FIC: Circle
Sep. 17th, 2008 03:31 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
nilchanceTitle: Circle
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
nilchance
Rating: Adult
A/N: Dark Angel/Supernatural X-Over. Gen. John arrives.
"That's what they are," Dad says suddenly. He does that now, holding conversations with Sam that are half-remembered, as if most of his words get lost inside his head. His purposeful stride is gone; he drifts from room to room, picking things up and examining them only to put them down. Searching. "Hunters. Dead hunters they got their hands on."
"Dad," Sam prompts. He hopes his voice is gentle. He doesn't know anymore, too tired. It's not like he talked while Dean was gone. Tapping his father's weathered hands, Sam coaxes them over and continues cleaning out the bite wounds. Most of it's bruising, the skin unbroken, but it settles Sam's nerves to patch him up. Besides, the human mouth breeds a lot of bacteria; he read that in biology, a lifetime ago. "What are the dead hunters?"
John frowns at him, looking for a second like no time's passed. Like he's going to take this weight off Sam's shoulders and tell him what to do. Sam never thought he'd miss that. Then the stern lines of John's face smooth out again. "The hounds, Sammy. They turn us into their hellhounds. Send us after lost souls. If I hadn't gotten out, they'd have sent me after--"
The name catches in John's throat, but they both look at Dean. Stretched out on the motel bed, Dean almost looks normal, if you don't see the restraints or the blood still smeared on his mouth. He twitches in his sedated dreams, whimpering low in his throat, and John's muscles flex in silent response.
"He didn't mean it," Sam tells John. "You just-- you got too close to me. That's all. He's getting better."
Dean had gone for John's throat this time. If John hadn't gotten his arm up to block him, if Sam hadn't heard Dean's whipcrack snarl...
"I should go," John says, his eyes still on Dean.
Sam can see that it hurts bad to even say it. He knows John's not ready to go out on his own, still lost inside his head, still a ghost haunting empty rooms. But he just keeps wrapping the bite wounds and doesn't say a word.
John's gone before Dean wakes up.
Alec's burning up.
Sam sits on the other bed, washcloth in the ice bucket. The hours blend together in the rhythm of Alec's fever, its steep rise and grudging fall as Sam packs bags of ice around him. Alec strains against the restraints, trying to curl up on his side around the wound. He's silent in his delirium, teeth clenched against any sound even as Dean cuts the harpy wound open and bleeds out the infection.
Now Dean's gone to beg, borrow or steal some anti-pyretics, and they're alone. It's too easy for Sam to lose himself because Alec looks like Dean, so goddamn much like him, and this is so much like the first months out of hell. All he needs to complete the picture is--
Sam didn't hear the door open, but he feels someone come in. The room changes, air pressurized like right before a storm. It figures; John Winchester's a force of nature. Now more than ever.
Sam wrings out the washcloth and puts it on Alec's forehead. Alec flinches away from the touch, cloth sliding down over his eyes, and Sam rights it before turning to his father. Gives him room to figure out what he's seeing.
It's been months, and it doesn't look like they've been kind; John's beard is grown shaggy, and he looks half-starved as a feral dog. He stares at Sam like he's drinking him in. His fingers twitch, and he glances around, wary. Looking for Dean to attack from the side.
"It's okay," Sam says. "He's out raiding a pharmacy." He's better now, Sam wants to add, but it rings false. Honestly, he doesn't know how Dean'll react to having John around.
John nods and shuffles forward a few steps. He trusts Sam's work with the restraints, which is a sad comment on the last few months. Moving slow, John touches Sam's shoulder with his fingertips, hesitant. It's not until Sam reaches up and covers John's hand with his own that John relaxes, gripping his shoulder hard enough to hurt.
There's a new list of Winchester rules about hugging, any extended contact. Dean slips into Sam's bed at night, but won't tolerate a steadying hand on his back. John is touchy with Sam, one hand constantly on him like he can't look away without that reassurance. In the first few weeks, Sam couldn't leave the room without John trailing him, and closing a door between them (even to piss) had thrown John into panic.
Must've been hell on him to keep his distance. Sam squeezes his father's hand, uneasily aware of how it seems small and brittle under his own. John smiles like he's out of practice, eyes crinkling. Even that ghost of a smile fades by the time John looks at Alec. His nostrils flare. Scenting, looking for something under the stench of sickness and sweat.
