FIC: Love Bipolar
Jan. 31st, 2009 12:02 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
nilchanceTitle: Love Bipolar
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
nilchance
Rating: PG-13 for child abuse.
A/N: Leverage/SPN crossover, Gen. Firstmeredevachon wrote Wee Parker and John, and then I wrote this.
It takes John a while to realize they're being tailed.
The first hint is the Impala; she drags some coming into Colorado, like she's bearing extra weight or like she's resisting the move. John registers the lag with more irritation than interest. Bad enough that he had to drag Sam into the car without anything else complaining.
****
The second hint comes later, in the motel. Sam's never been the kind of kid who had imaginary friends, but damned if John doesn't hear him chattering away to himself while he's supposed to be taking a bath. Dean's out getting ice from the machine, John knows he is, so he heaves himself onto his feet and goes to knock on the door.
As soon as he knocks, an unnatural quiet falls. It's the kind of quiet that comes before an ambush or after a kid is busted doing something he's not meant to be. John knows that quiet too well.
Through the thin door, John hears a flurry of whispering.
"Sammy?" he says, trying not to sound too sharp but damn, he's tired. "You need help in there or what?"
"Dad," Sam says, horrified.
The sheer offended cat-rubbed-the-wrong-way tone makes John grin, despite himself. "Just checking, kiddo. Since you were practicing the Gettysburg address."
"I am not." Still all ruffled dignity, Sam explains, "I'm talking to the girl."
If John were a normal father, if Mary was around, if, if. John still grabs the EMF out of his duffel bag, listening hard for signs that Sam might fling the bathroom door open, and flicks the switch. There's some interference from lousy wiring in the walls, but not a blip from inside the bathroom.
Reassured, John tosses the EMF back into his bag and kicks his shirt over to hide it. Maybe Sam's old for talking to imaginary things, but hell, the kid deserves whatever therapy John'll end up paying for eventually. "Yeah, okay. You'll need all the practice you can get, believe me."
"Daaaad," Sam says, disgruntled, but Dean comes back with ice for John's knee, and John forgets the whole discussion.
***
The third hint comes in ALDI, standing with a milk carton in his hand, trying to figure out if it's dented enough to get a discount. Dean's leaning on the squeaky cart, looking surly because there are no girls for him to ogle.
They won't be in town long. John figures they might need milk, bread, bologna, that damn cereal Sammy likes--
"Hey," Dean says. "Isn't that the girl from next door?"
John turns the carton and yeah, that's the girl, pigtails and all. She stares out from the grainy picture. One more John couldn't save. Did that bastard kill her, or was it one of the things that scavenged off kids nobody would miss?
The date she went missing matches up with the date they skipped town. If they'd stayed, if he'd taken her...
"Dad," Dean says, dragging him back to the shitty little grocery store.
John puts the carton back on the shelf, her eyes staring out like an accusation.
***
The fourth hint... well, it isn't really a hint.
It's bitter cold out, a snap that stalls John's hunt mostly because their motel room has shoddy heat. He can't bring himself to leave the boys, keeps thinking he'll come back to find them frozen solid, so it's the three of them crowded into too small a space. Dean's sprouting height and bad attitude, growing pains wracking him up and making him pissy. Sam's curled up in John's bed, mostly because it'd be a fight if Sam tried to bunk down with Dean; the pillow stuffed over Sam's head is his comment on their conversational skills.
"We'd have been fine, Dad." Scrunched up under the covers with his legs up to his chin, Dean rubs irritably at his calves. If his breath doesn't mist up, it's a near thing. "You didn't need to stay."
John ignores him, hunched up on the other bed with the bedspread over his shoulders. The wind tears at the walls outside, trying to peel the wood back from its nails. He'd hope that it's too cold for the werewolves, but he's pretty sure there'll be blood on the snow tonight.
Something white darts past the windows.
