Fic: Acceptance
Apr. 2nd, 2011 12:01 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
zara-zee.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
hoodie_timeTitle: Acceptance
Author: ![[info]](https://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif?v=2){kind=small}
zara_zee
Beta: 9tiptoes
Characters: Dean, Sam, OMC, Lisa
Genre/pairing: Dean/OMC
Rating: NC-17
Word-count: 2,362 words.
Spoilers: If you’ve seen 5x22, "Swan Song" you’re good to go…
Warnings: Rough sex, hallucinations, grief, angst, alcohol abuse
Summary: If he doesn’t even try to move from depression to acceptance Lisa’s gonna cut him loose eventually. He knows this, he really does. And yet here he is; in a no-name alley, outside a no-name bar, in a no-name town, dealing with his grief and self-loathing in the tried and true Winchester way; pushing as much of it as he can down with alcohol and letting the rest come out in random sex and violence.
Notes: Written for ![[info]](https://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/community.gif?v=2){kind=small}
hoodie_time’s Writing Between the Lines challenge- Originally prompted here by adrenalineshots
I changed the tense of the OP and maybe made some teeny, tiny alterations to a couple sentences…..also, this was in the gen/no preference/unspecified section and gen wasn’t requested, so it’s not gen. Hope that’s okay…
Disclaimer: I only own SPN on DVD. They’re not mine, I’m just playing, for fun, not profit…
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
“Lemme ask that in a different way,” the other guy says, leaning back casually. “Is there some other place you’d rather be right now?”
Dean figures that answering ‘dead’ or ‘in Hell’ would probably lead to someone calling the guys in the pretty white coats to lock him up in one of those pretty padded rooms. At the very least it would stop what’s maybe going to happen here dead in its tracks. His brain lights on the safest answer: “My car.”
Sitting behind the wheel of the Impala has been the only place lately where Dean can breathe without feeling that crushing weight on his chest. The only place where he can let the tears fall and blame it on the wind. Nothing else in the world but a strong engine purring ahead of him, responding to his call; nothing but an empty road in front of him creating an almost believable illusion that he can just leave all his troubles behind.
It’s a sense of freedom that he can’t get anywhere else, not even in Lisa’s arms. A temporary relief that lasts only as long as it takes him to spare a glance at the empty passenger seat. And then everything comes crashing back.
The other guy raises an eyebrow. “Your car, huh? Hope it aint one of those little Asian toys, cuz dude, the two of us aint gonna fit easily into a back seat.”
“’67 Chevy Impala,” Dean replies on automatic. He thinks vaguely about hooking his keys out of his pocket and taking a step towards his baby, but he’s none too steady on his feet right now and if it wasn’t for the wall of the alley holding him up, he’s pretty sure he’d be on his ass.
“Awesome,” the other guy says appreciatively and takes a rough hold of Dean’s arm. “Let’s go.”
And that’s when Dean realizes that he can’t do it; can’t have this man in the same car where his brother’s spirit still seems so strong. Sammy’s ghost sits in the front passenger seat of the Impala – not a real ghost, not something he can salt and burn - that, at least, would be something he could deal with.
Sam haunts the Impala in a way that Dean finds both comforting and crushing.
Whenever the need to be close to his brother slams into him he gets in the car and hits the road, losing himself in his memories, driving until reality hits and the memories start to drown him, gnawing at him with callous whispers of never again; never, ever again and you should’ve done something, should’ve protected him. He’ll drive until his brother’s ghost gives him more pain than comfort, until his eyes are red and wet, lashed by the whipping slipstream, even when the windows are up. Finally, he’ll pull into the garage, park carefully, pull the keys reverentially out of the ignition and put them in his pocket. Inevitably, Lisa will find him several hours and way too much Jack later sprawled across the front seat. She’ll put her arms around him, whisper soft meaningless words in his ear and help him stagger out of the car and into bed. It’s getting old and he knows that he’s going to have to start making an effort soon.
Lisa knew what she was signing on for, to a point. She’s seen him in denial; watched all his crazy, frenetic research for a way to bring Sammy back from the pit; she’d coped with his anger when he’d realized that he couldn’t do it, and that maybe, this time, Sam was really gone. He’d skipped the bargaining stage because God and the angels were dicks and he wasn’t talking to them; and bargaining with demons, yeah, that didn’t go so well last time. So he’d moved straight on to depression. Lisa understands his grief; it doesn’t change the fact that she has a kid to consider and if Dean doesn’t even try to move from depression to acceptance she’s gonna cut him loose eventually. He knows this, he really does. And yet here he is; in a no-name alley, outside a no-name bar, in a no-name town, dealing with his grief and self-loathing in the tried and true Winchester way; pushing as much of it as he can down with alcohol and letting the rest come out in random sex and violence.
“Dean?”
