SPN gen fic - Penance - PG13 (gen)
First - I want to shamelessly pimp the lovely dvd commentary that longhairedlady did for Conversational Winchester for Trolls. It's here, and it made me tear up a little.
Next, I have fic.If there's one Supernatural episode that I can't leave alone, it's Something Wicked. All that lovely repressed daddy angst, it's too much for me to resist...
TITLE: Penance
RATING: PG13 (gen)
CHARACTERS: Dean, Sammy and Pastor Jim
DISCLAIMER: Not mine
NOTES: 1100 words. Set for Something Wicked. Pastor Jim knows something about penance.
John doesn’t stay long. He arrives in the half-light of not-quite-dawn, offering the gruffly cryptic ‘boys need to be somewhere safe’, then heads out again, muttering something about unfinished business. Seems like it’s always unfinished business where John Winchester’s concerned.
Jim doesn’t mind. Truth be told, he rather likes the company the boys provide. This house, it’s too big for one, too many rooms echoing with the sounds of silent ghosts.
He loves to hear the protesting shriek of the treads when the boys thunder downstairs, the heavy thunk as they jump from the third or fourth stair up. The skitter and skid of feet scrabbling for purchase on the ancient worn runner in the hall. The bang of doors bouncing off the walls, handles gouging out chunks of plaster. The teasing and whining and shoving and pouting, the breathless rush of laughter that floats through the house, bright and sharp as morning sunlight.
Not this time. There’s no running and jumping and shouting this time.
Dean is quiet. Not silent; he answers questions when asked - mostly with a yes, sir or no, sir - but he does answer them. But he’s tiptoeing around the place almost - hesitantly. That’s not a word that Jim generally associates with Dean.
Sammy takes his lead from his big brother, as always, and he’s quieter than usual. Quieter, but not on a par with Dean. Dean is a silent shadow of himself, appearing in rooms so suddenly that a couple of times Jim’s been caught off guard, breath snagging in his chest, heartbeat thudding wildly in his ears.
The first day Dean spends out back, target practice with Jim’s old BB gun. He knows that Dean’s more than used to a .22, but he’s not sure his parishioners would approve of a ten-year-old handling an adult’s gun. The BB gun’s his way of keeping the boy happy; because Dean tells him he has to practice. Begs him almost, voice soft, the quiet desperation of a plea in his tone.
Dean cleans and oils the gun in the evening, spends a while on it, testing the action over and over to make sure it’s smooth and easy. When he finally finishes, he asks if Jim needs any weapons cleaned, but Jim just smiles and tells Dean to take it easy, watch a little television with Sammy. Dean’s face twists, briefly, then he obeys, sits in the armchair and watches Sam watch TV.
Second day, Dean is up early, breakfast made, coffee pot on the go, Sammy dressed and fed, all before Jim makes it downstairs. He finds Dean finishing up the breakfast dishes, wanting to know if Jim has any odd jobs that need doing around the place.
He asks it in that same pleading tone, head ducked, eyes downcast, unwilling to meet Jim’s gaze.
On the fence out back, the paint is starting to wear, peeling off the wood in dry flakes. It’s one of those jobs that Jim’s been meaning to get to, but keeps putting off with increasingly ridiculous excuses. It’s too hot. There’s too much rain. It’s too cold. He’s too old.
He sets Dean to it. The boy spends the morning scrubbing at the fence to take off the worst of the original whitewash, then sands it down before starting in on the new layer of paint.
Sammy joins in; content to be working alongside his big brother, although his support is more moral than physical, as Dean ends up having to repaint the areas that Sam has tackled. The appeal of whitewashing wanes quickly, however. Sammy is soon wallowing elbow-deep in the paint pot. He swipes coated fingers over his cheeks, and then whoops a menacing war cry, which would normally have Dean responding in similar fashion. But Dean just smiles encouragingly at him, keeps on painting.
Sammy comes in for lunch early, and Jim spends a vigorous, but ultimately futile half-hour with soap and dilute white spirits. He’s quietly relieved when Sam declares that ’Painting’s boring, Pastor Jim’, and flops down on the back porch with a book instead.
