SPN fic: for the love of
Oct. 17th, 2006 04:10 pm![[personal profile]](http://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
phantomasA birthday gift for ![[livejournal.com profile]](http://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
mytimehaspassed, even if a tad late.
Becausemytimehaspassed writes beautifully, weaving her words around the Winchesters like a silky steel web, and I enjoy her stories so much.
Thank you :D
title: for the love of
pairing: John/Dean, features Sam.
warning: adult, kind of consensual but with BIG issues (as it would)
lenght: 855 words
Notes: unbetaed (it's a miracle if I manage to post this, emailing with betaeditors it's like a dream right now), so please, do feel free to point out weirdness, typos and what have you. I'm behind with everything, so if I'd let this wait, it would have ended being unwritten. Not particularly graphic, by my standards.
Dean is half awake as John guns the Impala's engine and drives away. Not even midnight yet. The bed stinks of sweat and sex. Dean turns on his side, arms wrapped around his torso, naked and bared, the sheets mostly on the floor. He stares at the thin line of salt grains sprinkled under the window mirroring the pale moonlight outside. His throat aches. He keeps staring at the window, at the world outside that keeps turning and turning and turning…wonders what Sammy is doing, at Stanford. Wonders when John'll be back. If there's a note for him, on the table on the opposite side of the room, with coordinates.
Instructions.
Careful, boy…that's it. That's right. Hold it, just like that. Good boy.
Could be a S&W, or John's dick. The words would be exactly the same. What makes Dean clench his fists, nails digging into his palm, is how it's always him asking. "Teach me, dad," and "I can do it, I want to, dad."
'Dad' this, and 'dad' that.
The bruises on his skin, that one time, and Sam was whispering with eyes too shiny, "I don't know, Mrs. Williams, I don't know. My dad wouldn't, Mrs. Williams…it's only us," and it's another packed car, a few boxes left behind, Sammy's huge eyes in the rear-mirror, "I didn't tell her anything, I swear!" and Dad just looking at him, then at Dean, and Dean shrugging, glancing out of the car window, the trees blurred away on the side, and dad's bites itching on the back of his thighs.
"No, Dean. I said no," but somehow Dean never listened, because John's breath was warm on his lips, and Dean liked whiskey already, and there was no one else at that point. "Sammy's at school. C'mon dad…" and that's when he should have pushed you away, because a good father would do that, wouldn't he? But Dean has always known that Dad would do everything, anything for him, for Sammy, too, but not Sammy, not Sammy, so he pushed and John gave in and his fingers left bruises on Dean's hips, Dean's nipples.
It's not that he minds when John calls him Mary. Sometimes, it happens, and John is almost always drunk when it does. It's just that he's his father, and this shouldn't have happened in the first place.
The shivers on his skin, that other time, and Sam looking at them, hunter's quiet steps in his own house, because he must have heard something, must have seen something when? what? and so he'd come back, bailed on school, our smart, clever Sammy, to find his father and brother in bed, "…rutting like ANIMALS!" he screams at you when you track him down later on, when you try to explain and no, Dean, there are no explanations really.
"No, Dean. No. It's …revolting," his little brother sobs, rubbing the palm of his hands on his jeans as if he's tainted, dirtied, too, by this family and what they do and Dean sees him for the first time in years, how tall he is, how grown up, how like John he is, and wishes he could tell him that it wasn't like that, it was… Truth is, Dean doesn't remember how it was, not anymore.
Since Sam left, it's harder.
John would come, and go, and leave, and return, and check on Sam. And Dean would ask, "Please, dad. Please," murmurs, whispers, fabric pushed aside in seek of flesh, double layers of cotton not enough, never enough, to hide the heated skin underneath, blood thrumming loudly in his ears and mouth and lips, wanting to drawn and breathe and taste Dad, "Dad, dad, yes, harder, yes. Please." Even when the bed-frame is shaking, and Dean's hands are frantic to find a grip, sliding sweaty against the cheap wallpaper, even then, "harder, please, dad, harder," it's all he can say. Because it's always been like this, since he can remember, he and dad and a bed and little Sammy, only Sammy is not little anymore, and not with them anymore, and it's just him, and dad, and a bed, or a wall, or a desk, or his knees, his ass, his mouth, it doesn't matter, only that it's happening, and it's wrong revolting, sick disgusting, but it happens, hands and tongues and cocks and come and bruises and tears.
Because it doesn't matter how many girls make him turn his head, spread their legs for him, kiss him goodbye. Dad is the one that counts, Dad is the one that always comes back, Dad is the one whose marks on his own body Dean licks where he can reach them, and brushes and presses hard with his fingertips where he can't. Dad is the one that can hurt him.
Dad is the only one that can hurt him.
The note on the table has numbers on it, spelled with faded ink and firm hand. Dean folds it and pushes into his back pocket, leaves the room in a mess, the sweat and smell and stank of sex lingering after him.
