Tonight's the night, so I'll bring the fic.
So yeah, I. AM. IN. LOVE. On the drive home this afternoon I quite possibly met my soulmate. By which I really mean: god isn't that the car of my dreams? let me go sell my left kidney on the black market. thank you lord and hallelujah. The sweetest thing you've ever seen in a sort of fresh cream butter color. I actually stopped breathing. She is the most beautiful car I have ever seen. And you know it. She's the metallicar's baby sister. I want her. Now. Yes. You may now razz me unmercifully for lusting after a car. I am unapologetic.
But first, I bring fic. The John/Dean that refused to die:
title: you used to be, are you still the same
author: acidquill
word count: 2,361 (yeah, no one's more surprised than me)
rating: R.
warnings: allusions to parental incest. more cussing than usual.
disclaimer: still don’t own em. no matter who I bribe.
notes: this, this is for Sen. I think about you all the time. I've worked on this for weeks and weeks and never thought it was good enough. I guess now it is.
summary: you know those Papa Winchester fics I've written, where he's just a father, trying his best? yeah. this ain't one of em.
sometimes the last thing you want comes in first
sometimes the first thing you want never comes
It’s his own damn fault for not paying attention. He should have known better after St. Louis. One minute everything’s fine, but in between one breath and the next Dean’s knocked sideways and the shapeshifter is literally on top of him. Snaps his wrist like a twig and laughs when Dean’s gun clatters to the floor; it makes sure to drag him up by his injured hand. Dean bites his lip and concentrates on breathing through the pain. It's not that bad.
“Son of a bitch.”
Doesn't mean it doesn't hurt like hell. The shapeshifter holds him up by his arms, seems to be studying him. Well, fuck that. He's had enough of these freaky bastards and their little clone games. He kicks out at the thing, going for the knees. If he can get it to go down, if he can reach his gun…
The only thing he gets is a swat to the head, one hard enough to make his ears ring; well, at least he got it to let go of him. The shifter cocks its head. It reaches out and touches Dean almost gently on the temple, almost a caress, before it backhands him with inhuman strength. The floor rushes at Dean's face and on instinct he throws out his right arm; his wrist folds. His stomach turns and he smacks into the hardwood. Dean cradles his hand to his chest and watches in sick fascination as the shapeshifter changes right before his eyes.
Into his father.
It smiles at him, "I'm going to enjoy killing you."
The thing may have John Winchester's face, but it doesn’t have his voice.
Dean thanks any god listening for small favors.
"This thing, it's like it feeds on fear. Takes on the shape of a person's worst nightmare, then it kills them."
Dean snorted, "Like in IT?"
"Kind of. But like the one at Zach and Becky’s, it only takes human form. But instead of taking on the appearance of a loved one, this one apparently skips all the trust issues and goes straight for the sucker punch. It becomes someone from a person’s past that hurt them, caused them trauma - that girl, Theresa? Friend said her ex-boyfriend came by the night she was killed."
"So?"
"Her ex-boyfriend who almost beat her to death." Sam looked over the screen of the laptop, "I checked Dean, that guy is in prison. Doesn't get parole for three more years. And before Theresa, Franklin Myers..."
Dean sighted down the barrel of the shotgun he was cleaning. "Okay, okay I get it. Big bad shapeshifter likes to supersize his order of angst." He wiped the gun oil from his hands.
"So can we kill this bitch the same way as last time?"
Dead-cool hands hold him too close and the only sounds are his breathing and that ragged voice against his ear - "Pretty little boy," it croons.
"Such a sweet thing, no wonder Daddy wanted you. Couldn't keep his hands off something so pretty could he?"
Dean just hopes Sam won’t come bursting through the door right now. There’s no way in hell his brother can hear what the damn thing is saying. Or who it looks like. He doesn't want to go into this particular skeleton in his closet with his little brother. This is the deepest and darkest part of himself out where everyone can see it. No, this was never meant to be shared with Sam. Never Sammy. He hates himself for thinking it but please, just this once, please let Sam be too late.
The bastard tightens its grip. It gets under Dean’s skin and in his head, slices him up deep in more ways than one.
