SPN (New): The Cat Came Back (gen, post-ep for 516)
So, I got inspired to write this.
Rating: Teen for language
Spoilers: through 5x16, "Dark Side of the Moon"
Summary: It's not something you can tell anyone, after all. It's not something to be proud of, even. For Roy and Walt, it was just a job, like any other.
Story is also archived here on AO3.
*
You run, of course.
It's not something to brag about, you think later, after you and Walt have ditched the guns and the hats and hustled out of town as fast as his F-150 can take you. It's late, and the motel was nearly empty, so you figure it'll be close to noon before the cops get called, but you don't want to be anywhere nearby, just in case.
You're two states away, parked behind a shuttered hardware store, and deep into the second beer before Walt nudges you in the ribs. You nearly spill the beer on the dash.
"What?" you say.
"We did it!" Walt smiles, and you just stare at him; after a moment, the stupid grin slides off his face.
It's not something you can tell anyone, after all. It's not something to be proud of, even. You put down a monster, and it won't change anything that happened, but Sam Winchester at least paid for what he did. Just something that needed to be done, a job like any other.
Well, maybe not just like any other: you make a note to avoid Bobby Singer for a while. Even on four wheels, the man's liable to tear a new hole in anyone he even suspects of doing what Roy and Walt just did.
So you swear Walt to silence--No, I mean it, jackass! NOBODY.--and you just ... go about your business.
Two weeks later you begin to think it's a little weird you haven't heard anything about the Winchester brothers being found dead in a motel in central Ohio. They were on the FBI's Most Wanted list and everything, after all. But you can't ask, because that would mean you know something, and demons aren't even your specialty. So you sit on Walt, and you keep your mouth shut, and you go after that chupacabra west of Flagstaff.
It's mid-May and the fucking apocalypse is roaring into gear: revenants and haunts and even ghouls are everywhere. Weird stories on the news, even a fucking zombie uprising in Douglas County Oregon. You're too busy to do anything but drive, and shoot, and fall asleep on your beer before Walt kicks your ass out of bed and you're off to the next one.
So you don't hear much gossip from the hunters' network: it's just news, and damned little good news at that.
Eight weeks after that bloody encounter in Ohio, Walt goes down under a slab of concrete tossed by a vengeful spirit, in a long-stalled condo construction site in Oakland. You hear yourself screaming his name from a long way away.
Somehow, you manage to pull the concrete off of him, but his head is... oh, God. There's no surgeon who can fix that. And then you feel yourself flying sideways into the wall. You hit it, and before you crumple to the ground you know your arm is broken, and a couple of ribs too. You drop your Remington and the flashlight, and this is it, you're gonna die.
So you figure it's no more than you deserve when you see the face of the spirit that's come to kill you. Even if you can't figure out why Dean Winchester's ghost would be all the way out here across the country. Shoulda stuck around to burn the fucker when you had the chance.
Except he doesn't kill you. He sends a blast of rocksalt through the gangbanger's ghost, and then swings himself over the debris to come to you. He's got you up and his shoulder under yours before you realize he's real, he's alive. You've heard weird stories about the Winchesters, but Christ, nobody comes back from two rounds in the chest. The man was dead, you'd bet your hope of Heaven on it.
"Fuck," you gasp, as he hustles you out of the building, dodging around studs and holes in the floor and one tall shadow you realize is his brother, covering your exit with guns in both hands. "Oh, God, Walt--" You'll have to tell Aunt Jennie, and the thought hurts worse than the ribs grinding together in your chest.
It's still dark outside, miserably cold and wet for May in California. Winchester gets you across the street before he dumps you unceremoniously on a brick staircase, ignoring your whimpers.
"Dean." Sam Winchester jerks his head down the street, where blue lights are reflecting on the wet pavement.
"Right." Dean looks back at you, sprawled empty-handed and wet-assed on someone's front stoop. He tosses something at your feet. It's your own gun, dropped and lost, you thought.
"Wait," you say, trying to think around the pain, but you can't come up with anything to say. It's all happened so fast: Walt's dead, the Winchesters aren't, and the cops are on their way.
Dean stares down at you, his face hard. He doesn't look angry, even though you put two rounds into him. More tired, and pissed at the whole fucking world.
"Dean!" snaps Sam from the shadows: he's stepping backwards into the alley. "We gotta go!" The sirens are louder.
But Dean squats down in front of you, and slaps your face gently, making sure he has your attention. He gives you a sour smile, which blurs a little as you sway. "I'll give you this one, Roy, since you just lost your partner."
"--Cousin--" you correct him, but he keeps talking. Oh, Aunt Jennie...
"But don't try it again. Nothing you can do'll keep us down for good: we're way above your pay grade. And if you ever lay a single hand on Sammy again, I'll make sure you lose it. That's a promise. Spread the word."
And then they're both gone, disappearing into the darkness as the first cruiser pulls up, skidding on the wet pavement.
Spread the word, he said, and you can't but figure that nobody, even among the hunters, is going to believe you.
