ext_81078 (![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png)
mirasfics.livejournal.com) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
mirabellafic2008-12-23 11:13 pm
mirasfics.livejournal.com) wrote in mirabellafic2008-12-23 11:13 pm
Entry tags:
Arimathea, Wincest, PG-13
Title: Arimathea
Fandom: Supernatural, Wincest, PG-13
Summary: There's never a good time to have the incest talk with your dad. When he can't see or hear you is a worse time than most.
Notes: Takes place during In My Time of Dying, in case you haven't seen that one.
It's not fucking fair, Dean thinks. He's discorporated, he should have spirit powers. He should be able to slam people up against walls and pop up behind them in mirrors. He should be able to drive people batshit insane singing Herman's Hermits songs off-key on endless loop.
He should be able to grab Sam and shove him out of Dad's hospital room before they take each other apart like the atmosphere in here says they're going to.
"Can you just stop, Sam? Jesus Christ," he says, exasperated, prowling in front of Sam. "Hey! Eyes down here, Gigantor."
Sam doesn't listen. He's looking through Dean to Dad, that muscle jerking at the corner of his jaw. "Have you called anyone yet?" he asks, with a half-sneer in his voice like he knows the answer is going to be no.
"As a matter of fact, yes," Dad says between his teeth. "I'm waiting for some calls back. And for you to run the errand I sent you on half an hour ago."
"The doctor was in with Dean," Sam snaps. "I wanted to hear what he had to say."
"Did he say anything different than he said an hour ago?" Dad asks, knowing the answer to that question too.
"No," Sam says grudgingly. Which is a little bit of a disappointment to Dean, since he wasn't in on that consultation, but it isn't as if he expected any different. "Did you –"
"Sam, I am doing everything I can," Dad says, at the end of his patience.
Sam's own patience, always brittle where Dad's concerned, gives out with an audible snap. "It's not enough," he says, too loudly, almost yelling.
"Sam, for Christ's sake, we're in a hospital," Dean tells him.
"The Demon –" Dad starts. Dean opens his mouth to tell Dad it might not be wise to pursue that tack, but before he can get anywhere Sam is raking his hands through his hair and gritting his teeth in what looks like sheer rage.
"Fuck the Demon!" Sam snarls, voice harsh with the effort of keeping it down.
"You watch your mouth, Sam," Dean orders.
"The Demon is always going to be out there somewhere, Dad, until the day one of us kills it! Dean could die. I want the Demon's head every damn bit as bad as you do, but I want my brother back more!"
"So you can fuck him too?" Dad asks, in a voice too calm for the end of the fucking world that it is.
Sam doesn't scare easily. Dean doesn't often see stark, cold fear in his face. But it's there now, and Dean can't even look at him because all he can think of is the cold dark of that dead little boy's lake as it closed over his head.
"Oh, god," he says thinly. "No."
For a minute Sam tries to bluff his way through, and it's so stupid that Dean wants to punch him for it, because neither of them has ever been able to lie to Dad. "What are you saying –"
"You heard me," Dad says, and he doesn't even look angry; just tired, like this is the last conversation in the world he wants to be having.
Sam tries again, but he's breathing too fast now, pupils dilated wide like a fox at bay. "Yeah, I heard you, I just don't –"
"Dad, we don't have to talk about this," Dean says over Sam's voice, too loud, hoping against hope that Dad will hear him this time. "We can just –"
"Stow it, Sam," Dad says, weary and getting angry now. "You're sleeping with your brother. I can put it more bluntly than that if you still want to play stupid."
There's a long silence before Sam whispers, "I'd rather you didn't."
"Sam, you fucking idiot, turn around and walk away!" Dean shouts in Sam's face. Sam doesn't hear him, doesn't even sense him, and of all the times for the psychic crap to fail them both –
"Jesus," Dad says. "You want to tell me what the hell you're thinking?"
"No, sir," Sam answers, his voice a bare push of air past pale lips.
"Leave him alone," Dean says desperately, turning back to Dad. "Leave him out of this."
"You sure? Because this is the only chance you're going to get, son."
"Don't you talk to him like it's his fault!" Dean shouts, trying to get a grip on the table at the side of the bed. His hands pass right through it.
"You know he can't say no to you, Sam," Dad grinds out. "You know it, and this is what you ask him for?"
Sam swallows hard. "Yeah," he whispers, white as death. "Looks like."
"Don't you fucking do that, Sammy! Don't you take this on yourself!" Dean shouts. "Dad, it was me, okay?"
"And you still sleep just fine at night, don't you?" Dad says.
