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Fic! (why can't I write the stuff I need to?)
So I have a term paper to be writing. I also have my remixredux story to finish and get betaed, my library!porn to finish, not to mention the team!sex, the girl!Rodney, and Obadiah.
Clearly, what I really needed to do was write the sequel to At This Juncture.
Or, well, the first part of it, since this is looking like it's going to be one of those stories with plot and stuff, and consequently may take a while to finish. Still, I like the instant gratification of posting things in parts, and my 'March' box on the calendar was looking lonesome, and, seriously: they gave me (or, well, us) an episode set in Chicago! What was I supposed to do?...and so here we go!
Oogedy-Boogedies (part 1 of...more)
by etben
due South and Supernatural
PG-13?
(Sequel to At This Juncture)
NOTE: contains spoilers for Supernatural 1.16, Shadows
"Kowalski!" Welsh shouts, soon as Ray walks into the 2-7. Ray waves at him—yeah, yeah, just a second—and goes over to throw his coat at his desk before heading into the office. "Shut the door," Welsh tells him, and he does.
"What's shaking?" he asks, and Welsh takes a deep drink of something that's probably water, but that could just as easily be vodka.
"Nothing's shaking, Kowalski," Welsh says, "Except that I've got this warehouse, over on West Erie. It appears that someone has been taking temporary occupation of said warehouse, which, as you would know, is illegal." Ray resists the urge to ask why he's being put on a squatter; Welsh is kind of weird, sometimes, but he knows his shit. Besides, Ray figures that the guy working with the Mountie doesn't get to complain about weird.
Sure enough, after looking down at his hands for a moment, Welsh continues.
"It's been cleared out, now, but it's a mess—stuff torn up, furniture knocked over, couple of bloodstains, the whole nine yards. Looks like a hell of a fight, although at least it's not an exploding hotel room, which I also have." He's quiet for a little longer, and so finally Ray has to ask: what else do they have? Because, being honest here, a trashed warehouse isn't much, even with bloodstains. Welsh smiles when he says it, a smile completely without humor.
"What we've got, Kowalski, is a woman flying out of a third story window at about 2 am, last night, landing on the pavement, and then somehow getting up and walking away. After that, we've got two men coming out of the building, ten minutes later, covered in blood. We have them getting into a car, and we have them driving away. And now you have a case."
Ray thinks about it, and then he has to ask: "Why me?" Welsh sighs, leaning back in his chair a little.
"Kowalski, you've been partnered with Constable Fraser for, what, five years now?" And, yeah, that's right—two years while he was being Vecchio, and then another three since then. "In that time, you and he have dealt with a disproportionately high number of, shall we say, strange cases. Furthermore, for reasons that I do not want to explore at this or any other juncture, you've always been more or less successful." Ray's got to nod, then, because Welsh is right. He and Fraser have always been good at weird shit, and this is definitely looking like one of the weird-shit cases. He takes the paper Welsh is holding out to him, turns to go.
"Detective!" Welsh says, and Ray looks back, one hand on the doorknob.
"You also have an eyewitness. She's in room 2, and she's got a plate. Shut the door on your way out, OK?" Ray grins, heads out. Right before the door swings shut, he sees Welsh take another slug of his drink. Ray almost hopes that it's vodka—day like this, he'd sure as hell want a drink, even if it isn't noon.
*
By the time Fraser gets in, an hour and a half later, Ray's pieced together enough of a story to be sure that this is a weird-shit case, maybe the weirdest one yet. As they head back down to the car, he lays it out for Fraser.
"So the girl goes flying out of the window, and the girl—our girl, I mean, the witness, Laura—" who seems like a pretty nice girl, actually. She's calm, friendly, and seems pretty sane, if you ignore the crazy story she's telling. Way too young for Ray, of course, but they all are, these days. It doesn't bother him as much as it used to. "—she sees it, but in her mirror, from down the block. So she turns around, heads back, but by the time she gets there, the girl's gone. Naturally, she's concerned—"
"Well, Ray," Fraser interrupts, "it seems that concern would be in order, under the circumstances." Ray just waves at him, holds the door for Dief, and keeps going.
"And so she's sitting there, wondering what's going on, when these two guys come out and get into this car that's parked on the other side. They're all cut up, holding each other up, the whole shebang. Don't see her, though," and they spare a moment to wince, a little, because that's good, that's real good. No telling what these kinds of nutjobs will do if they think they're being watched. "She gets the plate number, gets the fuck out of there, and calls the cops."
