SPN Wip Amnesty Post 1
Okay, so when I transferred all my crap to my new computer, I discovered several SPN wips that are obviously never going to be finished. I thought I would post them here. I cannot vouch for quality, of course ;)
The first time Sam stands next to Dean Smith, it hits him like a fucking freight train. Deja vu like he's never had in his life. Sam tells him he looks familiar, but it's more than that. It isn't just the way he looks that make Sam feel like he's been punched in the gut (though Christ knows looking at the guy is like staring into the fucking sun...
It's the way he smells: like well-worn leather, and gunpowder and... no. No. That isn't it. Doesn't smell like that at all.
Dean smells like wheatgrass and Issey Miyake Pour Homme, and Sam's struck by how wrong that seems.
Maybe playing Wrath of the Lich King till 4.30 in the fucking morning really HAS been warping his mind.
* * *
The dreams come again. This time it's far more disturbing than the rest: he's in pain; a knife slicing into his back through sinew and bone, and he tries to call out, but he can't form words, can't even move and all he can do is crumple to the ground.
Someone is talking to him but he can't see now. He thinks he might be dead. That voice though, it's so goddamn familiar: the tone, the pitch of it. If he could only see the guy who's talking to him, maybe then he'd know.
Must be someone special, he guesses. Sam isn't used to people crying over him. Or calling him Sammy.
When Dean Smith does the latter, Sam realises his smell isn't the only thing Sam remembers.
Bobby was eight years old when he saw his first demon and he remembers it now as clearly as though it had happened just yesterday. His daddy was a hunter and his daddy before him and he remembers walking into the kitchen one sticky, hot September afternoon to get lemonade and finding Mr McIvor who owned the corner store, tied to one of his mom’s straight-backed chairs.
Mr McIvor had always been friendly and warm and always offered Bobby free candy when he went in there after school before meeting his mom after she finished her shift at the diner.
Mr McIvor had kind eyes that sparkled when he laughed. Usually. This time though, his eyes were black and cold and made Bobby shiver when they directed their attention on him.
Bobby’s daddy walked over to him and kneeled down, one hand on his shoulder and said, “Son, I think you should go play outside. Your mom wouldn’t want you to be here.”
Bobby looked over to where George Maxwell, his dad’s best friend, was throwing water over Mr McIvor, who was screaming and writhing, struggling against the rope around his wrists so much that his skin was raw. He looked back to his father. “Why does the water hurt him, Dad?”
“Well, Bobby, it’s…”
Just then Mr McIvor turned straight to Bobby and whispered, “Bobby, don’t let them hurt me anymore. I can’t…“
“Robert, leave”, his father hissed at him.
His daddy only called him Robert when things were far too serious for him not to.
Bobby ran out the back door and around to the other side of the house, stood outside the kitchen window and watched, making sure his angle was such that no-one in the kitchen could see him.
He watched as his father was up within seconds and pressing a crucifix into Mr McIvor’s forehead. Steam was coming off of him and even through the thick glass and back a few feet, Bobby could hear screaming that made his blood run cold. George stood off to the side, chanting words that Bobby didn’t understand, words from the big, dusty book that was kept in his dad’s study. The one room he was never allowed into.
Not until you’re a man, Bobby, not till then.
That night, his mother sent him to bed early. He remembers so clearly hearing his parents fighting that night, his dad shouting and his mom crying and crying and pleading, “I won’t lose him too, Mike, I can’t. He’s all I have left.”
His mom came into his room that night and lay down next to him. He pretended to be asleep at first, but when she whispered, “I love you, baby. Don’t ever forget that,” he turned over and wrapped his arms around her and told her not to cry.
Bobby never could stand to see her cry.
******
Bobby’s mother got sick his last year of junior high.
His dad was away, tracking a nest of vampires in the northwest and Bobby came home from school that day, knees skinned and dirty from fighting with Kurt O’Neill who tripped Bobby up after gym class for no reason other than he was a mean son of a bitch who had it in for Bobby ‘cause he was smaller than the other boys.
