Crossroads 1/1 Benton Fraser & Sam Winchester

[chase65]

Title: Crossroads
Fandoms: Due South/Supernatural
Characters Benton Fraser & Sam Winchester
Warnings: Implied Character Death (pre-fic), brief implied slash DS characters
Rating: PG -14
Disclaimer: Neither the Due South or Supernatural character are mine. And I spent all my money on gas, so if you sue me....

Author’s Note: Written for
boxathon . I misread the prompt twice. First read it as Dean not Sam and then read it as a slash pairing, but there was an 'and' so I figured it wasn't supposed to be slash. Then when I re-read the prompt again this week I realized I had actually forgotten part of it. Sigh. So I am definitely out of my box. I write Due South, but not Supernatural. Slash not gen.

Spoiler Alert: This takes place after No Rest For the Wicked, the Season 3 finale, so those events are referenced.

Prompt 241: In a crowd of 20,000 screaming fans only two men really saw what happened.

Crossroads

This should be about the two of them spending time together. Work has been hectic for both, for all three of them really, but Ray is spending his night off with his nieces and nephews.

The Blackhawks have the chance to make the playoffs and his partner Stan has had the tickets for the nearly sold-out game for a couple of months. Unfortunately, Ben had not been able to come up with an acceptable truth to allow him out of the evening.

It is hard for him to look at Stan, but the game and the nearly 20,000 screaming people all around make his discomfort and distraction less obvious. When he can’t help it, when the shock of blond hair flickers out of the side of his eye, he glances at Stan and sees that night. The way he has since it happened.

It had taken Benton Fraser more moments than it should have for a man with his training to resolve what he'd seen into something that made sense. As the jumble of flesh resolved into two bodies, male bodies. The flesh he could see, one pale partially exposed buttock, the other darker, fully exposed he didn't t recognize. At least not from personal experience. The recognition came from his own fantasies. When he heard Ray Vecchio laugh huskily and say,

"God Stan you are one crazy son of a bitch." And the answering -

"Isn't there something better you could be doing with your mouth Vecchio," it was not the worst thing he had ever heard, but it was the most devastating. He left Stan's borrowed keys and Dief behind in the apartment as he fled.

Tonight, he'd hoped that game would end in regulation play. But, they are in the first overtime period, and it already looks like there will be a second. The crowd is on its feet whistling, shouting. The noise is deafening.  And Fraser can't take one more minute of it. He and Stan are already standing and thankfully their seats are at the end of the row. He takes a sideways step toward the main aisle.  Stan, color high on his cheeks from the excitement of the game, glances at him and grins. Benton makes a vague motion that could mean he's going either to the concession or the bathroom.

"Hurry up Frase, you don't want to miss this," Stan shouts. His attention already back on the ice before he finishes speaking. Benton nods quickly and turns out of the aisle. Just as he does, a movement, high up in the next section of seats, opposite catches his eye.  In a sea of red and white jerseys, t-shirts, a black clad figure, on the end of the aisle, facing away from the ice stands out. The man makes a quick jabbing motion then angles up sharply.  The person steps out into the aisle and the male spectator in the seat behind collapses. But not before Ben glimpses the dark bloom of blood on his white replica team jersey. No one on either side of him reacts. The assailant takes a quick glance behind him and spots Fraser coming up the stairs. Their eyes lock for an instant. Then he turns and runs.

Fraser's mind has no trouble resolving what he is seeing now, despite its improbability. His feet are already moving more quickly up the stairs. His minds notes, the suspect who was about 5'5", 220lbs with black hair now seems to have become over six feet tall, lanky with dark brown hair. The change gives the suspect a distinctive advantage as he bounds up the rest of the way up the stairs to the exit.

There is no time for Ben to say anything to Stan. The killer is moving too fast. And it would take too long to explain. He pauses just long enough to check the victim's pulse. The man is dead.

"GET SECURITY," he shouts, although he knows that his order has fallen on deaf ears.

Putting on a burst of speed, Ben tries to close the distance. As he rounds the corner out of the seating area, into the concession corridor his vision is briefly obscured by fans heading back towards their seats, waving a giant foam finger.

He picks up the assailant again. "STOP," he shouts to no effect. He pushes himself to run faster. A few more strides and the assailant will be out of his grasp. The distance between them decreases a little, but Ben realizes he won't be able to improve on it unless...He leaps, just managing to snag the cuff of the killers jeans. They both hit the ground hard. The assailant starts to scramble up, but the height is not an advantage on the ground and Ben is up faster. Grabbing one of the man's arms, he straddles him and pins it behind his back.

"I'm afraid. I'm going to have to detain you," he says. The body beneath his feels light, a little frail beneath the clothes. Despite what he just saw, Fraser doesn't use as much strength as he could. A mistake.

