FIC: Interruptus
Title: Interruptus
Author: kimonkey7
Rating: PG-13
Pairings: none (gen) Dean with implied John
SPOILERS/Timeline: pre-series
Disclaimer: Not mine. Damn it.
Summary: Dean spends some time in the car, but he's not going anywhere.
A/N: Supposed to be comment fic, but god knows I'm too verbose for that, eh? Around 1200 words. Thanks (and happy birthday) to roque_clasique who provided the impetus to get out the cobweb duster, and to quellefromage for running me through paces, even if it means I left the field in an ambulance. *smish*
It’s too fuckin’ cold to crack the window more than the inch he’s got it down. He’s on his fifth cigarette, and the inside of the Impala’s starting to smell like the bar where they’d spent the better part of the evening. He’d be there now, if the bartender hadn’t kicked ‘em out an hour past last call.
He couldn’ta picked a warmer night? Or a time when there was enough credit on one of the cards to get a second room? He couldn’ta gone to her place?
Dean doesn’t want to drive around - Dad’ll bitch about the wasted gas and how money’s tight. He doesn’t even wanna run the heater or the stereo, as much as he really does want to, ‘cause God forbid the battery runs down and they end up needing a jump, or something. Dad likes to get an early start the morning after he--
Dean shifts in the driver’s seat, takes one last drag off the smoke between his thumb and finger, then pops the butt out the window.
It’s been an hour and forty-three minutes, his Timex tells him. He’s twice flipped through the memorized Popular Mechanics pulled, dog-eared and worn, from under the passenger side of the bench seat. There’s an old skin rag under there, too, but he’s not passing any time with that; he doesn’t need added visuals to supplement what he knows is goin’ on in room 106.
He shoulda hooked up with that pert and perky redhead who kept rubbin’ up against him on each of her numerous trips to the bathroom. ShouldaCouldaWoulda, but he’s tired as shit and sportin’ a rough shoulder from the night’s gig. The girl looked like she’d prove a little too…acrobatically inclined to accommodate his current, sad physical condition.
He bops a hand against his dick, then tugs down on the inside seam of his jeans. Change of subject. Change of subject, now. Dean focuses on the mistcloud of his breath, makes himself pissed over how cold he is. Fuck it, he breathes, and pulls the dented pack of smokes from the pocket of his jacket. Taps out number six and pings his Zippo to life.
Dad’s been tryin’ to get him to quit, but Dad can go to hell. If he can put up with the moody, broody bullshit, Dad can endure a little second-hand exposure. And the John Winchester Funk is gonna be intense tomorrow, ‘Cause it always is after Dad--
Okay, okay. Jesus. Shut up.
Dad’s a guy, and Dean gets that. Sometimes you just gotta-- Men have to-
He drags deeply on his cigarette, fans the exhale across the dash with a slow shake of his head. It’s just that, when Dad actually does? Dean’s gotta deal with the goddamned fallout. Suffer the itch-by-association for the hours and days Dad spends donning the hairshirt.
Mom’s a twenty-year-old memory to him: blonde hair and smooth skin, chicken soup and pb&j, the feel of grass on his small bare feet. Dean’s smart enough - knows himself well enough - to get she’s something else to Dad. Mary. Wife. A body Dad held in a completely different way. Dean’s memories are diffused through a child’s sensibility and need, not a man’s. He understands Dad’s guilt and remorse, just wishes the man could get laid without punishing both of them afterward. Dean tosses his half-smoked cigarette and cranks up the window. Cups his cold hands over his mouth and blows. He could use a nip, the frigid air bumping shoulders with his once-pleasant buzz.
They’d paid for a bottle of Jack at the bar, traded shots in a back booth close enough to the juke and a stack of quarters to keep the pop rock at bay. A third of the way through the amber liquor, Get It While You Can entered the musical rotation, and Dean winced internally. The song was a trigger for Dad’s libido rifle. Dean immediately identified the pushing-forty MILF who’d been their waitress all night, and knew she’d be…gettin’ a big tip.
He’s been holding out hope, but Dad’s a gentleman; he’s not gonna kick the chick out. He never does. John Winchester has a 5:00am fuck-alarm that wakes him automatically, as well as the stealth of a goddamned puma. They’ll be gone by half a state before she wakes up to a creepily nice apology note and an otherwise empty room.
He should have known it was gonna happen. Dad had him pack when they got back from the job, load up the Impala before they left for the bar. Dean should have prepared, but he was too busy grumbling about his shoulder, thoughts on a little liquid relief. They’d finished one hunt, but Dad’d had a solo planned in advance.
