Happy Hour 1/1
Happy Hour
Rating: Gen, R, Het
Characters: OFC/John, OMC
Word Count: 1,974
Disclaimer: The characters are sadly not mine. I’m just sticking pins into Winchesters for fun and angst. Sorry about the holes!
A/N: Tiny external p.o.v ficlet, because we’ll all take John Winchester however we can get him. This broke free from Nighthawks. Margie’s strong-willed like that.
Thanks to noirbabalon for insisting Margie deserved to tell her own version of events.
Setting: Angleton, Tex., May 22nd 1995
Summary: Margie had rules, and so apparently did the stranger.
The regulars called it Happy Hour long before she gave in and made it official, fucking sign and everything. Margie was cynical and truthful enough in her own head to just call it money in the bank. Knock a few quarters off the cost of every drink between 7 and 8 pm and it was amazing how much more people were prepared to justify drinking. Not that she let anyone get drunker than she thought their wallets or livers could stand it, she had standards; besides, doing herself out of the chance of repeat business was just stupid. Margie had been called a lot of things, mostly true, that she had no problem with; but an idiot had never been one of them.
She didn’t mind working the stereotype, a well-maintained bottle enhanced redhead of a certain age successfully poured into skin-tight Levis and an old AC/DC crew t-shirt that she’d peeled off a well-built roadie way back when.
Owning a Texas bar was more than hard work, but it suited her. Wasn’t like she didn’t still get a hankering every now and then to hop into her canary yellow Dodge pickup and drive through the prairie until the next conversation she heard wasn’t about beer, women, or cows, or some drunk’s kinky amalgamation of all three. She did that on occasion, but mostly she worked her bar, and let the action come to her.
Margie was famous for getting exactly what she wanted, when she wanted it. No one had ever been stupid enough to turn her down. So, if she was what old Mrs Purdue snarkily called a little free with her favours, well, that was her choice, and one she made any time she damned well felt like it. She didn’t hurt anyone, she never let it be about more than sex, and everyone walked away with more than a swing in their step.
Tonight she was in the mood to dance, but didn’t feel inclined to let any of her neighbours double-dip. Times like this she wished she’d hung her shingle up in Houston, Dallas, or even Fort Worth. This particular Friday night, she needed someone with more of an edge to them.
Jimson was firmly entrenched in his usual corner barstool, busy eking out his third drink.
Don’t even think it, Margie.
He’d had a surprising amount of stamina, and had been a lot less vanilla than she’d thought the first time she’d decided he needed a warm body for the night as much as she had. The age difference had never bothered her, twenty years either side of her own, it was all good as long as they knew more than how to just get themselves off. Jimson had managed to ring more than a few of her bells and she would have been perfectly happy to have come to an occasional customer’s with benefits arrangement with him, except for the fact that he clearly didn’t remember the event after the fact. She might make her living out of alcohol, but sometimes it surely pissed her off.
There he was now, sitting there with a mute ‘I’d walk to Hell and back for you if you’d just condescend to fuck me once,’ look that made her feel like she was kicking a puppy. Men. Half the time she thought she was better off with her vibrator and brand new pack of Energizer batt…
Holy Mother of God, would you look at that? The man positively prowling through the back entrance of her bar had enough of an edge to blunt a diamond on.
‘Sweet Lord, now that’s the kind of man the Puritans had in mind when they said sex was a sin.’ Margie fanned herself with her bar towel and considered giving up Catholicism for the night, or a few hours, or however many minutes she could get with that stranger up against the wall of her office.
Please let him not put himself right out of the running by being either dumb, or a cock-sure bastard. Hot, sweaty, sex with someone pretty was all well and good, but if Margie was going to indulge in an all-night marathon she preferred to have something that could actually think looking back at her while she was writhing beneath him on the pool table.
Margie took a closer look. Cocky? The exact opposite. This was a man who knew he could handle anything. Right about then Margie realised that there wasn’t nearly enough furniture in her bar for everything that was coming into her mind. But if they ran out, there were always walls, and the floor, and her pickup. After that they’d just have to get creative.
Jimson stiffened against the corner pillar, eyes following hers to the stranger. Margie was grateful she had her hormones under enough control that she’d managed not to say anything out loud about that hotter than Hades stranger. First thing Monday she going to have to call Ernie Willis to install a new air conditioning unit, because her current one was obviously giving up the ghost in the Texas summer heat.
‘Margie…’
The old coot Jimson was muttering some kind of quick warning under his breath and Margie hoped she was making sense back, but she had her doubts.
It was stupid of him to even try to warn her. She didn’t give a flying fuck if jealousy had everything to do with it. This was the sort of man that would make you happily toss your common sense over your shoulder along with your laciest panties.
