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moonlettuceTitle: Dust and Silence
Author: Claire
Pairing: Dean Winchester/Lindsey McDonald
Rating: PG-13
Summary: When you're lost and he's found and you both meet in the middle.
Notes: Originally written for the following prompt in![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
comment_fic: SPN/AtS, Dean/Lindsey, lost. Title from the Better Than Ezra song Overcome.
He's been driving for nine hours straight when Dean finally decides to admit he's lost and pull over for the night. Bugfuck, Texas, or wherever the hell he is, only has one motel, and the fact that the rates on the wall are shown in hours as well as nights tell Dean everything he needs to know about the place.
He knows he should probably get some rest, that he'll be driving the same stretch of road for nine hours tomorrow, just in the opposite direction, but the glaring neon sign of the bar opposite is calling Dean's name, and he wonders for a brief moment whether placing the bar within staggering distance of the motel was planned or just lucky.
There are people in the place when he walks in, but nothing Dean would think of as crowded. He ignores the several lingering looks he gets as he walks over to the bar and orders a whiskey, realising he may have found evil in this town after all when the afterburn of the watered-down shot hits his throat.
"You want another, honey?" the bartender asks, voice rough like she's done nothing but smoke for the past thirty years.
And Dean's about to shake his head, because he's faced zombies and vampires but he doesn't think he could take another hit of the gutrot that passes for alcohol in this dump, when--
"Make it two, Annie. And bring the good stuff."
"Lindsey--"
She's frowning at the guy next to him, throwing barely concealed glances at Dean before she finally relents and pulls a bottle from under the bar, leaving it with them as she's called across to the other side of the room.
"Passing through?" the guy, Lindsey, asks as he pours the two shots.
"Yep." Because there's no way in hell Dean would stay in this place.
Lindsey smirks, like he knows exactly what Dean's thinking about the quaint little shithole he apparently calls home.
"Staying across the road," Dean adds, because he knows what this is. And maybe it's what he needs, instead of whiskey that tastes like fire and dreams that taste like failure.
Lindsey nods, reaching out for the shot in front of him and drinking it in one. "What we waiting for, then?" he asks, pushing himself away from the bar and heading towards the exit.
Knocking back his own shot, grateful that it actually is the good stuff instead of the napalm he'd been served earlier, Dean glances around the room, catching the bartender's gaze as she watches at them. And thinking about how they're going to go back to the motel and how Lindsey's going to feel as Dean fucks him into the mattress, Dean winks at her and follows him out.
Author: Claire
Pairing: Dean Winchester/Lindsey McDonald
Rating: PG-13
Summary: When you're lost and he's found and you both meet in the middle.
Notes: Originally written for the following prompt in
comment_fic: SPN/AtS, Dean/Lindsey, lost. Title from the Better Than Ezra song Overcome.He's been driving for nine hours straight when Dean finally decides to admit he's lost and pull over for the night. Bugfuck, Texas, or wherever the hell he is, only has one motel, and the fact that the rates on the wall are shown in hours as well as nights tell Dean everything he needs to know about the place.
He knows he should probably get some rest, that he'll be driving the same stretch of road for nine hours tomorrow, just in the opposite direction, but the glaring neon sign of the bar opposite is calling Dean's name, and he wonders for a brief moment whether placing the bar within staggering distance of the motel was planned or just lucky.
There are people in the place when he walks in, but nothing Dean would think of as crowded. He ignores the several lingering looks he gets as he walks over to the bar and orders a whiskey, realising he may have found evil in this town after all when the afterburn of the watered-down shot hits his throat.
"You want another, honey?" the bartender asks, voice rough like she's done nothing but smoke for the past thirty years.
And Dean's about to shake his head, because he's faced zombies and vampires but he doesn't think he could take another hit of the gutrot that passes for alcohol in this dump, when--
"Make it two, Annie. And bring the good stuff."
"Lindsey--"
She's frowning at the guy next to him, throwing barely concealed glances at Dean before she finally relents and pulls a bottle from under the bar, leaving it with them as she's called across to the other side of the room.
"Passing through?" the guy, Lindsey, asks as he pours the two shots.
"Yep." Because there's no way in hell Dean would stay in this place.
Lindsey smirks, like he knows exactly what Dean's thinking about the quaint little shithole he apparently calls home.
"Staying across the road," Dean adds, because he knows what this is. And maybe it's what he needs, instead of whiskey that tastes like fire and dreams that taste like failure.
Lindsey nods, reaching out for the shot in front of him and drinking it in one. "What we waiting for, then?" he asks, pushing himself away from the bar and heading towards the exit.
Knocking back his own shot, grateful that it actually is the good stuff instead of the napalm he'd been served earlier, Dean glances around the room, catching the bartender's gaze as she watches at them. And thinking about how they're going to go back to the motel and how Lindsey's going to feel as Dean fucks him into the mattress, Dean winks at her and follows him out.
