FIC: Of Bastard Saints, 8
May. 15th, 2006 11:09 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
nilchanceTitle: Of Bastard Saints
Authors:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
nilchance and beanside
Rating: Adult
Disclaimer: We make no claim of ownership on the Brothers and Daddy Winchester. No infringement is intended, no money is made.
Author Notes: Set after the episode "Devil's Trap."
WARNINGS: Character maiming, more angst than you can shake a stick at, WIP.
South Dakota basically sucked, Jason decided. In a huge, uninteresting way.
Sure, the bikes around Sturgis were sweet, but otherwise, it was boring. Compared to three days with the Vikings in Ragnar, Minnesota, it blew.
Sven and his buddies had proven to be astoundingly generous, supplying him with food, and weaponry. Sven's wife was a metalsmith, and had been happy to provide the lucky wolf with a custom made machete. Much to Jason's chagrin, he'd been... adopted, somehow. Those damned names had been proof enough that he was one of theirs. They'd thrown another party the night he left (mostly because damn, that town loved a party; another group of decent alcoholics), and had given him Old Man Anders' motorcycle. It was a temperamental bitch, but it ran.
Jason looked around the deserted road, and kicked the bike. It ran some of the time, at least.
"Have a problem?" a smooth voice asked.
Fucking hell! Jason hadn't heard steps. He started, hand going to the gun at his back, and spun towards the sound. A tall man slipped out from behind the wheel of a softly purring Corvette, and headed towards him. Nice car. The guy, not so much. He stank of cigarette smoke.
Jason stepped back, unease curling in the pit of his stomach. "Nah. Just ran out of gas. My buddy left to get some, should be back soon. But thanks for stopping," he added, forcing a smile.
"Your buddy?" the man asked, and laughed. "Oh, I think we know better. You're all alone."
'We'. That didn't bode well for Jason's evening. He glanced on all sides, which were nothing but open cornfields, and didn't see anyone else advancing. "Dude. You need to back off."
The man continued forward in slow, measured steps. It brought him too close, close enough to grab. Jason started backing up, and Corvette followed him. "No, I don't think I do. We're supposed to watch you. See where you go. I think it's bullshit. Just another smokescreen. I say we end it now."
And the man came for him, arms outstretched and grabbing, his face twisted in hunger.
Jason pulled the gun and fired, point blank at the man's chest.
The man fell backwards, arms flailing, but he didn't go down. He should've gone down, what the- but the man stopped his backward momentum, straightening with that same twisted smile. "Nice shot. My turn." His arm swept out, hand catching Jason with tremendous force, sending him flying.
Flying? That couldn't be a good thing, shouldn't have been able to- shouldn't have-
Landing, Jason quickly found, was worse. He ended up in a heap, nearly fifteen feet from the bike. "The fuck," he wheezed, scrambling to his feet.
The man smiled, looking down at the hole in his chest, and Jason's breath came faster. Shit. Couldn't be happening, couldn't be happening. Oh fuck. Its eyes-black. Like the mugger. Like the whistler.
Jason could hear an engine rattling down the road, possible help, but it would be too late. Wouldn't matter. It was all up to him. With a hiss of metal, the machete slid from its sheath.
The thing moved towards him, a look of amusement on his face. "That's more like it, more like a-"
Jason didn't let him finish. Instead, he snapped a kick at its knee, dropping to avoid its grasping hands. It stumbled back, snarled and flicked a hand at him. Jason felt something grip his throat. The invisible vise squeezed, and he struggled, trying to breathe around it.
"Pathetic," the thing crooned, sadly shaking its head. "You'll die just like your brother, on your knees and begging for mercy."
Even in the chokehold, Jason felt his head snap back from the searing pain within. There was something, some memory- Fuck this. He hefted the machete, drew his arm back and let it fly.
The creature's eyes widened as the machete sliced into its throat, and the phantom hand released Jason. Jason stumbled but kept his feet, stalking towards it, scooping up the gun as he went. "Sonofabitch," he croaked.
It stared at Jason, eyes wide, hands trying to clutch at the ruin of its throat. "No," it rasped. "Wouldn't- you wouldn't- the body-"
"You don't want to die?" It shook its head, and Jason smiled. "Too bad. Die on your knees. Begging for mercy."