"Get off me," the man shouts and flips violently. It startles Fraser and his grip slips just enough for the man to free his hand. Before Fraser can regain his advantage, the boy he sees now, the man is really just a boy, makes a movement with this hand. He mutters something in what sounds like Latin under his breath at the same time. Suddenly Fraser's face and hair are wet. And he waits for another shift, but nothing happens.

Instead the boy, whose eyes are accentuated by very dark circles underneath, says, "Shit," and smacks his head against the cement. Then he regains some composure and growls. "I'm a cop. My identification is in my shirt pocket."

Still straddling him, Fraser reaches into his pocket. He flips over the i.d. holder and smiles. It's very good, a very good fake. But a fake nonetheless.

"While you're sitting on top of me like some rodeo clown a killer is getting away."

Ben sees through the bravado, the obvious lie. Sees a bone deep weariness underneath, hears the supreme effort it takes the boy to make the threat.

"I'm afraid I'm going to have to confiscate your i.d. as it's a forgery. And I suspect, the killer is already gone."  Ben watches him closely, but the kid's face shuts down completely.

"What the hell's going on Ben? Why are you wet?"  Benton keeps his eyes trained on the lanky, shaggy haired kid under him. He turns his heads slightly to find Stan beside him, gun drawn.

He gets up. The kid reluctantly does the same.

"Ten rows up from ours on the opposite side someone has been stabbed to death."

"Ten rows up, I just passed that row."  The crowd inside the stadium erupts into ear splitting cheers.

"Yes, I think, I think there may be some sort of glamour involved."

The kid's eyes widen in surprise.

"I believe that - ." He looks at the kid and waits. Brown eyes flash defiantly, then.

"Sam."

"I believe that Sam may be a material witness."

"Material witness, great. This is the biggest hockey game of the year and you're sayin we got a murder and you're tackling witnesses in the concession. Dammit.  I knew I shoulda stayed in my seat. Glamour, what is that Frase? Is that the perp's name?"

"You should probably secure the crime scene, Stan."

"Yeah, yeah. Right. You okay here?"

"I'm fine. I'll just stay here with Sam."  He watches Sam's eyes trail after his partner for a moment before they're back on him. He edges along the wall.

"I don't suggest you try to make a break for it.  The shape shifter is most likely gone by now. I suspect it would better serve your purposes to allow yourself to be questioned as a witness and released, rather than arrested and jailed as the prime suspect.

"You're a cop? The tone is incredulous, wholly disbelieving.

"Benton Fraser, RCMP, liaison to the Chicago Police Department."

"And you -?

"I saw the shift. I am not unfamiliar with the idea, although my knowledge has to do primarily with skin walkers."

Something like relief flickers across the long face.

"Okay, okay." the boy says as he hangs his head. "Let's get his over with."

********************

A homicide at the United Center, during a game makes city leaders nervous. Everyone has been called in to help with witness statements. Stan is in an interrogation room taking the statement of one of the witnesses closest to the victim. In another interrogation room, he watches Ray Vecchio question Sam Winchester. Fraser learns that the boy, isn't really a boy at all.  He knew that.  In the boy...man, he recognizes steel forged by loss. He watches as Sam Winchester tries to be what they want him to be, the innocent bystander who may have seen something.  He can tell by the way Ray scowls at him that he sees at least some part of the same thing that Benton does. Not as clearly perhaps, but the tone of his questions suggest he is not completely convinced of Sam's non-involvement.  In frustration, Ray slaps his hand on the table.

"I got nothing else, you Benny?"

Benton looks Sam over, sees the barely concealed need to bolt in his eyes, sees other things as well.

"I do not have anything else Ray. I would like to speak to Mr. Winchester about another matter, if Mr. Winchester wouldn't mind waiting for just a few more minutes."

"I really need to -, " Sam interjects, but Ray interrupts.

"Sure, Benny I'll have a uniform find somewhere to park him."

"Thank you."

A few short minutes later a uniformed officer steps into the interrogation room to get the witness, who manages a benign smile for Vecchio, but tosses a glare at Benton, that is obscured by his hair. The door barely closes behind them before Stan bursts through it and flops into the chair next to Ray.

"I've never seen nothing like this," Stan groans in frustration. "I mean I almost wish no one had seen a goddamn thing. 'Stead they all saw someone, only not the same someone. The guy that was in the seat next to the perp's gave a completely different description than the man in the seat directly behind the perp. Different hair color, different height, weight. I mean I know people get wasted at these games, but this makes no sense. And I missed the Blackhawk's winning goal."

Even though the two of them were fully dressed and not touching, it was more painful than Fraser would have thought to look at them together. They had followed him on many jumps of logic, followed his intuition, but he doesn't think he would get very far by proposing a shape shifter as the killer. No one wants to hear that this case will never be solved.