"What is it?" Dad's voice scrapes out like a knife on a gravestone.
Well, so much for hoping this would be easy.
"Him, Dad." When John starts to pull away, Sam grips his wrist and holds on. Knowing his father, if he lets go Alec might just get executed right now. "He's... well, mostly human. But he's blood."
"You don't know that."
Sam rasps out a bitter laugh. "I know. Believe me." Shaking John a little, Sam repeats, "Believe me."
John studies him a long moment, mind ticking away behind his eyes. Then he nods and sits beside Sam, on the bed. Up close, he smells like he's been crawling in the woods with mud and bear shit. Mostly, he smells wild, the same way Bobby's dogs do. Undomesticated. He watches Alec struggle in the restraints, expression unchanging.
"His name's Alec," Sam says into the quiet. "We think he came out of the rift in South Dakota. He fights like you taught him. He doesn't know about demons."
John doesn't say anything. Thoughtful, he stretches across the gap between the beds and turns Alec's wrist in the restraints, baring his pale arm spattered with freckles and track marks. John touches the track marks one by one, steady-handed and unflinching.
"Dean thinks you might know where he came from," Sam says.
With a shake of his head, John disavows knowing anything. Before, Sam wouldn't have believed him. John considers the harpy wound and Dean's handiwork with a critical eye, palpating the perimeter of the infection in the same ruthless expertise Sam remembers. Alec stays limp under John's hand. John lifts his fingers, wet with blood and other things, to his face and sniffs. Scents the blood, checking for... what, the Winchester gene? Dean's scent? Sam doesn't know.
In the end, John just wipes the blood on his pants. His gathering silence is a dangerous thing.
Taking a deep breath, Sam launches into the first step of changing everything. A declaration of intent. It's always been the three of them, their tribe of hunted angry men, a blood-to-bone protection that covered only them. Even dying doesn't change things like this. "He's our brother."
John glances up from Alec's bared throat, locking eyes with Sam, and says, "Reckon he is."
Sam lets out the breath he's been holding and leans, just a little, into his father's side.
Author:
nilchanceRating: Adult
A/N: Dark Angel/Supernatural X-Over. Gen. John arrives.
"That's what they are," Dad says suddenly. He does that now, holding conversations with Sam that are half-remembered, as if most of his words get lost inside his head. His purposeful stride is gone; he drifts from room to room, picking things up and examining them only to put them down. Searching. "Hunters. Dead hunters they got their hands on."
"Dad," Sam prompts. He hopes his voice is gentle. He doesn't know anymore, too tired. It's not like he talked while Dean was gone. Tapping his father's weathered hands, Sam coaxes them over and continues cleaning out the bite wounds. Most of it's bruising, the skin unbroken, but it settles Sam's nerves to patch him up. Besides, the human mouth breeds a lot of bacteria; he read that in biology, a lifetime ago. "What are the dead hunters?"
John frowns at him, looking for a second like no time's passed. Like he's going to take this weight off Sam's shoulders and tell him what to do. Sam never thought he'd miss that. Then the stern lines of John's face smooth out again. "The hounds, Sammy. They turn us into their hellhounds. Send us after lost souls. If I hadn't gotten out, they'd have sent me after--"
The name catches in John's throat, but they both look at Dean. Stretched out on the motel bed, Dean almost looks normal, if you don't see the restraints or the blood still smeared on his mouth. He twitches in his sedated dreams, whimpering low in his throat, and John's muscles flex in silent response.
"He didn't mean it," Sam tells John. "You just-- you got too close to me. That's all. He's getting better."
Dean had gone for John's throat this time. If John hadn't gotten his arm up to block him, if Sam hadn't heard Dean's whipcrack snarl...
"I should go," John says, his eyes still on Dean.
Sam can see that it hurts bad to even say it. He knows John's not ready to go out on his own, still lost inside his head, still a ghost haunting empty rooms. But he just keeps wrapping the bite wounds and doesn't say a word.
John's gone before Dean wakes up.
Alec's burning up.
