greenapple: sufjan plays the typewriter (writing)
[personal profile] greenapple
Beyond All Recognition
2500 words
August 2006
Adult content: concepts, situations, language, explicit sex
Summary: The reality of the emptiness between his legs hits him again, and he stands with one hand on the wall until he can move again. Until the black and the whitewater sound recedes, and he can see again. He pushes his face into his hand, cool fingers on his eyelids.

He stalks the path between the beds, from the lamp shelf to the television. Rolling his shoulders, his strides as long as he can make them, stomping down with bare feet onto the carpet, making hollow pat pat pats. His sweatpants are too big for him. He tugs them up, balls the material in his fist.

“Dean,” his father says. Head bowed over the laptop and notes in his lap, in stacks and orderly scatters on the table.

Dean stops his pacing; pops his neck and straightens his back, and the heavy weight on his chest shifts. Feels like he's got two waterballoons strapped to him. The reality of the emptiness between his legs hits him again, and he stands with one hand on the wall until he can move again. Until the black and the whitewater sound recedes, and he can see again. He pushes his face into his hand, cool fingers on his eyelids.

He grabs the Glock off the dresser. Unloads the magazine. Racks the slide and looks at the chamber; touches the tip of his little finger inside, less safety measure than act of devotion. Checks the mag, loads it. Just for something to do. Something he knows.


John is looking at him, but his face and eyes are inaccessible. Thinking, elsewhere. He nods, with his chin: a small gesture, an order.

Dean points the gun away and down. He shifts his weight, feels his waistband slide, in the silence, down over his hipbone. He grapples the material and yanks.

John leans back, and rests his head against the wall. One edge of his mouth worming up, then down. The light catches on the surface of his eyes. "Have you tried your jeans?" he says, consonants rolling soft around his tongue, as if he were speaking with a mouth full of honey.

The sonofabitch is laughing at him. Dean turns away before anything can show on his face. He rests his weight on one leg. Then the other. Stares at the bathroom door as if it's betrayed him somehow.

"Just go," John says.

Dean staggers forward as if his father had nudged him between his shoulders.


He takes the Glock with him. Rests it on the countertop. The polymer clicking on the ceramic. Stands and stares at it, willing his hands to move, his body to move.

Then he just does it. Shoves his pants down and they hit his knees, slide past and pool over his feet. Sits down so hard the seat rocks sideways in its hinges. The florescent light makes dark outlines around his hands, his fingers. He flexes his thumbs, tapered and strong and graceful. Rubs the callus on his knuckle and his hangnails scratch his skin.

He pisses, and it's less of a shock than he thought it would be. Stands, before he remembers, and drips wet down his thigh.


Dean slips his arms into his jacket. It's too big, and the weight of it pulls him down. His tshirt stretches too tight, making him feel heavier. He zips his jacket up over them.

"Where are you going?" John asks. He hadn't said a word to him while he was getting dressed. His naked back, his bare ass when he pulled on a clean pair of underwear.

"Out," Dean says, and makes a fist around his keys in his pocket.


"Why not?" Dean makes a face and flexes his shoulders.

John steeples his fingers and rubs them beside his nose and mouth. Lets his heavy eyelids fall closed, and his eyelashes flutter on his cheek.

John opens his eyes, and stands, leaning with his knuckles on the tabletop. "You're not going." He takes two steps toward Dean, hands loose at his sides. He stands over him. His shoulders shut out the light from the window.

Dean puffs up, starts to say something. John's hand is cold and hard and smooth on his bared hip. "You're staying here," he says. Dean looks down at his boots, at the rolled cuffs of his jeans. The circle of soft, white, frayed denim on his father's knee. At John's dark thumb, making a slow semicircle over his goosebump skin.

"If Sam were here, this wouldn't have happened. He wouldn't have made this mistake," he says. The voice is his, but he doesn't recognize it. The voice is his, but it sounds like singing.

"Maybe," John says, just as quietly.

It wasn't the answer he wanted to hear.

John takes his hand, as if he were a little boy again.

