Just a bit of a nonsensical, ficcish looking thing
Seriously, a random bit that popped into my head this evening. No connection to anything anywhere, no idea if it'll ever go further than just this less-than-thousand words, but damned if it wouldn't leave me alone.
It doesn't even have a title, except maybe
Title-ish What?
Category: Crossover, nonsense, SPN/Doctor Who
Timeline: Just after 3x16 for SPN, between "The Unicorn and the Wasp" and "Silence in the Library" for Doctor Who
Disclaimer: Nope, not mine.
Sam knelt on the floor, his left arm supporting Dean's shoulders as best it could. Dean was dead weight -- Dean was dead -- and his eyes stared up into nothing at the ceiling.
"No. No." It was the only thing he could say as his right hand curled into a fist on Dean's chest. He waited for something -- a quip, an accusation that he was being a girl, a groan, anything -- from Dean, but nothing came. "No."
He listened carefully, hand going up desperately to Dean's neck. Lilith hadn't finished, had been distracted by trying to get Sam. The hellhound hadn't finished. It couldn't have. Because things didn't end this way. They couldn't. Sam wouldn't let them.
But Dean's neck was completely still under Sam's fingers, and the only thing he could hear was a strange, bleating roar in his ears, like a really bad day for getting the Impala's engine to turn over. Light burst across his eyes and Sam squinted and frowned, and realized that it wasn't a side effect of the grief. Light really was growing in the room, and the roar was getting louder. . . .
He couldn't make out the details of the thing that faded into existence next to the table where Dean had been pinned. He made out a box shape, maybe four feet by four feet by eight feet, and a door opening, spilling even more light into the room and silhouetting the shape of a tall, thin man in a suit. The man looked around, focused on Sam, and stepped forward.
"This the residence of Sam and Dean Winchester?"
Sam stared, pulling Dean slightly closer to him. "What?"
"Well, maybe not residence. Well, it is a residence, but maybe not the Winchester residence. A stop along the way, perhaps?"
Sam shook his head slightly, staring at the man. His hair was brown and styled into long spikes, his suit sharply tailored and colorful. He was wearing tennis shoes. "What?"
"You'd be Sam Winchester, I suspect? Afraid I can't stay, just here to pick something up." The man pulled a slim leather wallet from his jacket pocket and opened it, showing Sam a blank piece of paper that he clearly thought was something important. Another shape appeared in the light behind him, this one of a woman, her reddish hair glinting, her expression bemused.
"What?"
"Don't mind him," the woman said, and Sam realized she was British. They both were. "He's got a bit of a tendency to babble."
"That'd be Dean, then?" the man said, and he crouched down on Sam's level. He looked Dean over, lips curling in a sympathetic grimace. "Nasty bit of work, there. May I?" He held out a hand, looking Sam full in the eye, his expression deeply earnest.
"What?"
"Exactly. No time to explain, I'm afraid, you're just going to have to trust me. Donna," This last to the woman, who was looking off to the side, as though she couldn't bear to look at Dean. She closed her eyes, wincing slightly, then crouched down next to the man. They each grabbed one of Dean's shoulders, and before Sam could get his mind working enough to stop them, had pulled Dean away from him and back into the light.
"Won't take long," the man said. "Don't worry, we'll have him back to you before you've even had a chance to miss him." The man flashed him a smile, and he and the woman pulled Dean away into the box and shut the door. The roaring returned and Sam noticed the box was blue and had lettering on the top and that it pulsed in time to the roar and faded before his eyes, leaving him wind blown and shocked in a sudden, empty silence, his left arm still curled to the shape of Dean's shoulders.
Sam took a single, gasping breath, unable to tear his eyes from the spot where the box had been, and suddenly, the doors behind him slammed open and Bobby rushed in.
"Where is it? Where is he?" Bobby looked around frantically, his hat clutched in one hand, his eyes wide and his mouth open. Then he crouched -- like the man had, like the woman had, like Sam was, his arm still curled and Dean wasn't there -- and grabbed Sam by the shoulders. "Sam, where is he? Where'd he go?"
Sam shook his head slightly, trying to wrap his brain around what had just happened. "Wh-what?"
Bobby pushed roughly against Sam's shoulders, wrenching him back and forth to get his attention. "Sam, listen to me. That noise. I heard it. Where's the TARDIS? Where'd he go?"
"Who? Dean? He was just --"
"Yeah, him too, but Sam -- where's the Doctor?"
Sam just blinked at him, then let his eyes slide over to the spot in front of the table where the box had stood, then back at Bobby's frantic face.
"What?"
