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mistalagan for <user site="livejournal.com" use
Jun. 15th, 2012 03:16 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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spn_springflingTitle: Inconsolable
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Rating: PG-13
Any warnings: Genderbent Dean, spoilers for all of season 7; poem is "Scheherazade" by Richard Siken
Written bymistalagan for redbells!
Deanna Winchester carries the outline of her mother etched around her bones, one hundred and ten pounds of aching black ectoplasm dripping tomato soup and lullabies and feminine mystique. As she lifts the wet and heavy coat up out of the chilly water she feels Mary’s hands through her, grasping at John’s silent body—but Deanna Winchester could never be Mary, so, even now, she tries her hardest to be John.
Sammy subsists on coffee and cream, Bobby on rotgut and his rotten, stubborn guts, and Deanna stays awake with anger and acid and her own bitterness. Sammy wants to talk, and Bobby wants to research, but Deanna wants to scream, to shatter things, to murder dead and damned souls. Deanna wants to wipe away the memory of a handprint scar on her skin, Deanna tells him spitefully, "I know you're listening," Deanna tells him, "I wish you'd never found me, I wish I was in hell," Deanna holds the coat to her lips and howls forever into its vast deafness.
Sammy, though, has gone mad. Bobby's tired. Deanna's just fine. She gives Sammy water, water and a rock to stand on.
Deanna Winchester had never been one to turn down a good-looking man who she'd never see again, but when she could have offered herself she picked a brothel instead (maybe, just maybe, they'd live through the night). They always looked at her funny, in those places, but she just grinned at them like she knew what she was doing and laughed her ass off when he got kicked out. Maybe, just maybe, she was relieved.
Deanna Winchester tried to give him two-lane roads and antique diners, Deanna Winchester gave him fake IDs and sweet red meat, but he just blinked and frowned; Deanna Winchester tried to tell him, like she tells everyone (now, even now), she wasn't a Mary, just a John, but she wanted him anyway and she couldn't give him anything else. Deanna Winchester met her namesake, all his fault, and tried to be like Deanna Campbell for a few days before crashing back down from that pedestal, too.
Deanna Winchester met his eye, and watched him stare right back, and, inexplicably, laughed.
Deanna Winchester wakes up wild with the grief she is not allowed to want, and Deanna Winchester walks up to a nice solid door where she sees him again, blank and confused but still less so than he had ever been before. Deanna Winchester wants to ask him why, why he chose Emmanuel and a wife—she doesn't remember the name, but it's just another Mary—over her, even though she knows it wasn't his choice, really. Deanna Winchester watches him save Sammy like she can't anymore, and then she turns her back on his even blanker blue eyes; Deanna Winchester is angrier than before, Deanna Winchester thinks, now, now is the time to grieve.
Deanna Winchester is not allowed jealousy, either, and Deanna Winchester isn't Mary so she can't fall in love like a Mary does (heaven-sent). Deanna Winchester watches the tatters of herself be scattered by a demon (not Mary either, but the opposite is good enough, apparently, or better than Deanna). He is mad. She is madder.
Deanna Winchester watches the shards in his eyes, and Deanna Winchester listens when she's told, "The very touch of you corrupts," that she is a thing that ruins and tears away greatness, and she wants to believe it but also wants to ask, "What about me? Aren't I broken, too?"
Deanna Winchester wakes up in darkness, and there he is, condescending and curious as ever. Deanna Winchester almost reaches out to touch him, and turns, and then he has disappeared.
Deanna Winchester curses him when he's gone and swears at him when he comes back, and he just tilts his head, and she can't decide whether to slap him (or punch him, or knee him in the balls) or kiss him (because, fuck it, of all times why the hell not now?)
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Rating: PG-13
Any warnings: Genderbent Dean, spoilers for all of season 7; poem is "Scheherazade" by Richard Siken
Written by
mistalagan for redbells!Tell me about the dream where we pull the bodies out of the lake and dress them in warm clothes again.
Deanna Winchester carries the outline of her mother etched around her bones, one hundred and ten pounds of aching black ectoplasm dripping tomato soup and lullabies and feminine mystique. As she lifts the wet and heavy coat up out of the chilly water she feels Mary’s hands through her, grasping at John’s silent body—but Deanna Winchester could never be Mary, so, even now, she tries her hardest to be John.
How it was late, and no one could sleep, the horses running until they forgot they are horses.