He never sees the knife, but he sure as hell feels it - a sharp, hot, stripe of pain that spreads across his belly. Followed by another, and another. The thing wearing his father's face traces the line of Dean’s jaw with fingers stained in his own blood and digs the knife in a little deeper. Dean feels the blade twist and when it slides free, he can feel his life following right behind. He doesn’t want to give the fucker anything else to use on him but the half strangled “Sam... ” is out before he can keep his mouth shut. Not that he expects his brother to hear him, Sam's still checking downstairs and the basement. There's no way he can hear, no way he can know Dean's going to die right above his head in the dust and cobwebs.
The shifter laughs again, a high ugly sound in his father's mouth and Dean's glad he can't see the thing's face. "Oh, no. Little brother can’t help you now. But don’t worry," it whispers, "I’ll make it all better."
“Like hell you will.”
Sam.
His brother is in the doorway, like a whole new kind of avenging angel. One with a forty-five and a clip of consecrated bullets. Dean would laugh if it didn't feel like he was getting stabbed all over again.
It's over with one shot. Dean feels the shifter jerk against him when the bullet connects, then he's falling too.
The first time Dean wakes up he's in a hospital. It's the only place he knows with that sickly sweet antiseptic non-smell which never fails to turn his stomach. There's an IV pumping some heavy duty something into his bloodstream; his whole body feels like it's wrapped in cotton. The light hurts his eyes. A doctor hovers in front of him, the edges of the man's face indistinct. The doctor says something but his voice is distorted and slow, like Dean's listening underwater. There's a sting of something new surging through the IV. Dean wants to tell them to take the fucking thing out already. It's not just that he hates that fuzzy narcotic barrier between him and the rest of the world, drugs always make him lose his shit. He can drink his dad and brother under the table, but he can't handle anything more powerful than ibuprofen. More than that and he's like the worst sloppy drunk you can imagine. There's no fucking telling what'll happen.
Damn painkillers.
Damn blood loss.
Damn shapeshifter.
Whatever that doctor added, it works plenty damn fast. The drugs drag him back under before he can ask where his brother is.
Second time, he wakes up in the Impala. He can see Sam's head over the back of the seat. Every time the car hits a bump, Dean winces. He bites his lip and doesn't make a sound. Whatever they gave him at the hospital is wearing off, but this beats the hell out of being blitzed out of his mind in that damn place, any day of the week. He stares up at the roof of the car and inhales the familiar scent of leather and gasoline.
He doesn't remember signing himself out, but hell, if his brother went to the trouble of springing him, he’s not gonna complain. It’s not like they can’t take care of things themselves. He drifts off to Skynyrd's 'Was I Right or Wrong' playing low over the radio and wishes Sam would sing along like he used to.
The third time, the first thing he sees is the dingy motel ceiling. He remembers the Elvis-shaped water spot above his bed but doesn't remember getting out of the car. He's going to kill Sam. Bitch probably carried him in here like some kind of girl. His right arm itches; he reaches to scratch it, finds a cast instead of bare skin. Oh. Right. He eases up on his good arm and takes an inventory of the rest of the damage: a wide white bandage covers the lower part of his stomach and when he breathes a certain way, the stitches underneath pull uncomfortably. Gonna be one hell of a scar.
Weak sunlight straggles through the blinds. Sam is hunched in a chair by the window, head bowed towards the screen of the laptop.
"Gonna go blind that way geek boy." Dean coughs a little. His voice is low and hoarse. It feels like he's been screaming for days, only he knows he hasn't. "long've I been out?"
Sam doesn't answer. He unfolds himself out of the chair, gets Dean a cup of water. Won't look Dean in the eye.
"How long Dean?"
Three words and Dean knows the scar on his belly is the least of his problems.
He barely makes it to the bathroom. He heaves and gags into the toilet until there's nothing left in him; Sam stands at the door. Dean shoves it closed with his foot and turns the lock. It won't keep Sam out if he really wants in, but right now all Dean needs is a barrier between him and that look on Sam's face. He shoves his fist in his mouth and ignores the spot of red growing on those pristine white bandages. He doesn't cry.