He squeezes his father's fingers tight, and John tugs him forward. Stands him in front of the huge rectangular mirror, the one he's been avoiding all day. He makes him look. Looms behind him with one hand on his shoulder, the other holding tight to his jaw. "What do you see?" he says, low and soft in his ear.

He sees short, bristled hair and stringy bangs. The same eyes, nose, the same mouth. Freckles and a smaller, more pointed chin, with the same cleft. Himself at ten, sixteen. He looks scared, round-eyed, and when he smirks: his mother, in the pictures.

"What if we can't fix this," John says.

Dean turns his back to the mirror and looks up, and he hasn’t been as small as this since the eighth grade, and in his dreams, he is always this small. "What do you mean 'if we can't fix this,' of course we can fix this!"

John digs his fingers into the round, soft muscle of his shoulder.


He lies awake, staring into the dark. His belly is warm. It itches from the inside. His chest tightens when he remembers the feel of his hand on his cock, the comfort in it. His stomach clenches on nothing, a dry heave, a silent laugh. He presses his hand to the mound of flesh (missing, gone.) Feels his cool fingers warming to the heat of him. Nudges flesh aside to find his clit.

Familiar, under his hand. Tugs it between his fingers, and frowns at the strange dead feel of it. Buries his fingers down inside the folds of flesh, circles around his cunt, only the barest hint of wetness. The pressure in him builds, insistent, and he pushes a fingertip inside. Feels it clench around him. He guesses it should feel good, but he can only think: out, out. He rolls his head on the pillow. John is snoring softly, his mouth slack, lips parted. The hair on his arms is dark, against the hazy glow of sheets.


"I don't fucking want breakfast," he snaps, when John tosses a muffin at him. He stares at the long, golden hair on his legs; at his toes. He kicks his dirty tshirt across the floor and it lands under the table.

The tickle and pressure hums all through him. It makes his skin itch. Everything is too bright, too loud. His mouth feels like a bruise. His tits rub against the fabric of his shirt, and it's like teeth on tinfoil, and he feels like screaming. They're sweaty, the skin beneath is starting to chafe, and he'd love to just cut them off.

John cocks an eyebrow. "That time of the month?"

It should be funny, Dean should be laughing with his father, but it feels strangely like cruelty and he doesn't know why. "Fuck you," he says, without thinking, and claps his hand over his mouth. His eyes open wide.

John smiles.

A warmth starts in his belly, spreads to his chest, his tits, his cunt. His lips. All the soft places in him ballooning outward, aching and hot.

"What the hell?" he says, and drops heavy on the edge of the bed. His tits slap against his chest. "What the hell is this?"


He paces the room. Flicks aside the curtains with his fingers. Field strips his father's shotgun and cleans it. Takes inventory. Watches the tv guide channel.

Snaps the plastic package off the muffin and unscrews the top, and shoots the stub into the wastebasket. Licks blueberry off his fingers, and chews with his mouth open.

He thinks about leaving the room, going after his father; about his first hunt, when he was twelve.

Thinks about Sam, about the adrenaline rush of working shoulder-to-shoulder with someone you trust completely, someone you know completely. The bitter hollow feel of betrayal.

Thinks about the first time he ever went down on a girl, how scared and awed and turned on he was, the smell and feel and taste of her on his face.


He lies on his stomach and rocks against his hand, muffling his harsh breathing with the pillow. He wets his free hand with his own pussy and presses it to his face, rubs the slick over his nose, his lips. Sucks on his fingers until they only taste like spit.

There's no focus, he's everywhere, he’s everything; everything pulses and he makes sexy mewling sounds that push him over the edge, and he's coming.

Each contraction like a tiny supernova.


John says, "You're in a good mood," but he's frowning and running his hand over his dirty hair; scratching his beard.

Dean's smile fades. "What did you find?"

John turns away. Standing with his hands tight on the back of the chair. He tips it back, two of its legs in the air, and lets them fall back with a heavy thump.


"You're shitting me."

John won't look at him; only stares down at his hands, clasped between his knees.

"You're kidding!" Dean says, and his thighs squeeze tight against each other. "There has got to be some other way. This is bullshit. It's total bullshit."

