Fic: Raise A Glass (Supernatural)
May. 21st, 2006 01:31 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
apocalypsosHA! That's fifty. Now where's my free Winchester toaster?
Title: Raise A Glass
Author: Troll Princess
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: R
Word Count: 1,250 words
Spoilers: "Devil's Trap"
Pairing: Dean/multiple OFCs
Warnings: Bad language, sexual situations
Disclaimer: I don't own these characters, I just like playing with them.
Summary: "You'll find them soon," one of them says, "as long as you keep looking."
*****
Raise A Glass
*****
Dean Winchester fucks every hot waitress and bartender in the stretch of middle America between him and his family, and it isn't even an understatement.
In Nebraska, this wildcat in a Huskers sweatshirt shoves him against the wall in the bathroom of a truckstop and sinks to her knees. When her lips wrap around him, his fingers clench in her hair and she fucking purrs, this bastard child of a hum and a moan that nearly drops him like a dead weight.
"Don't fail me now, cowboy," she says, and if her lips never leave his cock when the words come, he doesn't care to notice.
In Arizona, it's twins, these two half-dressed redheads cleaning at the motel he's bunking down in who suddenly appear in his room without knocking. They're wearing those sexy-as-hell little maid's outfits, the ones you never actually see on a real maid, but that doesn't last long. It's soon enough that there's one set of pale knees pressed against his ears and another set bracketing his hips.
"You'll find them soon," one of them says, "as long as you keep looking."
"Just keep looking," the other one says.
Then the one riding his cock rolls her hips just so, and ain't no sane man on this earth could keep his wits about him after that.
In Tennessee, this brunette hauls him into a room in the fancy hotel he's investigating for poltergeists and lets him fuck her on every available surface and even a few unavailable ones they have to struggle to reach. Her legs tighten around his waist as he thrusts into her, as she's spread out before him on the floor. Her nails score along his back sharp and painful, and he wears the scratches like a badge of honor for weeks.
"Keep going," she keeps whispering, "Just keep going."
Dean's pretty sure she's not talking about the pounding movements of his hips when she says that, but it sure isn't going to stop him.
He becomes well-practiced at not noticing, about ignoring the way there's always a fresh set of willing girls when he passes through, an unfamiliar bunch with a familiar longing look in their eyes. He crosses the country three times over before it really starts to plague him, numb and distant like he's seeing it through a double dose of novocaine.
When Dad and Sam hear about his dumb luck, they're all going to get one hell of a laugh at it.
*****
Dean hasn't had a hangover in weeks.
It may be months, even, but when it hits him, he's six beers down at some sleazy hole in the wall outside Chicago with a smirking cocktail waitress straddling his waist in the dim light of a back corner and he can't remember shit. His tongue dips into the candy-sweet hollow of her mouth, tasting her with wild abandon she returns in earnest, and it's only when he contemplates a morning-after in her bed that the absence of a hangover looms large and eerie in his memory.
Dean finishes off another six beers that night without incident and wakes in the morning without so much as a flinch.
If he cared anymore, it would probably help.
At a trendy nightclub in New York, he searches the crowd for any hint of the succubus prowling the area, so distracted by the hunt that when the bartender passes him a cold bottle with a whispered, "Don't worry, you'll find them," he doesn't even hear him.
*****
The Impala rides along the highway like a dream, like it's running on rails. Dean settles into the driver's seat with such trust and comfort he wouldn't be surprised if the car just took over, if the steering wheel started to twirl on its own and point him right where he's needed next.
There's no scars on the exterior that weren't already there before, no dings in the paint job he hasn't dragged his fingertips over a million times before.
You'd never know the old girl had been broadsided by a semi, the way she looks now.
The tapes are long gone but the radio remains, and maybe it's a blessing, the way AC/DC or Skynyrd always pounds from the stereo. He hasn't spun the dial and stumbled over easy listening or country or any of the emo bullshit Sam's been hooked on since Stanford, like the stupidest sort of good fortune.
