Case (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
case) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
fandomsecrets2014-03-04 06:32 pm
case) wrote in fandomsecrets2014-03-04 06:32 pm
[ SECRET POST #2618 ]
⌈ Secret Post #2618 ⌋
Warning: Some secrets are NOT worksafe and may contain SPOILERS.
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Notes:
Secrets Left to Post: 02 pages, 039 secrets from Secret Submission Post #374.
Secrets Not Posted: [ 0 - broken links ], [ 0 - not!secrets ], [ 0 - not!fandom ], [ 0 - too big ], [ 0 - repeat ].
Current Secret Submissions Post: here.
Suggestions, comments, and concerns should go here.
Re: Share your drawerfic/WIPS.
(Anonymous) 2014-03-05 12:57 am (UTC)(link)There’s a man in the bathroom, bent over the sink. His hair is unevenly wet, large drops of water are falling from the tips of bangs back down into the bowl of the sink. There are soap bubbles, catching the light in pinks and blues, above his ear. He’s got a toothbrush clenched between his teeth, white foam on his lips while he scrubs at the ragged beard on his cheeks with both hands. His eyes are squeezed shut. His clothes are ragged and layered, they still don’t look heavy enough for the chill outside. His shoes are mismatched. One has a hole large enough that Dean can see his sock through it. Dean takes him in with two quick blinks and then clears his throat, and, aiming for a tone that conveys who-are-you-and-what-are-you-doing-in-my-bathroom, says, “Hey.”
The man startles in a way Dean is too familiar with. His eyes snap open and over to Dean, blood-shot, blue, surrounded by dark bags. Déjà vu hits Dean across the back of his head, a flash of memory, or, no, it must be vivid dream. Blue eyes, staring down at him, a hand, burning hot on his icy shoulder, a rasp of voice, “—this one’s al—”. Dean shakes himself back into the moment, watching the man’s nostrils flare. Watching him yank the toothbrush out of his mouth and drop into half a crouch, hands out away from his body, tensed. He looks like he’s ready to brawl, or run, and then he blinks.
The man’s eyes open huge and his mouth gapes to match it. He rakes his gaze up and down Dean, lingers over his arm, his shoulder, the way people do, someday Dean will get used to it. If there was color in his face, it drains away. His hands drop and his knees straighten and he says, “It’s you,” in a voice that sounds like maybe he’s been gargling with whiskey nonstop for a couple of years.
Dean grimaces. He can’t help it. This is exactly why he didn’t want to go on some stupid talk show, he should never have allowed Charlie to talk him into it, but she’s a persuasive little shit and she was right about the donations. They’ve gone through the roof since he whored himself out on primetime. The amount of people that want to grab him and gush like they fucking know him has, unfortunately, increased in equal measure. He grumbles, “Yeah, surprise, probably not what you imagined when you broke into my shop.”
“The lights were on and the door wasn’t locked.” The words spring forth too quickly, like they’ve been prepared, like the guy was holding them on the tip of his tongue, just in case someone stumbled upon him. He startles at the sound of his own voice, blinks and visibly collects himself. “I mean. I didn’t intend to—I wasn’t trying to break in. I knocked. I just wanted—I thought, since you had no customers—I could just—” A giant dollop of soap falls off of his chin and lands on his shoe, and the guy cuts off with a frustrated, humiliated little sound, fumbling forward to turn the sink off and reaching for a wad of paper towels.
“I’m sorry,” his gaze darts up to Dean’s face, and then away, and there’s too much in his expression, exhaustion and hunger and fear and anger and Dean knows it all, knows it too well, it makes his guts twist up so hard that he almost doesn’t catch the guy mumbling, “I’ll just—I’ll get out of your hair, I’m—”
“Hey, hey, whoa, slow down.” The guy pays Dean no mind, scrubbing the paper towels over his face and back across his hair, leaving behind streaks of pink skin and grime. His hands are battered and too thin. The word is gaunt, Dean thinks, and the space up under his ribs aches, it feels squeezed tight and raw. Dean has to remind himself to take deep, slow breaths, he balls his right hand into a fist and is grateful that the left doesn’t shake, can’t shake, not anymore. He says, ignoring what it costs him to keep his voice steady, “Stop, I wasn’t, I’m not throwing you out, man.”