Dean walks in between them, just like he used to do when Sam was sixteen years old and knew he was taller than Dad better than he knew how to use it. The difference is that this time neither of them so much as blinks. "Dad, Jess died right in front of him, okay?"
"Look," says Sam.
"You didn't see him, Dad, he was fucking broken and I –"
"There's nothing I can say that'll make you understand," Sam says.
"I just, just didn't say no like I should've," Dean tells Dad, leaning over the bed, desperate to catch his eye. "It's on me, okay?"
"Son, I suggest you try," Dad says, too quietly.
"Dad, no, don't do this – "
"Maybe I don't want you to understand," Sam says, and his voice is tightening now in a way that never means anything good.
"You shut up before you make this worse, Sam," Dean snaps, glaring back over his shoulder. Sam doesn't hear him.
"Maybe I want to just – just keep this, just something for me and Dean to have."
"You ever think maybe Dean deserves better than to be a dirty secret locked up in somebody's attic?"
Dean's still looking at Sam, and right now he's sorry for it, because the look on Sam's face hits him like a sucker punch. Sam looks ten years old, stunned and alone; and he sounds it, too, when he says, "Dad. No. It isn't like that."
"Sure as hell sounds like it to me," Dad says evenly.
Sam's shaking his head. "Dean's a grown man, Dad. He's strong and beautiful and I tried for so long to let him go."
"The fuck are you talking about, Sammy?" Dean whispers. His hand passes right through Sam's arm without leaving so much as a shiver behind it.
"How long?" Dad snaps. "Was this going on before you left?"
"No!" Dean says, and Sam says it with him, weary.
"I was afraid to ask," Sam says, and he's talking now like what he's letting out is poison coming out of an old wound, and Dean can only stare at him. "Dad, he would have told me no, and… I never wanted to be gone forever. That was your idea, not mine. But I loved him so much I was scared of it, and I had no one to talk to, and I didn't know how to just have part of him."
"Jesus, Sam," Dean says hoarsely, because he never saw it. He can't even figure out if he sees it now, in hindsight. Sam, fourteen and colt-limbed and glaring at Dean when he came home fucked out and complacent; sixteen and taller than his big brother, crowding up into Dean's space to loom over him every chance he got; seventeen and shying away from Dean when he came home (too early) from dates, his face twisting with a kind of misery that Dean read as adolescent self-consciousness. Sam, eighteen and screaming at Dad that he had to get out. Even now, Dean can't look at those things and think Man, read those signals wrong, can't feel that blinding clap of understanding that 20-20 hindsight is supposed to gift people with. All he can feel is the ground uncertain and shifting under his feet.
"Best you learn, Sam," Dad says evenly. "It needs to stop."
Sam's chin juts out and his eyes go cold and glittering. "Sam," Dean warns, willing Sam to hear him, for fuck's sake.
"I'm not breaking up with my brother, Dad. I –"
"Love him?" Dad interrupts. "You're the one who walked out, Sam. You think Dean isn't going to go the rest of his life waiting every day for you to walk out on him again, then maybe you don't know your brother like you think you do."
Dean almost loses it right then. He wants to make something break, make the fucking walls bleed, make Sam and Dad hear him and shut the fuck up, and he can't. But he probably can walk right through the door and if he could make his feet move he would, leave Sam and Dad to hash this out by themselves and finish saying whatever unforgiveable things they're gearing up to say to each other.
"I walked out on him?" Sam demands.
"Don't you fucking go there, Sam," Dean orders.
"You disappeared, you wouldn't call or tell us where you were and Dean was –"
"Shut the fuck up, Sam!"
" – dying, Dad, for fuck's sake, you didn't even call!"
"You're using your brother for a fucktoy because you need his attention too bad to let anyone else have it." Dad sounds like even the discipline that got him through Vietnam is just barely enough to keep him from shouting. "If there's moral high ground here, Sam, you aren't standing on it."
Sam's hands clench into fists at his sides. "Where did you find all this out, Dad?" he asks quietly. "The Demon tell you?"
Dad's face twists in a humorless smile. "Yeah, actually," he says. "You know, I almost felt sorry for the poor bastard there for a minute. He really thought he was showing me something I didn't already know."
It's when he realizes that Sam said tell and Dad said show that Dean finds out that just because you're a disembodied spirit doesn't mean you can't puke all over the floor from terror and shame. It's probably ectoplasm or something, and neither Dad nor Sam seem to notice, but Dean bends over, clutches the bedrail, and brings it up in hard, excruciating heaves anyway; because the thing is, the Winchester boys aren't always that gentle with each other, either physically or verbally. They know where the lines are, they know that nothing that's said comes from anything but teasing and affection, but Christ it could sound bad from the outside.
