Fic: I Am Iron Man
TITLE: I Am Iron Man
Author: volta1228
GENRE: Gen, Adventure, Mystery, Angst
SPOILERS: Takes place after 10.14
CHARACTERS: Dean, John
RATING: PG-13
CHAPTER: 1/?
SUMMARY: Dean finds himself transported into the past with no idea how he got there. Now he must figure out how to avoid messing with the future while dealing with family and trying to find a way back to 2015. All as he tries to manage the mark of cain and how it's changing him one day at a time.
Dean had no clue what had just hit him. Clearly, he'd been knocked unconscious but he couldn't remember how... all he knew was that he was currently lying on a hard, uncomfortable floor. A quiet groan escaped his lips as he opened his eyes to find himself doing a face plant on a filthy, worn out blue carpet.
Feeling disoriented, he raised his head up just enough to take in his surroundings.
Shitty motel...
He let his head drop back down to the floor, eyes squeezed shut against the sunlight coming in from a crack between the drapes of the window in front of him. Being in some seedy no-tell motel wasn't anything special... hell, he'd grown up in places like this. But not recognizing said crap hole might be a problem.
He tried moving his arms, finding them free and unbound. So he wasn't a prisoner. Or if he was, whatever had him wasn't worried about him escaping.
Just as he began to put distance between his face and a disturbing carpet stain the very familiar sound of a gun cocking next to his right ear captured his full attention.
"I wouldn't move if I were you," a man said from behind him, the very familiar voice low and dangerous.
Dean froze mid-motion, caught half standing. Swaying slightly, feeling dizzy, he dropped down to his knees, arms held out to the side to show he was unarmed.
Sort of. Nothing in his hands, anyway.
Please let this be a concussion-induced dream.
Cold steel pressed into the side of his head, a burning sensation radiated out from the mark on his right arm and the possibility of this being a dream went down a few notches. It all felt very real.
Heart beginning to race, Dean closed his eyes for a moment and let out a slow, calming breath. He couldn't afford to lose it now.
"How'd you get in here?" the man behind him demanded.
Dread crept down his spine, and he still prayed this was some incredibly lucid dream, a hallucination, a djinn-induced nightmare... anything not truly real... because the alternative was far worse, and far more dangerous.
"Still trying to figure that one out," Dean finally answered, opening his eyes and staring straight ahead. This could get ugly fast if he didn't play it cool... and playing it cool was something that had become harder and harder to do the longer he had the damn mark on his arm.
There was a slight easing up of the press of steel against his skull. Dean knew his voice had changed over the years, but he guessed that it still sounded familiar enough to give the man standing above him pause.
It wasn't for long.
A heavy boot slammed into his back. He went down hard, gasping, finding himself flat on the floor for the second time in two minutes. A knee pressed painfully into his mid-back, keeping him down. The mark shot a spike of rage into his veins, and he felt like he was on fire. A low, animalistic growl escaped him before he could stop it, and he shut his eyes tight from the effort to push down the mark's effects.
No. Not again.
A room full of dead bodies - bad men, but men none-the-less - savagely cut down flashed in his mind. The knee ground into his back further, pain shooting into his spine at the full weight of the man against him, the gun once again deciding his skull made a pretty good target.
"Who and what are you?" he demanded.
"I don't..." Dean started, still out of breath from the kick to his back, then stopped himself. Started again. "It's Dean."
The pressure let up on his spine as a hand grabbed him roughly by the right shoulder, and flipped him onto his back so they were facing each other.
Dean met the piercing stare of his father standing over him, gun still aimed squarely at his head. "Hey, dad," Dean managed to get out, voice still a little horse from getting the wind knocked out of him. "Itchy trigger finger?" He tried for a smirk, but was pretty sure he failed miserably.
His dad looked the same as he remembered all those years ago, certainly didn't look years older... the same couldn't be said for himself.
Shit. No way can I pass off being this time's Dean... whatever this time is. It's at least ten years ago. Fucking time travel.