In Iowa, a DJ howls into the microphone after a set of Metallica, makes a sarcastic "Keep on truckin'" crack, and starts off a round of Zeppelin by pumping up "Stairway."
*****
It shouldn't be as easy as it's become to track evil.
Maybe he's overcompensating, Dean thinks, his brain making up for the lack of Dad and Sam by making connections it normally wouldn't. He sees werewolves in the story of four missing teenagers whose car ran off the road into a tree trunk and vampires in the slashed bodies scattering a college campus in Kentucky.
The hunt never stops, though, never stops even with a dozen states between him and his family and three times as many things to kill in his path.
He's standing in the middle of a field of dead corn with a mostly-empty gun in his hand staring down at the thing that's passing itself off as the county sheriff when it looks up at him and hisses, "You'll find them, son, just give it a while."
The next thing Dean knows, there's a ragged gap in his memory that throbs like a yanked tooth, a pitch-black hollow that starts with a gunshot and ends with him in the Impala headed to the next hunt.
Maybe if he's lucky, this one will lead him to Dad and Sam.
Maybe.
*****
The road is home for Dean whether Dad likes it or not. Home is a beer close at hand, a willing girl in his lap, a weapon pressing silent and ready against the small of his back. Home is the driver's seat of the Impala humming contentedly like it does when the car passes seventy, something loud and rocking on the stereo, a dark threatening evil that needs killing in the near vicinity.
Home is Dad and Sam somewhere out there, waiting waiting waiting for him like he's been waiting for them.
In Wyoming, Caleb tilts his bottle of beer towards Dean from the far end of the bar and calls out, "It's only a matter of time, Dean-o. Just be patient, man."
"You'll catch up with them sooner or later," Pastor Jim tells him over shots of tequila in a pub outside Philly. "They've got unfinished business, is all."
In Kansas, Mom reaches across a scarred table at some beatdown roadhouse and cups his cheek in a warm hand.
"Give them time, baby," she says softly. "They've got their own demon to fight."
So Dean keeps driving, keeps riding along in that gleaming black warhorse of his, and waits for the passenger seat to fill.
Title: Raise A Glass
Author: Troll Princess
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: R
Word Count: 1,250 words
Spoilers: "Devil's Trap"
Pairing: Dean/multiple OFCs
Warnings: Bad language, sexual situations
Disclaimer: I don't own these characters, I just like playing with them.
Summary: "You'll find them soon," one of them says, "as long as you keep looking."
Raise A Glass
*****
Dean Winchester fucks every hot waitress and bartender in the stretch of middle America between him and his family, and it isn't even an understatement.
In Nebraska, this wildcat in a Huskers sweatshirt shoves him against the wall in the bathroom of a truckstop and sinks to her knees. When her lips wrap around him, his fingers clench in her hair and she fucking purrs, this bastard child of a hum and a moan that nearly drops him like a dead weight.
"Don't fail me now, cowboy," she says, and if her lips never leave his cock when the words come, he doesn't care to notice.
In Arizona, it's twins, these two half-dressed redheads cleaning at the motel he's bunking down in who suddenly appear in his room without knocking. They're wearing those sexy-as-hell little maid's outfits, the ones you never actually see on a real maid, but that doesn't last long. It's soon enough that there's one set of pale knees pressed against his ears and another set bracketing his hips.
"You'll find them soon," one of them says, "as long as you keep looking."
"Just keep looking," the other one says.
Then the one riding his cock rolls her hips just so, and ain't no sane man on this earth could keep his wits about him after that.
In Tennessee, this brunette hauls him into a room in the fancy hotel he's investigating for poltergeists and lets him fuck her on every available surface and even a few unavailable ones they have to struggle to reach. Her legs tighten around his waist as he thrusts into her, as she's spread out before him on the floor. Her nails score along his back sharp and painful, and he wears the scratches like a badge of honor for weeks.
