SPN FIC - Mia (7.04)
Job's done. It's time to go. But...
The sheepish look is gone. He looks kind of rueful now. "We're not from here," he sighs. "Kinda…not from anywhere, really. Had something we needed to take care of, and we took care of it, so it's time to hit the road. But it's kinda - I mean, you seem like -"
CHARACTERS: Dean and Mia
GENRE: Gen (outsider POV)
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: 7.04
LENGTH: 960 words
MIA
By Carol Davis
He's standing outside the bar at closing time, a sheepish smile on his face, the kind she remembers from middle school, the kind the shy kids always wore, and it's disarming, because if there's anything this guy isn't, it's shy.
"Hi," he blurts. "Mia."
He also isn't a stalker. She's dealt with more than a few of those, the ones who think a smile and a friendly word or two open the door to things that only exist in fantasy, in the life they dream desperately about and play-act little pieces of when they've got enough booze in them to forget the world is watching.
This guy…
She's not sure what this guy is, exactly.
"I just wanted to say -"
The street's empty and quiet. There's somebody halfway down the next block, struggling to get into their car, and as she turns away, back toward Dean, the car's alarm begins to honk and shriek its displeasure at what's happening.
Dean looks in that direction. Frowns.
"It's okay," Mia says. "He was here. He's pretty sloppy drunk."
"And you're gonna let him drive?"
She shakes her head, tips it toward the protesting car. There's a cab pulling up close to it now. The cabbie taps his horn to get the drunk's attention, though the sound of it is barely audible over the screech of the alarm. "I've been doing this a while," she says. "He said he didn't want a cab. Got kind of insulted that I offered him one. But he'll take it. They get a little more agreeable when they're not trying to impress me."
"That so," Dean murmurs.
A glance tells her he's not injured, and she's glad of that. If he's a cop (though there seems to be something not quite on the mark about that particular job title), then he knows how to handle himself. Finding his phone abandoned on the sidewalk popped a variety of scenarios into her head: kidnapping, murder, all the stuff she's seen on TV, in the late-night reruns she watches as she tries to throttle down enough to fall asleep - and all the things his brother didn't say didn't exactly put her mind at ease. But the trouble seems to be over now, whatever it was.
She suspects he won't tell her what it was, even if she asks.
It's her habit to take the lay of the land before she begins her walk home; a six-week self-defense course and twenty years' worth of TV cop shows have taught her to be wary of her surroundings, to pay attention to anything that seems like it doesn't belong, and when she looks down the street past Dean she sees a big, dark-colored car. Somebody's sitting in the shotgun seat.
"Sam," Dean says. "You met him."
"And he's -"
She chuckles softly. She made the first move, last night, and it's not that she'd entirely object to a threesome, but…
"We gotta hit the road," Dean says.
"To -?"
The sheepish look is gone. He looks kind of rueful now. "We're not from here," he sighs. "Kinda…not from anywhere, really. Had something we needed to take care of, and we took care of it, so it's time to hit the road. But it's kinda - I mean, you seem like -"
He cuts himself off. Hauls in a long breath.
"I wanted to apologize," he says. "You probably stood out here for a while last night, figuring I was a dick because I stood you up."
"I know it wasn't -"
"Still. I wanted to apologize."
"I'm guessing it wasn't your fault. That you weren't here."
His gaze drifts away from her. He might be looking at that bleating car, which has gone silent now, or something else entirely; she can't tell without moving, without following his sight line, and she can't bring herself to do that. After a minute, he returns to looking at her, and there's a tight quirk around his mouth. "People've been telling me that," he says. "That shit's not my fault. And I - some days I wish I could buy that. You know?"
People have all kinds of issues, she thinks. Some of them are pretty common. Some of them are a little hair-raising.
She has a few of her own.
"You seem like a decent guy," she offers.
"That's the thing," Dean says. "I'm not sure I am."
The guy in the big old car - Dean's brother, the guy who got so scared last night when he showed up to find Dean's phone and no Dean - hasn't moved. It doesn't look like he's asleep; he seems to be waiting silently, patiently.
Seems like maybe that's something he does pretty often.
"I gotta go," Dean tells her. "I just wanted to say I'm sorry."
She's been at this job - serving drinks to the lonely, the tired, the hopeful, the restless - for a good long while now. Not as long as Frank, certainly, but long enough to be able to pick out the decent ones. The ones who get swept up in things, as unavoidably as anything that stands in the path of a tsunami.
Some of those people survive - they grab onto something that allows them to stay afloat until the water recedes.
"Apology accepted," she says, and bolsters it with a warm and very genuine smile. "No harm done."
His body shifts, just slightly, as if some impulse is telling him to hug her, or give her a kiss on the cheek, but he does neither. All he does is mirror her smile, but it's an imperfect reflection, one that's wobbly and fleeting.
"See ya around," he says softly.
She stands and watches as he strides down the street toward his car.