Emptying the gun into its head made a satisfying crater where the face should have been. It hit the pavement, jerking through its last muscle movements. Jason watched, bracing himself to kick in the wet remains of its skull if it tried to go for him. Normally decapitation worked, didn't it? It did in the movies.
Finally, the thing stilled.
Jason arched his back, listening to the series of pops. Rolled his neck to the side. Then he knelt, gingerly grabbing its body by the arm to drag it off the road.
The truck was still coming, slowly. Jason waited for it to keep going, tensing as it groaned to a stop beside him. As the driver's side door opened painfully, Jason said without much hope, "Um, it wasn't... human." At least he'd get the insanity plea.
"No shit, Sherlock." A tall, solidly built man slid out of the truck, his gun trained on the still form on the ground. He didn't look up at Jason, focused on the thing. His twang was thick as syrup. "Has it dusted yet?"
"Dust-what?" As the words left Jason's mouth, a tornado of black, brackish sand slid from the hole in the things face, whirling away on an unseen breeze. "Oh." Definitely the insanity plea, then.
The truck guy glanced up, one eyebrow crooked. His look intensified, taking Jason in for a long moment before he swore. "Shit. Thought you were a hitchhiker. You-Jesus, boy! Your daddy is worried sick over you. And what the holy hell did you do to your hair?"
Another spark of pain. First that thing about his brother, now his father... one second he was an orphan, and now he had more damned family than he knew what to do with. Jason shook it off, backing up another few steps to put room between him and the truck guy. The gun was still in his hands, but he'd emptied the clip. Jason held it out anyway, aiming it in the truck guy's general direction. "I think you've got the wrong guy," he warned. "Happens a lot. Why don't you just keep driving?"
Truck Guy stopped short, tilting his head to one side. He squinted at Jason. When he spoke again, his voice was lower. It was the voice of a man used to dealing with big, mean and stupid dogs. Talk them down, get them to heel. "Son, it's Bobby. I've known you since you were a pup. C'mon, now."
"I don't know you," Jason bit off. "Get back in the goddamned truck."
"No. You sure don't seem to, do you." Bobby slid the gun back into a holster at his side and held both hands up, open and empty. "All right. Put that thing away."
Jason ignored Bobby's open hands, looking instead at the center of Bobby's body. Bobby's posture said that he would be on Jason if Jason so much as lowered the gun. Bobby looked older, but he had more mass behind him. He could put Jason down if he got a chance.
Fucking ow, Jason's brain hurt to look at Bobby. There was a flurry of snapshots in his mind, quick impressions there and gone before Jason could grab at them. A junkyard, like a graveyard for classic cars. A gun range. A punching bag. Bleeding knuckles, stinging eyes, bruises on bruises from sparring. Sitting on the floor of a rickety shack, a makeshift bed of blankets and coats in front of an old potbellied stove with Bobby telling war stories to... to who, damn it? It was so close Jason could fucking taste it.
And then there was the last, brightest flash. The one that stayed. With terrible clarity, Jason could see the blond girl again, slumped in the chair she'd been tied to. Blood spilling out of her mouth as she looked up at Jason, human eyes in her beaten face. He'd seen that bit before; what was new was the memory that he hadn't been alone.
Bobby had been there. He'd helped Jason kill her. No, that wasn't quite- there had been someone else, someone-
For a second, the pain was so intense Jason thought he'd been shot. His fingers went numb, and he fumbled the gun, unable to see or to think. He caught it before it hit the ground, barely.
Then Bobby caught him by the scruff of his jacket, hauling him in a rough circle at arms length. Jason struggled to refocus, managed to get his hands up in time to avoid being bounced off the hood of Bobby's truck. The gun clattered away under the truck, out of reach.
"-get you back to your family," Bobby was saying, talking low and steady and fast. "Gonna be all right. There was an accident- goddammit, Dean, listen-"
Someone was screaming in Jason's head, a chaos of too many sounds. He didn't think. He reacted, whipping an elbow back and up. There was a crunch as Bobby's nose broke, the beginning of a choked curse. Bobby's grip eased up just a little. Enough. Jason spun in the close quarters between him and Bobby.
Jason didn't give Bobby time to hit him back. Twenty seconds. Five hits. Military fucking precision.