Dean blinks and wishes he could remember the other guy’s name. He’s big; as tall as Sammy and a little broader, with short dark hair and tattooed sleeves.
“Uh, yeah,” Dean says, “On second thoughts maybe we should just do this here?”
The guy grins, predatory and possessive.
“Works for me.”
He crowds into Dean’s personal space and fists his hands in his tee-shirt. He stares at Dean for a moment, his pupils lust blown, before he lunges forward and smashes his lips roughly against Dean’s. Stubble, Dean thinks vaguely, prickly, and then the guy’s hot, wet tongue forces its way between his lips and past his teeth, licking and thrusting and demanding. Dean doesn’t really want this, the kissing, but he allows it because in a way, that’s kind of the point. The guy pulls off with an abrupt moan.
“Wanna feel those lips around my cock,” he groans.
Dean drops to his knees and the guy moans again and swears under his breath. He unzips and drops his pants and Dean goes to work, sucking and licking, humming and stroking. The asphalt is cold and bumpy under his knees and there’s a tiny stone poking painfully into him. He doesn’t care; welcomes it even.
“Fuck,” the guy yanks hard on Dean’s hair and his dick slips out of Dean's mouth with an obscene pop.
“Up,” the guy demands, dragging Dean to his feet, “Turn around, get ‘em down.”
Dean complies quickly, widening his legs as far as his lowered jeans will let him when the guy tells him to spread ‘em. He puts his hands, palms flat, on the brick wall, leans forwards and waits. He hears a squelching noise and looks over his shoulder. The guy has a sample-size tube of lube and is squeezing the stuff onto his fingers.
“No,” says Dean.
The guy looks crestfallen.
“You’ve changed your mind?”
Dean shakes his head.
“Just fuck me already.”
The guy frowns.
“But…..I don’t wanna hurt you, dude.”
Dean turns back to the wall.
“This aint about what you want.”
There’s a moment’s silence and then Dean hears a faint crackling noise and sees an empty condom packet tumble to the ground near his feet. He turns his head again and sees the other guy slicking the lube from his fingers onto his sheathed dick. Dean makes a noise of frustration and the guy looks up.
“Hey,” he says, “you want me to fuck you without prep, I will. Hell, you want me to, I’ll fuck you so hard and so rough you won’t be walkin’ straight for a week. But aint no way I’m getting a friction burn on my own dick on account of you being a sick fuck. So deal with it.”
Dean turns back to the wall again.
“Gonna do it this century, Romeo?” he goads.
Cold hands grip his ass and pull his cheeks apart. He feels the smooth, blunt, slightly moist head of the guy’s dick press up against his hole and he breathes out, making himself relax. The guy grips his hips hard and gives a short, sharp thrust. The head, and maybe an inch more, breaches the first ring of muscle and damn if it doesn’t feel good.
“C’mon,” Dean growls. He tries to push back, but the other guy isn’t having any of that. He holds Dean still, waits until he stops struggling and then leans forwards. “You’ll take exactly what I give you,” he whispers in Dean’s ear, “It’s what you want, isn’t it? To be used?” His tone is filthy and it shoots straight to Dean’s dick, which twitches its approval.
He gives a low moan and leans his forehead against the rough brick wall.
“Less talking, more fucking,” he complains.
The other guy chuckles darkly and then snaps his hips forward, seating himself to the hilt in one powerful thrust.
“Fuck!” Dean gasps. It hadn’t exactly escaped his notice that the guy was proportional, but holy-mother-fuckin’-son-of-a-bitch….that hurt.
“Breathe, Dean,” the guy says, so Dean does. The guy’s holding himself completely still, giving Dean time to adjust. Dean can feel him trembling with the effort and he admires his self-control, but that’s not what he wants.
“Go for it,” Dean tells him.
“You sure?”
Dean growls. “Wouldn’t say it if I wasn’t.”
The guy lets himself go, slamming into Dean hard and fast and deep. As he thrusts, he pulls Dean back onto his cock, fucking him ruthlessly, practically splitting him in two, and hitting his prostate every other thrust. The pleasure/pain drives everything from Dean’s mind and he feels pure, cleansed. The other guy reaches around and grabs his cock. Dean fucks up into his hand once, twice, three times and then comes so hard he bangs his head on the brick wall. His orgasm tips the other guy over the edge and he sucks in a harsh breath, moans, and then hammers into Dean hard before collapsing against his back, causing Dean’s cheek to scrape against the bricks.
“Dude,” Dean says after a moment, “Get out.”
“Right. Sorry.” Dean winces as the guy pulls out.
“You okay?” the guy asks.
Dean yanks his jeans up and buckles his belt.
“Dean?”
Dean glances over his shoulder.
“You still here?” he says, no emotion in his voice.
The guy looks faintly hurt. “Got what you came for, huh?”
