Bones/SPN Crossover Fic: The Monster in Limbo (3/?)
Title: The Monster in Limbo (Bones/Supernatural Crossover)
Author: bea_tricks
Genre: Thriller, Romance
Rating: M for future chapters
Spoilers: i'm trying to keep spoilers to a minimum, especially on SPN, but i'm not gonna lie. they're there. takes place somewhere in the middle of season 4 of bones, which also technically also puts supernatural in season 4, but no s4 spn spoilers.
A/N: many thinks to sweetjamielee for her excellent advice and for laughing at the appropriate times. :) also to lizook12 for spot checking.
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
--
Dean's silhouette broke the block of natural light streaming in the hotel room's door. Clicking it shut behind him, he sat at a table and pulled a few of the items out of a paper bag. Six of Heineken, bag of Funyuns, single-serving package of mini carrots.
"Alright. Thanks, Bobby," Sam flipped his phone shut.
The older brother retrieved a piece of cardboard from the bag, set it on the table, and hovered over it. "What'd Bobby say?"
"Well he talked to some people and filled in some details of his old story."
Dean looked up and quirked an eyebrow. "The one with a bunch of people going missing and showing up with unexplainable holes in their chests?"
"Yeah. Apparently this part-time hunter named Harry - friend of a friend - goes out to see what's going on, but he just up and vanishes from New Mexico without a word."
Dean picked up a pen and began drawing. "The killings stopped though, right?"
"Yeah," Sam sighed. "But there was never any report as to what he did there. Hell, no one had any idea what was killing people. No demonic omens, no weird past deaths or signs of hauntings. Apparently a couple hunters went into town to see what happened to the guy, but they didn't find anything suspicious. And it seemed like the trouble was over; no new deaths."
"No need to dig further," Dean guessed.
"For all they knew, it could have been some serial killer and Harry just skipped town when he found it wasn't a hunting job."
"Until someone found a mass grave with a freaky mutant and a dozen victims who were supposed to be planted elsewhere."
"Yeah, the names of those people Angela identified are two of the victims from that period. And, if the rest of the twelve are who we think they are, I think I have a connection."
"Alcoholics Anonymous?" Dean said.
Mouth already open to say the same thing, Sam stuttered. "Well... yeah," he said, surprised.
Dean looked up at him without raising his head. "Hey, you're not the only one with a phone."
Sam leaned back in his chair. "Okay, smartass, what'd you find?"
He scratched the back of his head. "Well, they were last seen in all different locations, but the victims were all members of an AA group that met in a church in the Sandia Foothills. Local PD investigated the group, didn't come up with anything. But more importantly, the receptionist says they've never had any problems with flickering lights, no scratching, no dark smoke lurking in the corners. Dude, she's a Leo."
Sam ignored the last of what he said. "Sandia Foothills. Near the gravesite."
"Very near. And the place is full of rocky hiding places, caves. Nearly anything could have been hiding out there." Dean leaned forward again and picked up his pen. His brow furrowed in concentration. "What about the freaky alien bones? Bobby have any ideas about that?"
"He's hitting the books."
"Well, I don't know what he'll come up with, but I think," he put a final touch on his project and pushed it toward his brother, "it looked something like this."
The Wooly Willy was wearing a gigantic handlebar mustache and a tiny goatee. Sam rolled his eyes.
"Pretty evil looking, huh?" Dean flashed his brows.
"Way to be productive, Dean."
"Hey, Jolly Green, I got you baby carrots," he replied. "And, actually, I did have a thought."
Sam waited an impatient second. "Care to enlighten me?"
Dean stood, tightened his tie, and pulled on his coat. "If this creature had something to do with these people dying, and if this hunter managed to kill it, knowing what was able to kill it might just help identifying it."
"Right, good thinking." Thoughtful and a little impressed.
"And Dr. Brennan likes me."
Sam chuckled at his brother's cheek. "You determined this from... all of the irritated snapping?"
He ignored him and smiled contentedly. "Mmm... she's feisty. She likes me, I can tell."
