG
~~~~~
"Those things will take years off your life."
Patrick looks up, hands still cupped around the match. He feels his lips curl into a smile around the cigarette. "I've got years to spare."
Dean looks different. It takes Patrick a moment or two to realize it's because he's older. Patrick is more used to seeing people change by 25 years at a time, not two. And the only person he saw more than once never aged at all.
He holds out the pack of cigarettes to Dean, but gets a shake of the head.
"Wouldn't have thought you were the type," Dean says, stepping further out into the alley behind the bar -- the bar where Patrick was supposed to be looking for a game but ended up drinking instead.
"The toothpicks were a poor substitute," Patrick says. "Lia didn't--"
Lia didn't like it, he almost said. Lia didn't like him smoking, so he stopped. Lia didn't like living this way, but he doesn't know how to stop.
Dean looks pitying, like he can hear everything that happened in those bitten-off words. "I'm sorry."
Patrick takes a long drag, lets the smoke build up and burn in his lungs before letting it out. His eyes are clear by the time the last of the smoke leaves his lips. "What about your Bobby, and young Sam? Still getting into trouble?"
Dean looks away. "Bobby's good. Got his legs back."
Patrick is interested despite himself. "Witchcraft?"
"Demon."
"Ah." So, yes, still getting into trouble. "And Sam? Has he put those poker skills to good use?"
"Sam--" Dean starts, but he can't finish. Patrick knows a lot about grief. He's seen it enough across green felt tables. People hoping to lose, hoping that by starting again they'll be able to forget.
He thinks it isn't just the passage of time that's making Dean look older. "How long?"
"A year," Dean chokes out. "A year but --"
"But it feels like a day. Or a century." Patrick takes another drag, his hand steady through force of will. "Time is a harsh mistress."
"I can't let you play any games here," Dean says, almost apologetically. "Sorry man, but I live here now and I like to keep it witch-free."
Patrick holds up his hands. "No apologies necessary, my friend. I was leaving anyway."
It's not like he was actually going to play. He's been getting careless. Losing games, not playing them at all. Letting days slip away without a stack of chips to replace them.
He's always been a soft touch, just needing the right sob story to get him to play with his heart rather than his head, and right now it would take a lot less than Dean's tired, shattered look to make Patrick throw a game.
"How about a parting gift?" Patrick says.
Dean looks at him, suspicion buried under indifference. He doesn't know what Patrick is planning but he honestly doesn't care. "Sure."
Patrick reaches out, puts a hand on the back of Dean's neck. The short hairs tickle his palm but underneath it's steel. "What are you--"
"Shh," Patrick says. "It'll be all right, in the end."
He takes another long drag of the cigarette and pulls Dean's head down to meet him. There's a minute of resistance, then Dean is giving in, opening up, letting Patrick breathe the smoke into him.
Smoke, but not just smoke. Patrick lets time flow past his lips as well, days, months, a year, glowing golden inside his lungs and tingling over his body and into Dean's. He knows the moment Dean feels it because there's a startled inhale against his mouth and hands come up to grip his arms.
It's hard to tell how long it lasts, but then Patrick releases him and draws a breath of fresh air into his lungs. It's cold and sharp and it burns in an entirely different way than the smoke.
Dean is staring at him, his face a mix of confusion and pleasure and grief. The difference of a year is hard to see in his face, but Patrick thinks the lines are a little fainter, the circles under his eyes a little lighter.
Patrick wonders if he himself looks older. An extra gray hair, laugh lines etched just a bit deeper. It won't last. Nothing ever does, except the things that matter.
The cigarette's almost burned itself out, so Patrick drops it to the ground, crushes it out with his shoe. He taps another cigarette out of the pack, reaches for his matchbook but there's a lighter already in front of him, small butane flame glinting off the rings on Dean's fingers.
"You really should quit, you know," Dean says. "It's bad for you."
Patrick wraps a hand around Dean's, holding the flame steady while he lights the cigarette. Dean's hand is warm and rough under his.
"I know," Patrick says, "but that's what living is all about."
