Storytime.
Short piece, thought I'd try writing me some smut and well, this is what came out instead. My thanks to embroiderama for the speedy beta service! 1,022 words, slash, Dean/OMCs, and kiiiiinda-sorta, um, songfic. Kinda? Anyway. Hope you enjoy. Em.
Yellow Couch
by Emily Brunson
(c)2008
It’s in the air, like that stupid fuck Phil Collins, that song Dean remembers from whenever. In the air tonight, like a drug, something he can smell and taste.
There are two choices where to go here. There’s the nice bar - sort of nice, nothing great but okay-looking - and the skanky pit.
I can feel it, coming in the air tonight.
He’ll make some money in the first bar. Not a lot, but enough to cover a few expenses. He’ll see a couple of cute chicks, and he’ll wind up screwing one of them. Maybe both. They’ll drink margaritas he didn’t pay for, and he’ll screw them, and he’ll be gone before the taste of lime vanishes off his tongue.
He won’t make money in the second.
Some shithead in - where, Memphis, maybe Tallahassee that one time - told him about that song when they were stoned on really excellent weed. Dad gone somewhere, never would say, cryptic bastard, Sammy following his yellow brick road, and Dean wasted in a loser’s doublewide, living room with yellow couch pockmarked with cigarette burns and a clock shaped like a black-and-white cat. The tail had mesmerized him, back and forth, sweet smoke in his lungs and his head ringing like a gong.
Collins, the dude had said, what was his name, Terry, Jerry, something, Collins had seen the crime, witnessed it, and invited the perpetrator to a concert, shown a spotlight on him while he sang, and got him arrested.
You’re so full of shit, Dean moaned, and took another hit.
The second bar is smoky, same smell as that doublewide trailer in Wherever, Deep South. Rank like sour wine and BO. Bikers, truckers, but no chicks with wide hips and black tee shirts. A long oak bar with shaky stools.
Draft, he tells the old guy at the bar. He pours his beer without expression, and Dean takes it to a booth, feels the cool kiss of leather shiny from a couple of generations of big asses. The beer’s salty, tastes just fine.
Weed makes him dizzy, sometimes it makes him puke. He remembers the dude’s fingernails, black with engine grease, the smell of his breath, a tooth going south somewhere in there.
Think you found the wrong bar, someone says. Someone has a sleek beer gut, white tee shirt tight over that vast lovely belly, and a thick luxuriant beard below sharp blue eyes.
Oh? Dean asks. You think?
Bearded dude gives him a nod. Private club, and you ain’t invited.
So, Dean says. How’s someone get an invite around here?
They don’t.
Salty beer and I’ve seen your face before, my friend, but I don’t know if you know who I am.
That’s too bad, says Dean and smiles, smiles. Because I’m a hell of a lot of fun.
Bearded guy smiles, shows pearly white teeth. No rotten breath there. That so?
Oh yeah.
Don’t belong here.
Daddy, I don’t belong nowhere.
Blue eyes narrowed, assessing while Dean smiles and stretches, tastes his cheap beer. Come on, Daddy, he says, shows his teeth. Set a spell.
He’d come home and Dad was there, mumbling under his breath, pacing the motel room. Hey, Dean had said, and Dad glanced at him and away. Dean thinking about the smell of weed on his clothes, in his hair. Stomach giving a lazy turn, thinking about doing more.
He scoots over and keeps smiling while the dude sits, feels a thick hand on his thigh. Warm. Boy, I ain’t your daddy.
Could be. Tonight.
Daddy laughs, laughs and says, Maybe you found the right bar after all.
There’s a room back in the back, always is. Maybe some nights there’s poker here, maybe not. Table and a handful of chairs, a desk with no chair, a yellow couch pocked with cigarette burns.
Are you drunk? Dad asked, mouth turned down.
Nope. Thought, No, Dad, just stoned.
What’s your name, boy?
Dean, he says. Dean’s my name.
Come here looking for your daddy.
No, Dean says. Somebody else’s. He feels the man’s huge hands on his waist, slipping under his tee shirt. Anybody else’s.
How could I ever forget, it’s the first time, the last time we ever met met met met met.
Tee shirt smells like Downy, skin like Dove. Daddy’s so clean, Dean breathes through his nose, takes the aroma of him like perfume. Mouth a sweet surprise behind that heavy beard, hungry, gobbling him down.
You here cause you been bad, or good?
Yep. I am.
Daddy laughs and kisses him again.
Weed always leaves him feeling like he’s had the flu the next day. Weak, headache, sick at his stomach. Why he doesn’t do it all that often. Dad sniffed, ordered them coffee at a deserted diner. The coffee was good, best he could remember.
The air’s cool, feels good on his bare skin. Like that, Daddy? he asks, shivers when that ham hand closes on his ass. Like that, Daddy.
Someone in the doorway, watching. Same tee shirt, same leather vest. Dean watches back, that's it, Daddy, do it, do it, like that.
Fucking song. Urban legend crap, no way Collins saw a fucking murder. Awesome drumming, though.
Slip and slide, that big belly wet with sweat against his back, his ass hurts, and he closes his eyes, braces himself on the table. Like that, Daddy, just like that.
Stays till dawn's sweetening the sky, till the daddies are all gone, and the man says, Better go home, boy. Somebody'll be missing you.
No, Dean whispers. He won't.
You can wipe off that grin, know where you've been.
All been a pack of lies.
The motel's quiet, fucking crickets like a movie soundtrack. Inside it's dark, Sam breathing slow and steady in the second bed. Dean sits on the edge, watches. He can see Sam's eyes moving beneath the lids, slow, maybe it's not a bad dream for once. Good dreams, sweet dreams, Sammy. Sleep and dream.