--
Max had surely meant well, but his honest appraisal of her social life (or lack thereof) had still stung. Work kept her busy. Well, usually. Their last urgent case had been wrapped up two weeks ago. She neglected that detail in the debate with her father, but paired with his words, it made her feel uneasy. Two options always stood foremost in her mind when she felt like this, caught somewhere between blind anger and panic. The first had invited her to the Founding Fathers for a drink before he knew about her plans with her father. Perhaps he would be there.
The place was busy when she stepped through the door; she stood on her toes to aid in her search. Perhaps he'd gone somewhere else, she thought after a while, but then she heard his easy laugh, instantly felt relief, and aimed her eyes to the right. Booth was facing away from the door, across the table from an obvious couple and next to - her breath caught - a curvy blonde. Just then, the woman emitted a loud and bubbly laugh and leaned well into his personal space. Brennan was well aware that Booth was very cautious of his 'bubble' and it was never accidental when he allowed someone to breach it. Intimidation, comfort, intimacy. When it came to "his Bones" (she'd torn him a new one when he first used the possessive along with her nickname), he seemed to draw her in until she could feel the heat of his body and smell his aftershave. She'd become accustomed to it, and she thought it meant something. But this bimbo was far too close for comfort.
Brennan stood still for a moment, fighting the tightening in her chest, then turned on her heel and walked right back out the door. She felt dizzy, and she needed some stability right now, she needed to find her feet again. So she fell back on the second option she'd considered earlier and headed to the lab, straight down into limbo.
Once there, she slowed her breathing and focused, falling into the comfort of routine. Assemble skeleton, recite each bone silently along the way, examine first visually, handle each one and coax it's secrets. Venture to the microscope on occasion to delve into details. Before long she felt the calming satisfaction of her work. It sought the truth. It was worthwhile.
It had her at the lab, alone, on a Saturday night.
This wasn't helping her case against Max's accusation.
Never mind. She loved her work. Tibula. Fibula. Metatarsal. She moved around the under-lit table, laying each piece of the puzzle in place. Routine. Comfort. Her bones were a constant.
It was unclear in Brennan's mind how much time had passed before he found her. She didn't notice him approaching until he was nearby, but he stopped at the end of the table, personal bubble intact.
"What the hell are you doing here, Bones?"
"I work here. Have you forgotten?"
"It's Saturday night." He looked at his watch. "Correction, Sunday morning."
He hadn't taken bubbly blonde home. Had the date gone poorly after she left? Or perhaps it had gone so well that Booth felt it important to take their time. Could be. He was archaic like that.
"How did you find me?"
"It's early Sunday morning and you're not at home."
You mean I have no social life, she thought. She didn't reply.
"Come on, Bones. Let's get out of here. We still have time to get a drink."
Was she his consolation prize? The thought made her feel cheap and she focused back on her precious bones. "I'm busy."
He teased at her, cajoled, asked what was bothering her.
No, Booth. I just don't want to go. I want to work.
She didn't waver and he finally left her be, but only after fetching her some coffee at her request. She wanted a jolt, he brought decaf.
She'd been distant for the two weeks following, logging more hours in the lab each day than she had in two years. The pattern continued until the events following the excavation of a mass grave in Albuquerque.
--
Brennan was surprised at how easy conversation was. When she had finally accepted his invitation to dinner, she'd expected that in order to discuss the case the way he wanted, she'd have to spend at least half the time explaining terminology and procedure. What she hadn't expected was that she'd be dining with a fan of her books. And she certainly hadn't expected that Dean would have gleaned so much about her field from the pages of her fiction.
"So on the twelve sets of 'normal' remains," he summarized, making sure he'd understood her properly, "the wounds to the bone don't seem to have been made by bullets, or knives, or any metallic weapon." She nodded. "And you think that there is foreign organic matter in the wounds, which your bug guy is checking out."
"Yes."
"What about the... other body?"
Brennan bit her lip. "Officially, we're waiting on the archaeozoologist for examination, but I have to admit I was curious. There's blunt force trauma to the ribcage, but I suspect cause of death was penetrating trauma to the sternum."
"Bullet through the heart?"
"That would certainly do it, though I still need to check the track marks for patterning and particulates." She looked at him for a moment. "For a layman, you have a very good understanding of what I do. You haven't taken any courses?"