Bobby’s mom had always told him boys like Kurt would never amount to anything and wind up old and alone and that Bobby never would because he had a good heart and a smart head on his shoulders.
Bobby tried to tell Kurt just that when he was picking on one of the kids that didn’t know how to fight. Kurt tried to push Bobby’s face in the dirt and ended up with a broken nose for his trouble.
If there was one thing Bobby’s daddy had taught him, it was how to stand up for himself.
That didn’t count for anything when he got home that day and found his mom lying on the kitchen floor not moving.
The doctor said she had maybe six months if she was lucky, three if she wasn’t. Turns out the lump in his mom’s breast had been there for a long time and she never had it checked out. She didn’t want to make a fuss. While Elizabeth Singer wasn’t making a fuss, the cancer was spreading all through her liver and aesophagus.
Bobby got a hold of his dad who said he couldn’t come home yet Just need a little more time, buddy. You’re the man of the house for now, okay? Your mom needs you.
It made Bobby want to throw up. He promised himself he’d never put anything before anyone he loved. Not hunting, nothing else neither.
Bobby took the week off school and spent all his time at the hospital, lying next to his mother, feeding her gross hospital food when she could stomach it and sips of water when she couldn’t handle anything else.
Bobby didn’t cry in front of her once and after the first month, he didn’t cry at all.
His father stopped hunting for a while and Bobby felt like they were a family again. His mom was doing better and Bobby thought that maybe one of his daddy’s friends had made the cancer go away. Maybe there was a cure in one of those books?
Bobby started dating Suzie Morgan from across the road. She had blonde hair and blue eyes and the prettiest smile he’d ever seen, except for his mother’s.
She kissed him one fall evening, when the leaves crunched under their shoes like crumpled paper, in the field where her daddy kept horses. The wind was icy-cold and the chill went straight through Bobby, but Suzie’s lips were warm and soft and perfect.
They fell asleep in her Daddy’s barn and when he got home at one a.m. his father was waiting up for him, wanting to know where he’d been.
Bobby bowed his head, waiting for the shouting to begin, but it didn’t. His dad just slumped on the sofa, head in his hands, weeping.
Bobby had never seen his dad cry before and he knew. He just knew.
His mom died exactly a week before his fifteenth birthday and Bobby wasn’t there to say goodbye.
******
Bobby didn’t finish high school. His dad wasn’t too happy about it, but Bobby could see in his eyes that he wasn’t that upset, either. Now it was just the two of them, he was pretty sure that his dad liked having him around.
He said as much on those nights when he reeked of bourbon and Bobby would end up having to put him to bed, take his shoes off and make sure there was a glass of water on the bedside table.
“You’re all I got now, kid. You know that, right?”
Bobby would bite his lip to stop himself yelling, ’not a fucking kid anymore, Dad.’
Bobby grew up the day his mother died and he didn’t look back, not once.
The hunting helped him to move on, not to forget, but to get rid of that giant hole, that hollowed-out feeling in the pit of his stomach. It didn’t seem to do that for his father.
Mike Singer fought demons like he always did, but his heart wasn’t in it anymore. He’d rather sit alone in the dark, drinking straight Jack and leaving Bobby to do all the research.
Bobby’s daddy died when they were hunting a spirit in Lawrence, Kansas. Bobby found the bones and salted and burned them himself and called George Maxwell to help him with the body.
George squeezed Bobby’s shoulder and said at least his father died fighting.
Bobby knew differently. Bobby swore to himself right then and there that he’d never do the same. He would go out fighting. He wouldn’t die of a broken heart.
they ever existed.
1am, and it's seven minutes since he last looked at the clock. Dean feels itchy in his skin, that feeling that only a hunt or a fuck can quell. He throws off the covers and rubs a hand over his face, thinks about jerking off, but doesn't. He needs something else. Needs someone to bury himself inside, someone he can lose himself in and forget for an hour or two.
Forget about Sam, and how Dean feels the loss of him like someone's cut off one of his limbs.
* * *
The bar is a little more up-market than Dean usually likes, but it's the closest to the motel, and it's where (so he's heard) it's easy enough to find what he's looking for.
