Comment fic spam post - Crossovers
Two crossovers that I wrote on comment_fic. I really quite like that Dark Angel crossover. Again, I didn't record the prompters' names, sorry. And also unbeta-d.
Title: Blind Faith
Fandoms: Supernatural/Dark Angel
Rating: PG
Word Count: 675
Warnings: Ben... do I need to say anything else?
Pairing/Characters: Castiel and Ben (X5-493)
Spoilers: Season 4 of Supernatural, Pollo Loco in Dark Angel.
Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural or Dark Angel, I just thought the prompt was cool.
Author's Note: Don't ask me to explain how these two universes have collided here... they just have. Maybe Ben walked through a portal or something. *shrug*
Summary: Castiel is in search of Faith he stumbles across someone who looks startlingly familiar.
It’s barely big enough to house a large family, but it is still a church, and Castiel needs that just now. He knows that God is everywhere and no one place is ever truly more sacred than another, but there is a feeling of deep faith in places like this, that he needs to feel, needs to absorb, as though somehow it will make up for the cracks of doubt that he is beginning to show.
He does not kneel, he does not stand, but sits, staring at the red light of the candle over the tabernacle and the painted statue of the Madonna which stands next to it. As the light flickers she seems to smile. It is just a trick of the light, but an angel can never doubt the higher meaning in things.
It isn’t a nice smile.
The light flickers further as the door behind him swings open and someone comes in, moving more quietly than should be humanly possible. Castiel turns, and almost freezes at the sight in front of him. At first glance, the man looks identical to Dean, but a second later Castiel can see the flaws - this man is thinner, he moves differently, and there is a quality to his eyes that Castiel has only ever seen once in the Winchester, when they first met and the darkness was all about them.
It is a look that chills him.
“Who are you?” he asks, because he cannot not ask that - not faced with someone who looks like everything Dean might have become. The figure starts and stares at him. There is no answer. “Why are you here?” A shapeshifter, a golem of Lilith’s devising, possible answers flash through Castiel’s mind as he stands up.
“I came to see the lady. I needed to speak to her”
If anything, the voice is worse than the man’s eyes. Castiel knows faith, he has spent his existence surrounded by it in different forms, from the fierce variety, that can almost blind you with its intensity, to the softly spoken faith, which runs so deep you could drown in it. He has seen people with small doubts and large doubts, he has faced off with Dean, who has no faith in God, but unending faith in what he fights for. But with two short sentences, this man has revealed a faith he has never seen before: so certain, so sure that he cannot see anything else; it can allow nothing else but its own belief.
It is pure - in the same way that darkness is pure. Castiel shudders, because he came here looking for faith and he has found it.
There was a blur of movement and suddenly the man was standing in front of him, staring into his face with those eyes… Castiel couldn’t help but stare back, trying to take in the difference - the insanity in that gaze that Dean had only ever played on the edge of.
“Why are you here?” the man asks. Castiel can smell the faint scent of blood, and he looks down to see something clenched in the man’s hand.
“I needed to think,” he says simply, trying to puzzle this man out - insanity and blind faith. “It is… peaceful here.” The man looks away, sorrow and confusion etched into his face.
“Yes… it is.” The familiar face looks back up at him, thoughtfully. “Did you find what you needed?”
Castiel looks at him again, at the manic faith shining out of his eyes, down at the cloth in his hand that blood has seeped through. He thinks of unthinking faith and following orders.
“Yes,” the angel says, looking away, back at the statue of Mary. She is no longer smiling - she looks lost. “I think I did.”
The young man gives him one last, long look, before he turns to walk over to her, muttering under his breath things that Castiel chooses not to hear.
There is a rustle of wings and the man is left alone, leaving an offering to his lady.
Title: Witch-hunting
Fandoms: Supernatural/Charmed
Rating: G
Word Count: 776
Warnings: It's been a while since I wrote Charmed fic?
Pairing/Characters: Dean Winchester and Chris
Spoilers: Stanford era- Spn, so pretty much just 1x01. Season 6 of Charmed.