"All from your books." He seemed atypically bashful when he spoke next, "I just enjoy your writing. It's very honest and quirky." Each word had a slight bounce to it. "And informative when you find yourself at dinner with a professional."
Brennan had read the blurbs on the back cover of her novels, she'd glanced at a 'review' or two aimed at boosting book sales. She had done book signings, heard insincere compliments and exaggerated ones. Dean's didn't sound like any of those. "Thank you. That's one of the nicest reviews I've had." She took a sip of her wine, watching him, and then rolled the stem of her glass between her fingers, "I usually have to write very quickly. Work takes up so much of my time and my publicist isn't exactly patient." Her pasta caught her eye and she stabbed at it, "I've received four testy voicemails just this week."
Dean leaned forward easily. "Mmm... I imagine they push you to put out, what, one a year?"
"About that."
"Opportunistic bastards," he said with a charming smile.
Brennan tipped her head sideways. "Oh, I'm not complaining. I'm well compensated and I enjoy it most of the time. But what about you? Do you enjoy your work?"
Painful memories flickered their way into his pleasant evening. He pushed them back and let out a deep breath. "It's satisfying. I get to help a lot of people. And there's a lot of travel. Often," he said, in a deadpan so dry as to be indiscernible, "we're just living in hotels."
"I didn't realize Homeland Security agents would need to travel so much. Aren't there other offices?"
"There are, but Sam and I tend to handle the more... unusual situations. And that takes us all over the place." Always on the move, often on the run, staying in one place just long enough to sense that getting to know a particular local might be worthwhile.
"Where's home?"
Home? His mind began searching for a random city he knew enough about to fake it. Boise. El Paso. Little Rock. But "Lawrence, Kansas" was what slipped, raspy, through his lips. "Though soon as this case is done we'll hit the road for another. Haven't been back there in a while." He took a sip of his beer and looked back up to the blue eyes that even in the ambient light struck him with their clarity. What was it about them that made him want to share everything?
There was no questioning it, the man across the table from her was attractive. That relaxed confidence felt so familiar, and the remarkable thing was that it didn't waver as they discussed murder victims. It didn't affect the look in his eye as it did with so many of her dates. Except that this wasn't a date. Not a date, she reminded herself. "You don't get queasy talking about this kind of thing while eating," she observed.
"Not so much. I've seen a lot of things," he paused. "But I really don't think I've ever met someone as passionate about skeletons as you."
"I can discern truth where others can't. I can give people answers, closure."
"I can appreciate that."
"Personally?" she asked, then quickly looked down, grabbing her napkin when Dean hesitated. "I'm sorry, that's not my business."
"My mother was murdered when I was four," he replied quietly, ignoring her apology. Brennan's face melted into sympathy, and she waited for him to continue, or change the subject. Indiscernible thoughts played out on his face. He was surprisingly expressive, even when he wasn't trying to be. "It took a while, and a fair amount of work to find him, but we finally caught up with her killer a couple years back and had some justice. It took over twenty years to get that closure."
"He was convicted? In prison somewhere?"
Dean paused, considering how to proceed. "There was a... confrontation that got pretty heated, and in the end, one of us wasn't going to walk away from it." He spread his arms with a tiny, sardonic smile. "Here I stand before you."
"Actually, you're sitting." They looked at each other for a moment. "I'm sorry."
They ate quietly for a few minutes, pondering deep things, the case pushed to the back of their minds.
Suddenly, without preface, Brennan spoke, "My family abandoned me when I was fifteen, and when I next saw my mother, there was nothing left of her but skeletal remains. She'd been murdered." She was surprised by her own candor, but still didn't feel awkward sharing.
Dean wasn't thrown by the abruptness of her revelation. "Did you find closure?"
"In a way... I mean we caught her murderer, he's dead now, but there's nothing I can do about what I've lost."
"That's the long and short of it." Her mood hung heavy in the air for just a moment before he spoke lightly, "But hey, T, you and I seem to have turned out alright. We function. We're good at what we do. Pretty well balanced."
Like spending all of your free time in the lab, she thought.
Like having no connections but your family, he said to himself.