Dean was fourteen. The three of them were staying in an actual house for once. They'd been in town a few months, long enough for Sammy to make a few friends and get a little more out of school than he usually did. Dad started coming in later and later, really pulling a few Miller Time shifts; November turned him into someone that Dean barely recognised. But it always passed. Come December, Dad would be Dad again. He just needed to wait it out.
His father came into his room and sat on the edge of his bed. Touched Dean's hair, kissed his cheek. The alcohol on his breath made Dean queasy. Dean was a little freaked but figured his dad would get up and head off to his own bed like always. But he doesn't; he kissed Dean on the mouth. Dean jerks at the first touch of his father's hand on his dick. John leaned into him, stubble rough against Dean's face, whispered please and Mary and forgive me into his ear.
Dad needed him. No matter how fucked up it was, Dad needed him. And Dean, he didn’t know what else to do. So he gave in.
The next morning Dean woke up late to a nearly empty house. Sam was still asleep under his Spiderman sheets, but his father's gone. Pastor Jim showed up around lunchtime and took the two of them back to his house in Blue Earth. Sam and Dean didn’t see John again for three months.
Dean never figured out what tipped his dad over the edge that night, and he never asks.
Sam ends up taking the bathroom door off the hinges. He bends down, puts his arm under Dean's shoulder. Puts him back to bed, repairs the popped stitches and presses down clean gauze. Dean watches it all without a word. Sam's hands shake.
"You were telling him to stop. You were begging. Crying. In your sleep."
Sam's voice is barely above a whisper, but it's obscenely loud against the silence of the motel room. To Dean, it feels like the shapeshifter is back with that knife, digging into his heart instead of his gut. He never once thought he'd have to face his brother with this. He's spent his whole life making sure this conversation never happened. Failure is a mean son of a bitch.
"I thought it was...a nightmare at first. I thought it wasn't real." Sam looks like he's been awake for as long as Dean's been asleep, the skin under his eyes dark as bruises.
"I mean I know the shifter turned into D --" Even Sam won't finish that word. "I know who it looked like. But I didn't know what it meant. And you just kept having these dreams. I....I thought they were nightmares."
Dean laughs, short and bitter. "Those were nightmares Sammy. In real life, I didn't tell him no."
Sam doesn't talk to him for two days. Dean lies awake and pretends he can't hear when Sam goes outside and just howls.
Two days and Sam loses it. Dean thought it would've happened sooner. His brother comes in the room, slams the door. He snatches Dean up by the collar of his t-shirt.
"How fucking long Dean? How long has he been molesting you?" He shakes Dean, probably harder than he means to. "Why didn't you tell anyone -- why didn't you tell me?"
Dean's never seen Sam this mad. That's fine, because Dean figures he's had about as much of this as he can handle. If anyone deserves to have a meltdown over this, it's him dammit.
Fuck stitches and casts. He hauls back and pops Sam across the jaw with a right jab. His wrist throbs.
"Fuck."
His brother rubs his jaw, stares. Doesn’t say anything.
Dean pushes himself up off the bed; he has to get out of this room. He jerks the door open and heads for the parking lot in nothing but bare feet, boxers, and a t-shirt. He doesn’t know what he’ll do when he gets to the car and doesn’t care. As long as he can breathe.
The Impala’s locked. Dean leans forward against her side, rests his forehead against the warm black metal. The door handle digs into his hip.
He hears shoes crunch in the gravel of the parking lot, feels someone come to a stop beside him. Dean knows it's his brother. But right now Sam could be a deranged mugger for all he gives a damn. Dean’s just so fucking tired of being fucked up. Of being himself.
"It was just that one time." He keeps his eyes closed, holds onto the Impala like she's the only thing holding him up. "You were ten Sam. Ten. How the hell was I supposed to explain Daddy getting it off with me to my fucking ten-year-old brother? I didn’t know how to tell any damn body. Still don’t."
Sam's quiet. Dean waits. His brother takes his arm, fingers warm and gentle.
"Come back inside."
It's Sam's version of I'm sorry and let me help make this right. But for Dean, it's more than enough.