Sam sits on the other bed, washcloth in the ice bucket. The hours blend together in the rhythm of Alec's fever, its steep rise and grudging fall as Sam packs bags of ice around him. Alec strains against the restraints, trying to curl up on his side around the wound. He's silent in his delirium, teeth clenched against any sound even as Dean cuts the harpy wound open and bleeds out the infection.
Now Dean's gone to beg, borrow or steal some anti-pyretics, and they're alone. It's too easy for Sam to lose himself because Alec looks like Dean, so goddamn much like him, and this is so much like the first months out of hell. All he needs to complete the picture is--
Sam didn't hear the door open, but he feels someone come in. The room changes, air pressurized like right before a storm. It figures; John Winchester's a force of nature. Now more than ever.
Sam wrings out the washcloth and puts it on Alec's forehead. Alec flinches away from the touch, cloth sliding down over his eyes, and Sam rights it before turning to his father. Gives him room to figure out what he's seeing.
It's been months, and it doesn't look like they've been kind; John's beard is grown shaggy, and he looks half-starved as a feral dog. He stares at Sam like he's drinking him in. His fingers twitch, and he glances around, wary. Looking for Dean to attack from the side.
"It's okay," Sam says. "He's out raiding a pharmacy." He's better now, Sam wants to add, but it rings false. Honestly, he doesn't know how Dean'll react to having John around.
John nods and shuffles forward a few steps. He trusts Sam's work with the restraints, which is a sad comment on the last few months. Moving slow, John touches Sam's shoulder with his fingertips, hesitant. It's not until Sam reaches up and covers John's hand with his own that John relaxes, gripping his shoulder hard enough to hurt.
There's a new list of Winchester rules about hugging, any extended contact. Dean slips into Sam's bed at night, but won't tolerate a steadying hand on his back. John is touchy with Sam, one hand constantly on him like he can't look away without that reassurance. In the first few weeks, Sam couldn't leave the room without John trailing him, and closing a door between them (even to piss) had thrown John into panic.
Must've been hell on him to keep his distance. Sam squeezes his father's hand, uneasily aware of how it seems small and brittle under his own. John smiles like he's out of practice, eyes crinkling. Even that ghost of a smile fades by the time John looks at Alec. His nostrils flare. Scenting, looking for something under the stench of sickness and sweat.
"What is it?" Dad's voice scrapes out like a knife on a gravestone.
Well, so much for hoping this would be easy.
"Him, Dad." When John starts to pull away, Sam grips his wrist and holds on. Knowing his father, if he lets go Alec might just get executed right now. "He's... well, mostly human. But he's blood."
"You don't know that."
Sam rasps out a bitter laugh. "I know. Believe me." Shaking John a little, Sam repeats, "Believe me."
John studies him a long moment, mind ticking away behind his eyes. Then he nods and sits beside Sam, on the bed. Up close, he smells like he's been crawling in the woods with mud and bear shit. Mostly, he smells wild, the same way Bobby's dogs do. Undomesticated. He watches Alec struggle in the restraints, expression unchanging.
"His name's Alec," Sam says into the quiet. "We think he came out of the rift in South Dakota. He fights like you taught him. He doesn't know about demons."
John doesn't say anything. Thoughtful, he stretches across the gap between the beds and turns Alec's wrist in the restraints, baring his pale arm spattered with freckles and track marks. John touches the track marks one by one, steady-handed and unflinching.
"Dean thinks you might know where he came from," Sam says.
With a shake of his head, John disavows knowing anything. Before, Sam wouldn't have believed him. John considers the harpy wound and Dean's handiwork with a critical eye, palpating the perimeter of the infection in the same ruthless expertise Sam remembers. Alec stays limp under John's hand. John lifts his fingers, wet with blood and other things, to his face and sniffs. Scents the blood, checking for... what, the Winchester gene? Dean's scent? Sam doesn't know.
In the end, John just wipes the blood on his pants. His gathering silence is a dangerous thing.
Taking a deep breath, Sam launches into the first step of changing everything. A declaration of intent. It's always been the three of them, their tribe of hunted angry men, a blood-to-bone protection that covered only them. Even dying doesn't change things like this. "He's our brother."
John glances up from Alec's bared throat, locking eyes with Sam, and says, "Reckon he is."
Sam lets out the breath he's been holding and leans, just a little, into his father's side.
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no subject
Date: 2008-09-18 09:39 am (UTC)