Sammy subsists on coffee and cream, Bobby on rotgut and his rotten, stubborn guts, and Deanna stays awake with anger and acid and her own bitterness. Sammy wants to talk, and Bobby wants to research, but Deanna wants to scream, to shatter things, to murder dead and damned souls. Deanna wants to wipe away the memory of a handprint scar on her skin, Deanna tells him spitefully, "I know you're listening," Deanna tells him, "I wish you'd never found me, I wish I was in hell," Deanna holds the coat to her lips and howls forever into its vast deafness.
Sammy, though, has gone mad. Bobby's tired. Deanna's just fine. She gives Sammy water, water and a rock to stand on.
It's not like a tree where the roots have to end somewhere, it's more like a song on a policeman's radio, how we rolled up the carpet so we would dance, and the days were bright red, and every time we kissed there was another apple to slice into pieces.
Deanna Winchester had never been one to turn down a good-looking man who she'd never see again, but when she could have offered herself she picked a brothel instead (maybe, just maybe, they'd live through the night). They always looked at her funny, in those places, but she just grinned at them like she knew what she was doing and laughed her ass off when he got kicked out. Maybe, just maybe, she was relieved.
Deanna Winchester tried to give him two-lane roads and antique diners, Deanna Winchester gave him fake IDs and sweet red meat, but he just blinked and frowned; Deanna Winchester tried to tell him, like she tells everyone (now, even now), she wasn't a Mary, just a John, but she wanted him anyway and she couldn't give him anything else. Deanna Winchester met her namesake, all his fault, and tried to be like Deanna Campbell for a few days before crashing back down from that pedestal, too.
Deanna Winchester met his eye, and watched him stare right back, and, inexplicably, laughed.
Look at the light through the windowpane. That means it's noon, that means We're inconsolable.
Deanna Winchester wakes up wild with the grief she is not allowed to want, and Deanna Winchester walks up to a nice solid door where she sees him again, blank and confused but still less so than he had ever been before. Deanna Winchester wants to ask him why, why he chose Emmanuel and a wife—she doesn't remember the name, but it's just another Mary—over her, even though she knows it wasn't his choice, really. Deanna Winchester watches him save Sammy like she can't anymore, and then she turns her back on his even blanker blue eyes; Deanna Winchester is angrier than before, Deanna Winchester thinks, now, now is the time to grieve.
Tell me how all this, and love too, will ruin us.
Deanna Winchester is not allowed jealousy, either, and Deanna Winchester isn't Mary so she can't fall in love like a Mary does (heaven-sent). Deanna Winchester watches the tatters of herself be scattered by a demon (not Mary either, but the opposite is good enough, apparently, or better than Deanna). He is mad. She is madder.
Deanna Winchester watches the shards in his eyes, and Deanna Winchester listens when she's told, "The very touch of you corrupts," that she is a thing that ruins and tears away greatness, and she wants to believe it but also wants to ask, "What about me? Aren't I broken, too?"
These, our bodies, possessed by light. Tell me we'll never get used to it.
Deanna Winchester wakes up in darkness, and there he is, condescending and curious as ever. Deanna Winchester almost reaches out to touch him, and turns, and then he has disappeared.
Deanna Winchester curses him when he's gone and swears at him when he comes back, and he just tilts his head, and she can't decide whether to slap him (or punch him, or knee him in the balls) or kiss him (because, fuck it, of all times why the hell not now?)
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no subject
Date: 2012-06-15 02:46 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-06-15 05:52 pm (UTC)I ACTUALLY, LITERALLY, IN ALL SERIOUSNESS, CAN'T.
This is everything I ever wanted out of this prompt and more. So much more.
Every single word of this is just pitch-perfect, but this, oh god, this:
Deanna Winchester carries the outline of her mother etched around her bones, one hundred and ten pounds of aching black ectoplasm dripping tomato soup and lullabies and feminine mystique.
This line just makes me ache. Dean is so defined by his past, by John and by Sam but especially by Mary, and you've captured that perfectly, translated it to Deanna in a way that makes my heart hurt from the weight of it all.
I love that you incorporated the whole poem into the fic, and I love the lyricism of it all, and I just love it. I love everything about this fic. I would say I'll come back when I can be coherent but I can't say that because I will never, ever be coherent about this fic because it is so amazing.
Thank you so, so much. This is the absolute best gift ever.
no subject
Date: 2012-06-15 06:25 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-06-16 04:54 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-06-22 08:56 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-06-26 06:16 pm (UTC)