“That’s right,” Dean won’t meet his eyes. “So thanks and all, but…”
The guy folds his arms over his chest and raises an eyebrow.
“Okay,” Dean says, “Bye.”
He limps past the guy and heads towards the Impala. He’s sobered up a lot in the last ten minutes; he’s probably still over the legal limit but he feels safe enough to drive.
“Hey?” the other guy’s voice calls after him.
Dean slows down but doesn’t stop.
“At least I made good on my promise! You’ll be feelin’ that for a week!”
Dean snorts out a laugh and the guy grins and heads back towards the bar.
Dean keeps a handful of refresher towelettes, lifted from fast food joints, in the glove box. He gets a couple out now and cleans himself up. He has red finger marks on his hips and some of them will probably bruise. It’s going to be a bitch to explain to Lisa - and so are his slightly swollen lips and the grazes on his face, but he’ll jump off that bridge when he gets to it.
“I thought you weren’t gonna do this anymore?”
Dean turns and looks at the ghost of Sam, sitting reproachfully in the passenger seat.
“No, you said I wasn’t gonna do this anymore. I never agreed.”
“Semantics,” the ghost of Sam says airily. His face becomes solemn. “Dude, you’re gonna mess things up with Lisa if you keep this shit up.”
Dean shrugs. “She doesn’t need to know.”
The ghost of Sam huffs. “She’s not stupid, you know. She’s gonna ask questions and then what are you gonna do? Lie to her?”
Dean shakes his head.
“Lisa knows better than to ask questions.”
“So you’re just gonna avoid and deflect, refuse to have ‘chick flick moments,’ drink too much and do self-destructive shit like this.” He waves his arms around effusively.
“Why the hell not?” Dean spits, “It worked for us.”
The ghost of Sam laughs. “Dude, it never worked for us. How do you think we got in this mess in the first place?”
Dean concedes quietly that Sammy may actually have a point. Not that he’d ever tell him that.
Dean sighs. Case in point.
“You may be right,” he admits, and is rewarded by a smile of approval.
“Do you wanna talk about it?” the ghost of Sam asks.
Dean snorts. “I have figured out that you’re my sub conscious talking, you know. Don’t exactly need college psych 101 to figure that one out.”
The ghost of Sam smiles. “And the fact that you can see me?”
Dean grins. “Means I shouldn’t be puttin’ this key anywhere near this ignition.”
He starts up the Impala and turns to look at his brother.
“I really want this to work for you,” the ghost of Sammy tells him, “Lisa, Ben. I want you to have this. It was practically my dying wish.”
Dean snorts. “Remember how much notice you took of my dying wish?”
The ghost of Sam nods. “And look where that got us.”
Dean sighs and quietly concedes that point too.
“What are you gonna tell Lisa?” the ghost of Sammy asks.
Dean shrugs.
“I’ll answer any question she asks.”
The ghost of Sam nods. “It’s a start,” he says gently, and Dean knows that if he meets Sam’s soulful eyes he’s going to start crying, so he concentrates on driving.
“Do you still need me?” the ghost of Sam asks, “or can we both move on now?”
“I guess we have to, don’t we?”
Dean looks at the passenger seat again but it’s empty.
He puts Bon Jovi’s ‘Wanted dead or alive’ on repeat and listens to it all the way home. He doesn’t even try to pretend that his streaming eyes are being caused by the wind.
When he pulls into the garage, he parks the Impala carefully, takes the keys out of the ignition reverentially and gets out of the car. He covers his baby with a tarpaulin and heads straight into the house.
Lisa looks surprised, then pleased, then worried.
“You look like shit,” she says.
Dean manages a faint smile. “It’s been a rough evening.”
She looks at him thoughtfully.
“Are you okay?” she asks.
Dean goes and sits down next to her, knees apart, elbows resting on his knees. He turns his head and meets her eyes.
“Not really,” he says, “But I will be.”
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2011-04-02 06:55 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-04-02 07:58 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-04-02 02:57 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-04-03 12:14 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-04-02 05:17 pm (UTC)Dude! I love what you did with just those two little lines. This is heart-wrenching, raw and oh-so-perfectly Dean! Very well done!
"Sam haunts the Impala in a way that Dean finds both comforting and crushing." Loved that line!
On a curiosity note, this was written for a 'grief' card on the SPN hurt/comfort bingo card and I have to say, you've hit the nail perfectly *two thumbs up*
no subject
Date: 2011-04-03 12:24 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-04-03 02:32 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-04-03 06:40 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-04-03 04:09 am (UTC)I also liked Dean's conversation with his imagined ghost of Sam. It was sad but sweet, as was the last line. Thank you for sharing this!
no subject
Date: 2011-04-03 06:48 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-05-29 08:08 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-05-29 11:35 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-11-01 12:31 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-11-08 04:31 am (UTC)