-end
and just for the hell of it, the tracklist:
strange & beautiful - aqualung
end of the world news - tom mcrae
between the bars - trespassers william
blind - placebo
jolene - the white stripes
of wolf and man - metallica
doubletree - jeffrey foccault
[eta: Lol, I just realised this was the 28th SPN piece I've done. Promise I didn't plan that.]
But first, I bring fic. The John/Dean that refused to die:
title: you used to be, are you still the same
author: acidquill
word count: 2,361 (yeah, no one's more surprised than me)
rating: R.
warnings: allusions to parental incest. more cussing than usual.
disclaimer: still don’t own em. no matter who I bribe.
notes: this, this is for Sen. I think about you all the time. I've worked on this for weeks and weeks and never thought it was good enough. I guess now it is.
summary: you know those Papa Winchester fics I've written, where he's just a father, trying his best? yeah. this ain't one of em.
sometimes the last thing you want comes in first
sometimes the first thing you want never comes
It’s his own damn fault for not paying attention. He should have known better after St. Louis. One minute everything’s fine, but in between one breath and the next Dean’s knocked sideways and the shapeshifter is literally on top of him. Snaps his wrist like a twig and laughs when Dean’s gun clatters to the floor; it makes sure to drag him up by his injured hand. Dean bites his lip and concentrates on breathing through the pain. It's not that bad.
“Son of a bitch.”
Doesn't mean it doesn't hurt like hell. The shapeshifter holds him up by his arms, seems to be studying him. Well, fuck that. He's had enough of these freaky bastards and their little clone games. He kicks out at the thing, going for the knees. If he can get it to go down, if he can reach his gun…
The only thing he gets is a swat to the head, one hard enough to make his ears ring; well, at least he got it to let go of him. The shifter cocks its head. It reaches out and touches Dean almost gently on the temple, almost a caress, before it backhands him with inhuman strength. The floor rushes at Dean's face and on instinct he throws out his right arm; his wrist folds. His stomach turns and he smacks into the hardwood. Dean cradles his hand to his chest and watches in sick fascination as the shapeshifter changes right before his eyes.
Into his father.
It smiles at him, "I'm going to enjoy killing you."
The thing may have John Winchester's face, but it doesn’t have his voice.
Dean thanks any god listening for small favors.
"This thing, it's like it feeds on fear. Takes on the shape of a person's worst nightmare, then it kills them."
Dean snorted, "Like in IT?"
"Kind of. But like the one at Zach and Becky’s, it only takes human form. But instead of taking on the appearance of a loved one, this one apparently skips all the trust issues and goes straight for the sucker punch. It becomes someone from a person’s past that hurt them, caused them trauma - that girl, Theresa? Friend said her ex-boyfriend came by the night she was killed."
"So?"
"Her ex-boyfriend who almost beat her to death." Sam looked over the screen of the laptop, "I checked Dean, that guy is in prison. Doesn't get parole for three more years. And before Theresa, Franklin Myers..."
Dean sighted down the barrel of the shotgun he was cleaning. "Okay, okay I get it. Big bad shapeshifter likes to supersize his order of angst." He wiped the gun oil from his hands.
"So can we kill this bitch the same way as last time?"
Dead-cool hands hold him too close and the only sounds are his breathing and that ragged voice against his ear - "Pretty little boy," it croons.
"Such a sweet thing, no wonder Daddy wanted you. Couldn't keep his hands off something so pretty could he?"
Dean just hopes Sam won’t come bursting through the door right now. There’s no way in hell his brother can hear what the damn thing is saying. Or who it looks like. He doesn't want to go into this particular skeleton in his closet with his little brother. This is the deepest and darkest part of himself out where everyone can see it. No, this was never meant to be shared with Sam. Never Sammy. He hates himself for thinking it but please, just this once, please let Sam be too late.
The bastard tightens its grip. It gets under Dean’s skin and in his head, slices him up deep in more ways than one.
