Happy Holidays, Tears of Nienna!
As a kindness to our friends in that fandom suffering the show's hiatus, today's theme at GOE is Supernatural crossovers!
Title: And We Remember to Fight
Gift for: tears_of_nienna
Rating: Adult
Genre: crossover Good Omens/Supernatural
Pairing: War/Bobby
Summary: A visit from a Horseperson reminds Bobby of why he fights.
a/n: Huge thanks to Vulgarweed for the speedy beta. And with apologies to the Bhagavad Gita. For a short discussion of the Bhagavad Gita, see author's notes at the end of the text.
Bobby sits in his wheelchair, staring out the window. He's waiting for something, though he doesn't know what. He's been waiting for days. A copy of the National World Weekly lies open on the table, "War breaks out in Faith, South Dakota. Aliens blamed." It's the fourth rural town in a hundred-mile radius this week. For explaining horrific no-holds barred warfare in towns with populations under 500, aliens sound somewhat reasonable.
Bobby's circled the locations in the article. Pinned them on a map. He's pretty sure he knows what's going on. He wishes it was aliens. One phone call and Sam and Dean will be here inside of a day. But his phone is sitting idly on the edge of the couch. He could get into his car and drive the hour and a half due West and investigate the situation himself. But the car keys are next to his phone.
It's not that he doesn't care. He does. Deeply. He promised Dean that he was back in this fight. And he is, mostly. But there's a difference when the heart's in something while the rest of the body's in a wheelchair. Or so he tells to himself. So he's sitting there, feeling sorry for himself, disgusted with mounting civilian deaths, and not doing a damn thing.
It's funny, he'll reflect later. None of his myriad demon or monster traps catch her. Rather it's the growling, base and viscerally horrifying, of a bitch at her pups that serves as a warning that he has a visitor. He shushes the dogs, and listens to the slow roll of new tires across his graveled driveway. He recognizes the hum of the engine before he sees the car -- a 1968 Mustang. He'd know that sound anywhere. It was the last car he drove before he shipped off to Vietnam.
The Mustang, a vibrant red, pulls up alongside the new ramp to his porch. That's quite a ways beyond the driveway but somehow he doesn't think that matters much to the driver. The car door opens, the annoying beep beep beep indicating that even supernatural beings are not above leaving the keys in the ignition. Abruptly, the beeping stops, and then, from a distance of no more than five or six feet, he sees her legs -- which is a shock -- as she slowly gets out of the driver's side. She slides her legs together, then lets them fall open, as she leans into the passenger side, apparently to retrieve something. The flash of deep pink isn't unexpected - not once the initial surprise of female wears off. If she's who Bobby thinks she is, she's certainly going use everything in her arsenal. Still, it's discomfiting. It's been a while, after all.
As graceful as a minx, she rises out of the car. She's beautiful, sharply so. She's a she now. And she's clearly decided to play that to her advantage. Bobby looks down at his legs, useless and already atrophied to half of what they were a month ago. He wants to laugh. She's not going to get very far, he thinks. He's still afraid of her, sure. Only a fool wouldn't be. But mostly, he's just uneasy about why she's here in the first place.
She pauses at the screen door. A formality, as she's capable of knocking down his house, or at least inciting any living beings in the surrounding vicinity to do so.
"Come on in. I was just reading some of your work," he says, gesturing to the National World Weekly. His tone isn't inviting. But she doesn't seem to notice.
"You know who I am, then?" She's got a slightly affected accent, Bobby notes. It's vaguely British.
"You're different from what I expected. But yeah, I know who you are."
"Yes, that. I thought I'd give the accountant look a try. It's so popular these days. Wasn't really for me."
Bobby says nothing. But he's the slightest bit amused that she'd try this with him while she gave Sam and Dean an entirely unremarkable middle-aged white male to chase after.
"I don't have your ring," Bobby says, after a few long moments of silence.
"Pity. It was one of a kind. But that's not why I'm here."
Bobby waits. His house, the surrounding buildings, some of the old cars, and numerous storage containers buried deep under ground, are chock full of various books, spell ingredients, artifacts, and weapons. He's guarded them as best he could against most kinds of evil. But he's never come up against a Horseman-- a Horseperson, he mentally corrects-- of the Apocalypse.
"I don't have your sword, either."
"Now that is too bad. I feel that particular loss rather keenly." She smiles then. It's truly disturbing and doesn't at all make him feel less uneasy. But there's something else there, too, reflecting in her orange eyes. Need, desire, excitement.