He's halfway through his third Jack and coke , crunching on a piece of ice when a group of five guys stumble in. Three of them make for one of the empty booths, and the other two head for the bar. One of them is just over six foot, with a shaved head. Pretty, but not Dean's type. The other one makes Dean choke on his icecube.
"Sam," he whispers, and the word feels like dust in his mouth. But the more he stares, the more Dean realises this can't be Sam. This guy looks like him, looks so much like him it could be a fucking shapeshifter, but there are major differences too. The wardrobe for one: Sam'd never wear a "Texans Do It Better" t-shirt; which is fitted so tight that the guy's insane pecs and biceps look like they're about to make a bid for freedom.
Then there's the way this guy carries himself; tall, confident. No slouching or stooping.
But the biggest giveaway is how he laughs. Head thrown back, mouth wide open, a full-throated laugh from someone who's never had to bury someone he cares about, who's never known real fear. Someone who's never experienced loss the way the Winchesters have.
He isn't broken. He isn't Sam.
"Hey, man, how's it going?"
It takes Dean a few seconds to realise that not!Sam is talking to him, and Dean is still staring at him.
"Sorry. I was just." Dean looks away, long enough to finish his drink, and when he turns back, not!Sam is staring right back, hazel eyes dark and intense.
"It's cool, used to being stared at by now," he grins, wide and open and Dean can feel his cock getting hard. "You want me to sign something , or...?"
Dean wonders if The Trickster is behind this. No other explanation for him running into some kinda of celebrity who just happens to look like Sam's double, minus the angst and plus the flirtiest grin he's seen since he last looked at his own in the mirror.
"Sorry, man, I honestly don't know who the hell you are," Dean tips his glass to the guy in thanks for the drink, "you just. You really look like someone I know, that's all."
"Huh." He nibbles his bottom lip, and Dean takes a big sip from his drink, anything to try and ignore the fact that his dick has taken a major interest in this guy and his mouth, and how good it would feel on him.
"Jared," the guy says, extending his hand, "Jared Padalecki, and man you must think I have the biggest ego on the planet." Jared spins on his barstool, finishing his drink on the way around, and pointing to the half-empty bottle of Patron on the shelf.
"Dean. And nah, it's cool," Dean finishes his own drink, and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, "I'm not real up on celebrities or anything. " That's a complete lie, Dean knows way more about which A to Z lister is gracing E-Online than he should, but he doesn't want to insult Jared.
"So the guy I look like," Jared passes Dean one of the empty shotglasses the bartender puts down in front of him, and pours the two of them a shot each, "he someone you used to fuck?"
Dean laughs, bitterly, "Something like that, yeah." He clinks his shotglass against Jared's and slams it back, "Thanks, man, been a while since I had tequila this good."
"Hey, no problem. Not every day I can talk to someone who doesn't have an agenda, y'know?" Jared pauses, like he's thinking very carefully about what he's going to say next. He leans in a little closer, "So. Uh. This guy still in the picture?"
"Not at all. He left." Dean can feel the tequila warming his blood, making his tongue thick in his mouth. This isn't at all how he pictured his night going, he was gearing up for anonymous sex in an alley somewhere, but he's not going to say no. "Why do you ask?"
Jared grins, licks the tequila off his lips slow and suggestive.
Fucking cocktease.
"I was hoping we could." Jared lowers his voice, "get outta here."
Dean turns his head so his mouth is about an inch away from Jared's, "Hell, yeah."
"Thank God," Jared laughs, "cause if you don't take me somewhere right fucking now, I'm thinking the bathroom's a great alternative. Wanna wear out my jaw on that," he points to Dean's crotch, and Dean swears under his breath, grabs Jared's hand and slams it down on the bar.
"You keep that up, and I'll fuck you right here against the bar," he growls, "see how many people recognise you while you're grinding your hips back, riding my cock."
Dean feels his skin prickling at that. Remembers saying the same thing to Sam, over and over, variations of it.
But Sam isn't here, and Jared's the closest thing Dean has to him, and any guilt he's feeling over it can wait till afterwards. Right now, one thing's for certain; Dean is going to know just how much like Sam Jared sounds when he's begging Dean to fuck him.