And he does not think that he could take the ribbing that would most likely occur or the united  front the two would probably present against him. Not now. Something like anger or perhaps grief twists his stomach.

"Will you both excuse me." He is up and out of the interrogation room before either Stan or Ray can respond.

He finds Sam Winchester fidgeting at an empty desk, eyes darting to the faces of each person that passes the desk. As soon as he sees Fraser, he shoots up. "I have to go. I can't stay here."

All of the steel is gone. The shadows that Benton saw in his eyes, under his eyes at the stadium and interrogation room are more prevalent. He pitches his voice low so that the other officers won't hear him.

"Where are you staying Mr. Winchester? I mean apart from the fake address that you gave to Detective Vecchio."

"The address was real."

"But I suspect they have never seen you there."  Benton gives a pointed look to the two uniforms.

"It's by the bus station, the main Greyhound station."

"Shall we go then?"

"I, what."

"Your real statement may be of some use."

Bewilderment shadows his face. "But you said -"

"Shall we go now?" Ben suggests firmly.

The hotel is smallish, probably a lot of rooms rented by the hour. Single story, easier to secure Ben observes as Sam Winchester pulls up to his room in his huge car. He wonders for a minute what Stan and Ray would say about the car. Then he clamps down firmly on those thoughts. Winchester slams out of the car and doesn't bother to look behind him to see if  Benton follows.  He does. Once inside the room, which is in a fair state of disarray, the younger man turns on him.

"What the hell do you want? You helped me out of a situation that could have gotten sticky. Okay. You seem not to be clueless as the rest.  My statement is not going to get you jack."

"I know that Mr. Winchester."

"Sam, it's Sam. Stop calling me Mr. Winchester. And I don't have time for this."

Long fingers tug through longer hair. "I don't have time for this." The last is anguished. He sways just a little, Benton's hand shoots out to steady him. Sam doesn't resist the support. Concern creases Benton's forehead.

"Are you also without time to eat or sleep?"

"Okay, get out." Sam snatches his arm away and starts to pace the room. His legs are so long that it's less like pacing, more like walking in a tight circle. Benton can't help, but smile a little.

"Mr., Sam whatever it is you're doing, if you don't eat or sleep -"

"You don't understand. There's no time."

"I understand that if you don't sleep, you will be ineffectual in your pursuit. I understand if you don't take care of yourself, you will more than likely end up dead. Unless that's what you want."

There's a flicker in Sam's eyes that give him away, just before his whispers, "I should be dead."

"You need to sleep. I am more than adequately qualified to keep watch."

Benton surveys the door, the window.  "I am sure that you have already salted the possible entrances, windows, doors. I assume the bathroom is secured."  He glances at the ceiling. "Five points on the ceiling."

"How did you...you're a hunter? The cop thing is a cover?"

"No, no. But I do know there's more to the world than what we can see. You need to sleep Sam.  I will watch. I promise you. You will be safe."

"Okay, maybe, maybe I'll lay down for a few minutes, but there really isn't time."

"I understand, a few minutes, then."

Sam stops pacing. Ben watches quietly as he toes off his shoes, shrugs off his jacket and sinks to the bed. He swings socked feet onto the bed spread. They hang just a little off the edge. His hands clasp on his stomach, eyes flutter closed. Benton stays where he is for a full five minutes, waiting for the young man's breath to even out.  It actually evens at the three minute mark, but it takes another couple of minutes for his features to relax. Silently, Benton places the lone chair in front of the door, sits. Keeps watch as promised.

Two hours later, Sam thrashes so hard that his arm smashes the light mounted on the wall next to the bed. The bulb shatters.  He groans loudly, but doesn't wake.  Ben is out of the chair and at the side of the bed instantly.

"Sam wake up."  He tries to shake Sam's shoulder to wake him, but his body is moving so frantically, it's hard to get a firm grip on him. He moves as though possessed. Fraser realizes that given what he has seen, that might actually be a possibility.

"SAM. SAM WINCHESTER."  For the moment, Benton is thankful for the hotel's dubious ambience. It makes it less likely anyone will respond to his shouts. In his thrashing, Sam's arms and hands collide over and over with the mounted lamp, the wall. Flecks of  light bulb glass embed in the flesh of  his exposed arms. Fearing serious injury, Fraser grabs one of Sam's wrists firmly and propels himself onto the bed. With some effort, he is able clasp Sam's other wrist in his hand. He presses both down hard over Sam's head as he deadens his weight against the boy. It slows the writhing a fraction.

"Please, no, no, no." Sam moans brokenly. It hurts to hear. It hurts to see a face so young twisted with such anguish.