"Keep going," she keeps whispering, "Just keep going."
Dean's pretty sure she's not talking about the pounding movements of his hips when she says that, but it sure isn't going to stop him.
He becomes well-practiced at not noticing, about ignoring the way there's always a fresh set of willing girls when he passes through, an unfamiliar bunch with a familiar longing look in their eyes. He crosses the country three times over before it really starts to plague him, numb and distant like he's seeing it through a double dose of novocaine.
When Dad and Sam hear about his dumb luck, they're all going to get one hell of a laugh at it.
Dean hasn't had a hangover in weeks.
It may be months, even, but when it hits him, he's six beers down at some sleazy hole in the wall outside Chicago with a smirking cocktail waitress straddling his waist in the dim light of a back corner and he can't remember shit. His tongue dips into the candy-sweet hollow of her mouth, tasting her with wild abandon she returns in earnest, and it's only when he contemplates a morning-after in her bed that the absence of a hangover looms large and eerie in his memory.
Dean finishes off another six beers that night without incident and wakes in the morning without so much as a flinch.
If he cared anymore, it would probably help.
At a trendy nightclub in New York, he searches the crowd for any hint of the succubus prowling the area, so distracted by the hunt that when the bartender passes him a cold bottle with a whispered, "Don't worry, you'll find them," he doesn't even hear him.
The Impala rides along the highway like a dream, like it's running on rails. Dean settles into the driver's seat with such trust and comfort he wouldn't be surprised if the car just took over, if the steering wheel started to twirl on its own and point him right where he's needed next.
There's no scars on the exterior that weren't already there before, no dings in the paint job he hasn't dragged his fingertips over a million times before.
You'd never know the old girl had been broadsided by a semi, the way she looks now.
The tapes are long gone but the radio remains, and maybe it's a blessing, the way AC/DC or Skynyrd always pounds from the stereo. He hasn't spun the dial and stumbled over easy listening or country or any of the emo bullshit Sam's been hooked on since Stanford, like the stupidest sort of good fortune.
In Iowa, a DJ howls into the microphone after a set of Metallica, makes a sarcastic "Keep on truckin'" crack, and starts off a round of Zeppelin by pumping up "Stairway."
It shouldn't be as easy as it's become to track evil.
Maybe he's overcompensating, Dean thinks, his brain making up for the lack of Dad and Sam by making connections it normally wouldn't. He sees werewolves in the story of four missing teenagers whose car ran off the road into a tree trunk and vampires in the slashed bodies scattering a college campus in Kentucky.
The hunt never stops, though, never stops even with a dozen states between him and his family and three times as many things to kill in his path.
He's standing in the middle of a field of dead corn with a mostly-empty gun in his hand staring down at the thing that's passing itself off as the county sheriff when it looks up at him and hisses, "You'll find them, son, just give it a while."
The next thing Dean knows, there's a ragged gap in his memory that throbs like a yanked tooth, a pitch-black hollow that starts with a gunshot and ends with him in the Impala headed to the next hunt.
Maybe if he's lucky, this one will lead him to Dad and Sam.
Maybe.
The road is home for Dean whether Dad likes it or not. Home is a beer close at hand, a willing girl in his lap, a weapon pressing silent and ready against the small of his back. Home is the driver's seat of the Impala humming contentedly like it does when the car passes seventy, something loud and rocking on the stereo, a dark threatening evil that needs killing in the near vicinity.
Home is Dad and Sam somewhere out there, waiting waiting waiting for him like he's been waiting for them.
In Wyoming, Caleb tilts his bottle of beer towards Dean from the far end of the bar and calls out, "It's only a matter of time, Dean-o. Just be patient, man."
"You'll catch up with them sooner or later," Pastor Jim tells him over shots of tequila in a pub outside Philly. "They've got unfinished business, is all."
In Kansas, Mom reaches across a scarred table at some beatdown roadhouse and cups his cheek in a warm hand.