It's reaction, not thought; John's up and out of bed in an instant, reaching for the gun he stowed beside the alarm clock. Glad he left his boots on, he grabs his coat off the back of a chair.
Dean kneels on the edge of the bed, following John's line of sight. He tilts his head, a question: what is it?
"Stay with your brother," John murmurs, his mind already outside on his quarry. It wouldn't be, he's going crazy, but...
Opening the door is like pulling off a bandaid, quick and brutal, sealing the heat inside with his boys. The cold stings a tattoo against his face, already trying to freeze off his ears and nose. John squints, eyes burning, and waits.
Something darts down from above, from the roof. Hard to tell who's more surprised when the flit of white, the girl, lands on him and takes them both down to the brittle icy ground.
The girl tries to tear off as soon as John's down, but he grabs her by the (white, fuzzy) coat and hauls her around. She's got no hat, damn little fool, her pale ears and hands bare to the cold. She tries to go for his eyes, growling like a wild thing, but John can swat her attack away. She grunts but doesn't scream for help, squeezing her eyes shut. It takes John a second to realize that she's bracing for him to hit her.
They're alone in the lot, nobody's tearing in to defend a little girl from a big brute like John, but there's no telling when the Cavalry might storm in. Keeping one hand in her coat, John rolls up to his feet. The kid keeps blinking at him, stubborn-jawed, scared as hell but resigned to whatever he'll do to her. He can feel her shivering.
"It's not safe out here," John says, pitching his voice over the wind.
The kid shrugs, like what's safe?.
"You got somewhere warm for the night?"
Her eyes tick over to the Impala, and suddenly John knows why the trunk's been dragging. The tips of her ears are already losing blood, ready for frostbite. When he glances down at her shoes, they're plain scuffed sneakers, no socks.
"Damn," John says. "You'd better come in."
She shrugs again, like whatever, but she lets him pull her into the motel room.
No surprise that Dean's out of bed, holding a shotgun. When he sees the girl, his eyes get wide. "Dad?"
"It's all right, Dean." Kneeling by his duffel, John looks at the girl. "You gonna run if I let you go?"
She considers that, peeking at the window, casing how close she is to the door. Then she scrunches up her nose and says, "No."
John lets her go and starts digging through his stuff for socks, something for her to wear.
"Did you get her out of a vending machine?" Dean asks.
The girl sticks her tongue out at him. Sammy sits up in his cocoon of blankets, staring at the girl like she's a ghost, and she gives him a shy smile. John would bet that she was the girl Sam was chatting with.
Damn, this is a complication they don't need. John's already dodging Child Services and she's got her face on a milk carton. What if somebody saw him take her inside? What the hell are they going to do tomorrow? Is he sending her back to that bastard? Is he leaving her at a rest stop to face God knows what?
The girl watches him think, solemn. Waiting.
"Here." John gives her a few flannel shirts. "Put these on under your coat. Then take off your shoes and let me check your feet."
She starts to peel off her coat, dirty thin clothes underneath it. Then, with a tired glance at John, she starts to reach for his zipper.
"No." John catches her hand, and she flinches. Trying not to sound like he's raging at the bastard two states back, John takes her hand and rubs it briskly between his own. Tries to bring the heat back. "No. It's not gonna be like that. You hear?"
"Yeah," she says, staring at him. "I'm not deaf."
Dean has a suspicious need to cough his lungs out.
"Dean," John says, "get her some pants of yours, huh? And take a drink before you choke."
"Yessir."
"All right. Back to sleep, Sammy, we're up early." To the girl, he says, "What's your name?"
"Parker," she says.
"That your first name?"
"That's the only one," she says. "Parker."
"Okay, Parker. We're gonna have a long talk about this in the morning. For now, take off your shoes, and then you'll bunk down with Dean. Get some sleep."
Parker shrugs, like it doesn't matter, but she stops trying to pull back her hands. It's a wary, skittish trust, but it twists in John's stomach like a knife.