Lindsey doesn't make a habit of going to bars like this, student bars full of drunk off their ass frat boys and sorority girls drinking enough cheap beer to make them bare their implants to anyone who's interested. But the drinks are cheap and it's a quiet night.
He's halfway through his fourth jack and coke when some college kid walks in and takes the empty stool next to him. He's different to the other students, quieter somehow and Lindsey can't quite put his finger on it, but this kid's as much of an outsider as Lindsey is.
The kid catches Lindsey looking and cocks his head to one side. He's ridiculously tall, floppy bangs falling into his eyes and the corner of his mouth turns up, a half-smile, but there's something not quite friendly in the kid's eyes too. Like he's judging Lindsey. Measuring him up, seeing how dangerous Lindsey is.
Like a hunter.
Lindsey laughs under his breath. A fucking hunter. It's ironic really, considering all he's tried to do for the past six months is distance himself from anything that reminds him of LA or names that end in "gel".
"I'm not, you know," he says, looking into his glass as he drains it.
The kid blinks, "Uh, sorry?"
Lindsey wipes his mouth, "I'm not one of them. Demon, vampire, you know, things you hunt?"
There's a sharp intake of breath and a long pause before the boy speaks again. "How did you…?"
Lindsey gestures the barman, points to his glass and holds up two fingers. "I've met plenty of their kind. And yours." He holds out his hand, "Name's Lindsey. McDonald."
"Sam. Sam Winchester." Sam's hand is warm and his grip firm and Lindsey pulls away first, shoves one of his fresh drinks towards Sam. "I'm not one. A hunter, I mean, not anymore."
"Student, huh?"
Sam nods. "Pre-law."
Lindsey laughs around a mouthful of alcohol. "Sorry, it's just… I was a lawyer once. Long time ago."
"A lawyer?" Sam looks amused. "Here I was thinking you were dangerous."
"What makes you so sure I'm not, boy?." Lindsey can't help but feel smug when he sees Sam swallow, wiping his hands on his jeans.
Lindsey wasn't looking for a pickup tonight, besides, he's not really into kids, but this one's different.
Couple more to come :)
The first time Sam stands next to Dean Smith, it hits him like a fucking freight train. Deja vu like he's never had in his life. Sam tells him he looks familiar, but it's more than that. It isn't just the way he looks that make Sam feel like he's been punched in the gut (though Christ knows looking at the guy is like staring into the fucking sun...
It's the way he smells: like well-worn leather, and gunpowder and... no. No. That isn't it. Doesn't smell like that at all.
Dean smells like wheatgrass and Issey Miyake Pour Homme, and Sam's struck by how wrong that seems.
Maybe playing Wrath of the Lich King till 4.30 in the fucking morning really HAS been warping his mind.
* * *
The dreams come again. This time it's far more disturbing than the rest: he's in pain; a knife slicing into his back through sinew and bone, and he tries to call out, but he can't form words, can't even move and all he can do is crumple to the ground.
Someone is talking to him but he can't see now. He thinks he might be dead. That voice though, it's so goddamn familiar: the tone, the pitch of it. If he could only see the guy who's talking to him, maybe then he'd know.
Must be someone special, he guesses. Sam isn't used to people crying over him. Or calling him Sammy.
When Dean Smith does the latter, Sam realises his smell isn't the only thing Sam remembers.
Bobby was eight years old when he saw his first demon and he remembers it now as clearly as though it had happened just yesterday. His daddy was a hunter and his daddy before him and he remembers walking into the kitchen one sticky, hot September afternoon to get lemonade and finding Mr McIvor who owned the corner store, tied to one of his mom’s straight-backed chairs.
Mr McIvor had always been friendly and warm and always offered Bobby free candy when he went in there after school before meeting his mom after she finished her shift at the diner.
Mr McIvor had kind eyes that sparkled when he laughed. Usually. This time though, his eyes were black and cold and made Bobby shiver when they directed their attention on him.
Bobby’s daddy walked over to him and kneeled down, one hand on his shoulder and said, “Son, I think you should go play outside. Your mom wouldn’t want you to be here.”