He throws back his head and groans at the roof of the car, presses against the floorboards, and executes a clumsy, backward tuck ‘n’ roll over the bench seat. His right boot gets momentarily tangled in the steering wheel - Come on! - and then he drops onto the stiff cold leather with a thump, his bum shoulder hitting the edge of the seat and slipping into the footwell.
Sonuva--!
It’s a full thirty seconds before he can breathe again, pain pulsing from neck to fingertips. Dean curses the name John Winchester - in English and Latin - then kicks and pulls and pushes his way into a stubbornly comfortable position. He wads a flannel shirt from his duffle into a makeshift pillow and shoves it between his head and the door handle. He gives it five good minutes, but it’s just too fuckin’ cold.
This is bullshit.
He’s never gonna fall asleep with his teeth chattering like they are. He reaches for his pack, then changes his mind. Grabs Dad’s instead. He pulls out a stack of soft, neatly folded work shirts and goes to work: sets down a layer for insulation between himself and the leather, opens up three or four for blankets, saves the faded blue - Dad’s favorite - for a special task.
Dean folds his cold body in half and unlaces his boots. They’re still damp from the slog through the marsh, earlier. His feet’d be warmer with ‘em on, he knows, but he kicks them off anyway. Scrunches his nose and coughs out a moan when the vinegar-Fritos smell starts to fill the car. He winds Dad’s shirt tightly around his sweaty socks with a snarly smirk.
It’s all ridiculously immature, Dean knows, but he’s feelin’ stung and insignificant, forgotten. Underappreciated. A bit disrespected. On the very rare occasion Dad hooked up when Sam was still around - when they were still a family - Dad always made sure the boys had somewhere to be. Somewhere safe, somewhere warm. Dean works his jacket zipper up to his chin, shifts to take the weight off his shoulder, and shuts his eyes.
He pretends the occasional rush of passing semis on the highway off the parking lot is a warm summer breeze; he’s four years old, curled up on a picnic blanket, napping in the sun. He drifts off, dreaming of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches wrapped in waxed paper waiting to be devoured. He wakes only occasionally, when his curled, fisted fingers brush against his cold nose, the smell of nicotine telling him he’s dreaming.
Author: kimonkey7
Rating: PG-13
Pairings: none (gen) Dean with implied John
SPOILERS/Timeline: pre-series
Disclaimer: Not mine. Damn it.
Summary: Dean spends some time in the car, but he's not going anywhere.
A/N: Supposed to be comment fic, but god knows I'm too verbose for that, eh? Around 1200 words. Thanks (and happy birthday) to roque_clasique who provided the impetus to get out the cobweb duster, and to quellefromage for running me through paces, even if it means I left the field in an ambulance. *smish*
It’s too fuckin’ cold to crack the window more than the inch he’s got it down. He’s on his fifth cigarette, and the inside of the Impala’s starting to smell like the bar where they’d spent the better part of the evening. He’d be there now, if the bartender hadn’t kicked ‘em out an hour past last call.
He couldn’ta picked a warmer night? Or a time when there was enough credit on one of the cards to get a second room? He couldn’ta gone to her place?
Dean doesn’t want to drive around - Dad’ll bitch about the wasted gas and how money’s tight. He doesn’t even wanna run the heater or the stereo, as much as he really does want to, ‘cause God forbid the battery runs down and they end up needing a jump, or something. Dad likes to get an early start the morning after he--
Dean shifts in the driver’s seat, takes one last drag off the smoke between his thumb and finger, then pops the butt out the window.
It’s been an hour and forty-three minutes, his Timex tells him. He’s twice flipped through the memorized Popular Mechanics pulled, dog-eared and worn, from under the passenger side of the bench seat. There’s an old skin rag under there, too, but he’s not passing any time with that; he doesn’t need added visuals to supplement what he knows is goin’ on in room 106.
He shoulda hooked up with that pert and perky redhead who kept rubbin’ up against him on each of her numerous trips to the bathroom. ShouldaCouldaWoulda, but he’s tired as shit and sportin’ a rough shoulder from the night’s gig. The girl looked like she’d prove a little too…acrobatically inclined to accommodate his current, sad physical condition.
He bops a hand against his dick, then tugs down on the inside seam of his jeans. Change of subject. Change of subject, now. Dean focuses on the mistcloud of his breath, makes himself pissed over how cold he is. Fuck it, he breathes, and pulls the dented pack of smokes from the pocket of his jacket. Taps out number six and pings his Zippo to life.