"I'm here for you, Bobby. Come with me."
Her offer is compelling. He's nervous but strangely, no longer afraid.
No sooner than he makes up his mind to go with her than he finds himself sitting shotgun in the Mustang. He can't help but take in the rich details of the vintage car. It's like new. It's directly from his memories. It could have been his car.
She smiles again. "Like it? Seemed to be the perfect chariot for you, Bobby."
Chariot. The word is oddly fitting.
The engine roars to life. And then, they're weightless. The car is literally hovering in some kind of mist. Bobby can hear the distant cacophony of battles raging all around him. But he knows somehow that the real battle-- the big one-- the culmination of all the little petty ones hasn't yet happened. He knows that they're literally on the cusp of it and that's she's brought him to some sort of plane of middle ground. If he looks in one direction, then he sees twisted and writhing bodies, demon and human and angel. If he looks in another, he sees nothing. A bleak, empty, and utterly terrifying nothingness.
So many lives. But pitted against them, the nothingness is far more frightening.
He wants to throw up. He wants out of the car. Out of this plane. Out of this war.
"And where would you go?" Her tone has the sharpness of steel.
"Anywhere, you crazy bitch. This isn't right." He can't quite catch his breath.
"How is this not right, Bobby? This is what you do. Your whole life has been building to this moment, to this fight."
The scene is suddenly, startlingly familiar. "I'm not some pivotal character in your big fight."
She laughs. It's rich and hard and sharp. It grates against his soul. He wants to choke that sound right out of her throat.
She stops then, looks at him with dilated pupils, black pools outlined in vivid orange. Her breath comes in gasps.
"There's absolutely nothing hotter than a holy warrior."
It's the last thing she says before she straddles him, her mouth hovering millimeters over his, her crotch just slightly rubbing against his.
He wants this. He wants to strangle her, he wants to hear her gasp her last breath. He wants. He wants. He wants.
He's hard now. He wasn't sure that was even possible -- his doctors hadn't said one way or another.
But the bloodlust gets him.
"Yes," she says, biting her bottom lip, drawing forth a tiny drop of bright red blood. He tilts his face upwards, licking the blood. It leaves a hot metallic taste on his tongue.
"This is my fight. Right here," she says, just before she slides her lips over his.
Her kiss is unlike any other kiss. Granted, Bobby doesn't have a lot of data points. But it's good, painfully so. It drowns out all of his other senses for a brief moment, before everything comes crashing down around him, far more intense than he would have thought possible. He can hear every scream. He can smell the gore of bodies in various stages of decay. He can feel the aftershocks of explosions. But he's not bothered by any of it. He knows his place now.
After a few mindless moments of delicious friction, she works her hands down between them, deftly unzipping his pants and pulling his dick free of his briefs. She's not wearing panties so there's nothing but heat and wetness. It's a quick thing for him to angle her hips, just enough to pull her down onto him.
He gets it then as he grips her hips tightly, forcing the rhythm of their fucking. She's not here to remind him of why he fights. Dean did that well enough. She's here to show him how to abandon his body because it can't be trusted. It'll sell him out every time. He hasn't fucked a woman since his wife. He hasn't even wanted to. But he's right here with her now, fucking her like the memory of his wife is nothing to him.
She gasps then, her tongue stilling against his. Her breaths are loud to his ears, mixing with the violence in the background. He doesn't let go of her hips, not until he comes.
Bobby sighs, leaning back into the seat. She's staring at him. He returns her gaze.
"Thank you." He knows it's an odd thing to say to War. But he means it.
She kisses him then, a completely different kind of kiss. This one is soft and beautiful but oddly not incongruous with the rest of her. As her tongue finds his, he closes his eyes, and thinks of the smooth lines of a gun and the perfect hilt of a sword.
When he opens his eyes, he's back where he started, in his living room, in his wheelchair. War is gone. Or rather, the personification of War is gone. He knows what's waiting for him in Faith, though. And his body, what's left of it, isn't going to hinder him from performing his duty.
--fin--
A/N: The Bhagavad Gita is an ancient Hindu religious text. Set in the style of an epic hero's poem, the Gita tells the story of Arjuna's confrontation with Krishna, the supreme god, on the battlefield, just before the great war. Arjuna, a holy warrior, is overcome by his desire to avoid the horror of war. Krishna, disguised as a charioteer, reminds Arjuna that war is his sacred duty. When Krishna reveals himself in all of his glory, he instructs Arjuna to ignore the distraction of his human body so that he may perform his sacred duty.