Bobby looked over to where George Maxwell, his dad’s best friend, was throwing water over Mr McIvor, who was screaming and writhing, struggling against the rope around his wrists so much that his skin was raw. He looked back to his father. “Why does the water hurt him, Dad?”
“Well, Bobby, it’s…”
Just then Mr McIvor turned straight to Bobby and whispered, “Bobby, don’t let them hurt me anymore. I can’t…“
“Robert, leave”, his father hissed at him.
His daddy only called him Robert when things were far too serious for him not to.
Bobby ran out the back door and around to the other side of the house, stood outside the kitchen window and watched, making sure his angle was such that no-one in the kitchen could see him.
He watched as his father was up within seconds and pressing a crucifix into Mr McIvor’s forehead. Steam was coming off of him and even through the thick glass and back a few feet, Bobby could hear screaming that made his blood run cold. George stood off to the side, chanting words that Bobby didn’t understand, words from the big, dusty book that was kept in his dad’s study. The one room he was never allowed into.
Not until you’re a man, Bobby, not till then.
That night, his mother sent him to bed early. He remembers so clearly hearing his parents fighting that night, his dad shouting and his mom crying and crying and pleading, “I won’t lose him too, Mike, I can’t. He’s all I have left.”
His mom came into his room that night and lay down next to him. He pretended to be asleep at first, but when she whispered, “I love you, baby. Don’t ever forget that,” he turned over and wrapped his arms around her and told her not to cry.
Bobby never could stand to see her cry.
******
Bobby’s mother got sick his last year of junior high.
His dad was away, tracking a nest of vampires in the northwest and Bobby came home from school that day, knees skinned and dirty from fighting with Kurt O’Neill who tripped Bobby up after gym class for no reason other than he was a mean son of a bitch who had it in for Bobby ‘cause he was smaller than the other boys.
Bobby’s mom had always told him boys like Kurt would never amount to anything and wind up old and alone and that Bobby never would because he had a good heart and a smart head on his shoulders.
Bobby tried to tell Kurt just that when he was picking on one of the kids that didn’t know how to fight. Kurt tried to push Bobby’s face in the dirt and ended up with a broken nose for his trouble.
If there was one thing Bobby’s daddy had taught him, it was how to stand up for himself.
That didn’t count for anything when he got home that day and found his mom lying on the kitchen floor not moving.
The doctor said she had maybe six months if she was lucky, three if she wasn’t. Turns out the lump in his mom’s breast had been there for a long time and she never had it checked out. She didn’t want to make a fuss. While Elizabeth Singer wasn’t making a fuss, the cancer was spreading all through her liver and aesophagus.
Bobby got a hold of his dad who said he couldn’t come home yet Just need a little more time, buddy. You’re the man of the house for now, okay? Your mom needs you.
It made Bobby want to throw up. He promised himself he’d never put anything before anyone he loved. Not hunting, nothing else neither.
Bobby took the week off school and spent all his time at the hospital, lying next to his mother, feeding her gross hospital food when she could stomach it and sips of water when she couldn’t handle anything else.
Bobby didn’t cry in front of her once and after the first month, he didn’t cry at all.
His father stopped hunting for a while and Bobby felt like they were a family again. His mom was doing better and Bobby thought that maybe one of his daddy’s friends had made the cancer go away. Maybe there was a cure in one of those books?
Bobby started dating Suzie Morgan from across the road. She had blonde hair and blue eyes and the prettiest smile he’d ever seen, except for his mother’s.
She kissed him one fall evening, when the leaves crunched under their shoes like crumpled paper, in the field where her daddy kept horses. The wind was icy-cold and the chill went straight through Bobby, but Suzie’s lips were warm and soft and perfect.
They fell asleep in her Daddy’s barn and when he got home at one a.m. his father was waiting up for him, wanting to know where he’d been.
Bobby bowed his head, waiting for the shouting to begin, but it didn’t. His dad just slumped on the sofa, head in his hands, weeping.
Bobby had never seen his dad cry before and he knew. He just knew.
