SPN FIC - Heat
How long he's been sitting over there in the dark, she doesn't know. He blends in with the night, like a cat. Like that long black car he tends so lovingly.
CHARACTERS: Dean (age 19), OFC
GENRE: Het (Outsider POV)
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 1000 words
HEAT
By Carol Davis
How long he's been sitting over there in the dark, she doesn't know. He blends in with the night, like a cat. Like that long black car he tends so lovingly.
Barefoot.
Jeans.
White t-shirt, a little too small. Maybe that's deliberate. A conscious choice.
She watches him sometimes. Sees him draping himself across that car, chamois in hand, stroking away the water so it won't spot the metal, t-shirt and jeans damp with the spray from the garden hose, his arms and the back of his neck freckled and red, beginning to burn.
She thinks of Lennon singing to his small son.
Beautiful, beautiful boy.
When she glances his way again, he's looking at her. "How do I get there?" he asks softly. "Where you are?"
Upstairs porch. Unscreened, open. No defense from the heat, or the bugs, or the occasional (larger, sometimes much larger) flying or climbing or crawling thing. No way to get there from the ground, or from where he's sitting, on the staircase that leads up to the second floor of the house next door, to the upstairs apartment he occupies with a younger boy and a man she understands is his father. She watches him sometimes, taking those stairs two at a time, oblivious to the heat. When he's aiming to drive, he wears boots.
She could go downstairs, unlock the door. Let him come in through the house. But he's too quick for that. She loses sight of him for a moment, can't see him scale the side of the house, boosting himself up from the porch below.
His head appears, then his shoulders.
He's smiling a little.
It's a big porch, the remnant of another century. A good place to sit. Read. Think.
She watches him clamber over the edge, flushed with victory. He's tall, she realizes as he stands there, grinning down at her. She knew that before, in some unformed way, but it's obvious now. He's tall. Sturdy. Gone well past the lanky stage his brother is still at the last fringes of; there's nothing coltish about him, nothing uncertain.
He crouches in front of her chair.
"My room," he says, barely above a whisper, gesturing. "It's right there. I see you sometimes."
There's no missing the implications of that. All of them.
"You shouldn't spy on people," she says.
He huffs out a breath. Shifts his weight so he's resting on one knee. "Tried to figure out how to get across," he confesses, voice soft, almost a purr. "Put a board across or something."
"Did you."
He lays a hand on top of hers. It's warm. A little damp.
There's a daybed - something she makes use of now and then, when the inside of the house is too stifling to bear, or when she wants to be more a part of the night than she could possibly be indoors. He reaches over and hauls the bedding off of it, onto the floor, down to a point where it's not visible to anyone not standing on the roof of the house across the street.
She hears Lennon's voice in her head, crooning beautiful, beautiful boy, but of course Lennon didn't mean this: this shift of strong shoulders as he strips the too-small white t-shirt off over his head. Didn't mean the hands that move to help her with buttons, with peeling fabric away from moist skin, because she can't do it fast enough to suit either of them.
Lennon didn't mean the assurance, the confidence, with which he lays her down on the relocated bedding and bends to kiss, caress, use lips and tongue and fingers to play her like an instrument, with a master's ability to coax out the notes he wants to hear.
He's young, she thinks.
But not really.
He sits up, slowly, when he's finished. Uses the palm of his right hand to wipe the sweat off the back of his neck.
When he looks down at her he's smiling.
That's young. That smile.
She reaches out. Trails her fingers against his skin.
"Come when you want," she murmurs. "I'll give you a key."
They don't move for a few minutes. The night's busy around them, full of sound, as if someone's turned the volume up. Birds. Traffic, some distance away. A TV, the crash of a metal trash can. A dog barking. That's why she sits out here, sometimes. The night's so full. Occupied with life.
He twines his fingers with hers and sits holding her hand but not looking at her; looking at everything but her. It's as if he's wary of something. Everything. As if he expects something to come at him out of the night that he'll need to deal with.
"I should go," he says finally. "I - it's kind of late."
He stretches, collects his clothes, slips back into them in a crouch. Keeps himself out of sight of the rest of the world as if it's a game.
Or as if showing the world too much of himself isn't something he dares do.
There's another kiss, long and slow, with the fingers of a warm, strong, damp hand pressed to her cheek. Then he's gone, arcing over the wall and out of sight as swiftly and easily and near-silently as he arrived. She hears his bare feet slapping the stairs of the house next door as he climbs to the second floor. Hears the creak of the door as it opens, then closes gently behind him. He's trying not to wake the other boy, she thinks. Trying to slide back into his life as if he never slipped away from it.
When she wakes, sorting herself out from the bedding on the floor, mind thick and muzzy from the rising heat of the day, her body reluctant to cooperate with much of anything, as if she's swimming through soup,
The car is gone.
So is he, she realizes.