"I don't know what you saw," Sam says, his voice a little less steady now. "But I'm not giving him up."
"Then you'll wind up breaking him," Dad snaps.
"Both of you shut the fuck up!" Dean yells.
"He's not that fragile," Sam says.
"He is when it comes to you."
"I'm not," Dean says, to himself as much as Dad. Dad doesn't hear him, looks right through him to Sam like Dean isn't even standing there. Dean can't catch his breath, feels like he's going to start flickering like a ghost any minute now and he really doesn't want to know how that feels.
"For once in your life, Sam, put your brother first," Dad says. "Let him go. Let him out of this."
"It isn't Sam's fault, Dad!" Dean yells. "If you want to hate somebody –"
"I can't," Sam whispers.
" – I'm right here, it was my fault, I didn't send him back to his own bed like I should have –"
"And if you think I don't know what that makes me, Dad –"
" – I could have told him no and I didn't, I didn't want to –"
" – if you think I don't wake up every day knowing he deserves better than what he has –"
"Then do something about it, Sam!"
"I don't want him to leave again!" Dean bellows, and Sam catches his breath, blinking as if a sudden breeze had blown across his face.
Dad's pissed, but he's a hunter first; his gaze sharpens, raking over Sam. "What?" he asks tersely.
Sam shakes his head. "I don't know," he says. "But I don't know where Dean is right now either, if he's still trapped in his body or out of it somehow, and I don't think we should talk about this here."
There are still a whole lot of things Dad wants to say. Dean can see them, surging like anger in his eyes. But he's a hunter, and a father; he nods stiffly. "You remember what I told you, Sam."
Not We'll talk more about this later; he sounds like he's done with it, and that's so not Dad that Sam and Dean both stare at him. But even Sam knows when to count his blessings, or cut his losses. "I'll remember," he says, and slips out of the room. He leaves the door open a little behind him, far enough for Dean to see that he gets five steps out into the hall and stops, head bowed and fists jammed into his pockets, shaking so hard that Dean can see it from here. Dad leans back onto the pillows and closes his eyes, looking tired and in pain.
Dean hesitates for a minute longer, looking back and forth between Dad and the door, before he remembers that this time it doesn't make any difference which of them he goes to.
Fandom: Supernatural, Wincest, PG-13
Summary: There's never a good time to have the incest talk with your dad. When he can't see or hear you is a worse time than most.
Notes: Takes place during In My Time of Dying, in case you haven't seen that one.
It's not fucking fair, Dean thinks. He's discorporated, he should have spirit powers. He should be able to slam people up against walls and pop up behind them in mirrors. He should be able to drive people batshit insane singing Herman's Hermits songs off-key on endless loop.
He should be able to grab Sam and shove him out of Dad's hospital room before they take each other apart like the atmosphere in here says they're going to.
"Can you just stop, Sam? Jesus Christ," he says, exasperated, prowling in front of Sam. "Hey! Eyes down here, Gigantor."
Sam doesn't listen. He's looking through Dean to Dad, that muscle jerking at the corner of his jaw. "Have you called anyone yet?" he asks, with a half-sneer in his voice like he knows the answer is going to be no.
"As a matter of fact, yes," Dad says between his teeth. "I'm waiting for some calls back. And for you to run the errand I sent you on half an hour ago."
"The doctor was in with Dean," Sam snaps. "I wanted to hear what he had to say."
"Did he say anything different than he said an hour ago?" Dad asks, knowing the answer to that question too.
"No," Sam says grudgingly. Which is a little bit of a disappointment to Dean, since he wasn't in on that consultation, but it isn't as if he expected any different. "Did you –"
"Sam, I am doing everything I can," Dad says, at the end of his patience.
Sam's own patience, always brittle where Dad's concerned, gives out with an audible snap. "It's not enough," he says, too loudly, almost yelling.
"Sam, for Christ's sake, we're in a hospital," Dean tells him.
"The Demon –" Dad starts. Dean opens his mouth to tell Dad it might not be wise to pursue that tack, but before he can get anywhere Sam is raking his hands through his hair and gritting his teeth in what looks like sheer rage.
"Fuck the Demon!" Sam snarls, voice harsh with the effort of keeping it down.
"You watch your mouth, Sam," Dean orders.
"The Demon is always going to be out there somewhere, Dad, until the day one of us kills it! Dean could die. I want the Demon's head every damn bit as bad as you do, but I want my brother back more!"
"So you can fuck him too?" Dad asks, in a voice too calm for the end of the fucking world that it is.