Under his lips, Sam's cheek is stubbled and warm, and Sam's mouth purses and relaxes, as if, dreaming, he were kissed, too.
Yellow Couch
by Emily Brunson
(c)2008
It’s in the air, like that stupid fuck Phil Collins, that song Dean remembers from whenever. In the air tonight, like a drug, something he can smell and taste.
There are two choices where to go here. There’s the nice bar - sort of nice, nothing great but okay-looking - and the skanky pit.
I can feel it, coming in the air tonight.
He’ll make some money in the first bar. Not a lot, but enough to cover a few expenses. He’ll see a couple of cute chicks, and he’ll wind up screwing one of them. Maybe both. They’ll drink margaritas he didn’t pay for, and he’ll screw them, and he’ll be gone before the taste of lime vanishes off his tongue.
He won’t make money in the second.
Some shithead in - where, Memphis, maybe Tallahassee that one time - told him about that song when they were stoned on really excellent weed. Dad gone somewhere, never would say, cryptic bastard, Sammy following his yellow brick road, and Dean wasted in a loser’s doublewide, living room with yellow couch pockmarked with cigarette burns and a clock shaped like a black-and-white cat. The tail had mesmerized him, back and forth, sweet smoke in his lungs and his head ringing like a gong.
Collins, the dude had said, what was his name, Terry, Jerry, something, Collins had seen the crime, witnessed it, and invited the perpetrator to a concert, shown a spotlight on him while he sang, and got him arrested.
You’re so full of shit, Dean moaned, and took another hit.
The second bar is smoky, same smell as that doublewide trailer in Wherever, Deep South. Rank like sour wine and BO. Bikers, truckers, but no chicks with wide hips and black tee shirts. A long oak bar with shaky stools.
Draft, he tells the old guy at the bar. He pours his beer without expression, and Dean takes it to a booth, feels the cool kiss of leather shiny from a couple of generations of big asses. The beer’s salty, tastes just fine.
Weed makes him dizzy, sometimes it makes him puke. He remembers the dude’s fingernails, black with engine grease, the smell of his breath, a tooth going south somewhere in there.
Think you found the wrong bar, someone says. Someone has a sleek beer gut, white tee shirt tight over that vast lovely belly, and a thick luxuriant beard below sharp blue eyes.
Oh? Dean asks. You think?
Bearded dude gives him a nod. Private club, and you ain’t invited.
So, Dean says. How’s someone get an invite around here?
They don’t.
Salty beer and I’ve seen your face before, my friend, but I don’t know if you know who I am.
That’s too bad, says Dean and smiles, smiles. Because I’m a hell of a lot of fun.
Bearded guy smiles, shows pearly white teeth. No rotten breath there. That so?
Oh yeah.
Don’t belong here.
Daddy, I don’t belong nowhere.
Blue eyes narrowed, assessing while Dean smiles and stretches, tastes his cheap beer. Come on, Daddy, he says, shows his teeth. Set a spell.
He’d come home and Dad was there, mumbling under his breath, pacing the motel room. Hey, Dean had said, and Dad glanced at him and away. Dean thinking about the smell of weed on his clothes, in his hair. Stomach giving a lazy turn, thinking about doing more.
He scoots over and keeps smiling while the dude sits, feels a thick hand on his thigh. Warm. Boy, I ain’t your daddy.
Could be. Tonight.
Daddy laughs, laughs and says, Maybe you found the right bar after all.
There’s a room back in the back, always is. Maybe some nights there’s poker here, maybe not. Table and a handful of chairs, a desk with no chair, a yellow couch pocked with cigarette burns.
Are you drunk? Dad asked, mouth turned down.
Nope. Thought, No, Dad, just stoned.
What’s your name, boy?
Dean, he says. Dean’s my name.
Come here looking for your daddy.
No, Dean says. Somebody else’s. He feels the man’s huge hands on his waist, slipping under his tee shirt. Anybody else’s.
How could I ever forget, it’s the first time, the last time we ever met met met met met.
Tee shirt smells like Downy, skin like Dove. Daddy’s so clean, Dean breathes through his nose, takes the aroma of him like perfume. Mouth a sweet surprise behind that heavy beard, hungry, gobbling him down.
You here cause you been bad, or good?
Yep. I am.
Daddy laughs and kisses him again.
Weed always leaves him feeling like he’s had the flu the next day. Weak, headache, sick at his stomach. Why he doesn’t do it all that often. Dad sniffed, ordered them coffee at a deserted diner. The coffee was good, best he could remember.
The air’s cool, feels good on his bare skin. Like that, Daddy? he asks, shivers when that ham hand closes on his ass. Like that, Daddy.
Someone in the doorway, watching. Same tee shirt, same leather vest. Dean watches back, that's it, Daddy, do it, do it, like that.
Fucking song. Urban legend crap, no way Collins saw a fucking murder. Awesome drumming, though.
Slip and slide, that big belly wet with sweat against his back, his ass hurts, and he closes his eyes, braces himself on the table. Like that, Daddy, just like that.
Stays till dawn's sweetening the sky, till the daddies are all gone, and the man says, Better go home, boy. Somebody'll be missing you.
No, Dean whispers. He won't.
You can wipe off that grin, know where you've been.
All been a pack of lies.
The motel's quiet, fucking crickets like a movie soundtrack. Inside it's dark, Sam breathing slow and steady in the second bed. Dean sits on the edge, watches. He can see Sam's eyes moving beneath the lids, slow, maybe it's not a bad dream for once. Good dreams, sweet dreams, Sammy. Sleep and dream.
Under his lips, Sam's cheek is stubbled and warm, and Sam's mouth purses and relaxes, as if, dreaming, he were kissed, too.