When she asks about him, asks where he's gone, no one knows.
* * * * *
CHARACTERS: Dean (age 19), OFC
GENRE: Het (Outsider POV)
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 1000 words
HEAT
By Carol Davis
How long he's been sitting over there in the dark, she doesn't know. He blends in with the night, like a cat. Like that long black car he tends so lovingly.
Barefoot.
Jeans.
White t-shirt, a little too small. Maybe that's deliberate. A conscious choice.
She watches him sometimes. Sees him draping himself across that car, chamois in hand, stroking away the water so it won't spot the metal, t-shirt and jeans damp with the spray from the garden hose, his arms and the back of his neck freckled and red, beginning to burn.
She thinks of Lennon singing to his small son.
Beautiful, beautiful boy.
When she glances his way again, he's looking at her. "How do I get there?" he asks softly. "Where you are?"
Upstairs porch. Unscreened, open. No defense from the heat, or the bugs, or the occasional (larger, sometimes much larger) flying or climbing or crawling thing. No way to get there from the ground, or from where he's sitting, on the staircase that leads up to the second floor of the house next door, to the upstairs apartment he occupies with a younger boy and a man she understands is his father. She watches him sometimes, taking those stairs two at a time, oblivious to the heat. When he's aiming to drive, he wears boots.
She could go downstairs, unlock the door. Let him come in through the house. But he's too quick for that. She loses sight of him for a moment, can't see him scale the side of the house, boosting himself up from the porch below.
His head appears, then his shoulders.
He's smiling a little.
It's a big porch, the remnant of another century. A good place to sit. Read. Think.
She watches him clamber over the edge, flushed with victory. He's tall, she realizes as he stands there, grinning down at her. She knew that before, in some unformed way, but it's obvious now. He's tall. Sturdy. Gone well past the lanky stage his brother is still at the last fringes of; there's nothing coltish about him, nothing uncertain.
He crouches in front of her chair.
"My room," he says, barely above a whisper, gesturing. "It's right there. I see you sometimes."
There's no missing the implications of that. All of them.
"You shouldn't spy on people," she says.
He huffs out a breath. Shifts his weight so he's resting on one knee. "Tried to figure out how to get across," he confesses, voice soft, almost a purr. "Put a board across or something."
"Did you."
He lays a hand on top of hers. It's warm. A little damp.
There's a daybed - something she makes use of now and then, when the inside of the house is too stifling to bear, or when she wants to be more a part of the night than she could possibly be indoors. He reaches over and hauls the bedding off of it, onto the floor, down to a point where it's not visible to anyone not standing on the roof of the house across the street.
She hears Lennon's voice in her head, crooning beautiful, beautiful boy, but of course Lennon didn't mean this: this shift of strong shoulders as he strips the too-small white t-shirt off over his head. Didn't mean the hands that move to help her with buttons, with peeling fabric away from moist skin, because she can't do it fast enough to suit either of them.
Lennon didn't mean the assurance, the confidence, with which he lays her down on the relocated bedding and bends to kiss, caress, use lips and tongue and fingers to play her like an instrument, with a master's ability to coax out the notes he wants to hear.
He's young, she thinks.
But not really.
He sits up, slowly, when he's finished. Uses the palm of his right hand to wipe the sweat off the back of his neck.
When he looks down at her he's smiling.
That's young. That smile.
She reaches out. Trails her fingers against his skin.
"Come when you want," she murmurs. "I'll give you a key."
They don't move for a few minutes. The night's busy around them, full of sound, as if someone's turned the volume up. Birds. Traffic, some distance away. A TV, the crash of a metal trash can. A dog barking. That's why she sits out here, sometimes. The night's so full. Occupied with life.
He twines his fingers with hers and sits holding her hand but not looking at her; looking at everything but her. It's as if he's wary of something. Everything. As if he expects something to come at him out of the night that he'll need to deal with.
"I should go," he says finally. "I - it's kind of late."
He stretches, collects his clothes, slips back into them in a crouch. Keeps himself out of sight of the rest of the world as if it's a game.
Or as if showing the world too much of himself isn't something he dares do.
There's another kiss, long and slow, with the fingers of a warm, strong, damp hand pressed to her cheek. Then he's gone, arcing over the wall and out of sight as swiftly and easily and near-silently as he arrived. She hears his bare feet slapping the stairs of the house next door as he climbs to the second floor. Hears the creak of the door as it opens, then closes gently behind him. He's trying not to wake the other boy, she thinks. Trying to slide back into his life as if he never slipped away from it.
When she wakes, sorting herself out from the bedding on the floor, mind thick and muzzy from the rising heat of the day, her body reluctant to cooperate with much of anything, as if she's swimming through soup,
The car is gone.
So is he, she realizes.
When she asks about him, asks where he's gone, no one knows.
* * * * *