Dean doesn’t hear when Jim calls him for lunch. He’s working steadily, almost half the fence done, bright-white against the bleached wood of the unpainted boards. Jim leaves the sandwich and glass of milk for him on the porch, then walks out to check on the boy.
It’s hot, now, sun at its zenith, beating down hard, bright and unforgiving. Dean kneels at the fence, head bent, the nape of his neck exposed. When Jim approaches, he sees a scarlet band of skin at the top of Dean’s collar, matching red on the tops of his ears. Dean starts, squints up at Jim through the glare, and there are dark freckles painted over his peeling nose.
He tells Jim he wants to finish the first coat; the paint will only dry on the brush if he stops now. Jim nods, doesn’t push it.
He remembers when John brought the boys to stay a couple of years ago, and Dean had disappeared one morning. They’d searched everywhere; house, church, fields, and then Jim remembered the crypt. They’d found Dean there among the weapons, not touching, but that didn’t matter to John. Dean knew it was forbidden territory. He’d grabbed the kid and hauled him up to the house, Dean’s feet barely touching the ground.
Jim had pleaded Dean’s case - ‘boys will be boys, John, no harm done’ - but John hadn’t been swayed. Justice had been dispensed, swift and painful, but Jim remembers mostly how forgiveness had been granted immediately after. Dean had apologized, properly remorseful, but there’d been no guilt-tripping. John had made sure of that.
Jim wonders exactly what kind of unfinished business could have allowed John to condemn his son to suffer such crippling guilt.
Dean doesn’t tell him. He won’t, no matter how gently Jim coaxes. Confession is good for the soul, but Dean won’t allow himself the luxury of admission. Instead the boy carries his guilt as penance, a punishment for whatever unforgivable sin he believes he committed.
Jim rests his hand on Dean’s shoulder and the muscles there are tight, bunched and corded with tension. He longs to tell Dean that he’s absolved, his atonement is complete, but the familiar words die on his lips. Forgiveness is not his to grant, Dean answers only to a higher power, and Jim does not speak for John Winchester.
So he tells Dean that his lunch is on the porch when he’s ready, then he stands up and leaves Dean to work out his penance.
Next, I have fic.If there's one Supernatural episode that I can't leave alone, it's Something Wicked. All that lovely repressed daddy angst, it's too much for me to resist...
TITLE: Penance
RATING: PG13 (gen)
CHARACTERS: Dean, Sammy and Pastor Jim
DISCLAIMER: Not mine
NOTES: 1100 words. Set for Something Wicked. Pastor Jim knows something about penance.
John doesn’t stay long. He arrives in the half-light of not-quite-dawn, offering the gruffly cryptic ‘boys need to be somewhere safe’, then heads out again, muttering something about unfinished business. Seems like it’s always unfinished business where John Winchester’s concerned.
Jim doesn’t mind. Truth be told, he rather likes the company the boys provide. This house, it’s too big for one, too many rooms echoing with the sounds of silent ghosts.
He loves to hear the protesting shriek of the treads when the boys thunder downstairs, the heavy thunk as they jump from the third or fourth stair up. The skitter and skid of feet scrabbling for purchase on the ancient worn runner in the hall. The bang of doors bouncing off the walls, handles gouging out chunks of plaster. The teasing and whining and shoving and pouting, the breathless rush of laughter that floats through the house, bright and sharp as morning sunlight.
Not this time. There’s no running and jumping and shouting this time.
Dean is quiet. Not silent; he answers questions when asked - mostly with a yes, sir or no, sir - but he does answer them. But he’s tiptoeing around the place almost - hesitantly. That’s not a word that Jim generally associates with Dean.
Sammy takes his lead from his big brother, as always, and he’s quieter than usual. Quieter, but not on a par with Dean. Dean is a silent shadow of himself, appearing in rooms so suddenly that a couple of times Jim’s been caught off guard, breath snagging in his chest, heartbeat thudding wildly in his ears.