Dad’s been tryin’ to get him to quit, but Dad can go to hell. If he can put up with the moody, broody bullshit, Dad can endure a little second-hand exposure. And the John Winchester Funk is gonna be intense tomorrow, ‘Cause it always is after Dad--
Okay, okay. Jesus. Shut up.
Dad’s a guy, and Dean gets that. Sometimes you just gotta-- Men have to-
He drags deeply on his cigarette, fans the exhale across the dash with a slow shake of his head. It’s just that, when Dad actually does? Dean’s gotta deal with the goddamned fallout. Suffer the itch-by-association for the hours and days Dad spends donning the hairshirt.
Mom’s a twenty-year-old memory to him: blonde hair and smooth skin, chicken soup and pb&j, the feel of grass on his small bare feet. Dean’s smart enough - knows himself well enough - to get she’s something else to Dad. Mary. Wife. A body Dad held in a completely different way. Dean’s memories are diffused through a child’s sensibility and need, not a man’s. He understands Dad’s guilt and remorse, just wishes the man could get laid without punishing both of them afterward. Dean tosses his half-smoked cigarette and cranks up the window. Cups his cold hands over his mouth and blows. He could use a nip, the frigid air bumping shoulders with his once-pleasant buzz.
They’d paid for a bottle of Jack at the bar, traded shots in a back booth close enough to the juke and a stack of quarters to keep the pop rock at bay. A third of the way through the amber liquor, Get It While You Can entered the musical rotation, and Dean winced internally. The song was a trigger for Dad’s libido rifle. Dean immediately identified the pushing-forty MILF who’d been their waitress all night, and knew she’d be…gettin’ a big tip.
He’s been holding out hope, but Dad’s a gentleman; he’s not gonna kick the chick out. He never does. John Winchester has a 5:00am fuck-alarm that wakes him automatically, as well as the stealth of a goddamned puma. They’ll be gone by half a state before she wakes up to a creepily nice apology note and an otherwise empty room.
He should have known it was gonna happen. Dad had him pack when they got back from the job, load up the Impala before they left for the bar. Dean should have prepared, but he was too busy grumbling about his shoulder, thoughts on a little liquid relief. They’d finished one hunt, but Dad’d had a solo planned in advance.
He throws back his head and groans at the roof of the car, presses against the floorboards, and executes a clumsy, backward tuck ‘n’ roll over the bench seat. His right boot gets momentarily tangled in the steering wheel - Come on! - and then he drops onto the stiff cold leather with a thump, his bum shoulder hitting the edge of the seat and slipping into the footwell.
Sonuva--!
It’s a full thirty seconds before he can breathe again, pain pulsing from neck to fingertips. Dean curses the name John Winchester - in English and Latin - then kicks and pulls and pushes his way into a stubbornly comfortable position. He wads a flannel shirt from his duffle into a makeshift pillow and shoves it between his head and the door handle. He gives it five good minutes, but it’s just too fuckin’ cold.
This is bullshit.
He’s never gonna fall asleep with his teeth chattering like they are. He reaches for his pack, then changes his mind. Grabs Dad’s instead. He pulls out a stack of soft, neatly folded work shirts and goes to work: sets down a layer for insulation between himself and the leather, opens up three or four for blankets, saves the faded blue - Dad’s favorite - for a special task.
Dean folds his cold body in half and unlaces his boots. They’re still damp from the slog through the marsh, earlier. His feet’d be warmer with ‘em on, he knows, but he kicks them off anyway. Scrunches his nose and coughs out a moan when the vinegar-Fritos smell starts to fill the car. He winds Dad’s shirt tightly around his sweaty socks with a snarly smirk.
It’s all ridiculously immature, Dean knows, but he’s feelin’ stung and insignificant, forgotten. Underappreciated. A bit disrespected. On the very rare occasion Dad hooked up when Sam was still around - when they were still a family - Dad always made sure the boys had somewhere to be. Somewhere safe, somewhere warm. Dean works his jacket zipper up to his chin, shifts to take the weight off his shoulder, and shuts his eyes.
He pretends the occasional rush of passing semis on the highway off the parking lot is a warm summer breeze; he’s four years old, curled up on a picnic blanket, napping in the sun. He drifts off, dreaming of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches wrapped in waxed paper waiting to be devoured. He wakes only occasionally, when his curled, fisted fingers brush against his cold nose, the smell of nicotine telling him he’s dreaming.