New Orleans, here he comes.
mytimehaspassed, even if a tad late. Because
mytimehaspassed writes beautifully, weaving her words around the Winchesters like a silky steel web, and I enjoy her stories so much. Thank you :D
title: for the love of
pairing: John/Dean, features Sam.
warning: adult, kind of consensual but with BIG issues (as it would)
lenght: 855 words
Notes: unbetaed (it's a miracle if I manage to post this, emailing with betaeditors it's like a dream right now), so please, do feel free to point out weirdness, typos and what have you. I'm behind with everything, so if I'd let this wait, it would have ended being unwritten. Not particularly graphic, by my standards.
for the love of
Dean is half awake as John guns the Impala's engine and drives away. Not even midnight yet. The bed stinks of sweat and sex. Dean turns on his side, arms wrapped around his torso, naked and bared, the sheets mostly on the floor. He stares at the thin line of salt grains sprinkled under the window mirroring the pale moonlight outside. His throat aches. He keeps staring at the window, at the world outside that keeps turning and turning and turning…wonders what Sammy is doing, at Stanford. Wonders when John'll be back. If there's a note for him, on the table on the opposite side of the room, with coordinates.
Instructions.
Careful, boy…that's it. That's right. Hold it, just like that. Good boy.
Could be a S&W, or John's dick. The words would be exactly the same. What makes Dean clench his fists, nails digging into his palm, is how it's always him asking. "Teach me, dad," and "I can do it, I want to, dad."
'Dad' this, and 'dad' that.
The bruises on his skin, that one time, and Sam was whispering with eyes too shiny, "I don't know, Mrs. Williams, I don't know. My dad wouldn't, Mrs. Williams…it's only us," and it's another packed car, a few boxes left behind, Sammy's huge eyes in the rear-mirror, "I didn't tell her anything, I swear!" and Dad just looking at him, then at Dean, and Dean shrugging, glancing out of the car window, the trees blurred away on the side, and dad's bites itching on the back of his thighs.
"No, Dean. I said no," but somehow Dean never listened, because John's breath was warm on his lips, and Dean liked whiskey already, and there was no one else at that point. "Sammy's at school. C'mon dad…" and that's when he should have pushed you away, because a good father would do that, wouldn't he? But Dean has always known that Dad would do everything, anything for him, for Sammy, too, but not Sammy, not Sammy, so he pushed and John gave in and his fingers left bruises on Dean's hips, Dean's nipples.
It's not that he minds when John calls him Mary. Sometimes, it happens, and John is almost always drunk when it does. It's just that he's his father, and this shouldn't have happened in the first place.
The shivers on his skin, that other time, and Sam looking at them, hunter's quiet steps in his own house, because he must have heard something, must have seen something when? what? and so he'd come back, bailed on school, our smart, clever Sammy, to find his father and brother in bed, "…rutting like ANIMALS!" he screams at you when you track him down later on, when you try to explain and no, Dean, there are no explanations really.
"No, Dean. No. It's …revolting," his little brother sobs, rubbing the palm of his hands on his jeans as if he's tainted, dirtied, too, by this family and what they do and Dean sees him for the first time in years, how tall he is, how grown up, how like John he is, and wishes he could tell him that it wasn't like that, it was… Truth is, Dean doesn't remember how it was, not anymore.
Since Sam left, it's harder.
John would come, and go, and leave, and return, and check on Sam. And Dean would ask, "Please, dad. Please," murmurs, whispers, fabric pushed aside in seek of flesh, double layers of cotton not enough, never enough, to hide the heated skin underneath, blood thrumming loudly in his ears and mouth and lips, wanting to drawn and breathe and taste Dad, "Dad, dad, yes, harder, yes. Please." Even when the bed-frame is shaking, and Dean's hands are frantic to find a grip, sliding sweaty against the cheap wallpaper, even then, "harder, please, dad, harder," it's all he can say. Because it's always been like this, since he can remember, he and dad and a bed and little Sammy, only Sammy is not little anymore, and not with them anymore, and it's just him, and dad, and a bed, or a wall, or a desk, or his knees, his ass, his mouth, it doesn't matter, only that it's happening, and it's wrong revolting, sick disgusting, but it happens, hands and tongues and cocks and come and bruises and tears.
Because it doesn't matter how many girls make him turn his head, spread their legs for him, kiss him goodbye. Dad is the one that counts, Dad is the one that always comes back, Dad is the one whose marks on his own body Dean licks where he can reach them, and brushes and presses hard with his fingertips where he can't. Dad is the one that can hurt him.
Dad is the only one that can hurt him.
The note on the table has numbers on it, spelled with faded ink and firm hand. Dean folds it and pushes into his back pocket, leaves the room in a mess, the sweat and smell and stank of sex lingering after him.
New Orleans, here he comes.