Seeing his dad, Dean was pretty sure that's what had happened, although how that had happened... well, he didn't have any damn idea, and he didn't have time to search his suspiciously foggy memory for an answer... what with his dad ready to gank him if he even dared to look at the man wrong.
John's gaze swept over him, shock and confusion playing over his face for a few long seconds before being quickly overtaken by his hunter instincts. Dean knew what that look meant.
"Go ahead," Dean said, not breaking eye contact. "Do the tests."
Eyes narrowing suspiciously, he shook his head. "You can't be Dean. That's - you look -"
"Older?" Dean said, helping him out. "I don't exactly know what happened, but-"
"Shut up."
Dean's mouth instinctively snapped shut.
Always such a good little soldier.
He frowned, more at himself then at his dad's demand. He knew he'd have to let the man do his monster tests before he would listen. Didn't blame him. After all, he'd do the same.
John tucked his gun into the back of his pants. Pulled a silver knife out from a nearby bag. Dean held out his arm for his dad to cut. John grabbed it, pushed up his sleeve only slightly, and made a small one inch cut. Nothing. Not a shape-shifter.
'There's no test for what I am,' Dean thought as he watched his dad begin to put away the knife. "You too," Dean demanded, and his dad looked at him like he'd grown a third head. Dean shrugged at him. He wasn't about to take any chances either. "Hey, we're on this crazy little roller-coaster ride together. You do what you gotta do, but you do the same tests to yourself."
His dad thought about that for a moment before nodding silently, rolling up his sleeve and making another small cut. Nothing.
John then grabbed a flask from under his jacket and took a swig of it, giving Dean a pointed look.
Dean couldn't help the slight instinctive cringe when the holy water hit his face. Before... before he'd never held anything but annoyance when someone doused him with holy water. But now? He couldn't help but wonder... would it burn this time? Has the human/demon scale within him finally tipped to the demon side just enough for the holy water to burn. What would it take? 51% demon to 49% human? How much of him had to be blackened for him to be a monster?
Apparently 'a fucking lot' was the answer, because the holy water had no effect.
Not this time. Not yet.
As if listening to his thoughts the mark pulsed - like a single heartbeat - seeping out a little poison into his veins. A hit of adrenaline instantly flooding his system, his senses heightened, his feelings dampened.
Taking a deep breath, Dean closed his eyes for a moment, bowing his head as he tried to ignore the toxic rush in his veins. His dad continued with the tests. Salt. Christo. Some sort of chant Dean didn't even recognize to test for who the heck knew what.
None of that was going to help however, unless John Winchester had a chant to detect an ex-Knight of Hell or a human bearing the Mark of Cain which - even for John Winchester - seemed doubtful.
So he'd pass his dad's standard monster and demon screening... for now.
Having run out of tests, his dad backed up until the back of his legs hit the bed behind him and he sat down heavily. His father's eyes never left him. John seemed to be thoroughly at a loss, finally just asking, "Dean?"
Figuring it safe to move now, Dean nodded and stood.
"The one and only..." he said, without feeling. Then thought for a moment before muttering, "Or maybe not." Walking over to the window, Dean parted the thick cloth draps and looked out into the parking lot. His Baby wasn't waiting for him in the parking lot outside, just his dad's big, black truck. Biting his lower lip he looked around the small room, his dad still sitting on the edge of the bed observing him like a wild animal.
"What year is it?" Dean asked, meeting his dad's eyes.
John just blinked at him for a few seconds. Clearly, whatever question he'd been expecting that wasn't it. "2003. You hit your head or something?"
"Shit," Dean muttered, dragging a tired hand across his face as he let the drapes drop back down, making the room considerably darker again.
Taking a moment to get his bearings, it dawned on him just how careful he was going to have to be. Time was a bitch, and she'd bite you in the ass if you tried to change her. Who knew what could happen if he mucked with things here? The apocalypse? Hell on earth? Amazingly enough, as shitty as things were in 2015 the amount of possible outcomes for things being even worse then they currently were seemed endless. The last thing he needed to do was seriously alter the past. He had enough problems dealing with the mark; with keeping himself in check, with keeping himself human. He didn't need this now.