‘You don’t have to tell me he’s en route to a war somewhere. That man has danger written all over him.’ Margie felt a little dazed which was something usually only seen in the faces of her one night stands as they walked (or rather staggered) away looking tired and extremely grateful for the education. Margie couldn’t help it if she was more of an institution in East Texas than her bar.
Here he was up close, elbows easing onto the bar, and all she wanted to do was to jump over the counter and fall into eyes the colour of an Everglades swamp. Here be dragons, alligators, and exhausted knights in tarnished armour. Hallelujah.
Because she was a professional, as well as all woman-no point making it too easy for him- Margie spent a few seconds doing her best to look like serving her patrons drinks was the first, if not the only, thing on her mind.
Didn’t seem to have the need to make idle conversation with her, damn him. He just settled in comfortably next to Jimson who had the hide to ask ‘New in town?’ right before Margie could get a word in. Jimson certainly wasn’t going to be running a long tab with her any more.
Tall, dark, and fuck me anyway you like was taking his time searing a cigarette with a battered brass Zippo with some sort of crest on it. Then he was just looking at her while he slowly let the smoke drift from his lips towards hers. He was close enough that she could smell that leather jacket, a harsh hint of cheap motel soap, and the tang of sweat and metal that came from too long in the driver’s seat on country roads. He was all smoke, and lips, and sex. Christ, even his eyes were loaded…
Shit. Wedding ring; clear as the word of God on his left hand, and him giving her enough time to see it. Margie had rules, and so apparently did the stranger.
He was still talking to Jimson-something about a mutual acquaintance, Bobby something or other-but those eyes hadn’t left hers for a second. Despite that, she had a feeling he could have told her precisely where everyone was in the bar, and every single movement they were making behind his back. Trouble, and she’d never wanted anyone so much since her husband got shot down in ‘Nam.
Married, and still giving Margie an appreciative look that said ‘I’d happily throw you up against any wall in here, if only…’
No way a man like this wore a ring and then fucked around on the side. That silver band, and the bleakness at the back of those eyes said love lost and years with the pain walking right alongside you.
It was a look she usually spent a long time eradicating in front of her mirror with the careful application of charcoal eyeliner and Chanel’s Red No5-Margie just wanted him all the more.
Lord, save her, but she better not be staying here alone tonight.
She must have lost her touch. There went undoubtedly the finest, and tautest, ass she’d seen in ten years, walking off with Jimson, two glasses, and a bottle of Jack, leaving her alone behind her bar. Damn him, she was going to make the stranger pay for making her wait as soon as she got her hands on him two seconds after she locked the rest of the world out at closing time.
In the usual chaos that was the next three hours she exchanged precisely seven words with the stranger. The polite ‘Another bottle of Jack,’ and ‘Thank you, Ma’am’ when she filled his order were in strong contrast to the entirely different conversation those bullet-laden eyes were having with hers.
Talking wasn’t something either of them needed. His glance at her ring and the battered set of dog tags between her breasts told her own long story as succinctly as either of them wanted to hear it.
The automatic proud caress of his thumb across the faded photograph inside his wallet as he pulled out another bill for the next round said even more. Him and two boys perched awkwardly on the hood of a black car blinking straight into the harsh noon sun in the middle of some nowhere place. All layered up like they were on one of those stupid male-only, hunting, fishing, and bonding weekends. Judging by the amount of plaid shirts they were wearing no woman had had any say in the clothes they bought for years. Margie didn’t have to have the sight of her Celtic ancestors to know there was at least one other photo in that wallet. One he didn’t let anyone outside of his family see. Whoever she was, Margie knew she looked nothing like her. That she understood all too well. He didn’t resemble her husband in the slightest.
This wasn’t about romance-pretending they had some sort of connection-or even faking the social niceties for an hour of verbal foreplay before they got to the honest part of the evening. This was being free, and not justifying anything you wanted or needed. It was having the grace of a few hours where your past wasn’t everything. It wasn’t love; it was sex, and it was all they had to offer each other.
Blood and whiskey, two scents she was all too familiar with. Jimson was making a mess on her floor, and he didn’t tip enough for her to have to pick up the scattered peas of his teeth after him.
‘Stupid, suicidal, old fart!’
God damned fool. Desperately reliving his glory days again with his tall tales and gossip. Could have told him he’d picked the wrong man for that, even if it was obvious to her now that he’d been eased into that liquid trap deliberately.
She didn’t ask what all Jimson’s drunken yelling about packs, prey, Winchester guns and someone called Harvelle had been about; she figured Sinful had a good reason and she didn’t want the lie.
A man came into her bar once, and stayed till dawn. He was taken, she was used to making that be enough.