![[identity profile]](http://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2006-10-17 06:04 pm (UTC)thank you so much!
shannon
no subject
Date: 2006-10-17 06:16 pm (UTC)My version of John would probably be more loving, now that I think about it and re-read it after it cooled down a bit. I think it's because I was thinking 'for shannon' in my head, and that brings up your writing so vividly I went in that direction.
uh, jipped?? *g*
Anyway, as I said, if any other John/Dean tickles your fancy in a specific way, I'll be happy to try and deliver :D
no subject
Date: 2006-10-17 06:21 pm (UTC)i'm always up for john/dean in any way, shape, or form as long as it's not straight-up porn with schmoop afterwards. THAT is something i just cannot get behind. otherwise...have at it. ;-)
shannon
no subject
Date: 2006-10-17 08:43 pm (UTC)*CJ sighs happily at the 'consensual but with issues' warning*
That's a damned tricky style, but you've done a lovely job on this.
no subject
Date: 2006-10-17 09:08 pm (UTC)thank you :)
(will you please talk firmly to my net provider so that it lets me access my email/LJ and so on, more than for a few secs every erratic hour? It may listen to you.)
I've got a ficlet to write for Saturday (Nancy's bday!)...start thinking about your b-day wishlist, that's all I'm managing these days, ficlets for birthdays - anything you want, any pairing/setting/fandom/scenario/rating/g
*hugs you*
no subject
Date: 2006-10-17 09:36 pm (UTC)Anything? ANYTHING? *CJ considers the most obscure request possible*
Well, consider your provider scolded... but I don't think they can here me cussing them out across the ocean.
CJ, getting ready for the meeting
no subject
Date: 2006-10-18 12:24 pm (UTC)Well, be merciful to a poor soul and have it be something I have seen/know of or I can put my hands on, at least ;)
Your scolding worked some mojo, woman - provider is not working fully as it should, but better that it was!
no subject
Date: 2006-10-18 12:54 pm (UTC)*giggles*
Just kidding.
no subject
Date: 2006-10-18 02:10 pm (UTC)*giggles to death*
you're out to get me, aren't you ? ;) I can try and reproduce the speech pattern (which will imply a repeated watching of The Sheriff, which is gooooood), but I'll probably fail short of miserably close ;)
ANYTHING, I said, and ANYTHING it'll be ;)
*smooches you*
(and it's hiccupping again...*wails in despair*)
no subject
Date: 2006-10-18 02:16 pm (UTC)*pets and offers sympathy*
no subject
Date: 2006-10-18 02:52 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-10-18 06:56 am (UTC)I read this yesterday and I'm still struggling to find the words. This is powerful writing. It's not how I like to see this family, but painfully real. It makes me feel...like a voyeur, like I shouldn't be watching this, you know?
no subject
Date: 2006-10-18 12:20 pm (UTC)And you are right, we shouldn't be watching this, it's their darkest secret, the one that taints them all (I can't see incest 'realistically' without the very big issues being slapped into my face). I'm half tempted to write a John pov to this, and that would probably be closer to my slash-idea of this family...*ponders* thanks again for your comment (and praise ::blushes::), it got me thinking ;)
no subject
Date: 2006-10-20 09:19 am (UTC)Omg, the thing that kills me is that I can totally see this happening, even more than the actual canon reason of why Sam left.
ajkjdjfkaldkjjl! Awesome.
no subject
Date: 2006-10-20 11:25 am (UTC)thank you!
It all depends whether you're wearing your slashy/kinky/pervy glasses or not ;)
Glad you enjoyed it reading this :D
no subject
Date: 2006-11-19 09:30 pm (UTC)This is incredible. I love your style of writing. And the Dean!hurt feeds my soul. Great fic.
no subject
Date: 2006-11-19 11:05 pm (UTC)And thank you for commenting, I'm glad you enjoyed this - Dean!Hurt is so addictive, isn't it? ;)
:D
no subject
Date: 2006-11-27 11:39 am (UTC)*sniff*
Yay daddycest. GOOD stuff.
no subject
Date: 2006-11-27 03:48 pm (UTC):D *pets the f-up Winchesters boys*
no subject
Date: 2007-11-26 05:34 pm (UTC)I think this is one of the most honest John/Dean pieces I've read.
Mem'ing for future reads :)
no subject
Date: 2007-11-26 05:39 pm (UTC)I honestly adore this pairing, but can't see it working in any way that's happy and easy, really, because it isn't, it can't be. SO, yes, I tried to treat it honestly, in as much as I was capable, and I'm so happy it worked for you in this way :D
no subject
Date: 2007-11-26 07:27 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-11-26 08:12 pm (UTC)Issues are fun ;)
no subject
Date: 2007-11-27 02:24 pm (UTC)Also if you are interested in some good ol' Wincest you can find my contribution to the cause on my lj ;)
Kisses! And keep on the good work :)
no subject
Date: 2007-11-27 03:51 pm (UTC)More than being on a roll, I forgot to post all of these at the time I wrote/posted them on my journal and/or papawin *g* brain like groviera, I tell you :)
Thank you :D
no subject
Date: 2007-11-29 02:55 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-11-29 10:51 am (UTC)Something like that, as much as it attracts me, and it does, it should feel 'raw', I think - so glad it worked for you :D
no subject
Date: 2008-06-18 07:03 am (UTC)*Hugs you*
*Saves*
no subject
Date: 2008-07-16 10:51 pm (UTC)Thank you, for reading and commenting! It has to have hints of dub-con, I think, such a shady situation! Glad you liked it, and thanks for letting me know :)