The first day Dean spends out back, target practice with Jim’s old BB gun. He knows that Dean’s more than used to a .22, but he’s not sure his parishioners would approve of a ten-year-old handling an adult’s gun. The BB gun’s his way of keeping the boy happy; because Dean tells him he has to practice. Begs him almost, voice soft, the quiet desperation of a plea in his tone.
Dean cleans and oils the gun in the evening, spends a while on it, testing the action over and over to make sure it’s smooth and easy. When he finally finishes, he asks if Jim needs any weapons cleaned, but Jim just smiles and tells Dean to take it easy, watch a little television with Sammy. Dean’s face twists, briefly, then he obeys, sits in the armchair and watches Sam watch TV.
Second day, Dean is up early, breakfast made, coffee pot on the go, Sammy dressed and fed, all before Jim makes it downstairs. He finds Dean finishing up the breakfast dishes, wanting to know if Jim has any odd jobs that need doing around the place.
He asks it in that same pleading tone, head ducked, eyes downcast, unwilling to meet Jim’s gaze.
On the fence out back, the paint is starting to wear, peeling off the wood in dry flakes. It’s one of those jobs that Jim’s been meaning to get to, but keeps putting off with increasingly ridiculous excuses. It’s too hot. There’s too much rain. It’s too cold. He’s too old.
He sets Dean to it. The boy spends the morning scrubbing at the fence to take off the worst of the original whitewash, then sands it down before starting in on the new layer of paint.
Sammy joins in; content to be working alongside his big brother, although his support is more moral than physical, as Dean ends up having to repaint the areas that Sam has tackled. The appeal of whitewashing wanes quickly, however. Sammy is soon wallowing elbow-deep in the paint pot. He swipes coated fingers over his cheeks, and then whoops a menacing war cry, which would normally have Dean responding in similar fashion. But Dean just smiles encouragingly at him, keeps on painting.
Sammy comes in for lunch early, and Jim spends a vigorous, but ultimately futile half-hour with soap and dilute white spirits. He’s quietly relieved when Sam declares that ’Painting’s boring, Pastor Jim’, and flops down on the back porch with a book instead.
Dean doesn’t hear when Jim calls him for lunch. He’s working steadily, almost half the fence done, bright-white against the bleached wood of the unpainted boards. Jim leaves the sandwich and glass of milk for him on the porch, then walks out to check on the boy.
It’s hot, now, sun at its zenith, beating down hard, bright and unforgiving. Dean kneels at the fence, head bent, the nape of his neck exposed. When Jim approaches, he sees a scarlet band of skin at the top of Dean’s collar, matching red on the tops of his ears. Dean starts, squints up at Jim through the glare, and there are dark freckles painted over his peeling nose.
He tells Jim he wants to finish the first coat; the paint will only dry on the brush if he stops now. Jim nods, doesn’t push it.
He remembers when John brought the boys to stay a couple of years ago, and Dean had disappeared one morning. They’d searched everywhere; house, church, fields, and then Jim remembered the crypt. They’d found Dean there among the weapons, not touching, but that didn’t matter to John. Dean knew it was forbidden territory. He’d grabbed the kid and hauled him up to the house, Dean’s feet barely touching the ground.
Jim had pleaded Dean’s case - ‘boys will be boys, John, no harm done’ - but John hadn’t been swayed. Justice had been dispensed, swift and painful, but Jim remembers mostly how forgiveness had been granted immediately after. Dean had apologized, properly remorseful, but there’d been no guilt-tripping. John had made sure of that.
Jim wonders exactly what kind of unfinished business could have allowed John to condemn his son to suffer such crippling guilt.
Dean doesn’t tell him. He won’t, no matter how gently Jim coaxes. Confession is good for the soul, but Dean won’t allow himself the luxury of admission. Instead the boy carries his guilt as penance, a punishment for whatever unforgivable sin he believes he committed.
Jim rests his hand on Dean’s shoulder and the muscles there are tight, bunched and corded with tension. He longs to tell Dean that he’s absolved, his atonement is complete, but the familiar words die on his lips. Forgiveness is not his to grant, Dean answers only to a higher power, and Jim does not speak for John Winchester.
So he tells Dean that his lunch is on the porch when he’s ready, then he stands up and leaves Dean to work out his penance.