They shared a look and a moment's silence, before shifting the conversation to a light banter that stretched well past the end of their meal.
Author: bea_tricks
Genre: Thriller, Romance
Rating: M for future chapters
Spoilers: i'm trying to keep spoilers to a minimum, especially on SPN, but i'm not gonna lie. they're there. takes place somewhere in the middle of season 4 of bones, which also technically also puts supernatural in season 4, but no s4 spn spoilers.
A/N: many thinks to sweetjamielee for her excellent advice and for laughing at the appropriate times. :) also to lizook12 for spot checking.
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
--
Dean's silhouette broke the block of natural light streaming in the hotel room's door. Clicking it shut behind him, he sat at a table and pulled a few of the items out of a paper bag. Six of Heineken, bag of Funyuns, single-serving package of mini carrots.
"Alright. Thanks, Bobby," Sam flipped his phone shut.
The older brother retrieved a piece of cardboard from the bag, set it on the table, and hovered over it. "What'd Bobby say?"
"Well he talked to some people and filled in some details of his old story."
Dean looked up and quirked an eyebrow. "The one with a bunch of people going missing and showing up with unexplainable holes in their chests?"
"Yeah. Apparently this part-time hunter named Harry - friend of a friend - goes out to see what's going on, but he just up and vanishes from New Mexico without a word."
Dean picked up a pen and began drawing. "The killings stopped though, right?"
"Yeah," Sam sighed. "But there was never any report as to what he did there. Hell, no one had any idea what was killing people. No demonic omens, no weird past deaths or signs of hauntings. Apparently a couple hunters went into town to see what happened to the guy, but they didn't find anything suspicious. And it seemed like the trouble was over; no new deaths."
"No need to dig further," Dean guessed.
"For all they knew, it could have been some serial killer and Harry just skipped town when he found it wasn't a hunting job."
"Until someone found a mass grave with a freaky mutant and a dozen victims who were supposed to be planted elsewhere."
"Yeah, the names of those people Angela identified are two of the victims from that period. And, if the rest of the twelve are who we think they are, I think I have a connection."
"Alcoholics Anonymous?" Dean said.
Mouth already open to say the same thing, Sam stuttered. "Well... yeah," he said, surprised.
Dean looked up at him without raising his head. "Hey, you're not the only one with a phone."
Sam leaned back in his chair. "Okay, smartass, what'd you find?"
He scratched the back of his head. "Well, they were last seen in all different locations, but the victims were all members of an AA group that met in a church in the Sandia Foothills. Local PD investigated the group, didn't come up with anything. But more importantly, the receptionist says they've never had any problems with flickering lights, no scratching, no dark smoke lurking in the corners. Dude, she's a Leo."
Sam ignored the last of what he said. "Sandia Foothills. Near the gravesite."
"Very near. And the place is full of rocky hiding places, caves. Nearly anything could have been hiding out there." Dean leaned forward again and picked up his pen. His brow furrowed in concentration. "What about the freaky alien bones? Bobby have any ideas about that?"
"He's hitting the books."
"Well, I don't know what he'll come up with, but I think," he put a final touch on his project and pushed it toward his brother, "it looked something like this."
The Wooly Willy was wearing a gigantic handlebar mustache and a tiny goatee. Sam rolled his eyes.
"Pretty evil looking, huh?" Dean flashed his brows.
"Way to be productive, Dean."
"Hey, Jolly Green, I got you baby carrots," he replied. "And, actually, I did have a thought."
Sam waited an impatient second. "Care to enlighten me?"
Dean stood, tightened his tie, and pulled on his coat. "If this creature had something to do with these people dying, and if this hunter managed to kill it, knowing what was able to kill it might just help identifying it."
"Right, good thinking." Thoughtful and a little impressed.
"And Dr. Brennan likes me."
Sam chuckled at his brother's cheek. "You determined this from... all of the irritated snapping?"
He ignored him and smiled contentedly. "Mmm... she's feisty. She likes me, I can tell."
