(Warning: This one isn't funny. I've debated putting it up since about the time I posted the first one. Your reviews are what makes this pop up. This fic seemed fairly popular, so I figured what the hell, I'll post the second chapter. I promise you that it gets funny again, so if this wasn't your thing, lemme know and I'll skip the dark ones. Or whatever. But honest to god? They're written for pretty much my friend L and for Mish, because she's beta'd everything I've ever written, and loved it, and seems to enjoy reading it. So I thank her, dedicate it to L, and ask that you leave me some reviews. That is if you'd like to see the other three encounters I have written.)
Encounter Two:
Standing outside the bar, sometimes Dad lets me come in with him to help hustle pool, sometimes he used to make me sing. Not anymore, I've managed to learn to sing like crap in the shower and everywhere else –along with the radio missing all the notes and it kills me a little inside, but Dad doesn't make me do that anymore. Thank god. I'm pretending to smoke as I lean against the wall. It gives me a reason to be there, and no one tends to bother me the way they might otherwise if I was just standing there with nothing else to do. People come outside to have a smoke and be alone. I'm too young to smoke, but in the shadows no one can tell. And if I let the stubble grow on my cheeks, with my eyes as old as they were, no one bothers me. Well, except him.
"Can I bum a cig?" he asks me.
"Yeah, sure," I mumble, pulling out the package of Camels before tapping it so one comes out, one that I pass to him.
"Got a light?" he asks, before just leaning in to light his off the end of mine. I tolerate it. He'll leave me alone once he has his fix. Although no one's ever done that to me before. Sure, I've held mine out, but usually they don't do that while it's in my mouth. Freak. Dad won't be out for another hour. Then I'll drive us back to the motel, and he'll crash. Sam's studying. I have the motel room number memorized. He'll be okay. I laid out the salt rings and everything. "Thanks," he says.
"Sure, don't mention it," I say. I don't care. I just want him to leave me alone. I slide down the brick wall, closer to the door and under the light.
"Damn, you're young!" he says, and I realize he's half drunk. "You working?"
"Huh? Yeah, I guess," I'll realize what he's talking about all too late.
"Yeah, how much?"
"For what?"
"Right, it's not exactly over the table stuff around here, is it?" he asks, moving closer to me, side by side with me, his body pressed against mine. I'm tall, I guess. I'm too young to be smoking, but my hip's even with his. He puts his hand on the brick wall at my side, I can feel it. It's between us, and that's good. "So, how much, and how old are you really? Real baby face you got there, real pretty."
"How much for what?"
"You're working, ain't you?"
"Yeah," I say again, hoping he'll take the hint and go away.
"What, you don't charge until after?" The wheels start turning in my head.
"No, not that kind of work, I don't do that kind of work, god, I'm not…" I can't say how old I am. "I'm just waiting on my…"
"Oh, someone else paying you? I get it. I can make it worth your while, he won't know."
"No, I…I don't, you don't get it," I tell him, slipping closer to the door and further away from him, his hand shoots out, grabbing my arm and wrenching me close. He's strong, I don't know if I'm stronger. Had the flu, lost a good fifteen pounds, still building up again. Don't feel so great. Part of me wants to cry and beg for my dad to come out and end this nightmare. The other part of me is pissed. I wrench my arm away. "You don't get it," I let my voice grow cold, let the hate festering inside of me pour out into my words. "I'm not doing that kind of job." I glance at my watch again. Then look at the door, hoping my father's coming. It's not time yet, and I've never been lucky. But I've always had hope. The door opens, and the man backs off, disappears even. I'm so thankful I could cry. I stub out the cigarette, the only time I inhaled was just to get it going. Stuff makes my eyes water and my lungs hurt. Sam says I'm probably allergic, because I can't go near people smoking them without almost hacking up a lung.
The guy sidles over again, don't know where he came from. He's drunk, I know he's drunk.
"I'm waiting for someone," I snap, afraid to say it's my father. We have to hide so much, I can't even tell a truth that might save me. Funny how that works.
"I'll pay you twice what he's paying, those eyelashes real? You even got freckles, that's cute," he touches my cheek, and when I tug my face away he grabs my jaw, hard. I freeze, remembering how my father grabbed my face like this, in a rage when I messed up on a hunt and almost let Sam get hurt. I can't move as his other hand goes for my belt, I'm lost in the fear and disappointment in my father's eyes. The cigarette in his hand comes closer to my face as it burns down, and I start to cough, eyes tearing up as my nose starts to run, and I'm free. The first thing I do is snap kick out, catching him in the groin.
"I'm waiting for someone," I repeat between hacking coughs, trying not to puke. I kick him again, and again. Dad comes out, pulling me away.
"What the hell, Dean!?" I turn to him, don't realize tears still run down my cheeks from the cigs. Don't realize my nose is running or that my face is red, don't realize I look scared. He's not drunk. Don't see the bruises rising up on my face where that guy grabbed me. "He hurt you son?" I shake my head, no. He knows I'm lying. He crouches down, pulling the man up by his shirt front. "You come near my son again, and I'll kill you," he says, spitting on his face. "C'mon Dean, let's go," he says, wrapping an arm around my shoulders. I don't dare lean into it, but I want to. I think he knows, and pulls me closer, keeping me steady while we walk back to the car. Back to Sammy. Back home.