Sam doesn't scare easily. Dean doesn't often see stark, cold fear in his face. But it's there now, and Dean can't even look at him because all he can think of is the cold dark of that dead little boy's lake as it closed over his head.
"Oh, god," he says thinly. "No."
For a minute Sam tries to bluff his way through, and it's so stupid that Dean wants to punch him for it, because neither of them has ever been able to lie to Dad. "What are you saying –"
"You heard me," Dad says, and he doesn't even look angry; just tired, like this is the last conversation in the world he wants to be having.
Sam tries again, but he's breathing too fast now, pupils dilated wide like a fox at bay. "Yeah, I heard you, I just don't –"
"Dad, we don't have to talk about this," Dean says over Sam's voice, too loud, hoping against hope that Dad will hear him this time. "We can just –"
"Stow it, Sam," Dad says, weary and getting angry now. "You're sleeping with your brother. I can put it more bluntly than that if you still want to play stupid."
There's a long silence before Sam whispers, "I'd rather you didn't."
"Sam, you fucking idiot, turn around and walk away!" Dean shouts in Sam's face. Sam doesn't hear him, doesn't even sense him, and of all the times for the psychic crap to fail them both –
"Jesus," Dad says. "You want to tell me what the hell you're thinking?"
"No, sir," Sam answers, his voice a bare push of air past pale lips.
"Leave him alone," Dean says desperately, turning back to Dad. "Leave him out of this."
"You sure? Because this is the only chance you're going to get, son."
"Don't you talk to him like it's his fault!" Dean shouts, trying to get a grip on the table at the side of the bed. His hands pass right through it.
"You know he can't say no to you, Sam," Dad grinds out. "You know it, and this is what you ask him for?"
Sam swallows hard. "Yeah," he whispers, white as death. "Looks like."
"Don't you fucking do that, Sammy! Don't you take this on yourself!" Dean shouts. "Dad, it was me, okay?"
"And you still sleep just fine at night, don't you?" Dad says.
Dean walks in between them, just like he used to do when Sam was sixteen years old and knew he was taller than Dad better than he knew how to use it. The difference is that this time neither of them so much as blinks. "Dad, Jess died right in front of him, okay?"
"Look," says Sam.
"You didn't see him, Dad, he was fucking broken and I –"
"There's nothing I can say that'll make you understand," Sam says.
"I just, just didn't say no like I should've," Dean tells Dad, leaning over the bed, desperate to catch his eye. "It's on me, okay?"
"Son, I suggest you try," Dad says, too quietly.
"Dad, no, don't do this – "
"Maybe I don't want you to understand," Sam says, and his voice is tightening now in a way that never means anything good.
"You shut up before you make this worse, Sam," Dean snaps, glaring back over his shoulder. Sam doesn't hear him.
"Maybe I want to just – just keep this, just something for me and Dean to have."
"You ever think maybe Dean deserves better than to be a dirty secret locked up in somebody's attic?"
Dean's still looking at Sam, and right now he's sorry for it, because the look on Sam's face hits him like a sucker punch. Sam looks ten years old, stunned and alone; and he sounds it, too, when he says, "Dad. No. It isn't like that."
"Sure as hell sounds like it to me," Dad says evenly.
Sam's shaking his head. "Dean's a grown man, Dad. He's strong and beautiful and I tried for so long to let him go."
"The fuck are you talking about, Sammy?" Dean whispers. His hand passes right through Sam's arm without leaving so much as a shiver behind it.
"How long?" Dad snaps. "Was this going on before you left?"
"No!" Dean says, and Sam says it with him, weary.
"I was afraid to ask," Sam says, and he's talking now like what he's letting out is poison coming out of an old wound, and Dean can only stare at him. "Dad, he would have told me no, and… I never wanted to be gone forever. That was your idea, not mine. But I loved him so much I was scared of it, and I had no one to talk to, and I didn't know how to just have part of him."
"Jesus, Sam," Dean says hoarsely, because he never saw it. He can't even figure out if he sees it now, in hindsight. Sam, fourteen and colt-limbed and glaring at Dean when he came home fucked out and complacent; sixteen and taller than his big brother, crowding up into Dean's space to loom over him every chance he got; seventeen and shying away from Dean when he came home (too early) from dates, his face twisting with a kind of misery that Dean read as adolescent self-consciousness. Sam, eighteen and screaming at Dad that he had to get out. Even now, Dean can't look at those things and think Man, read those signals wrong, can't feel that blinding clap of understanding that 20-20 hindsight is supposed to gift people with. All he can feel is the ground uncertain and shifting under his feet.
