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Fic! in, um, Supernatural? (and due South)
At This Juncture
by etben
Supernatural & due South
1000 words, rated G
written for picfor1000
They’re in Wisconsin, somewhere, halfway between a werewolf in the Twin Cities and something that sounds like a mermaid, out in Lake Michigan. Dean’s not sure where they are, exactly—he woke up when they crossed into Portage County, and he’s seen signs for US-10 since then, but hell if that means anything to him.
Things have been good, lately—some lady in Idaho, last month, gave them 500 dollars as a thank-you for clearing out a poltergeist, so they’re not short on cash. The jobs have all been easy stuff, too. A couple of basic house-hauntings, a few possessions, a watch in Dubuque that made you swear a lot. Nothing all that dangerous, nothing they couldn’t handle. No new scars, either, although Dean’s still got ropeburn from what had turned out to be devil-worshippers, down in Miami.
Sam’s visions aren’t as bad, even. He hasn’t stopped having them, but it’s like he’s got better control, now. They don’t shake him up as much as they used to—now, it’s more like he goes somewhere else, for a while, and then comes back with a place for them to go, the name they need to know, the connection they would have made pretty soon anyway.
But the mermaid thing isn’t a vision, just a favor to one of dad’s old friends, and it’s probably nothing. Dean doesn’t mind, though, because, really? Him and Sam, driving through cornfields on the brightest day in a long while?
Not so bad, really.
*
They’re in Wisconsin, at a gas station in some tiny town. Fraser’s off at the edge of the lot, communing with nature and letting Dief stretch his legs; Ray’s filling up the tank, leaning against the car. It’s really the middle of nowhere, this place—nothing but cornfields, far as Ray can tell.
They’re on their way up to an even smaller town, going to pick up some guy who’s wanted in Chicago for forging IDs. Milford Wiener, that’s the guy’s name, and, hell, a name like that, Ray can’t blame him for wanting to be somebody else. Still, the law’s the law, and the CPD was out of gofers, so it’s Ray and Fraser, heading up to nowheresville to pick up a petty crook.
Ray’s just about to call Fraser and Dief when a car pulls around the corner, smooth and easy, stops a few feet from the back of the Goat. Two guys get out—kids, really. The tall one, the driver, gets out and stretches, cracking his back so hard that Ray can hear it. The other one turns around, stares at him, making a face.
“Christ, Sammy,” he says, “if you want me to drive, just ask, OK?” Sammy just shakes his head, and Ray can hear his neck crack.
“Dean, I’m fine,” he says. “Here, take the keys—” tossed, caught, “—I’ll go get something to eat.” He turns for the Mini-Mart, but stops as soon as he sees Fraser, who’s just standing there, staring back.
*
They’re in Wisconsin when Sam starts to get a headache. Not a vision-headache, just ordinary sun-blind, driving for hours under a bleached-pale sky, rows of corn everywhere he looks. He pulls off, tosses Dean the keys, heads in to grab a Coke and some Advil, maybe something to eat if they have anything not made of plastic and preservatives.
The gas station’s pretty empty—guy in the building, behind the counter; guy getting back into his car; guy by the pump—no, two guys—one—
Two guys, but there’s something seriously weird about the older one. He’s there, but he’s not, except that he is, only he isn’t. Sam stumbles, and he knows he’s staring but he can’t stop, and he feels the world shake around him, the familiar oh god no slipslide feeling he always gets right before a vision.
Normally—and how fucked up is his life, now, that he has a ‘normally’ for this kind of shit?—he’d go back to the car, because Dean always freaks out when he faints, and he gets the bruises even when he can’t remember falling. Just before he blanks out, though, there’s a hand under his arm, helping him sit down at the base of the pump.
Voices, then—Dean’s, and another, asking him what’s wrong, and he tries to explain about the old guy, about how he’s making the world do cartwheels around Sam. Then the not-Dean voice says,
“Oh, for—will you go away? You’re making it worse!”
*
They’re in Wisconsin.
“Benton,” his father is saying, “You’re not being reasonable, son! Hamilton’s a fine figure of a woman—a bit advanced in years, true, but maturity can be a highly desirable trait in a woman—”
Any response he might make is cut off by the approach of a young man. He looks as though he’s about to be rather ill, so Benton helps him to sit at the base of one of the gas pumps. Before he can do more than offer water, he’s abruptly shouldered out of the way by another young man, who shakes his—brother? partner?—furiously.
“Dean—” the younger man says, “he’s—not there, but he is—red—”
Right away, Dean’s head comes up, swings around to him—of course, the serge. It doesn’t make sense, though, unless—
Ah. Of course.
He stills Dean’s hand before he can draw his gun, and dismisses his father, who huffs, but goes. Immediately, the younger man looks better; the color rushes back into his face, and he begins to breathe more normally. Dean checks his pulse, his temperature, and seems satisfied, although he doesn’t turn his back to Benton.
Correlation is not causation, Benton thinks, but Ray is waiting for him, banging on the roof of the car and shouting his name.
“My name is Benton Fraser,” he says instead, “and I can be reached at the Canadian Consulate in Chicago.”
“Fraser, you can’t help everyone,” Ray reminds him.
“True enough,” Benton says, and off they drive.
*
...I have no explanation for this. NONE.