Rating: Gen, R, Het
Characters: OFC/John, OMC
Word Count: 1,974
Disclaimer: The characters are sadly not mine. I’m just sticking pins into Winchesters for fun and angst. Sorry about the holes!
A/N: Tiny external p.o.v ficlet, because we’ll all take John Winchester however we can get him. This broke free from Nighthawks. Margie’s strong-willed like that.
Thanks to noirbabalon for insisting Margie deserved to tell her own version of events.
Setting: Angleton, Tex., May 22nd 1995
Summary: Margie had rules, and so apparently did the stranger.
The regulars called it Happy Hour long before she gave in and made it official, fucking sign and everything. Margie was cynical and truthful enough in her own head to just call it money in the bank. Knock a few quarters off the cost of every drink between 7 and 8 pm and it was amazing how much more people were prepared to justify drinking. Not that she let anyone get drunker than she thought their wallets or livers could stand it, she had standards; besides, doing herself out of the chance of repeat business was just stupid. Margie had been called a lot of things, mostly true, that she had no problem with; but an idiot had never been one of them.
She didn’t mind working the stereotype, a well-maintained bottle enhanced redhead of a certain age successfully poured into skin-tight Levis and an old AC/DC crew t-shirt that she’d peeled off a well-built roadie way back when.
Owning a Texas bar was more than hard work, but it suited her. Wasn’t like she didn’t still get a hankering every now and then to hop into her canary yellow Dodge pickup and drive through the prairie until the next conversation she heard wasn’t about beer, women, or cows, or some drunk’s kinky amalgamation of all three. She did that on occasion, but mostly she worked her bar, and let the action come to her.
Margie was famous for getting exactly what she wanted, when she wanted it. No one had ever been stupid enough to turn her down. So, if she was what old Mrs Purdue snarkily called a little free with her favours, well, that was her choice, and one she made any time she damned well felt like it. She didn’t hurt anyone, she never let it be about more than sex, and everyone walked away with more than a swing in their step.
Tonight she was in the mood to dance, but didn’t feel inclined to let any of her neighbours double-dip. Times like this she wished she’d hung her shingle up in Houston, Dallas, or even Fort Worth. This particular Friday night, she needed someone with more of an edge to them.
Jimson was firmly entrenched in his usual corner barstool, busy eking out his third drink.
Don’t even think it, Margie.
He’d had a surprising amount of stamina, and had been a lot less vanilla than she’d thought the first time she’d decided he needed a warm body for the night as much as she had. The age difference had never bothered her, twenty years either side of her own, it was all good as long as they knew more than how to just get themselves off. Jimson had managed to ring more than a few of her bells and she would have been perfectly happy to have come to an occasional customer’s with benefits arrangement with him, except for the fact that he clearly didn’t remember the event after the fact. She might make her living out of alcohol, but sometimes it surely pissed her off.
There he was now, sitting there with a mute ‘I’d walk to Hell and back for you if you’d just condescend to fuck me once,’ look that made her feel like she was kicking a puppy. Men. Half the time she thought she was better off with her vibrator and brand new pack of Energizer batt…
Holy Mother of God, would you look at that? The man positively prowling through the back entrance of her bar had enough of an edge to blunt a diamond on.
‘Sweet Lord, now that’s the kind of man the Puritans had in mind when they said sex was a sin.’ Margie fanned herself with her bar towel and considered giving up Catholicism for the night, or a few hours, or however many minutes she could get with that stranger up against the wall of her office.
Please let him not put himself right out of the running by being either dumb, or a cock-sure bastard. Hot, sweaty, sex with someone pretty was all well and good, but if Margie was going to indulge in an all-night marathon she preferred to have something that could actually think looking back at her while she was writhing beneath him on the pool table.
Margie took a closer look. Cocky? The exact opposite. This was a man who knew he could handle anything. Right about then Margie realised that there wasn’t nearly enough furniture in her bar for everything that was coming into her mind. But if they ran out, there were always walls, and the floor, and her pickup. After that they’d just have to get creative.
Jimson stiffened against the corner pillar, eyes following hers to the stranger. Margie was grateful she had her hormones under enough control that she’d managed not to say anything out loud about that hotter than Hades stranger. First thing Monday she going to have to call Ernie Willis to install a new air conditioning unit, because her current one was obviously giving up the ghost in the Texas summer heat.
‘Margie…’
The old coot Jimson was muttering some kind of quick warning under his breath and Margie hoped she was making sense back, but she had her doubts.
It was stupid of him to even try to warn her. She didn’t give a flying fuck if jealousy had everything to do with it. This was the sort of man that would make you happily toss your common sense over your shoulder along with your laciest panties.