"Best you learn, Sam," Dad says evenly. "It needs to stop."
Sam's chin juts out and his eyes go cold and glittering. "Sam," Dean warns, willing Sam to hear him, for fuck's sake.
"I'm not breaking up with my brother, Dad. I –"
"Love him?" Dad interrupts. "You're the one who walked out, Sam. You think Dean isn't going to go the rest of his life waiting every day for you to walk out on him again, then maybe you don't know your brother like you think you do."
Dean almost loses it right then. He wants to make something break, make the fucking walls bleed, make Sam and Dad hear him and shut the fuck up, and he can't. But he probably can walk right through the door and if he could make his feet move he would, leave Sam and Dad to hash this out by themselves and finish saying whatever unforgiveable things they're gearing up to say to each other.
"I walked out on him?" Sam demands.
"Don't you fucking go there, Sam," Dean orders.
"You disappeared, you wouldn't call or tell us where you were and Dean was –"
"Shut the fuck up, Sam!"
" – dying, Dad, for fuck's sake, you didn't even call!"
"You're using your brother for a fucktoy because you need his attention too bad to let anyone else have it." Dad sounds like even the discipline that got him through Vietnam is just barely enough to keep him from shouting. "If there's moral high ground here, Sam, you aren't standing on it."
Sam's hands clench into fists at his sides. "Where did you find all this out, Dad?" he asks quietly. "The Demon tell you?"
Dad's face twists in a humorless smile. "Yeah, actually," he says. "You know, I almost felt sorry for the poor bastard there for a minute. He really thought he was showing me something I didn't already know."
It's when he realizes that Sam said tell and Dad said show that Dean finds out that just because you're a disembodied spirit doesn't mean you can't puke all over the floor from terror and shame. It's probably ectoplasm or something, and neither Dad nor Sam seem to notice, but Dean bends over, clutches the bedrail, and brings it up in hard, excruciating heaves anyway; because the thing is, the Winchester boys aren't always that gentle with each other, either physically or verbally. They know where the lines are, they know that nothing that's said comes from anything but teasing and affection, but Christ it could sound bad from the outside.
"I don't know what you saw," Sam says, his voice a little less steady now. "But I'm not giving him up."
"Then you'll wind up breaking him," Dad snaps.
"Both of you shut the fuck up!" Dean yells.
"He's not that fragile," Sam says.
"He is when it comes to you."
"I'm not," Dean says, to himself as much as Dad. Dad doesn't hear him, looks right through him to Sam like Dean isn't even standing there. Dean can't catch his breath, feels like he's going to start flickering like a ghost any minute now and he really doesn't want to know how that feels.
"For once in your life, Sam, put your brother first," Dad says. "Let him go. Let him out of this."
"It isn't Sam's fault, Dad!" Dean yells. "If you want to hate somebody –"
"I can't," Sam whispers.
" – I'm right here, it was my fault, I didn't send him back to his own bed like I should have –"
"And if you think I don't know what that makes me, Dad –"
" – I could have told him no and I didn't, I didn't want to –"
" – if you think I don't wake up every day knowing he deserves better than what he has –"
"Then do something about it, Sam!"
"I don't want him to leave again!" Dean bellows, and Sam catches his breath, blinking as if a sudden breeze had blown across his face.
Dad's pissed, but he's a hunter first; his gaze sharpens, raking over Sam. "What?" he asks tersely.
Sam shakes his head. "I don't know," he says. "But I don't know where Dean is right now either, if he's still trapped in his body or out of it somehow, and I don't think we should talk about this here."
There are still a whole lot of things Dad wants to say. Dean can see them, surging like anger in his eyes. But he's a hunter, and a father; he nods stiffly. "You remember what I told you, Sam."
Not We'll talk more about this later; he sounds like he's done with it, and that's so not Dad that Sam and Dean both stare at him. But even Sam knows when to count his blessings, or cut his losses. "I'll remember," he says, and slips out of the room. He leaves the door open a little behind him, far enough for Dean to see that he gets five steps out into the hall and stops, head bowed and fists jammed into his pockets, shaking so hard that Dean can see it from here. Dad leans back onto the pillows and closes his eyes, looking tired and in pain.
Dean hesitates for a minute longer, looking back and forth between Dad and the door, before he remembers that this time it doesn't make any difference which of them he goes to.
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
(Anonymous) 2012-04-24 06:49 am (UTC)(link)You hit some of my favorite things in this fic - John confronting them (Sam) about wincest (whether its real or not), Sam being in love with Dean and that's why he left, the rawness of Dean being stuck in the middle. Amazing job.
- orange_8_hands