--
Max had surely meant well, but his honest appraisal of her social life (or lack thereof) had still stung. Work kept her busy. Well, usually. Their last urgent case had been wrapped up two weeks ago. She neglected that detail in the debate with her father, but paired with his words, it made her feel uneasy. Two options always stood foremost in her mind when she felt like this, caught somewhere between blind anger and panic. The first had invited her to the Founding Fathers for a drink before he knew about her plans with her father. Perhaps he would be there.
The place was busy when she stepped through the door; she stood on her toes to aid in her search. Perhaps he'd gone somewhere else, she thought after a while, but then she heard his easy laugh, instantly felt relief, and aimed her eyes to the right. Booth was facing away from the door, across the table from an obvious couple and next to - her breath caught - a curvy blonde. Just then, the woman emitted a loud and bubbly laugh and leaned well into his personal space. Brennan was well aware that Booth was very cautious of his 'bubble' and it was never accidental when he allowed someone to breach it. Intimidation, comfort, intimacy. When it came to "his Bones" (she'd torn him a new one when he first used the possessive along with her nickname), he seemed to draw her in until she could feel the heat of his body and smell his aftershave. She'd become accustomed to it, and she thought it meant something. But this bimbo was far too close for comfort.
Brennan stood still for a moment, fighting the tightening in her chest, then turned on her heel and walked right back out the door. She felt dizzy, and she needed some stability right now, she needed to find her feet again. So she fell back on the second option she'd considered earlier and headed to the lab, straight down into limbo.
Once there, she slowed her breathing and focused, falling into the comfort of routine. Assemble skeleton, recite each bone silently along the way, examine first visually, handle each one and coax it's secrets. Venture to the microscope on occasion to delve into details. Before long she felt the calming satisfaction of her work. It sought the truth. It was worthwhile.
It had her at the lab, alone, on a Saturday night.
This wasn't helping her case against Max's accusation.
Never mind. She loved her work. Tibula. Fibula. Metatarsal. She moved around the under-lit table, laying each piece of the puzzle in place. Routine. Comfort. Her bones were a constant.
It was unclear in Brennan's mind how much time had passed before he found her. She didn't notice him approaching until he was nearby, but he stopped at the end of the table, personal bubble intact.
"What the hell are you doing here, Bones?"
"I work here. Have you forgotten?"
"It's Saturday night." He looked at his watch. "Correction, Sunday morning."
He hadn't taken bubbly blonde home. Had the date gone poorly after she left? Or perhaps it had gone so well that Booth felt it important to take their time. Could be. He was archaic like that.
"How did you find me?"
"It's early Sunday morning and you're not at home."
You mean I have no social life, she thought. She didn't reply.
"Come on, Bones. Let's get out of here. We still have time to get a drink."
Was she his consolation prize? The thought made her feel cheap and she focused back on her precious bones. "I'm busy."
He teased at her, cajoled, asked what was bothering her.
No, Booth. I just don't want to go. I want to work.
She didn't waver and he finally left her be, but only after fetching her some coffee at her request. She wanted a jolt, he brought decaf.
She'd been distant for the two weeks following, logging more hours in the lab each day than she had in two years. The pattern continued until the events following the excavation of a mass grave in Albuquerque.
--
Brennan was surprised at how easy conversation was. When she had finally accepted his invitation to dinner, she'd expected that in order to discuss the case the way he wanted, she'd have to spend at least half the time explaining terminology and procedure. What she hadn't expected was that she'd be dining with a fan of her books. And she certainly hadn't expected that Dean would have gleaned so much about her field from the pages of her fiction.
"So on the twelve sets of 'normal' remains," he summarized, making sure he'd understood her properly, "the wounds to the bone don't seem to have been made by bullets, or knives, or any metallic weapon." She nodded. "And you think that there is foreign organic matter in the wounds, which your bug guy is checking out."
"Yes."
"What about the... other body?"
Brennan bit her lip. "Officially, we're waiting on the archaeozoologist for examination, but I have to admit I was curious. There's blunt force trauma to the ribcage, but I suspect cause of death was penetrating trauma to the sternum."
"Bullet through the heart?"
"That would certainly do it, though I still need to check the track marks for patterning and particulates." She looked at him for a moment. "For a layman, you have a very good understanding of what I do. You haven't taken any courses?"