(which doesn't prevent me from being kind of proud of it.)
by etben
Supernatural & due South
1000 words, rated G
written for picfor1000
They’re in Wisconsin, somewhere, halfway between a werewolf in the Twin Cities and something that sounds like a mermaid, out in Lake Michigan. Dean’s not sure where they are, exactly—he woke up when they crossed into Portage County, and he’s seen signs for US-10 since then, but hell if that means anything to him.
Things have been good, lately—some lady in Idaho, last month, gave them 500 dollars as a thank-you for clearing out a poltergeist, so they’re not short on cash. The jobs have all been easy stuff, too. A couple of basic house-hauntings, a few possessions, a watch in Dubuque that made you swear a lot. Nothing all that dangerous, nothing they couldn’t handle. No new scars, either, although Dean’s still got ropeburn from what had turned out to be devil-worshippers, down in Miami.
Sam’s visions aren’t as bad, even. He hasn’t stopped having them, but it’s like he’s got better control, now. They don’t shake him up as much as they used to—now, it’s more like he goes somewhere else, for a while, and then comes back with a place for them to go, the name they need to know, the connection they would have made pretty soon anyway.
But the mermaid thing isn’t a vision, just a favor to one of dad’s old friends, and it’s probably nothing. Dean doesn’t mind, though, because, really? Him and Sam, driving through cornfields on the brightest day in a long while?
Not so bad, really.
*
They’re in Wisconsin, at a gas station in some tiny town. Fraser’s off at the edge of the lot, communing with nature and letting Dief stretch his legs; Ray’s filling up the tank, leaning against the car. It’s really the middle of nowhere, this place—nothing but cornfields, far as Ray can tell.
They’re on their way up to an even smaller town, going to pick up some guy who’s wanted in Chicago for forging IDs. Milford Wiener, that’s the guy’s name, and, hell, a name like that, Ray can’t blame him for wanting to be somebody else. Still, the law’s the law, and the CPD was out of gofers, so it’s Ray and Fraser, heading up to nowheresville to pick up a petty crook.
Ray’s just about to call Fraser and Dief when a car pulls around the corner, smooth and easy, stops a few feet from the back of the Goat. Two guys get out—kids, really. The tall one, the driver, gets out and stretches, cracking his back so hard that Ray can hear it. The other one turns around, stares at him, making a face.
“Christ, Sammy,” he says, “if you want me to drive, just ask, OK?” Sammy just shakes his head, and Ray can hear his neck crack.
“Dean, I’m fine,” he says. “Here, take the keys—” tossed, caught, “—I’ll go get something to eat.” He turns for the Mini-Mart, but stops as soon as he sees Fraser, who’s just standing there, staring back.
*
They’re in Wisconsin when Sam starts to get a headache. Not a vision-headache, just ordinary sun-blind, driving for hours under a bleached-pale sky, rows of corn everywhere he looks. He pulls off, tosses Dean the keys, heads in to grab a Coke and some Advil, maybe something to eat if they have anything not made of plastic and preservatives.
The gas station’s pretty empty—guy in the building, behind the counter; guy getting back into his car; guy by the pump—no, two guys—one—
Two guys, but there’s something seriously weird about the older one. He’s there, but he’s not, except that he is, only he isn’t. Sam stumbles, and he knows he’s staring but he can’t stop, and he feels the world shake around him, the familiar oh god no slipslide feeling he always gets right before a vision.
Normally—and how fucked up is his life, now, that he has a ‘normally’ for this kind of shit?—he’d go back to the car, because Dean always freaks out when he faints, and he gets the bruises even when he can’t remember falling. Just before he blanks out, though, there’s a hand under his arm, helping him sit down at the base of the pump.
Voices, then—Dean’s, and another, asking him what’s wrong, and he tries to explain about the old guy, about how he’s making the world do cartwheels around Sam. Then the not-Dean voice says,
“Oh, for—will you go away? You’re making it worse!”
*
They’re in Wisconsin.
“Benton,” his father is saying, “You’re not being reasonable, son! Hamilton’s a fine figure of a woman—a bit advanced in years, true, but maturity can be a highly desirable trait in a woman—”
Any response he might make is cut off by the approach of a young man. He looks as though he’s about to be rather ill, so Benton helps him to sit at the base of one of the gas pumps. Before he can do more than offer water, he’s abruptly shouldered out of the way by another young man, who shakes his—brother? partner?—furiously.
“Dean—” the younger man says, “he’s—not there, but he is—red—”
Right away, Dean’s head comes up, swings around to him—of course, the serge. It doesn’t make sense, though, unless—
Ah. Of course.
He stills Dean’s hand before he can draw his gun, and dismisses his father, who huffs, but goes. Immediately, the younger man looks better; the color rushes back into his face, and he begins to breathe more normally. Dean checks his pulse, his temperature, and seems satisfied, although he doesn’t turn his back to Benton.
Correlation is not causation, Benton thinks, but Ray is waiting for him, banging on the roof of the car and shouting his name.
“My name is Benton Fraser,” he says instead, “and I can be reached at the Canadian Consulate in Chicago.”
“Fraser, you can’t help everyone,” Ray reminds him.
“True enough,” Benton says, and off they drive.
*
...I have no explanation for this. NONE.
(which doesn't prevent me from being kind of proud of it.)