"Dean," John says, his voice harsh for the first time in two days.

Dean's mouth snaps shut and his back straightens. His nipples make tiny bumps beneath his tshirt, and an icy flush crawls across his skin. His father pats his knee and he jerks it away.

"This is bullshit," Dean whispers.


They wait for dark. "It'll be easier," John says, and Dean googles: "Blackroot, MT," "witches," "history." "Blackroot, MT," "local folklore." "Blackroot, MT," "I am fucked."

John flips through tv channels, the volume turned to a low hum, a language untranslatable. "It’s no good," he says. “We’ve already done all that. There’s no other way.” and his voice creaks, and he sounds like an old man.

"I know," Dean says.


"I'm not going to hurt you," his father says, and he squats on his heels before him. John slides down, until he's sitting, his back to the bed. He unbuckles his belt. It jingles like winter music. He unbuttons, lifts his hips a little to unzip his fly. He says, "Come here."

Dean slides down off his bed and his tshirt slides up over his stomach. A brown, flat, naked triangle between his legs. He looks away, tangles his fingers in his shirt and pulls it over his head, and his breasts bounce and slap together. The aureolae wide, and light, almost invisible. The nipples perfect, pink buds. "You can call me something else," he says. "I don't mind."

John spreads open the fly of his jeans. No underwear. His cock bobs out, his hair wild and thick and dark. Dean's seen it before, plenty of times. But never hard. Never so thick and insistent and demanding. He makes a noise in his throat, and he closes his legs, covers himself with his hand. "What if this doesn't work?" he says.

"It will work. But you have to come here." John scoots down farther, spreads his legs wider. Flexes his ankle, and the cool leather of his boot caresses Dean’s thigh.

"What about a loophole or something? Can't I just do it myself? What if another chick does it?"

"It has to be blood, Dean."

"Sam," he starts, grasping at anything, anything but this.

"Sam's not here," John says, pained. He doesn’t raise his voice, doesn’t need to. Only says, "Come here, and that's an order." There is no humor in it, and no anger.

Dean lowers himself onto his father's lap. John's cock twitches beneath him.

"Do what you have to do," John says, like he’s trying to swallow his tongue. "But I'm not touching you. You got it? This is just like any other job. I'll help you through it, but it has to be all you. You understand me?" His breath catches; his chest shakes trying to take in enough air.

The shaft of his father's cock is slippery from his pussy. He braces his hands on the mattress above John's shoulders and slides forward along the length of it, like a little kissing mouth; heat to heat. John’s breath is hot on his shoulder.

"You're wet," he says, and bites the inside of his cheek. Dean feels him tighten beneath him.

"It's okay," Dean whispers.


It feels like he’s burning, his father is poison, there’s acid in his cunt, and he tries to slide back up, and off, but John holds him down with two big hands around his waist.

"Don't back out on me, come on," John says. Breathes and grunts through his nose and leans forward to whisper against Dean's hair. "Come on, kiddo, you can do it."

He twists, he falls, he tears open, and his father's cock slides hot and thick inside him, and John’s arms are tight around him, and he kisses the soft curve of his breast.

The air feels like water all around him, feels like humming in a lightning storm, and when he rocks his father inside of him, John tongues his nipple inside his mouth and sucks, and rolls it between his teeth.

"That's it," Dean said. "Right? It's done?" His voice breathless and tight.

They are both still. He can hear cars outside on the interstate, the murmur of someone’s tv through the walls.

Then John tilts his hips, moving inside of him, the smallest touch inside of him. Up, and in.

Dean palms the back of his father's neck and moans, and raises himself up with his smooth, muscular thighs and slams himself back down.


His daddy pets his hair, strong fingers through the short, sweaty stubs behind his ears. Twists his longer bangs around into a curl, and lets it fall back onto his eyes. The curve of his palm fits perfectly over the curve and swell of his ass. Dean hides his smile against his arm. He bites down, to hold in his laugh.


When the change happens, he can’t do anything but curl in a ball and shut his eyes and grit his teeth around the pain.


When he opens his eyes, his father is gone.