END
Crossposted from DW, where there are
comments; comment here or there.
Rating: Teen for language
Spoilers: through 5x16, "Dark Side of the Moon"
Summary: It's not something you can tell anyone, after all. It's not something to be proud of, even. For Roy and Walt, it was just a job, like any other.
Story is also archived here on AO3.
*
You run, of course.
It's not something to brag about, you think later, after you and Walt have ditched the guns and the hats and hustled out of town as fast as his F-150 can take you. It's late, and the motel was nearly empty, so you figure it'll be close to noon before the cops get called, but you don't want to be anywhere nearby, just in case.
You're two states away, parked behind a shuttered hardware store, and deep into the second beer before Walt nudges you in the ribs. You nearly spill the beer on the dash.
"What?" you say.
"We did it!" Walt smiles, and you just stare at him; after a moment, the stupid grin slides off his face.
It's not something you can tell anyone, after all. It's not something to be proud of, even. You put down a monster, and it won't change anything that happened, but Sam Winchester at least paid for what he did. Just something that needed to be done, a job like any other.
Well, maybe not just like any other: you make a note to avoid Bobby Singer for a while. Even on four wheels, the man's liable to tear a new hole in anyone he even suspects of doing what Roy and Walt just did.
So you swear Walt to silence--No, I mean it, jackass! NOBODY.--and you just ... go about your business.
Two weeks later you begin to think it's a little weird you haven't heard anything about the Winchester brothers being found dead in a motel in central Ohio. They were on the FBI's Most Wanted list and everything, after all. But you can't ask, because that would mean you know something, and demons aren't even your specialty. So you sit on Walt, and you keep your mouth shut, and you go after that chupacabra west of Flagstaff.
It's mid-May and the fucking apocalypse is roaring into gear: revenants and haunts and even ghouls are everywhere. Weird stories on the news, even a fucking zombie uprising in Douglas County Oregon. You're too busy to do anything but drive, and shoot, and fall asleep on your beer before Walt kicks your ass out of bed and you're off to the next one.
So you don't hear much gossip from the hunters' network: it's just news, and damned little good news at that.
Eight weeks after that bloody encounter in Ohio, Walt goes down under a slab of concrete tossed by a vengeful spirit, in a long-stalled condo construction site in Oakland. You hear yourself screaming his name from a long way away.
Somehow, you manage to pull the concrete off of him, but his head is... oh, God. There's no surgeon who can fix that. And then you feel yourself flying sideways into the wall. You hit it, and before you crumple to the ground you know your arm is broken, and a couple of ribs too. You drop your Remington and the flashlight, and this is it, you're gonna die.
So you figure it's no more than you deserve when you see the face of the spirit that's come to kill you. Even if you can't figure out why Dean Winchester's ghost would be all the way out here across the country. Shoulda stuck around to burn the fucker when you had the chance.
Except he doesn't kill you. He sends a blast of rocksalt through the gangbanger's ghost, and then swings himself over the debris to come to you. He's got you up and his shoulder under yours before you realize he's real, he's alive. You've heard weird stories about the Winchesters, but Christ, nobody comes back from two rounds in the chest. The man was dead, you'd bet your hope of Heaven on it.
"Fuck," you gasp, as he hustles you out of the building, dodging around studs and holes in the floor and one tall shadow you realize is his brother, covering your exit with guns in both hands. "Oh, God, Walt--" You'll have to tell Aunt Jennie, and the thought hurts worse than the ribs grinding together in your chest.
It's still dark outside, miserably cold and wet for May in California. Winchester gets you across the street before he dumps you unceremoniously on a brick staircase, ignoring your whimpers.
"Dean." Sam Winchester jerks his head down the street, where blue lights are reflecting on the wet pavement.
"Right." Dean looks back at you, sprawled empty-handed and wet-assed on someone's front stoop. He tosses something at your feet. It's your own gun, dropped and lost, you thought.
"Wait," you say, trying to think around the pain, but you can't come up with anything to say. It's all happened so fast: Walt's dead, the Winchesters aren't, and the cops are on their way.
Dean stares down at you, his face hard. He doesn't look angry, even though you put two rounds into him. More tired, and pissed at the whole fucking world.
"Dean!" snaps Sam from the shadows: he's stepping backwards into the alley. "We gotta go!" The sirens are louder.
But Dean squats down in front of you, and slaps your face gently, making sure he has your attention. He gives you a sour smile, which blurs a little as you sway. "I'll give you this one, Roy, since you just lost your partner."
"--Cousin--" you correct him, but he keeps talking. Oh, Aunt Jennie...
"But don't try it again. Nothing you can do'll keep us down for good: we're way above your pay grade. And if you ever lay a single hand on Sammy again, I'll make sure you lose it. That's a promise. Spread the word."
And then they're both gone, disappearing into the darkness as the first cruiser pulls up, skidding on the wet pavement.
Spread the word, he said, and you can't but figure that nobody, even among the hunters, is going to believe you.
END
Crossposted from DW, where there are
comments; comment here or there.