Disclaimer: I still don't own Supernatural or Charmed... no money is being made through this.
Author's Note: Ah, Charmed... an old fandom of mine. Very old. I stopped writing before Chris even existed.
Summary: John and Dean are Witch-hunting in San Francisco, while John's out Dean gets a drink in a local club.
It’s a club - not Dean’s usual hang out, especially with the music that’s playing. It is live, he’ll give them that, but it’s some girl crooning into the mic and swaying from side to side. She’s sort of hot when the light hits her the right way, and after her set Dean’ll probably try to hit on her for something to do.
Of course, when his Dad gets here he’ll have to give up on that. This isn’t a holiday, after all, they’re supposed to be hunting witches.
When was the last time either of them got a holiday.
There’s a pretty woman across the bar smiling at him, but she seems more involved with the woman next to her than in flirting, so Dean lets his eyes skate over her.
This hasn’t been his favourite job. When witches are involved there are always too many bodily fluids and maggots for Dean’s taste. He prefers things nice and simple. Blood and guts are fine, corpses he’s grown used to, but witches find uses for parts of the anatomy, both human and animal, that he had never wanted to think about.
“Damn witches…” he mutters into his beer, but he must have been speaking too loudly because a young man nearby turns to look at him immediately, his head spinning round so quickly Dean could be forgiven for thinking it was being twisted right off.
“You have a problem with witches?” the man looks him up and down, and one hand’s reaching into his pocket, even as Dean goes for his gun.
Simultaneously they both look around at the crowds surrounding them, groups of women laughing with their friends, men looking for a dance.
“Maybe we should take this outside,” Dean offers, and the guy nods.
They follow each other out, and Dean notices that the woman who’d been eyeing him earlier tracked their movements with a frown of concern.
That’s about when it all starts to get weird. The fight isn’t so much of a fight as the guy throwing a bottle of weird looking liquid at him which shatters at his feet. It splatters on Dean’s shoes, but doesn’t seem to be doing anything spectacular. If this guy is a witch then he’s not a very good one.
“How did you do that?” the man asks, “that should have vanquished you.” Dean likes to think that he’s perfected his double take, and right then he nails it.
“Vanquished?” he asked slowly, spreading the word out on his tongue as though it will somehow make more sense if he examines every syllable. It doesn’t. “What, do you think you’re some kind of knight in shining armour or something?” He tugs his gun out from his waist band and aims, but before he can fire, there’s some sort of glowing blue lights and the guy disappears.
Dean’s been hunting ghosts, monsters and other kinds of evil since he was six and he has never seen that one before.
From nowhere a fist connects with the side of his jaw.
“You’re carrying a gun?” the man asks as Dean rubs at his face. The stranger has a good right hook, he’ll give him that, but Dean’s had worse walking into trees before. “Demons don’t carry guns.”
“Damn right they don’t!” Dean protests, “and I’m not a demon…”
“Then what are you, and what’s your problem with witches? Did Wyatt send you?”
“Who’s Wyatt?” Dean asked, thoroughly bemused. He’s never been confused for a demon by a witch before. And what would a witch care?
“You… you’re not from the future?” the man asks. Dean blinks and wonders when the conversation took the turning into crazy land.
“No… I’m not.” The man’s clearly high, except for that part where he can disappear and reappear with glowy lights.
“A Warlock?” the man asks.
“No… I’m just a regular human being, what about you? How did you do that glowing light thing? You a demon?” It’s the other guy’s turn to look confused. His eyebrows shoot up his forehead.
“No… I’m a whitelighter.”
“A… whitelighter?” Dean asks, slowing down again, because he’s fairly certain that you’re not allowed to just make up words at times like this.
“Yes…” the man breaks off and heaves a long-suffering sigh. “Great, just great… I have to go. Just don’t kill any witches, alright?” Dean’s about to tell him that he doesn’t take orders from idiots who can’t even come up with realistic lies when the glowing lights come again and the bastard dematerialises.