Damn fool move, he thinks again, and helps her untie her shoes.
Author:
nilchanceRating: PG-13 for child abuse.
A/N: Leverage/SPN crossover, Gen. First
meredevachon wrote Wee Parker and John, and then I wrote this.It takes John a while to realize they're being tailed.
The first hint is the Impala; she drags some coming into Colorado, like she's bearing extra weight or like she's resisting the move. John registers the lag with more irritation than interest. Bad enough that he had to drag Sam into the car without anything else complaining.
****
The second hint comes later, in the motel. Sam's never been the kind of kid who had imaginary friends, but damned if John doesn't hear him chattering away to himself while he's supposed to be taking a bath. Dean's out getting ice from the machine, John knows he is, so he heaves himself onto his feet and goes to knock on the door.
As soon as he knocks, an unnatural quiet falls. It's the kind of quiet that comes before an ambush or after a kid is busted doing something he's not meant to be. John knows that quiet too well.
Through the thin door, John hears a flurry of whispering.
"Sammy?" he says, trying not to sound too sharp but damn, he's tired. "You need help in there or what?"
"Dad," Sam says, horrified.
The sheer offended cat-rubbed-the-wrong-way tone makes John grin, despite himself. "Just checking, kiddo. Since you were practicing the Gettysburg address."
"I am not." Still all ruffled dignity, Sam explains, "I'm talking to the girl."
If John were a normal father, if Mary was around, if, if. John still grabs the EMF out of his duffel bag, listening hard for signs that Sam might fling the bathroom door open, and flicks the switch. There's some interference from lousy wiring in the walls, but not a blip from inside the bathroom.
Reassured, John tosses the EMF back into his bag and kicks his shirt over to hide it. Maybe Sam's old for talking to imaginary things, but hell, the kid deserves whatever therapy John'll end up paying for eventually. "Yeah, okay. You'll need all the practice you can get, believe me."
"Daaaad," Sam says, disgruntled, but Dean comes back with ice for John's knee, and John forgets the whole discussion.
***
The third hint comes in ALDI, standing with a milk carton in his hand, trying to figure out if it's dented enough to get a discount. Dean's leaning on the squeaky cart, looking surly because there are no girls for him to ogle.
They won't be in town long. John figures they might need milk, bread, bologna, that damn cereal Sammy likes--
"Hey," Dean says. "Isn't that the girl from next door?"
John turns the carton and yeah, that's the girl, pigtails and all. She stares out from the grainy picture. One more John couldn't save. Did that bastard kill her, or was it one of the things that scavenged off kids nobody would miss?
The date she went missing matches up with the date they skipped town. If they'd stayed, if he'd taken her...
"Dad," Dean says, dragging him back to the shitty little grocery store.
John puts the carton back on the shelf, her eyes staring out like an accusation.
***
The fourth hint... well, it isn't really a hint.
It's bitter cold out, a snap that stalls John's hunt mostly because their motel room has shoddy heat. He can't bring himself to leave the boys, keeps thinking he'll come back to find them frozen solid, so it's the three of them crowded into too small a space. Dean's sprouting height and bad attitude, growing pains wracking him up and making him pissy. Sam's curled up in John's bed, mostly because it'd be a fight if Sam tried to bunk down with Dean; the pillow stuffed over Sam's head is his comment on their conversational skills.
"We'd have been fine, Dad." Scrunched up under the covers with his legs up to his chin, Dean rubs irritably at his calves. If his breath doesn't mist up, it's a near thing. "You didn't need to stay."
John ignores him, hunched up on the other bed with the bedspread over his shoulders. The wind tears at the walls outside, trying to peel the wood back from its nails. He'd hope that it's too cold for the werewolves, but he's pretty sure there'll be blood on the snow tonight.
Something white darts past the windows.
It's reaction, not thought; John's up and out of bed in an instant, reaching for the gun he stowed beside the alarm clock. Glad he left his boots on, he grabs his coat off the back of a chair.