"All from your books." He seemed atypically bashful when he spoke next, "I just enjoy your writing. It's very honest and quirky." Each word had a slight bounce to it. "And informative when you find yourself at dinner with a professional."
Brennan had read the blurbs on the back cover of her novels, she'd glanced at a 'review' or two aimed at boosting book sales. She had done book signings, heard insincere compliments and exaggerated ones. Dean's didn't sound like any of those. "Thank you. That's one of the nicest reviews I've had." She took a sip of her wine, watching him, and then rolled the stem of her glass between her fingers, "I usually have to write very quickly. Work takes up so much of my time and my publicist isn't exactly patient." Her pasta caught her eye and she stabbed at it, "I've received four testy voicemails just this week."
Dean leaned forward easily. "Mmm... I imagine they push you to put out, what, one a year?"
"About that."
"Opportunistic bastards," he said with a charming smile.
Brennan tipped her head sideways. "Oh, I'm not complaining. I'm well compensated and I enjoy it most of the time. But what about you? Do you enjoy your work?"
Painful memories flickered their way into his pleasant evening. He pushed them back and let out a deep breath. "It's satisfying. I get to help a lot of people. And there's a lot of travel. Often," he said, in a deadpan so dry as to be indiscernible, "we're just living in hotels."
"I didn't realize Homeland Security agents would need to travel so much. Aren't there other offices?"
"There are, but Sam and I tend to handle the more... unusual situations. And that takes us all over the place." Always on the move, often on the run, staying in one place just long enough to sense that getting to know a particular local might be worthwhile.
"Where's home?"
Home? His mind began searching for a random city he knew enough about to fake it. Boise. El Paso. Little Rock. But "Lawrence, Kansas" was what slipped, raspy, through his lips. "Though soon as this case is done we'll hit the road for another. Haven't been back there in a while." He took a sip of his beer and looked back up to the blue eyes that even in the ambient light struck him with their clarity. What was it about them that made him want to share everything?
There was no questioning it, the man across the table from her was attractive. That relaxed confidence felt so familiar, and the remarkable thing was that it didn't waver as they discussed murder victims. It didn't affect the look in his eye as it did with so many of her dates. Except that this wasn't a date. Not a date, she reminded herself. "You don't get queasy talking about this kind of thing while eating," she observed.
"Not so much. I've seen a lot of things," he paused. "But I really don't think I've ever met someone as passionate about skeletons as you."
"I can discern truth where others can't. I can give people answers, closure."
"I can appreciate that."
"Personally?" she asked, then quickly looked down, grabbing her napkin when Dean hesitated. "I'm sorry, that's not my business."
"My mother was murdered when I was four," he replied quietly, ignoring her apology. Brennan's face melted into sympathy, and she waited for him to continue, or change the subject. Indiscernible thoughts played out on his face. He was surprisingly expressive, even when he wasn't trying to be. "It took a while, and a fair amount of work to find him, but we finally caught up with her killer a couple years back and had some justice. It took over twenty years to get that closure."
"He was convicted? In prison somewhere?"
Dean paused, considering how to proceed. "There was a... confrontation that got pretty heated, and in the end, one of us wasn't going to walk away from it." He spread his arms with a tiny, sardonic smile. "Here I stand before you."
"Actually, you're sitting." They looked at each other for a moment. "I'm sorry."
They ate quietly for a few minutes, pondering deep things, the case pushed to the back of their minds.
Suddenly, without preface, Brennan spoke, "My family abandoned me when I was fifteen, and when I next saw my mother, there was nothing left of her but skeletal remains. She'd been murdered." She was surprised by her own candor, but still didn't feel awkward sharing.
Dean wasn't thrown by the abruptness of her revelation. "Did you find closure?"
"In a way... I mean we caught her murderer, he's dead now, but there's nothing I can do about what I've lost."
"That's the long and short of it." Her mood hung heavy in the air for just a moment before he spoke lightly, "But hey, T, you and I seem to have turned out alright. We function. We're good at what we do. Pretty well balanced."
Like spending all of your free time in the lab, she thought.
Like having no connections but your family, he said to himself.
They shared a look and a moment's silence, before shifting the conversation to a light banter that stretched well past the end of their meal.