“I hate witches,” he mutters as he walks out of the alley, “Salem had the right idea - just burn them all…”
-
Title: Blind Faith
Fandoms: Supernatural/Dark Angel
Rating: PG
Word Count: 675
Warnings: Ben... do I need to say anything else?
Pairing/Characters: Castiel and Ben (X5-493)
Spoilers: Season 4 of Supernatural, Pollo Loco in Dark Angel.
Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural or Dark Angel, I just thought the prompt was cool.
Author's Note: Don't ask me to explain how these two universes have collided here... they just have. Maybe Ben walked through a portal or something. *shrug*
Summary: Castiel is in search of Faith he stumbles across someone who looks startlingly familiar.
It’s barely big enough to house a large family, but it is still a church, and Castiel needs that just now. He knows that God is everywhere and no one place is ever truly more sacred than another, but there is a feeling of deep faith in places like this, that he needs to feel, needs to absorb, as though somehow it will make up for the cracks of doubt that he is beginning to show.
He does not kneel, he does not stand, but sits, staring at the red light of the candle over the tabernacle and the painted statue of the Madonna which stands next to it. As the light flickers she seems to smile. It is just a trick of the light, but an angel can never doubt the higher meaning in things.
It isn’t a nice smile.
The light flickers further as the door behind him swings open and someone comes in, moving more quietly than should be humanly possible. Castiel turns, and almost freezes at the sight in front of him. At first glance, the man looks identical to Dean, but a second later Castiel can see the flaws - this man is thinner, he moves differently, and there is a quality to his eyes that Castiel has only ever seen once in the Winchester, when they first met and the darkness was all about them.
It is a look that chills him.
“Who are you?” he asks, because he cannot not ask that - not faced with someone who looks like everything Dean might have become. The figure starts and stares at him. There is no answer. “Why are you here?” A shapeshifter, a golem of Lilith’s devising, possible answers flash through Castiel’s mind as he stands up.
“I came to see the lady. I needed to speak to her”
If anything, the voice is worse than the man’s eyes. Castiel knows faith, he has spent his existence surrounded by it in different forms, from the fierce variety, that can almost blind you with its intensity, to the softly spoken faith, which runs so deep you could drown in it. He has seen people with small doubts and large doubts, he has faced off with Dean, who has no faith in God, but unending faith in what he fights for. But with two short sentences, this man has revealed a faith he has never seen before: so certain, so sure that he cannot see anything else; it can allow nothing else but its own belief.
It is pure - in the same way that darkness is pure. Castiel shudders, because he came here looking for faith and he has found it.
There was a blur of movement and suddenly the man was standing in front of him, staring into his face with those eyes… Castiel couldn’t help but stare back, trying to take in the difference - the insanity in that gaze that Dean had only ever played on the edge of.
“Why are you here?” the man asks. Castiel can smell the faint scent of blood, and he looks down to see something clenched in the man’s hand.
“I needed to think,” he says simply, trying to puzzle this man out - insanity and blind faith. “It is… peaceful here.” The man looks away, sorrow and confusion etched into his face.
“Yes… it is.” The familiar face looks back up at him, thoughtfully. “Did you find what you needed?”
Castiel looks at him again, at the manic faith shining out of his eyes, down at the cloth in his hand that blood has seeped through. He thinks of unthinking faith and following orders.
“Yes,” the angel says, looking away, back at the statue of Mary. She is no longer smiling - she looks lost. “I think I did.”
The young man gives him one last, long look, before he turns to walk over to her, muttering under his breath things that Castiel chooses not to hear.
There is a rustle of wings and the man is left alone, leaving an offering to his lady.
Title: Witch-hunting
Fandoms: Supernatural/Charmed
Rating: G
Word Count: 776
Warnings: It's been a while since I wrote Charmed fic?
Pairing/Characters: Dean Winchester and Chris
Spoilers: Stanford era- Spn, so pretty much just 1x01. Season 6 of Charmed.
Disclaimer: I still don't own Supernatural or Charmed... no money is being made through this.