‘You don’t have to tell me he’s en route to a war somewhere. That man has danger written all over him.’ Margie felt a little dazed which was something usually only seen in the faces of her one night stands as they walked (or rather staggered) away looking tired and extremely grateful for the education. Margie couldn’t help it if she was more of an institution in East Texas than her bar.
Here he was up close, elbows easing onto the bar, and all she wanted to do was to jump over the counter and fall into eyes the colour of an Everglades swamp. Here be dragons, alligators, and exhausted knights in tarnished armour. Hallelujah.
Because she was a professional, as well as all woman-no point making it too easy for him- Margie spent a few seconds doing her best to look like serving her patrons drinks was the first, if not the only, thing on her mind.
Didn’t seem to have the need to make idle conversation with her, damn him. He just settled in comfortably next to Jimson who had the hide to ask ‘New in town?’ right before Margie could get a word in. Jimson certainly wasn’t going to be running a long tab with her any more.
Tall, dark, and fuck me anyway you like was taking his time searing a cigarette with a battered brass Zippo with some sort of crest on it. Then he was just looking at her while he slowly let the smoke drift from his lips towards hers. He was close enough that she could smell that leather jacket, a harsh hint of cheap motel soap, and the tang of sweat and metal that came from too long in the driver’s seat on country roads. He was all smoke, and lips, and sex. Christ, even his eyes were loaded…
Shit. Wedding ring; clear as the word of God on his left hand, and him giving her enough time to see it. Margie had rules, and so apparently did the stranger.
He was still talking to Jimson-something about a mutual acquaintance, Bobby something or other-but those eyes hadn’t left hers for a second. Despite that, she had a feeling he could have told her precisely where everyone was in the bar, and every single movement they were making behind his back. Trouble, and she’d never wanted anyone so much since her husband got shot down in ‘Nam.
Married, and still giving Margie an appreciative look that said ‘I’d happily throw you up against any wall in here, if only…’
No way a man like this wore a ring and then fucked around on the side. That silver band, and the bleakness at the back of those eyes said love lost and years with the pain walking right alongside you.
It was a look she usually spent a long time eradicating in front of her mirror with the careful application of charcoal eyeliner and Chanel’s Red No5-Margie just wanted him all the more.
Lord, save her, but she better not be staying here alone tonight.
She must have lost her touch. There went undoubtedly the finest, and tautest, ass she’d seen in ten years, walking off with Jimson, two glasses, and a bottle of Jack, leaving her alone behind her bar. Damn him, she was going to make the stranger pay for making her wait as soon as she got her hands on him two seconds after she locked the rest of the world out at closing time.
In the usual chaos that was the next three hours she exchanged precisely seven words with the stranger. The polite ‘Another bottle of Jack,’ and ‘Thank you, Ma’am’ when she filled his order were in strong contrast to the entirely different conversation those bullet-laden eyes were having with hers.
Talking wasn’t something either of them needed. His glance at her ring and the battered set of dog tags between her breasts told her own long story as succinctly as either of them wanted to hear it.
The automatic proud caress of his thumb across the faded photograph inside his wallet as he pulled out another bill for the next round said even more. Him and two boys perched awkwardly on the hood of a black car blinking straight into the harsh noon sun in the middle of some nowhere place. All layered up like they were on one of those stupid male-only, hunting, fishing, and bonding weekends. Judging by the amount of plaid shirts they were wearing no woman had had any say in the clothes they bought for years. Margie didn’t have to have the sight of her Celtic ancestors to know there was at least one other photo in that wallet. One he didn’t let anyone outside of his family see. Whoever she was, Margie knew she looked nothing like her. That she understood all too well. He didn’t resemble her husband in the slightest.
This wasn’t about romance-pretending they had some sort of connection-or even faking the social niceties for an hour of verbal foreplay before they got to the honest part of the evening. This was being free, and not justifying anything you wanted or needed. It was having the grace of a few hours where your past wasn’t everything. It wasn’t love; it was sex, and it was all they had to offer each other.
Blood and whiskey, two scents she was all too familiar with. Jimson was making a mess on her floor, and he didn’t tip enough for her to have to pick up the scattered peas of his teeth after him.
‘Stupid, suicidal, old fart!’
God damned fool. Desperately reliving his glory days again with his tall tales and gossip. Could have told him he’d picked the wrong man for that, even if it was obvious to her now that he’d been eased into that liquid trap deliberately.
She didn’t ask what all Jimson’s drunken yelling about packs, prey, Winchester guns and someone called Harvelle had been about; she figured Sinful had a good reason and she didn’t want the lie.
A man came into her bar once, and stayed till dawn. He was taken, she was used to making that be enough.