His mom died exactly a week before his fifteenth birthday and Bobby wasn’t there to say goodbye.
******
Bobby didn’t finish high school. His dad wasn’t too happy about it, but Bobby could see in his eyes that he wasn’t that upset, either. Now it was just the two of them, he was pretty sure that his dad liked having him around.
He said as much on those nights when he reeked of bourbon and Bobby would end up having to put him to bed, take his shoes off and make sure there was a glass of water on the bedside table.
“You’re all I got now, kid. You know that, right?”
Bobby would bite his lip to stop himself yelling, ’not a fucking kid anymore, Dad.’
Bobby grew up the day his mother died and he didn’t look back, not once.
The hunting helped him to move on, not to forget, but to get rid of that giant hole, that hollowed-out feeling in the pit of his stomach. It didn’t seem to do that for his father.
Mike Singer fought demons like he always did, but his heart wasn’t in it anymore. He’d rather sit alone in the dark, drinking straight Jack and leaving Bobby to do all the research.
Bobby’s daddy died when they were hunting a spirit in Lawrence, Kansas. Bobby found the bones and salted and burned them himself and called George Maxwell to help him with the body.
George squeezed Bobby’s shoulder and said at least his father died fighting.
Bobby knew differently. Bobby swore to himself right then and there that he’d never do the same. He would go out fighting. He wouldn’t die of a broken heart.
they ever existed.
1am, and it's seven minutes since he last looked at the clock. Dean feels itchy in his skin, that feeling that only a hunt or a fuck can quell. He throws off the covers and rubs a hand over his face, thinks about jerking off, but doesn't. He needs something else. Needs someone to bury himself inside, someone he can lose himself in and forget for an hour or two.
Forget about Sam, and how Dean feels the loss of him like someone's cut off one of his limbs.
* * *
The bar is a little more up-market than Dean usually likes, but it's the closest to the motel, and it's where (so he's heard) it's easy enough to find what he's looking for.
He's halfway through his third Jack and coke , crunching on a piece of ice when a group of five guys stumble in. Three of them make for one of the empty booths, and the other two head for the bar. One of them is just over six foot, with a shaved head. Pretty, but not Dean's type. The other one makes Dean choke on his icecube.
"Sam," he whispers, and the word feels like dust in his mouth. But the more he stares, the more Dean realises this can't be Sam. This guy looks like him, looks so much like him it could be a fucking shapeshifter, but there are major differences too. The wardrobe for one: Sam'd never wear a "Texans Do It Better" t-shirt; which is fitted so tight that the guy's insane pecs and biceps look like they're about to make a bid for freedom.
Then there's the way this guy carries himself; tall, confident. No slouching or stooping.
But the biggest giveaway is how he laughs. Head thrown back, mouth wide open, a full-throated laugh from someone who's never had to bury someone he cares about, who's never known real fear. Someone who's never experienced loss the way the Winchesters have.
He isn't broken. He isn't Sam.
"Hey, man, how's it going?"
It takes Dean a few seconds to realise that not!Sam is talking to him, and Dean is still staring at him.
"Sorry. I was just." Dean looks away, long enough to finish his drink, and when he turns back, not!Sam is staring right back, hazel eyes dark and intense.
"It's cool, used to being stared at by now," he grins, wide and open and Dean can feel his cock getting hard. "You want me to sign something , or...?"
Dean wonders if The Trickster is behind this. No other explanation for him running into some kinda of celebrity who just happens to look like Sam's double, minus the angst and plus the flirtiest grin he's seen since he last looked at his own in the mirror.
"Sorry, man, I honestly don't know who the hell you are," Dean tips his glass to the guy in thanks for the drink, "you just. You really look like someone I know, that's all."
"Huh." He nibbles his bottom lip, and Dean takes a big sip from his drink, anything to try and ignore the fact that his dick has taken a major interest in this guy and his mouth, and how good it would feel on him.
"Jared," the guy says, extending his hand, "Jared Padalecki, and man you must think I have the biggest ego on the planet." Jared spins on his barstool, finishing his drink on the way around, and pointing to the half-empty bottle of Patron on the shelf.