Happy Holidays, tears_of_nienna, from your Secret Author!
Title: And We Remember to Fight
Gift for: tears_of_nienna
Rating: Adult
Genre: crossover Good Omens/Supernatural
Pairing: War/Bobby
Summary: A visit from a Horseperson reminds Bobby of why he fights.
a/n: Huge thanks to Vulgarweed for the speedy beta. And with apologies to the Bhagavad Gita. For a short discussion of the Bhagavad Gita, see author's notes at the end of the text.
Bobby sits in his wheelchair, staring out the window. He's waiting for something, though he doesn't know what. He's been waiting for days. A copy of the National World Weekly lies open on the table, "War breaks out in Faith, South Dakota. Aliens blamed." It's the fourth rural town in a hundred-mile radius this week. For explaining horrific no-holds barred warfare in towns with populations under 500, aliens sound somewhat reasonable.
Bobby's circled the locations in the article. Pinned them on a map. He's pretty sure he knows what's going on. He wishes it was aliens. One phone call and Sam and Dean will be here inside of a day. But his phone is sitting idly on the edge of the couch. He could get into his car and drive the hour and a half due West and investigate the situation himself. But the car keys are next to his phone.
It's not that he doesn't care. He does. Deeply. He promised Dean that he was back in this fight. And he is, mostly. But there's a difference when the heart's in something while the rest of the body's in a wheelchair. Or so he tells to himself. So he's sitting there, feeling sorry for himself, disgusted with mounting civilian deaths, and not doing a damn thing.
It's funny, he'll reflect later. None of his myriad demon or monster traps catch her. Rather it's the growling, base and viscerally horrifying, of a bitch at her pups that serves as a warning that he has a visitor. He shushes the dogs, and listens to the slow roll of new tires across his graveled driveway. He recognizes the hum of the engine before he sees the car -- a 1968 Mustang. He'd know that sound anywhere. It was the last car he drove before he shipped off to Vietnam.
The Mustang, a vibrant red, pulls up alongside the new ramp to his porch. That's quite a ways beyond the driveway but somehow he doesn't think that matters much to the driver. The car door opens, the annoying beep beep beep indicating that even supernatural beings are not above leaving the keys in the ignition. Abruptly, the beeping stops, and then, from a distance of no more than five or six feet, he sees her legs -- which is a shock -- as she slowly gets out of the driver's side. She slides her legs together, then lets them fall open, as she leans into the passenger side, apparently to retrieve something. The flash of deep pink isn't unexpected - not once the initial surprise of female wears off. If she's who Bobby thinks she is, she's certainly going use everything in her arsenal. Still, it's discomfiting. It's been a while, after all.
As graceful as a minx, she rises out of the car. She's beautiful, sharply so. She's a she now. And she's clearly decided to play that to her advantage. Bobby looks down at his legs, useless and already atrophied to half of what they were a month ago. He wants to laugh. She's not going to get very far, he thinks. He's still afraid of her, sure. Only a fool wouldn't be. But mostly, he's just uneasy about why she's here in the first place.
She pauses at the screen door. A formality, as she's capable of knocking down his house, or at least inciting any living beings in the surrounding vicinity to do so.
"Come on in. I was just reading some of your work," he says, gesturing to the National World Weekly. His tone isn't inviting. But she doesn't seem to notice.
"You know who I am, then?" She's got a slightly affected accent, Bobby notes. It's vaguely British.
"You're different from what I expected. But yeah, I know who you are."
"Yes, that. I thought I'd give the accountant look a try. It's so popular these days. Wasn't really for me."
Bobby says nothing. But he's the slightest bit amused that she'd try this with him while she gave Sam and Dean an entirely unremarkable middle-aged white male to chase after.
"I don't have your ring," Bobby says, after a few long moments of silence.
"Pity. It was one of a kind. But that's not why I'm here."
Bobby waits. His house, the surrounding buildings, some of the old cars, and numerous storage containers buried deep under ground, are chock full of various books, spell ingredients, artifacts, and weapons. He's guarded them as best he could against most kinds of evil. But he's never come up against a Horseman-- a Horseperson, he mentally corrects-- of the Apocalypse.
"I don't have your sword, either."
"Now that is too bad. I feel that particular loss rather keenly." She smiles then. It's truly disturbing and doesn't at all make him feel less uneasy. But there's something else there, too, reflecting in her orange eyes. Need, desire, excitement.
"I'm here for you, Bobby. Come with me."