Seriously, just a bit of weirdness. I offer it up to the great gods of fic for anyone who might care to continue, since I have no idea if I will or not.
It doesn't even have a title, except maybe
Title-ish What?
Category: Crossover, nonsense, SPN/Doctor Who
Timeline: Just after 3x16 for SPN, between "The Unicorn and the Wasp" and "Silence in the Library" for Doctor Who
Disclaimer: Nope, not mine.
Sam knelt on the floor, his left arm supporting Dean's shoulders as best it could. Dean was dead weight -- Dean was dead -- and his eyes stared up into nothing at the ceiling.
"No. No." It was the only thing he could say as his right hand curled into a fist on Dean's chest. He waited for something -- a quip, an accusation that he was being a girl, a groan, anything -- from Dean, but nothing came. "No."
He listened carefully, hand going up desperately to Dean's neck. Lilith hadn't finished, had been distracted by trying to get Sam. The hellhound hadn't finished. It couldn't have. Because things didn't end this way. They couldn't. Sam wouldn't let them.
But Dean's neck was completely still under Sam's fingers, and the only thing he could hear was a strange, bleating roar in his ears, like a really bad day for getting the Impala's engine to turn over. Light burst across his eyes and Sam squinted and frowned, and realized that it wasn't a side effect of the grief. Light really was growing in the room, and the roar was getting louder. . . .
He couldn't make out the details of the thing that faded into existence next to the table where Dean had been pinned. He made out a box shape, maybe four feet by four feet by eight feet, and a door opening, spilling even more light into the room and silhouetting the shape of a tall, thin man in a suit. The man looked around, focused on Sam, and stepped forward.
"This the residence of Sam and Dean Winchester?"
Sam stared, pulling Dean slightly closer to him. "What?"
"Well, maybe not residence. Well, it is a residence, but maybe not the Winchester residence. A stop along the way, perhaps?"
Sam shook his head slightly, staring at the man. His hair was brown and styled into long spikes, his suit sharply tailored and colorful. He was wearing tennis shoes. "What?"
"You'd be Sam Winchester, I suspect? Afraid I can't stay, just here to pick something up." The man pulled a slim leather wallet from his jacket pocket and opened it, showing Sam a blank piece of paper that he clearly thought was something important. Another shape appeared in the light behind him, this one of a woman, her reddish hair glinting, her expression bemused.
"What?"
"Don't mind him," the woman said, and Sam realized she was British. They both were. "He's got a bit of a tendency to babble."
"That'd be Dean, then?" the man said, and he crouched down on Sam's level. He looked Dean over, lips curling in a sympathetic grimace. "Nasty bit of work, there. May I?" He held out a hand, looking Sam full in the eye, his expression deeply earnest.
"What?"
"Exactly. No time to explain, I'm afraid, you're just going to have to trust me. Donna," This last to the woman, who was looking off to the side, as though she couldn't bear to look at Dean. She closed her eyes, wincing slightly, then crouched down next to the man. They each grabbed one of Dean's shoulders, and before Sam could get his mind working enough to stop them, had pulled Dean away from him and back into the light.
"Won't take long," the man said. "Don't worry, we'll have him back to you before you've even had a chance to miss him." The man flashed him a smile, and he and the woman pulled Dean away into the box and shut the door. The roaring returned and Sam noticed the box was blue and had lettering on the top and that it pulsed in time to the roar and faded before his eyes, leaving him wind blown and shocked in a sudden, empty silence, his left arm still curled to the shape of Dean's shoulders.
Sam took a single, gasping breath, unable to tear his eyes from the spot where the box had been, and suddenly, the doors behind him slammed open and Bobby rushed in.
"Where is it? Where is he?" Bobby looked around frantically, his hat clutched in one hand, his eyes wide and his mouth open. Then he crouched -- like the man had, like the woman had, like Sam was, his arm still curled and Dean wasn't there -- and grabbed Sam by the shoulders. "Sam, where is he? Where'd he go?"
Sam shook his head slightly, trying to wrap his brain around what had just happened. "Wh-what?"
Bobby pushed roughly against Sam's shoulders, wrenching him back and forth to get his attention. "Sam, listen to me. That noise. I heard it. Where's the TARDIS? Where'd he go?"
"Who? Dean? He was just --"
"Yeah, him too, but Sam -- where's the Doctor?"
Sam just blinked at him, then let his eyes slide over to the spot in front of the table where the box had stood, then back at Bobby's frantic face.
"What?"
Seriously, just a bit of weirdness. I offer it up to the great gods of fic for anyone who might care to continue, since I have no idea if I will or not.