He never sees the knife, but he sure as hell feels it - a sharp, hot, stripe of pain that spreads across his belly. Followed by another, and another. The thing wearing his father's face traces the line of Dean’s jaw with fingers stained in his own blood and digs the knife in a little deeper. Dean feels the blade twist and when it slides free, he can feel his life following right behind. He doesn’t want to give the fucker anything else to use on him but the half strangled “Sam... ” is out before he can keep his mouth shut. Not that he expects his brother to hear him, Sam's still checking downstairs and the basement. There's no way he can hear, no way he can know Dean's going to die right above his head in the dust and cobwebs.
The shifter laughs again, a high ugly sound in his father's mouth and Dean's glad he can't see the thing's face. "Oh, no. Little brother can’t help you now. But don’t worry," it whispers, "I’ll make it all better."
“Like hell you will.”
Sam.
His brother is in the doorway, like a whole new kind of avenging angel. One with a forty-five and a clip of consecrated bullets. Dean would laugh if it didn't feel like he was getting stabbed all over again.
It's over with one shot. Dean feels the shifter jerk against him when the bullet connects, then he's falling too.
The first time Dean wakes up he's in a hospital. It's the only place he knows with that sickly sweet antiseptic non-smell which never fails to turn his stomach. There's an IV pumping some heavy duty something into his bloodstream; his whole body feels like it's wrapped in cotton. The light hurts his eyes. A doctor hovers in front of him, the edges of the man's face indistinct. The doctor says something but his voice is distorted and slow, like Dean's listening underwater. There's a sting of something new surging through the IV. Dean wants to tell them to take the fucking thing out already. It's not just that he hates that fuzzy narcotic barrier between him and the rest of the world, drugs always make him lose his shit. He can drink his dad and brother under the table, but he can't handle anything more powerful than ibuprofen. More than that and he's like the worst sloppy drunk you can imagine. There's no fucking telling what'll happen.
Damn painkillers.
Damn blood loss.
Damn shapeshifter.
Whatever that doctor added, it works plenty damn fast. The drugs drag him back under before he can ask where his brother is.
Second time, he wakes up in the Impala. He can see Sam's head over the back of the seat. Every time the car hits a bump, Dean winces. He bites his lip and doesn't make a sound. Whatever they gave him at the hospital is wearing off, but this beats the hell out of being blitzed out of his mind in that damn place, any day of the week. He stares up at the roof of the car and inhales the familiar scent of leather and gasoline.
He doesn't remember signing himself out, but hell, if his brother went to the trouble of springing him, he’s not gonna complain. It’s not like they can’t take care of things themselves. He drifts off to Skynyrd's 'Was I Right or Wrong' playing low over the radio and wishes Sam would sing along like he used to.
The third time, the first thing he sees is the dingy motel ceiling. He remembers the Elvis-shaped water spot above his bed but doesn't remember getting out of the car. He's going to kill Sam. Bitch probably carried him in here like some kind of girl. His right arm itches; he reaches to scratch it, finds a cast instead of bare skin. Oh. Right. He eases up on his good arm and takes an inventory of the rest of the damage: a wide white bandage covers the lower part of his stomach and when he breathes a certain way, the stitches underneath pull uncomfortably. Gonna be one hell of a scar.
Weak sunlight straggles through the blinds. Sam is hunched in a chair by the window, head bowed towards the screen of the laptop.
"Gonna go blind that way geek boy." Dean coughs a little. His voice is low and hoarse. It feels like he's been screaming for days, only he knows he hasn't. "long've I been out?"
Sam doesn't answer. He unfolds himself out of the chair, gets Dean a cup of water. Won't look Dean in the eye.
"How long Dean?"
Three words and Dean knows the scar on his belly is the least of his problems.
He barely makes it to the bathroom. He heaves and gags into the toilet until there's nothing left in him; Sam stands at the door. Dean shoves it closed with his foot and turns the lock. It won't keep Sam out if he really wants in, but right now all Dean needs is a barrier between him and that look on Sam's face. He shoves his fist in his mouth and ignores the spot of red growing on those pristine white bandages. He doesn't cry.
Dean was fourteen. The three of them were staying in an actual house for once. They'd been in town a few months, long enough for Sammy to make a few friends and get a little more out of school than he usually did. Dad started coming in later and later, really pulling a few Miller Time shifts; November turned him into someone that Dean barely recognised. But it always passed. Come December, Dad would be Dad again. He just needed to wait it out.