"Do we know the car's owner, Ray?" Ray grins, because this is the really good part. He unlocks the car, waits for Fraser and Dief to settle in, and then spills it.
"We do indeed have the car's owner, Fraser. We have one Dean Winchester, out of Lawrence, Kansas." He hands over the guy's photo, watches as Dief leans over Fraser's shoulder to get a better look. "He's the short one—the other guy's his brother, Sam Winchester. No other known associates, no permanent residence, nothing."
"Well," Fraser points out, "There isn't any reason for us to have his associates on record, is there? If, after all, he's not a criminal—"
"Did I say that? Did I? Ha!" He cocks his hand, mimes taking a shot at Fraser, who just raises his eyebrows, all polite and waiting. "Our friend Dean Winchester was chief suspect in those murders they had down in St Louis, last year—remember, the gross ones?" Fraser clearly does remember: Fraser never shows much, but his his face is turning kind of pale. "Right, well, he was their number one guy, right up until they found him dead. Fingerprints matched, everything good. But check this out: footage from the security cameras at the UIC medical center, over on Harrison." Ray doesn't look at the pictures, already knows what they show: Sam and Dean Winchester, helping each other across the lobby, both of them sporting bloody scratches across their faces. "What do you say to that, huh?"
Fraser just nods, leaning back in his seat. "We ought to see what the brothers Winchester have to say for themselves, of course," he says, but the way he says it, Ray knows there's something more, so he doesn't start the car, just stares at Fraser until he cracks, like usual.
"It's odd, though, Ray," Fraser says, "because I'm quite certain I've seen those two before, but I can't imagine where."
"It'll come back to you, Frase," Ray says, and puts the car in gear.
Watch out, Winchesters.
*
To Be Continued, once my term paper is finished (or, you know, sooner, since I clearly have no willpower)
Suggestions for a better title would be welcomed with open arms and offers of (sadly, purely hypothetical) booze. (and, um, if anyone wanted to make me an icon? not necessarily a this-fic icon, but a "Hi, I'm a tremendous crossover-whore" icon might be a good idea, at this point. Or something classier, maybe...)
Clearly, what I really needed to do was write the sequel to At This Juncture.
Or, well, the first part of it, since this is looking like it's going to be one of those stories with plot and stuff, and consequently may take a while to finish. Still, I like the instant gratification of posting things in parts, and my 'March' box on the calendar was looking lonesome, and, seriously: they gave me (or, well, us) an episode set in Chicago! What was I supposed to do?...and so here we go!
Oogedy-Boogedies (part 1 of...more)
by etben
due South and Supernatural
PG-13?
(Sequel to At This Juncture)
NOTE: contains spoilers for Supernatural 1.16, Shadows
"Kowalski!" Welsh shouts, soon as Ray walks into the 2-7. Ray waves at him—yeah, yeah, just a second—and goes over to throw his coat at his desk before heading into the office. "Shut the door," Welsh tells him, and he does.
"What's shaking?" he asks, and Welsh takes a deep drink of something that's probably water, but that could just as easily be vodka.
"Nothing's shaking, Kowalski," Welsh says, "Except that I've got this warehouse, over on West Erie. It appears that someone has been taking temporary occupation of said warehouse, which, as you would know, is illegal." Ray resists the urge to ask why he's being put on a squatter; Welsh is kind of weird, sometimes, but he knows his shit. Besides, Ray figures that the guy working with the Mountie doesn't get to complain about weird.
Sure enough, after looking down at his hands for a moment, Welsh continues.
"It's been cleared out, now, but it's a mess—stuff torn up, furniture knocked over, couple of bloodstains, the whole nine yards. Looks like a hell of a fight, although at least it's not an exploding hotel room, which I also have." He's quiet for a little longer, and so finally Ray has to ask: what else do they have? Because, being honest here, a trashed warehouse isn't much, even with bloodstains. Welsh smiles when he says it, a smile completely without humor.
"What we've got, Kowalski, is a woman flying out of a third story window at about 2 am, last night, landing on the pavement, and then somehow getting up and walking away. After that, we've got two men coming out of the building, ten minutes later, covered in blood. We have them getting into a car, and we have them driving away. And now you have a case."