Coffin Nails, Dean/Patrick, PG
~~~~~
"Those things will take years off your life."
Patrick looks up, hands still cupped around the match. He feels his lips curl into a smile around the cigarette. "I've got years to spare."
Dean looks different. It takes Patrick a moment or two to realize it's because he's older. Patrick is more used to seeing people change by 25 years at a time, not two. And the only person he saw more than once never aged at all.
He holds out the pack of cigarettes to Dean, but gets a shake of the head.
"Wouldn't have thought you were the type," Dean says, stepping further out into the alley behind the bar -- the bar where Patrick was supposed to be looking for a game but ended up drinking instead.
"The toothpicks were a poor substitute," Patrick says. "Lia didn't--"
Lia didn't like it, he almost said. Lia didn't like him smoking, so he stopped. Lia didn't like living this way, but he doesn't know how to stop.
Dean looks pitying, like he can hear everything that happened in those bitten-off words. "I'm sorry."
Patrick takes a long drag, lets the smoke build up and burn in his lungs before letting it out. His eyes are clear by the time the last of the smoke leaves his lips. "What about your Bobby, and young Sam? Still getting into trouble?"
Dean looks away. "Bobby's good. Got his legs back."
Patrick is interested despite himself. "Witchcraft?"
"Demon."
"Ah." So, yes, still getting into trouble. "And Sam? Has he put those poker skills to good use?"
"Sam--" Dean starts, but he can't finish. Patrick knows a lot about grief. He's seen it enough across green felt tables. People hoping to lose, hoping that by starting again they'll be able to forget.
He thinks it isn't just the passage of time that's making Dean look older. "How long?"
"A year," Dean chokes out. "A year but --"
"But it feels like a day. Or a century." Patrick takes another drag, his hand steady through force of will. "Time is a harsh mistress."
"I can't let you play any games here," Dean says, almost apologetically. "Sorry man, but I live here now and I like to keep it witch-free."
Patrick holds up his hands. "No apologies necessary, my friend. I was leaving anyway."
It's not like he was actually going to play. He's been getting careless. Losing games, not playing them at all. Letting days slip away without a stack of chips to replace them.
He's always been a soft touch, just needing the right sob story to get him to play with his heart rather than his head, and right now it would take a lot less than Dean's tired, shattered look to make Patrick throw a game.
"How about a parting gift?" Patrick says.
Dean looks at him, suspicion buried under indifference. He doesn't know what Patrick is planning but he honestly doesn't care. "Sure."
Patrick reaches out, puts a hand on the back of Dean's neck. The short hairs tickle his palm but underneath it's steel. "What are you--"
"Shh," Patrick says. "It'll be all right, in the end."
He takes another long drag of the cigarette and pulls Dean's head down to meet him. There's a minute of resistance, then Dean is giving in, opening up, letting Patrick breathe the smoke into him.
Smoke, but not just smoke. Patrick lets time flow past his lips as well, days, months, a year, glowing golden inside his lungs and tingling over his body and into Dean's. He knows the moment Dean feels it because there's a startled inhale against his mouth and hands come up to grip his arms.
It's hard to tell how long it lasts, but then Patrick releases him and draws a breath of fresh air into his lungs. It's cold and sharp and it burns in an entirely different way than the smoke.
Dean is staring at him, his face a mix of confusion and pleasure and grief. The difference of a year is hard to see in his face, but Patrick thinks the lines are a little fainter, the circles under his eyes a little lighter.
Patrick wonders if he himself looks older. An extra gray hair, laugh lines etched just a bit deeper. It won't last. Nothing ever does, except the things that matter.
The cigarette's almost burned itself out, so Patrick drops it to the ground, crushes it out with his shoe. He taps another cigarette out of the pack, reaches for his matchbook but there's a lighter already in front of him, small butane flame glinting off the rings on Dean's fingers.
"You really should quit, you know," Dean says. "It's bad for you."
Patrick wraps a hand around Dean's, holding the flame steady while he lights the cigarette. Dean's hand is warm and rough under his.
"I know," Patrick says, "but that's what living is all about."