Her offer is compelling. He's nervous but strangely, no longer afraid.
No sooner than he makes up his mind to go with her than he finds himself sitting shotgun in the Mustang. He can't help but take in the rich details of the vintage car. It's like new. It's directly from his memories. It could have been his car.
She smiles again. "Like it? Seemed to be the perfect chariot for you, Bobby."
Chariot. The word is oddly fitting.
The engine roars to life. And then, they're weightless. The car is literally hovering in some kind of mist. Bobby can hear the distant cacophony of battles raging all around him. But he knows somehow that the real battle-- the big one-- the culmination of all the little petty ones hasn't yet happened. He knows that they're literally on the cusp of it and that's she's brought him to some sort of plane of middle ground. If he looks in one direction, then he sees twisted and writhing bodies, demon and human and angel. If he looks in another, he sees nothing. A bleak, empty, and utterly terrifying nothingness.
So many lives. But pitted against them, the nothingness is far more frightening.
He wants to throw up. He wants out of the car. Out of this plane. Out of this war.
"And where would you go?" Her tone has the sharpness of steel.
"Anywhere, you crazy bitch. This isn't right." He can't quite catch his breath.
"How is this not right, Bobby? This is what you do. Your whole life has been building to this moment, to this fight."
The scene is suddenly, startlingly familiar. "I'm not some pivotal character in your big fight."
She laughs. It's rich and hard and sharp. It grates against his soul. He wants to choke that sound right out of her throat.
She stops then, looks at him with dilated pupils, black pools outlined in vivid orange. Her breath comes in gasps.
"There's absolutely nothing hotter than a holy warrior."
It's the last thing she says before she straddles him, her mouth hovering millimeters over his, her crotch just slightly rubbing against his.
He wants this. He wants to strangle her, he wants to hear her gasp her last breath. He wants. He wants. He wants.
He's hard now. He wasn't sure that was even possible -- his doctors hadn't said one way or another.
But the bloodlust gets him.
"Yes," she says, biting her bottom lip, drawing forth a tiny drop of bright red blood. He tilts his face upwards, licking the blood. It leaves a hot metallic taste on his tongue.
"This is my fight. Right here," she says, just before she slides her lips over his.
Her kiss is unlike any other kiss. Granted, Bobby doesn't have a lot of data points. But it's good, painfully so. It drowns out all of his other senses for a brief moment, before everything comes crashing down around him, far more intense than he would have thought possible. He can hear every scream. He can smell the gore of bodies in various stages of decay. He can feel the aftershocks of explosions. But he's not bothered by any of it. He knows his place now.
After a few mindless moments of delicious friction, she works her hands down between them, deftly unzipping his pants and pulling his dick free of his briefs. She's not wearing panties so there's nothing but heat and wetness. It's a quick thing for him to angle her hips, just enough to pull her down onto him.
He gets it then as he grips her hips tightly, forcing the rhythm of their fucking. She's not here to remind him of why he fights. Dean did that well enough. She's here to show him how to abandon his body because it can't be trusted. It'll sell him out every time. He hasn't fucked a woman since his wife. He hasn't even wanted to. But he's right here with her now, fucking her like the memory of his wife is nothing to him.
She gasps then, her tongue stilling against his. Her breaths are loud to his ears, mixing with the violence in the background. He doesn't let go of her hips, not until he comes.
Bobby sighs, leaning back into the seat. She's staring at him. He returns her gaze.
"Thank you." He knows it's an odd thing to say to War. But he means it.
She kisses him then, a completely different kind of kiss. This one is soft and beautiful but oddly not incongruous with the rest of her. As her tongue finds his, he closes his eyes, and thinks of the smooth lines of a gun and the perfect hilt of a sword.
When he opens his eyes, he's back where he started, in his living room, in his wheelchair. War is gone. Or rather, the personification of War is gone. He knows what's waiting for him in Faith, though. And his body, what's left of it, isn't going to hinder him from performing his duty.
--fin--
A/N: The Bhagavad Gita is an ancient Hindu religious text. Set in the style of an epic hero's poem, the Gita tells the story of Arjuna's confrontation with Krishna, the supreme god, on the battlefield, just before the great war. Arjuna, a holy warrior, is overcome by his desire to avoid the horror of war. Krishna, disguised as a charioteer, reminds Arjuna that war is his sacred duty. When Krishna reveals himself in all of his glory, he instructs Arjuna to ignore the distraction of his human body so that he may perform his sacred duty.
Happy Holidays, tears_of_nienna, from your Secret Author!