"Dean. And nah, it's cool," Dean finishes his own drink, and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, "I'm not real up on celebrities or anything. " That's a complete lie, Dean knows way more about which A to Z lister is gracing E-Online than he should, but he doesn't want to insult Jared.
"So the guy I look like," Jared passes Dean one of the empty shotglasses the bartender puts down in front of him, and pours the two of them a shot each, "he someone you used to fuck?"
Dean laughs, bitterly, "Something like that, yeah." He clinks his shotglass against Jared's and slams it back, "Thanks, man, been a while since I had tequila this good."
"Hey, no problem. Not every day I can talk to someone who doesn't have an agenda, y'know?" Jared pauses, like he's thinking very carefully about what he's going to say next. He leans in a little closer, "So. Uh. This guy still in the picture?"
"Not at all. He left." Dean can feel the tequila warming his blood, making his tongue thick in his mouth. This isn't at all how he pictured his night going, he was gearing up for anonymous sex in an alley somewhere, but he's not going to say no. "Why do you ask?"
Jared grins, licks the tequila off his lips slow and suggestive.
Fucking cocktease.
"I was hoping we could." Jared lowers his voice, "get outta here."
Dean turns his head so his mouth is about an inch away from Jared's, "Hell, yeah."
"Thank God," Jared laughs, "cause if you don't take me somewhere right fucking now, I'm thinking the bathroom's a great alternative. Wanna wear out my jaw on that," he points to Dean's crotch, and Dean swears under his breath, grabs Jared's hand and slams it down on the bar.
"You keep that up, and I'll fuck you right here against the bar," he growls, "see how many people recognise you while you're grinding your hips back, riding my cock."
Dean feels his skin prickling at that. Remembers saying the same thing to Sam, over and over, variations of it.
But Sam isn't here, and Jared's the closest thing Dean has to him, and any guilt he's feeling over it can wait till afterwards. Right now, one thing's for certain; Dean is going to know just how much like Sam Jared sounds when he's begging Dean to fuck him.
Lindsey doesn't make a habit of going to bars like this, student bars full of drunk off their ass frat boys and sorority girls drinking enough cheap beer to make them bare their implants to anyone who's interested. But the drinks are cheap and it's a quiet night.
He's halfway through his fourth jack and coke when some college kid walks in and takes the empty stool next to him. He's different to the other students, quieter somehow and Lindsey can't quite put his finger on it, but this kid's as much of an outsider as Lindsey is.
The kid catches Lindsey looking and cocks his head to one side. He's ridiculously tall, floppy bangs falling into his eyes and the corner of his mouth turns up, a half-smile, but there's something not quite friendly in the kid's eyes too. Like he's judging Lindsey. Measuring him up, seeing how dangerous Lindsey is.
Like a hunter.
Lindsey laughs under his breath. A fucking hunter. It's ironic really, considering all he's tried to do for the past six months is distance himself from anything that reminds him of LA or names that end in "gel".
"I'm not, you know," he says, looking into his glass as he drains it.
The kid blinks, "Uh, sorry?"
Lindsey wipes his mouth, "I'm not one of them. Demon, vampire, you know, things you hunt?"
There's a sharp intake of breath and a long pause before the boy speaks again. "How did you…?"
Lindsey gestures the barman, points to his glass and holds up two fingers. "I've met plenty of their kind. And yours." He holds out his hand, "Name's Lindsey. McDonald."
"Sam. Sam Winchester." Sam's hand is warm and his grip firm and Lindsey pulls away first, shoves one of his fresh drinks towards Sam. "I'm not one. A hunter, I mean, not anymore."
"Student, huh?"
Sam nods. "Pre-law."
Lindsey laughs around a mouthful of alcohol. "Sorry, it's just… I was a lawyer once. Long time ago."
"A lawyer?" Sam looks amused. "Here I was thinking you were dangerous."
"What makes you so sure I'm not, boy?." Lindsey can't help but feel smug when he sees Sam swallow, wiping his hands on his jeans.
Lindsey wasn't looking for a pickup tonight, besides, he's not really into kids, but this one's different.
Couple more to come :)