Author's Note: Ah, Charmed... an old fandom of mine. Very old. I stopped writing before Chris even existed.
Summary: John and Dean are Witch-hunting in San Francisco, while John's out Dean gets a drink in a local club.
It’s a club - not Dean’s usual hang out, especially with the music that’s playing. It is live, he’ll give them that, but it’s some girl crooning into the mic and swaying from side to side. She’s sort of hot when the light hits her the right way, and after her set Dean’ll probably try to hit on her for something to do.
Of course, when his Dad gets here he’ll have to give up on that. This isn’t a holiday, after all, they’re supposed to be hunting witches.
When was the last time either of them got a holiday.
There’s a pretty woman across the bar smiling at him, but she seems more involved with the woman next to her than in flirting, so Dean lets his eyes skate over her.
This hasn’t been his favourite job. When witches are involved there are always too many bodily fluids and maggots for Dean’s taste. He prefers things nice and simple. Blood and guts are fine, corpses he’s grown used to, but witches find uses for parts of the anatomy, both human and animal, that he had never wanted to think about.
“Damn witches…” he mutters into his beer, but he must have been speaking too loudly because a young man nearby turns to look at him immediately, his head spinning round so quickly Dean could be forgiven for thinking it was being twisted right off.
“You have a problem with witches?” the man looks him up and down, and one hand’s reaching into his pocket, even as Dean goes for his gun.
Simultaneously they both look around at the crowds surrounding them, groups of women laughing with their friends, men looking for a dance.
“Maybe we should take this outside,” Dean offers, and the guy nods.
They follow each other out, and Dean notices that the woman who’d been eyeing him earlier tracked their movements with a frown of concern.
That’s about when it all starts to get weird. The fight isn’t so much of a fight as the guy throwing a bottle of weird looking liquid at him which shatters at his feet. It splatters on Dean’s shoes, but doesn’t seem to be doing anything spectacular. If this guy is a witch then he’s not a very good one.
“How did you do that?” the man asks, “that should have vanquished you.” Dean likes to think that he’s perfected his double take, and right then he nails it.
“Vanquished?” he asked slowly, spreading the word out on his tongue as though it will somehow make more sense if he examines every syllable. It doesn’t. “What, do you think you’re some kind of knight in shining armour or something?” He tugs his gun out from his waist band and aims, but before he can fire, there’s some sort of glowing blue lights and the guy disappears.
Dean’s been hunting ghosts, monsters and other kinds of evil since he was six and he has never seen that one before.
From nowhere a fist connects with the side of his jaw.
“You’re carrying a gun?” the man asks as Dean rubs at his face. The stranger has a good right hook, he’ll give him that, but Dean’s had worse walking into trees before. “Demons don’t carry guns.”
“Damn right they don’t!” Dean protests, “and I’m not a demon…”
“Then what are you, and what’s your problem with witches? Did Wyatt send you?”
“Who’s Wyatt?” Dean asked, thoroughly bemused. He’s never been confused for a demon by a witch before. And what would a witch care?
“You… you’re not from the future?” the man asks. Dean blinks and wonders when the conversation took the turning into crazy land.
“No… I’m not.” The man’s clearly high, except for that part where he can disappear and reappear with glowy lights.
“A Warlock?” the man asks.
“No… I’m just a regular human being, what about you? How did you do that glowing light thing? You a demon?” It’s the other guy’s turn to look confused. His eyebrows shoot up his forehead.
“No… I’m a whitelighter.”
“A… whitelighter?” Dean asks, slowing down again, because he’s fairly certain that you’re not allowed to just make up words at times like this.
“Yes…” the man breaks off and heaves a long-suffering sigh. “Great, just great… I have to go. Just don’t kill any witches, alright?” Dean’s about to tell him that he doesn’t take orders from idiots who can’t even come up with realistic lies when the glowing lights come again and the bastard dematerialises.
“I hate witches,” he mutters as he walks out of the alley, “Salem had the right idea - just burn them all…”
-