Bobby went down in the road, and he didn't get back up. Jason stared at him, chest heaving, until he saw that Bobby was breathing. Then he lurched over to the edge of the highway and threw up.
When he finally could straighten, the pounding in Jason's head had eased up. He swallowed hard, wiping his mouth with the back of one hand. He got to his feet and went to the body of the Corvette guy, wiped off his machete on the thing's white dress shirt, and returned that to its sheath. As an afterthought, he grabbed the keys to the Corvette in case the bike wouldn't start. Then he nudged the body into the drainage ditch on the side of the highway.
It was a few minutes' work to follow it down, covering it with the rubble and trash that it had landed on. Jason found it unnervingly easy, his hands quick and efficient on auto-drive.
What the hell was he? What had he been? What the hell had happened to his brother? Why was his family hunting for him? Was Dean a first name or last?
Never mind. He didn't have time now. That was the third encounter. Each time, these things got bolder, more violent. And it had said 'we'. There were more on the way, watching Jason, waiting. And now, apparently, he had humans to deal with too-
Jesus. He'd snapped.
Tiredly rubbing at his eyes, Jason sighed and stepped over Bobby. He slid onto his stomach, retrieving his gun. Reloaded it, cursing as his sweat-slick fingers almost fumbled the clip, and put the safety on before he returned the gun to the small of his back.
The keys were still in the ignition of the truck. Jason gunned its engine, slid out of the cab, and left it to run itself down. Hopefully Bobby would stay down until the gas ran out. Should shoot him, remove the one witness, but...
Yeah. But. But there were limits to what even Jason would do, and shooting an unconscious man was one of them. Not that it would have stopped him once.
He quickly went back to the bike kicking the starter with a little more force than was strictly necessary, but it seemed to work. With a muted roar the bike turned over, purring happily under him. Thank god.
With a last look at Bobby, he put it in gear, heading away as fast as he could go.
Next stop, Seattle. Fuck knew why, but at least it wasn't here.
Authors:
nilchance and beansideRating: Adult
Disclaimer: We make no claim of ownership on the Brothers and Daddy Winchester. No infringement is intended, no money is made.
Author Notes: Set after the episode "Devil's Trap."
WARNINGS: Character maiming, more angst than you can shake a stick at, WIP.
South Dakota basically sucked, Jason decided. In a huge, uninteresting way.
Sure, the bikes around Sturgis were sweet, but otherwise, it was boring. Compared to three days with the Vikings in Ragnar, Minnesota, it blew.
Sven and his buddies had proven to be astoundingly generous, supplying him with food, and weaponry. Sven's wife was a metalsmith, and had been happy to provide the lucky wolf with a custom made machete. Much to Jason's chagrin, he'd been... adopted, somehow. Those damned names had been proof enough that he was one of theirs. They'd thrown another party the night he left (mostly because damn, that town loved a party; another group of decent alcoholics), and had given him Old Man Anders' motorcycle. It was a temperamental bitch, but it ran.
Jason looked around the deserted road, and kicked the bike. It ran some of the time, at least.
"Have a problem?" a smooth voice asked.
Fucking hell! Jason hadn't heard steps. He started, hand going to the gun at his back, and spun towards the sound. A tall man slipped out from behind the wheel of a softly purring Corvette, and headed towards him. Nice car. The guy, not so much. He stank of cigarette smoke.
Jason stepped back, unease curling in the pit of his stomach. "Nah. Just ran out of gas. My buddy left to get some, should be back soon. But thanks for stopping," he added, forcing a smile.
"Your buddy?" the man asked, and laughed. "Oh, I think we know better. You're all alone."
'We'. That didn't bode well for Jason's evening. He glanced on all sides, which were nothing but open cornfields, and didn't see anyone else advancing. "Dude. You need to back off."
The man continued forward in slow, measured steps. It brought him too close, close enough to grab. Jason started backing up, and Corvette followed him. "No, I don't think I do. We're supposed to watch you. See where you go. I think it's bullshit. Just another smokescreen. I say we end it now."
And the man came for him, arms outstretched and grabbing, his face twisted in hunger.
Jason pulled the gun and fired, point blank at the man's chest.