His father came into his room and sat on the edge of his bed. Touched Dean's hair, kissed his cheek. The alcohol on his breath made Dean queasy. Dean was a little freaked but figured his dad would get up and head off to his own bed like always. But he doesn't; he kissed Dean on the mouth. Dean jerks at the first touch of his father's hand on his dick. John leaned into him, stubble rough against Dean's face, whispered please and Mary and forgive me into his ear.
Dad needed him. No matter how fucked up it was, Dad needed him. And Dean, he didn’t know what else to do. So he gave in.
The next morning Dean woke up late to a nearly empty house. Sam was still asleep under his Spiderman sheets, but his father's gone. Pastor Jim showed up around lunchtime and took the two of them back to his house in Blue Earth. Sam and Dean didn’t see John again for three months.
Dean never figured out what tipped his dad over the edge that night, and he never asks.
Sam ends up taking the bathroom door off the hinges. He bends down, puts his arm under Dean's shoulder. Puts him back to bed, repairs the popped stitches and presses down clean gauze. Dean watches it all without a word. Sam's hands shake.
"You were telling him to stop. You were begging. Crying. In your sleep."
Sam's voice is barely above a whisper, but it's obscenely loud against the silence of the motel room. To Dean, it feels like the shapeshifter is back with that knife, digging into his heart instead of his gut. He never once thought he'd have to face his brother with this. He's spent his whole life making sure this conversation never happened. Failure is a mean son of a bitch.
"I thought it was...a nightmare at first. I thought it wasn't real." Sam looks like he's been awake for as long as Dean's been asleep, the skin under his eyes dark as bruises.
"I mean I know the shifter turned into D --" Even Sam won't finish that word. "I know who it looked like. But I didn't know what it meant. And you just kept having these dreams. I....I thought they were nightmares."
Dean laughs, short and bitter. "Those were nightmares Sammy. In real life, I didn't tell him no."
Sam doesn't talk to him for two days. Dean lies awake and pretends he can't hear when Sam goes outside and just howls.
Two days and Sam loses it. Dean thought it would've happened sooner. His brother comes in the room, slams the door. He snatches Dean up by the collar of his t-shirt.
"How fucking long Dean? How long has he been molesting you?" He shakes Dean, probably harder than he means to. "Why didn't you tell anyone -- why didn't you tell me?"
Dean's never seen Sam this mad. That's fine, because Dean figures he's had about as much of this as he can handle. If anyone deserves to have a meltdown over this, it's him dammit.
Fuck stitches and casts. He hauls back and pops Sam across the jaw with a right jab. His wrist throbs.
"Fuck."
His brother rubs his jaw, stares. Doesn’t say anything.
Dean pushes himself up off the bed; he has to get out of this room. He jerks the door open and heads for the parking lot in nothing but bare feet, boxers, and a t-shirt. He doesn’t know what he’ll do when he gets to the car and doesn’t care. As long as he can breathe.
The Impala’s locked. Dean leans forward against her side, rests his forehead against the warm black metal. The door handle digs into his hip.
He hears shoes crunch in the gravel of the parking lot, feels someone come to a stop beside him. Dean knows it's his brother. But right now Sam could be a deranged mugger for all he gives a damn. Dean’s just so fucking tired of being fucked up. Of being himself.
"It was just that one time." He keeps his eyes closed, holds onto the Impala like she's the only thing holding him up. "You were ten Sam. Ten. How the hell was I supposed to explain Daddy getting it off with me to my fucking ten-year-old brother? I didn’t know how to tell any damn body. Still don’t."
Sam's quiet. Dean waits. His brother takes his arm, fingers warm and gentle.
"Come back inside."
It's Sam's version of I'm sorry and let me help make this right. But for Dean, it's more than enough.
-end
and just for the hell of it, the tracklist:
strange & beautiful - aqualung
end of the world news - tom mcrae
between the bars - trespassers william
blind - placebo
jolene - the white stripes
of wolf and man - metallica
doubletree - jeffrey foccault
[eta: Lol, I just realised this was the 28th SPN piece I've done. Promise I didn't plan that.]