Ray thinks about it, and then he has to ask: "Why me?" Welsh sighs, leaning back in his chair a little.
"Kowalski, you've been partnered with Constable Fraser for, what, five years now?" And, yeah, that's right—two years while he was being Vecchio, and then another three since then. "In that time, you and he have dealt with a disproportionately high number of, shall we say, strange cases. Furthermore, for reasons that I do not want to explore at this or any other juncture, you've always been more or less successful." Ray's got to nod, then, because Welsh is right. He and Fraser have always been good at weird shit, and this is definitely looking like one of the weird-shit cases. He takes the paper Welsh is holding out to him, turns to go.
"Detective!" Welsh says, and Ray looks back, one hand on the doorknob.
"You also have an eyewitness. She's in room 2, and she's got a plate. Shut the door on your way out, OK?" Ray grins, heads out. Right before the door swings shut, he sees Welsh take another slug of his drink. Ray almost hopes that it's vodka—day like this, he'd sure as hell want a drink, even if it isn't noon.
*
By the time Fraser gets in, an hour and a half later, Ray's pieced together enough of a story to be sure that this is a weird-shit case, maybe the weirdest one yet. As they head back down to the car, he lays it out for Fraser.
"So the girl goes flying out of the window, and the girl—our girl, I mean, the witness, Laura—" who seems like a pretty nice girl, actually. She's calm, friendly, and seems pretty sane, if you ignore the crazy story she's telling. Way too young for Ray, of course, but they all are, these days. It doesn't bother him as much as it used to. "—she sees it, but in her mirror, from down the block. So she turns around, heads back, but by the time she gets there, the girl's gone. Naturally, she's concerned—"
"Well, Ray," Fraser interrupts, "it seems that concern would be in order, under the circumstances." Ray just waves at him, holds the door for Dief, and keeps going.
"And so she's sitting there, wondering what's going on, when these two guys come out and get into this car that's parked on the other side. They're all cut up, holding each other up, the whole shebang. Don't see her, though," and they spare a moment to wince, a little, because that's good, that's real good. No telling what these kinds of nutjobs will do if they think they're being watched. "She gets the plate number, gets the fuck out of there, and calls the cops."
"Do we know the car's owner, Ray?" Ray grins, because this is the really good part. He unlocks the car, waits for Fraser and Dief to settle in, and then spills it.
"We do indeed have the car's owner, Fraser. We have one Dean Winchester, out of Lawrence, Kansas." He hands over the guy's photo, watches as Dief leans over Fraser's shoulder to get a better look. "He's the short one—the other guy's his brother, Sam Winchester. No other known associates, no permanent residence, nothing."
"Well," Fraser points out, "There isn't any reason for us to have his associates on record, is there? If, after all, he's not a criminal—"
"Did I say that? Did I? Ha!" He cocks his hand, mimes taking a shot at Fraser, who just raises his eyebrows, all polite and waiting. "Our friend Dean Winchester was chief suspect in those murders they had down in St Louis, last year—remember, the gross ones?" Fraser clearly does remember: Fraser never shows much, but his his face is turning kind of pale. "Right, well, he was their number one guy, right up until they found him dead. Fingerprints matched, everything good. But check this out: footage from the security cameras at the UIC medical center, over on Harrison." Ray doesn't look at the pictures, already knows what they show: Sam and Dean Winchester, helping each other across the lobby, both of them sporting bloody scratches across their faces. "What do you say to that, huh?"
Fraser just nods, leaning back in his seat. "We ought to see what the brothers Winchester have to say for themselves, of course," he says, but the way he says it, Ray knows there's something more, so he doesn't start the car, just stares at Fraser until he cracks, like usual.
"It's odd, though, Ray," Fraser says, "because I'm quite certain I've seen those two before, but I can't imagine where."
"It'll come back to you, Frase," Ray says, and puts the car in gear.
Watch out, Winchesters.
*
To Be Continued, once my term paper is finished (or, you know, sooner, since I clearly have no willpower)
Suggestions for a better title would be welcomed with open arms and offers of (sadly, purely hypothetical) booze. (and, um, if anyone wanted to make me an icon? not necessarily a this-fic icon, but a "Hi, I'm a tremendous crossover-whore" icon might be a good idea, at this point. Or something classier, maybe...)