"I hope so," she murmurs.
* * * * *
The sheepish look is gone. He looks kind of rueful now. "We're not from here," he sighs. "Kinda…not from anywhere, really. Had something we needed to take care of, and we took care of it, so it's time to hit the road. But it's kinda - I mean, you seem like -"
CHARACTERS: Dean and Mia
GENRE: Gen (outsider POV)
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: 7.04
LENGTH: 960 words
MIA
By Carol Davis
He's standing outside the bar at closing time, a sheepish smile on his face, the kind she remembers from middle school, the kind the shy kids always wore, and it's disarming, because if there's anything this guy isn't, it's shy.
"Hi," he blurts. "Mia."
He also isn't a stalker. She's dealt with more than a few of those, the ones who think a smile and a friendly word or two open the door to things that only exist in fantasy, in the life they dream desperately about and play-act little pieces of when they've got enough booze in them to forget the world is watching.
This guy…
She's not sure what this guy is, exactly.
"I just wanted to say -"
The street's empty and quiet. There's somebody halfway down the next block, struggling to get into their car, and as she turns away, back toward Dean, the car's alarm begins to honk and shriek its displeasure at what's happening.
Dean looks in that direction. Frowns.
"It's okay," Mia says. "He was here. He's pretty sloppy drunk."
"And you're gonna let him drive?"
She shakes her head, tips it toward the protesting car. There's a cab pulling up close to it now. The cabbie taps his horn to get the drunk's attention, though the sound of it is barely audible over the screech of the alarm. "I've been doing this a while," she says. "He said he didn't want a cab. Got kind of insulted that I offered him one. But he'll take it. They get a little more agreeable when they're not trying to impress me."
"That so," Dean murmurs.
A glance tells her he's not injured, and she's glad of that. If he's a cop (though there seems to be something not quite on the mark about that particular job title), then he knows how to handle himself. Finding his phone abandoned on the sidewalk popped a variety of scenarios into her head: kidnapping, murder, all the stuff she's seen on TV, in the late-night reruns she watches as she tries to throttle down enough to fall asleep - and all the things his brother didn't say didn't exactly put her mind at ease. But the trouble seems to be over now, whatever it was.
She suspects he won't tell her what it was, even if she asks.
It's her habit to take the lay of the land before she begins her walk home; a six-week self-defense course and twenty years' worth of TV cop shows have taught her to be wary of her surroundings, to pay attention to anything that seems like it doesn't belong, and when she looks down the street past Dean she sees a big, dark-colored car. Somebody's sitting in the shotgun seat.
"Sam," Dean says. "You met him."
"And he's -"
She chuckles softly. She made the first move, last night, and it's not that she'd entirely object to a threesome, but…
"We gotta hit the road," Dean says.
"To -?"
The sheepish look is gone. He looks kind of rueful now. "We're not from here," he sighs. "Kinda…not from anywhere, really. Had something we needed to take care of, and we took care of it, so it's time to hit the road. But it's kinda - I mean, you seem like -"
He cuts himself off. Hauls in a long breath.
"I wanted to apologize," he says. "You probably stood out here for a while last night, figuring I was a dick because I stood you up."
"I know it wasn't -"
"Still. I wanted to apologize."
"I'm guessing it wasn't your fault. That you weren't here."
His gaze drifts away from her. He might be looking at that bleating car, which has gone silent now, or something else entirely; she can't tell without moving, without following his sight line, and she can't bring herself to do that. After a minute, he returns to looking at her, and there's a tight quirk around his mouth. "People've been telling me that," he says. "That shit's not my fault. And I - some days I wish I could buy that. You know?"
People have all kinds of issues, she thinks. Some of them are pretty common. Some of them are a little hair-raising.
She has a few of her own.
"You seem like a decent guy," she offers.
"That's the thing," Dean says. "I'm not sure I am."
The guy in the big old car - Dean's brother, the guy who got so scared last night when he showed up to find Dean's phone and no Dean - hasn't moved. It doesn't look like he's asleep; he seems to be waiting silently, patiently.
Seems like maybe that's something he does pretty often.
"I gotta go," Dean tells her. "I just wanted to say I'm sorry."
She's been at this job - serving drinks to the lonely, the tired, the hopeful, the restless - for a good long while now. Not as long as Frank, certainly, but long enough to be able to pick out the decent ones. The ones who get swept up in things, as unavoidably as anything that stands in the path of a tsunami.
Some of those people survive - they grab onto something that allows them to stay afloat until the water recedes.
"Apology accepted," she says, and bolsters it with a warm and very genuine smile. "No harm done."
His body shifts, just slightly, as if some impulse is telling him to hug her, or give her a kiss on the cheek, but he does neither. All he does is mirror her smile, but it's an imperfect reflection, one that's wobbly and fleeting.
"See ya around," he says softly.
She stands and watches as he strides down the street toward his car.
"I hope so," she murmurs.
* * * * *