"SAM, WAKE UP."  He thinks perhaps if he could slap Sam that might wake him, but he's already barely got him restrained. He doubts if he let one of the wrists go he would be able to get in close enough to even make the attempt.  But the other man is straining so hard against the pressure of Ben's hands, Ben fears he might break both of Sam's wrists.  Suddenly, despite the noisy squeak of the bed and Sam's pained whimpers, the room seems to go still around Ben. And he feels something. A presence, similar to what he felt when his father would appear to him. He steals a glance around the room, but sees nothing.  But he hears so close to his ear that it's almost in his head. SammySammySammy.  In a voice that is neither his or Sam Winchester's. SammySammySammy.

Refocusing his attention on the man, still straining and fighting beneath him Fraser shouts,

"SAMMY."

The result is instantaneous.  Sam stops moving, gentled. "Sammy, wake up," Ben says softly. The tension in the body beneath his eases further. Fraser releases his grip on Sam's wrist and climbs off him. Sam's breathing is still fast. Ben places his hand lightly on the flushed forehead.

"It' s okay Sammy." Sam murmurs Dean and then his breathing calms as well.

Another hour passes before Sam wakes on his own. He swings his feet off the bed and stares at Ben. Ben stares back and says nothing.

"What did I do?" Sam asks quietly.

"What makes you think you did anything?"

Sam snorts and runs his fingers through his hair. "You're looking at me like I need a hug or something." Ben blushes and counters with a question of his own.

"Who is Dean?"

Ben wasn't sure of the reaction he would get. He had prepared himself for anything. Sam springs up from the bed clutching his hair. His eyes flash yellow.  Ben swallows hard, but doesn't avert his eyes.

"Who told you about Dean?"

"You did. You had a nightmare. I was unable to wake you. But something, someone perhaps moved me to call you Sammy and you settled immediately."

Ben watches as the boy, and he is a boy again as his whole face falls. Crumbles in on itself as tears spring to his eyes.

"He's my brother. He's the only one that calls me Sammy. He, uh went away."

"Was it his choice?"

"No, he wanted to stay. I just took too long. I took too long."

"And you're trying to get him back."

"Yes, yes."

"And the shape shifter? Was that a lead?"

"Yes, no. Maybe. I don't know. It -" He motions to a closed laptop on the table. "It was about keeping up the fight. That's what he said before -. Keep fighting. The shifter's been around for a long time, maybe three hundred years or so. Works as a contract killer. I thought there might be some knowledge, or I don't know."

"Do you have any leads?" Sam hesitates for only a moment.

"I hear Dean calling me sometimes when I'm awake, screaming for me actually. And he sounds like he's in so much pain," his voice shakes. "And I dream, I have these dreams, nightmares. Dean is screaming, so loud he loses his voice. But he keeps screaming. For me. And there's blood. There's always blood. I think he's in a kind of purgatory. I don't think that I have much time."

Ben's thoughts flash to his father. It was annoying, but thankfully there was no screaming.

"How long ago?

"Three months."

"And you're working alone."

"Bobby, helps. He's family, but he was on something else and got...hurt.  There are others, but they..."

"You will more than likely end up dead before you can get to your brother. You are compromised by your grief."

There is a flash of  the yellow again. And Sam is standing right in front of Fraser, fist drawn back. Ben holds his ground.

"You can't do this alone. I'll help you." Sam's arm falters. "Do you truly want to do this by yourself?"

The fist uncurls and drops. He steps away from Fraser and flops on the edge of the bed.

"What's in it for you? Who are you?"

"You doused me with what I assume was holy water. You know I mean you no harm."

"Sure, but this morning when you woke up, you weren't planning to throw your lot in with a demon hunter."

"Very true. I first came to Chicago on the trail of the men who were responsible for my father's murder." Sam flinches. "I had nothing when I arrived, save for his journals and my wolf.  I didn't know anyone. Someone reached out to me to me. Helped me. Perhaps it's time for me to pay it forward, time for me to move on.

"You said that you knew there was more than we can see? How do you know?"

"After my father was murdered, he seemed to take his death as his opportunity to be the father he hadn't been before. Always popping up at the most inopportune time, with the most unhelpful advice."

Sam barks out a surprised laugh.  "And does he still pop-up."

"Once the man who murdered both of my parents was apprehended. He stopped visiting." Sam inhales sharply.

"My mother was murdered."

"It appears as though we share an unhappy fraternity. Let me help you Sam."

"You have no idea what I am."

"You're a young man grieving the loss of his family. Trying to make something right, seeking justice, vengeance perhaps. I have been on the inside of those feelings. They will destroy you if you don't reach out or leave it so long that you reach out too late."

"You might have to kill me," Sam says soberly.  Ben thinks of himself bleeding on a train platform a few years before. He nods.

"If it comes to that."

Sam smiles broadly, genuinely and the shadows recede slightly. "We leave at sun up."

Fin