"Give them time, baby," she says softly. "They've got their own demon to fight."
So Dean keeps driving, keeps riding along in that gleaming black warhorse of his, and waits for the passenger seat to fill.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2006-05-21 05:40 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-05-21 05:45 pm (UTC)oh, but NO! He can't. Shouldn't.
Ouch.
no subject
Date: 2006-05-21 06:04 pm (UTC)Well, oh, no.... but still. Seeing it coming didn't change the amazing journey one bit! Thank you.
no subject
Date: 2006-05-21 06:07 pm (UTC)Sorry, I would be more eloquent but...wow. My brain is making the biggest \o/ face you've ever seen right now.
no subject
Date: 2006-05-21 06:17 pm (UTC)That was so well done,even though my brain has a meltdown at Dean being dead.
no subject
Date: 2006-05-21 06:19 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-05-21 06:45 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-05-21 06:50 pm (UTC)This was the most perfectly horrific thing I've read in a long time. Ever in this fandom.
God, it's so sad. That he's just truckin' on, waiting for them. That his afterlife (heaven) is just hunting, driving, women. Oh, oh Dean.
I never think I can love him more and then, *siiigh*.
This was lovely. The last parts were painful...silly, if I reread it, I'm gonna cry.
You have such a beautiful way with words. You do the Metallicar justice. How she runs so tight, like on rails...how she's Dean's gleaming black warhorse...
Great work. I love finding a story that enrichens my love for the characters, and this did that so keenly. Thanks for sharing it!
no subject
Date: 2006-05-21 06:52 pm (UTC)This worked *so well*. Thank you!
no subject
Date: 2006-05-21 06:53 pm (UTC)I'll just be over here grinning, since I'm a brunette in Tennessee. *snicker*
no subject
Date: 2006-05-21 06:54 pm (UTC)I kinda wanna say I hope he "finds" Sam and John soon... but then I realize that would be wishing death on them... unless Pastor Jim's "unfinished business" comment means that they are dead, but have a term as ghosts ahead of them yet. Hmm... I guess it's kind of a free interpretation at this point.
Until they reunite, poor Dean will be lonely. But hell, at least he's making the afterlife a little more enjoyable for a few girls while he waits. When I die, Mr. Winchester, please pay me a conjugal visit!
no subject
Date: 2006-05-21 07:14 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-05-21 07:19 pm (UTC)I mean, much with the Dean-love and omgwonderfulafterlife!
But overall? OWWWWW.
So, does this mean that Sam and Papa are still alive, or just in their own afterlives?
*wibbles pathetically*
no subject
Date: 2006-05-21 07:32 pm (UTC)God, that was...
Gut punch.
Love it.
no subject
Date: 2006-05-21 07:37 pm (UTC)this is just lovely, because it's the only afterlife he'll accept, and it's everything he wanted, but it's not really happy, not without the other two, and oh, Dean.
*whimper*
no subject
Date: 2006-05-21 08:00 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-05-21 08:36 pm (UTC)Thank you.
Hurts so good...
Date: 2006-05-21 08:51 pm (UTC)You'd never know the old girl had been broadsided by a semi, the way she looks now.
I went, "Pff, he's dead."
pause
"No! He's dead?! Wha.. just... No!"
I'll just be here in the corner, y'know, picking up the pieces of my broken heart.
no subject
Date: 2006-05-21 09:31 pm (UTC)loved it, the comments and oooh so eerie!
no subject
Date: 2006-05-21 10:04 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-05-21 11:32 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-05-21 11:40 pm (UTC)So beautiful and painful and ... *sniffle*
*runs away muttering "He's not dead. It's just a story. He's not dead. It's just a story."*
no subject
Date: 2006-05-21 11:45 pm (UTC)how do you do it??
no subject
Date: 2006-05-22 01:43 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-05-22 02:12 am (UTC)Not bad. Though without his Sam or his Dad...*debates*
Seriously up to 50 already? *awe face*