The man fell backwards, arms flailing, but he didn't go down. He should've gone down, what the- but the man stopped his backward momentum, straightening with that same twisted smile. "Nice shot. My turn." His arm swept out, hand catching Jason with tremendous force, sending him flying.
Flying? That couldn't be a good thing, shouldn't have been able to- shouldn't have-
Landing, Jason quickly found, was worse. He ended up in a heap, nearly fifteen feet from the bike. "The fuck," he wheezed, scrambling to his feet.
The man smiled, looking down at the hole in his chest, and Jason's breath came faster. Shit. Couldn't be happening, couldn't be happening. Oh fuck. Its eyes-black. Like the mugger. Like the whistler.
Jason could hear an engine rattling down the road, possible help, but it would be too late. Wouldn't matter. It was all up to him. With a hiss of metal, the machete slid from its sheath.
The thing moved towards him, a look of amusement on his face. "That's more like it, more like a-"
Jason didn't let him finish. Instead, he snapped a kick at its knee, dropping to avoid its grasping hands. It stumbled back, snarled and flicked a hand at him. Jason felt something grip his throat. The invisible vise squeezed, and he struggled, trying to breathe around it.
"Pathetic," the thing crooned, sadly shaking its head. "You'll die just like your brother, on your knees and begging for mercy."
Even in the chokehold, Jason felt his head snap back from the searing pain within. There was something, some memory- Fuck this. He hefted the machete, drew his arm back and let it fly.
The creature's eyes widened as the machete sliced into its throat, and the phantom hand released Jason. Jason stumbled but kept his feet, stalking towards it, scooping up the gun as he went. "Sonofabitch," he croaked.
It stared at Jason, eyes wide, hands trying to clutch at the ruin of its throat. "No," it rasped. "Wouldn't- you wouldn't- the body-"
"You don't want to die?" It shook its head, and Jason smiled. "Too bad. Die on your knees. Begging for mercy."
Emptying the gun into its head made a satisfying crater where the face should have been. It hit the pavement, jerking through its last muscle movements. Jason watched, bracing himself to kick in the wet remains of its skull if it tried to go for him. Normally decapitation worked, didn't it? It did in the movies.
Finally, the thing stilled.
Jason arched his back, listening to the series of pops. Rolled his neck to the side. Then he knelt, gingerly grabbing its body by the arm to drag it off the road.
The truck was still coming, slowly. Jason waited for it to keep going, tensing as it groaned to a stop beside him. As the driver's side door opened painfully, Jason said without much hope, "Um, it wasn't... human." At least he'd get the insanity plea.
"No shit, Sherlock." A tall, solidly built man slid out of the truck, his gun trained on the still form on the ground. He didn't look up at Jason, focused on the thing. His twang was thick as syrup. "Has it dusted yet?"
"Dust-what?" As the words left Jason's mouth, a tornado of black, brackish sand slid from the hole in the things face, whirling away on an unseen breeze. "Oh." Definitely the insanity plea, then.
The truck guy glanced up, one eyebrow crooked. His look intensified, taking Jason in for a long moment before he swore. "Shit. Thought you were a hitchhiker. You-Jesus, boy! Your daddy is worried sick over you. And what the holy hell did you do to your hair?"
Another spark of pain. First that thing about his brother, now his father... one second he was an orphan, and now he had more damned family than he knew what to do with. Jason shook it off, backing up another few steps to put room between him and the truck guy. The gun was still in his hands, but he'd emptied the clip. Jason held it out anyway, aiming it in the truck guy's general direction. "I think you've got the wrong guy," he warned. "Happens a lot. Why don't you just keep driving?"
Truck Guy stopped short, tilting his head to one side. He squinted at Jason. When he spoke again, his voice was lower. It was the voice of a man used to dealing with big, mean and stupid dogs. Talk them down, get them to heel. "Son, it's Bobby. I've known you since you were a pup. C'mon, now."
"I don't know you," Jason bit off. "Get back in the goddamned truck."
"No. You sure don't seem to, do you." Bobby slid the gun back into a holster at his side and held both hands up, open and empty. "All right. Put that thing away."
Jason ignored Bobby's open hands, looking instead at the center of Bobby's body. Bobby's posture said that he would be on Jason if Jason so much as lowered the gun. Bobby looked older, but he had more mass behind him. He could put Jason down if he got a chance.