Dean kneels on the edge of the bed, following John's line of sight. He tilts his head, a question: what is it?
"Stay with your brother," John murmurs, his mind already outside on his quarry. It wouldn't be, he's going crazy, but...
Opening the door is like pulling off a bandaid, quick and brutal, sealing the heat inside with his boys. The cold stings a tattoo against his face, already trying to freeze off his ears and nose. John squints, eyes burning, and waits.
Something darts down from above, from the roof. Hard to tell who's more surprised when the flit of white, the girl, lands on him and takes them both down to the brittle icy ground.
The girl tries to tear off as soon as John's down, but he grabs her by the (white, fuzzy) coat and hauls her around. She's got no hat, damn little fool, her pale ears and hands bare to the cold. She tries to go for his eyes, growling like a wild thing, but John can swat her attack away. She grunts but doesn't scream for help, squeezing her eyes shut. It takes John a second to realize that she's bracing for him to hit her.
They're alone in the lot, nobody's tearing in to defend a little girl from a big brute like John, but there's no telling when the Cavalry might storm in. Keeping one hand in her coat, John rolls up to his feet. The kid keeps blinking at him, stubborn-jawed, scared as hell but resigned to whatever he'll do to her. He can feel her shivering.
"It's not safe out here," John says, pitching his voice over the wind.
The kid shrugs, like what's safe?.
"You got somewhere warm for the night?"
Her eyes tick over to the Impala, and suddenly John knows why the trunk's been dragging. The tips of her ears are already losing blood, ready for frostbite. When he glances down at her shoes, they're plain scuffed sneakers, no socks.
"Damn," John says. "You'd better come in."
She shrugs again, like whatever, but she lets him pull her into the motel room.
No surprise that Dean's out of bed, holding a shotgun. When he sees the girl, his eyes get wide. "Dad?"
"It's all right, Dean." Kneeling by his duffel, John looks at the girl. "You gonna run if I let you go?"
She considers that, peeking at the window, casing how close she is to the door. Then she scrunches up her nose and says, "No."
John lets her go and starts digging through his stuff for socks, something for her to wear.
"Did you get her out of a vending machine?" Dean asks.
The girl sticks her tongue out at him. Sammy sits up in his cocoon of blankets, staring at the girl like she's a ghost, and she gives him a shy smile. John would bet that she was the girl Sam was chatting with.
Damn, this is a complication they don't need. John's already dodging Child Services and she's got her face on a milk carton. What if somebody saw him take her inside? What the hell are they going to do tomorrow? Is he sending her back to that bastard? Is he leaving her at a rest stop to face God knows what?
The girl watches him think, solemn. Waiting.
"Here." John gives her a few flannel shirts. "Put these on under your coat. Then take off your shoes and let me check your feet."
She starts to peel off her coat, dirty thin clothes underneath it. Then, with a tired glance at John, she starts to reach for his zipper.
"No." John catches her hand, and she flinches. Trying not to sound like he's raging at the bastard two states back, John takes her hand and rubs it briskly between his own. Tries to bring the heat back. "No. It's not gonna be like that. You hear?"
"Yeah," she says, staring at him. "I'm not deaf."
Dean has a suspicious need to cough his lungs out.
"Dean," John says, "get her some pants of yours, huh? And take a drink before you choke."
"Yessir."
"All right. Back to sleep, Sammy, we're up early." To the girl, he says, "What's your name?"
"Parker," she says.
"That your first name?"
"That's the only one," she says. "Parker."
"Okay, Parker. We're gonna have a long talk about this in the morning. For now, take off your shoes, and then you'll bunk down with Dean. Get some sleep."
Parker shrugs, like it doesn't matter, but she stops trying to pull back her hands. It's a wary, skittish trust, but it twists in John's stomach like a knife.
Damn fool move, he thinks again, and helps her untie her shoes.