Fic: Let It Ride - Las Vegas/Supernatural, Danny/Dean, PG-13
Title: Let It Ride
Author: nevcolleil
Fandom(s): Las Vegas/Supernatural
Pairing: Danny McCoy/Dean Winchester
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 500
Prompt: #275: Clean
Summary: Finding something pure in any way is downright miraculous in Vegas.
He always feels weird about it - checking into the Montecito in his weathered jeans and beat up leather jacket. If the receptionist doesn’t know him she doesn’t believe that he has a reservation; sometimes he has to insist that she check the computer. Then there are nervous pauses. Stuttering. It’s frickin’ embarrassing. Danny put him on some sort of VIP list and every time somebody sees it - and sees Dean - they do a doubletake. Dean doesn’t exacty look like billionaire high roller material.
Then there are the rooms. Big ass Jacuzzi’s. Pricey artwork on the walls and fancy vases on the tables. The décor probably costs as much as Dean’s car (more - but Dean won’t say it that way because he won’t make his Baby sound cheap); he asked Danny how much it cost to outfit a room like this once and the answer made him queasy. He’s constantly aware of his dusty boots on the plush carpet, his rough hands on the silk of the sheets.
And when a job goes wrong he tracks mud and blood into those rooms. He stains the bright white towels in the large bathroom a bright red; he drips on the carpet and the nice bedspread and he feels, pretty comprehensively, out of his element.
But Danny joins him… Carrying a six pack of Dean’s favorite beer on the good days; rolling up his silk sleeves on the bad, ready to go to work helping Dean get patched up. He tangles a hand in Dean’s hair and gives him a marine-worthy assault of a kiss (hoo-rah) or kneels at Dean’s side, eyes dark and worried and fixed on whatever gash needs stitching this time.
“House-keeping’s gotta hate you, man,” Dean slurs one time when he only manages to make it into his room before collapsing on the unmade bed. The slash in his side is bleeding everywhere and Danny’s pulled a pillow case off a pillow to wad up and press against Dean’s wound until he can get the medkit open, grumbling about ‘hardhead’s and ‘what the hell are emergency rooms for, anyways?’
Danny presses a quick kiss to Dean’s lips. “We’ve done worse than bleed on these sheets. They’re used to it. Hold still, babe.”
And Dean feels something he doesn’t feel anywhere else.
Like he’s come home to something. Like he’s come home to someone. Like the stitches are holding something together, for once, that won’t just get torn back open. Like he’s washing away more than just the day (or sometimes the week) in that massive tub afterwards.
He gets the same sense of ‘I don’t deserve this’ touching Danny’s skin as he does walking through the Montecito’s doors, so maybe it’s selfish that he keeps coming back, but Dean can’t help himself. He’s as purely happy with Danny as he’s ever gonna be - and finding something pure in any way is downright miraculous in Vegas.
Dean’s not stupid enough to walk away from that.
[end.]
Author: nevcolleil
Fandom(s): Las Vegas/Supernatural
Pairing: Danny McCoy/Dean Winchester
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 500
Prompt: #275: Clean
Summary: Finding something pure in any way is downright miraculous in Vegas.
He always feels weird about it - checking into the Montecito in his weathered jeans and beat up leather jacket. If the receptionist doesn’t know him she doesn’t believe that he has a reservation; sometimes he has to insist that she check the computer. Then there are nervous pauses. Stuttering. It’s frickin’ embarrassing. Danny put him on some sort of VIP list and every time somebody sees it - and sees Dean - they do a doubletake. Dean doesn’t exacty look like billionaire high roller material.
Then there are the rooms. Big ass Jacuzzi’s. Pricey artwork on the walls and fancy vases on the tables. The décor probably costs as much as Dean’s car (more - but Dean won’t say it that way because he won’t make his Baby sound cheap); he asked Danny how much it cost to outfit a room like this once and the answer made him queasy. He’s constantly aware of his dusty boots on the plush carpet, his rough hands on the silk of the sheets.
And when a job goes wrong he tracks mud and blood into those rooms. He stains the bright white towels in the large bathroom a bright red; he drips on the carpet and the nice bedspread and he feels, pretty comprehensively, out of his element.
But Danny joins him… Carrying a six pack of Dean’s favorite beer on the good days; rolling up his silk sleeves on the bad, ready to go to work helping Dean get patched up. He tangles a hand in Dean’s hair and gives him a marine-worthy assault of a kiss (hoo-rah) or kneels at Dean’s side, eyes dark and worried and fixed on whatever gash needs stitching this time.
“House-keeping’s gotta hate you, man,” Dean slurs one time when he only manages to make it into his room before collapsing on the unmade bed. The slash in his side is bleeding everywhere and Danny’s pulled a pillow case off a pillow to wad up and press against Dean’s wound until he can get the medkit open, grumbling about ‘hardhead’s and ‘what the hell are emergency rooms for, anyways?’
Danny presses a quick kiss to Dean’s lips. “We’ve done worse than bleed on these sheets. They’re used to it. Hold still, babe.”
And Dean feels something he doesn’t feel anywhere else.
Like he’s come home to something. Like he’s come home to someone. Like the stitches are holding something together, for once, that won’t just get torn back open. Like he’s washing away more than just the day (or sometimes the week) in that massive tub afterwards.
He gets the same sense of ‘I don’t deserve this’ touching Danny’s skin as he does walking through the Montecito’s doors, so maybe it’s selfish that he keeps coming back, but Dean can’t help himself. He’s as purely happy with Danny as he’s ever gonna be - and finding something pure in any way is downright miraculous in Vegas.
Dean’s not stupid enough to walk away from that.
[end.]