Fucking ow, Jason's brain hurt to look at Bobby. There was a flurry of snapshots in his mind, quick impressions there and gone before Jason could grab at them. A junkyard, like a graveyard for classic cars. A gun range. A punching bag. Bleeding knuckles, stinging eyes, bruises on bruises from sparring. Sitting on the floor of a rickety shack, a makeshift bed of blankets and coats in front of an old potbellied stove with Bobby telling war stories to... to who, damn it? It was so close Jason could fucking taste it.
And then there was the last, brightest flash. The one that stayed. With terrible clarity, Jason could see the blond girl again, slumped in the chair she'd been tied to. Blood spilling out of her mouth as she looked up at Jason, human eyes in her beaten face. He'd seen that bit before; what was new was the memory that he hadn't been alone.
Bobby had been there. He'd helped Jason kill her. No, that wasn't quite- there had been someone else, someone-
For a second, the pain was so intense Jason thought he'd been shot. His fingers went numb, and he fumbled the gun, unable to see or to think. He caught it before it hit the ground, barely.
Then Bobby caught him by the scruff of his jacket, hauling him in a rough circle at arms length. Jason struggled to refocus, managed to get his hands up in time to avoid being bounced off the hood of Bobby's truck. The gun clattered away under the truck, out of reach.
"-get you back to your family," Bobby was saying, talking low and steady and fast. "Gonna be all right. There was an accident- goddammit, Dean, listen-"
Someone was screaming in Jason's head, a chaos of too many sounds. He didn't think. He reacted, whipping an elbow back and up. There was a crunch as Bobby's nose broke, the beginning of a choked curse. Bobby's grip eased up just a little. Enough. Jason spun in the close quarters between him and Bobby.
Jason didn't give Bobby time to hit him back. Twenty seconds. Five hits. Military fucking precision.
Bobby went down in the road, and he didn't get back up. Jason stared at him, chest heaving, until he saw that Bobby was breathing. Then he lurched over to the edge of the highway and threw up.
When he finally could straighten, the pounding in Jason's head had eased up. He swallowed hard, wiping his mouth with the back of one hand. He got to his feet and went to the body of the Corvette guy, wiped off his machete on the thing's white dress shirt, and returned that to its sheath. As an afterthought, he grabbed the keys to the Corvette in case the bike wouldn't start. Then he nudged the body into the drainage ditch on the side of the highway.
It was a few minutes' work to follow it down, covering it with the rubble and trash that it had landed on. Jason found it unnervingly easy, his hands quick and efficient on auto-drive.
What the hell was he? What had he been? What the hell had happened to his brother? Why was his family hunting for him? Was Dean a first name or last?
Never mind. He didn't have time now. That was the third encounter. Each time, these things got bolder, more violent. And it had said 'we'. There were more on the way, watching Jason, waiting. And now, apparently, he had humans to deal with too-
Jesus. He'd snapped.
Tiredly rubbing at his eyes, Jason sighed and stepped over Bobby. He slid onto his stomach, retrieving his gun. Reloaded it, cursing as his sweat-slick fingers almost fumbled the clip, and put the safety on before he returned the gun to the small of his back.
The keys were still in the ignition of the truck. Jason gunned its engine, slid out of the cab, and left it to run itself down. Hopefully Bobby would stay down until the gas ran out. Should shoot him, remove the one witness, but...
Yeah. But. But there were limits to what even Jason would do, and shooting an unconscious man was one of them. Not that it would have stopped him once.
He quickly went back to the bike kicking the starter with a little more force than was strictly necessary, but it seemed to work. With a muted roar the bike turned over, purring happily under him. Thank god.
With a last look at Bobby, he put it in gear, heading away as fast as he could go.
Next stop, Seattle. Fuck knew why, but at least it wasn't here.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2006-05-16 06:12 am (UTC)Anyway, I'm so in love with this fic. The parts with Dean are just great and it just kills me that he doesn't have his memory. I can't wait until Sam and John catch up with him.
no subject
Date: 2006-05-16 12:20 pm (UTC)Eventually they'll catch up, but there's a long ride ahead before they do. Hell, we're not even at the halfway point yet!