Unfortunately, popping up right in front of his dad was a crap start, and practically a guarantee to jack with the future.
"You're... different," John finally says, breaking the awkwardly growing silence.
Frowning, Dean turned to face him, crossing his arms across his chest. The word different making his jaw clench.
The mark itched.
John seemed to see something in his expression and changed his phrasing. "...you look older. What's happened? A witch or something?"
Dean didn't see any point in lying, but he also knew the truth might be a hard sell. His dad didn't know about the different ways someone could travel through time, had died before any of them had known it was possible. "Not too sure how, but I think I've Marty McFly'd myself here."
John blinked. "You mean time travel? That's impossible."
Dean barked out a laugh; it didn't sound pleasant, and John seemed to grow uneasy at the sound of it. It made Dean wonder how he must look to his dad now; how much different did he seem to this time's Dean? "Hardly," Dean answered, trying to get his thoughts in order and not freak his dad out any more then he already was. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he asked, "You got any beer around here?"
John, still stunned by the whole situation, simply nodded towards the mini fridge, so Dean helped himself to a cold one while John tried to wrap his head around things.
"If what you're saying is true... how?"
Popping the cap off his beer, Dean shook his head and sat down on the chair by the window. "I don't know," was all he could find to say. He took a sip of his beer, but still felt on edge. The mark still itching for a fight, unhappy with an outcome to the earlier confrontation that required no bloodshed. He forced it aside, thinking back to what had happened before he woke up here. But for the life of him, he didn't know. It was like the last few hours were disjointed and unreachable... like a dream where he knew something had happened but he couldn't quite recall it, the memories more elusive the longer he tried to focus on them. Sighing, he shook his head, giving up on trying to remember for now. "I don't remember. Me and Sam, we were on a hunt in Maryland. Ritualistic deaths. The rest? It's like Agent K hit me with a friggin' Neuralyzer."
His dad smirked a bit at that, before turning serious again. "Seems like whatever you were hunting might have gotten to you."
Dean nodded in acknowledgment. "Safe bet."
"So... how are you going to get back to... wait... what year did you come from?"
"2015." His dad's eyebrows raised at that, and he shook his head in disbelief. Still feeling antsy Dean pulled open the drapes, letting the sunlight spill in.
Ever since he'd been locked up in the dungeon, both as a demon and a mark of Cain bearing human, dim rooms with no windows made him anxious. He felt like he was a caged animal; something out of control. Dangerous. Rabid. Even his bedroom in the bunker didn't hold the same comfort it used to.
Goddamn, do I have issues.
His free hand instinctively covered where the mark was burned into his arm, even though it was hidden by his long sleeve shirt.
Issues he definitely did not want his dad ever finding out about.
Dean took a long pull off his beer, meeting his dad's scrutinizing gaze again. His dad was sharp. It wouldn't take long for him to figure out something was very wrong. He needed to get back to 2015 right away. He wondered if he should ditch his dad as soon as possible too, while he was at it. He put that thought away for later. "Not sure exactly how to get back yet," he finally answered. "But I know a good place to start."
Author: volta1228
GENRE: Gen, Adventure, Mystery, Angst
SPOILERS: Takes place after 10.14
CHARACTERS: Dean, John
RATING: PG-13
CHAPTER: 1/?
SUMMARY: Dean finds himself transported into the past with no idea how he got there. Now he must figure out how to avoid messing with the future while dealing with family and trying to find a way back to 2015. All as he tries to manage the mark of cain and how it's changing him one day at a time.
Dean had no clue what had just hit him. Clearly, he'd been knocked unconscious but he couldn't remember how... all he knew was that he was currently lying on a hard, uncomfortable floor. A quiet groan escaped his lips as he opened his eyes to find himself doing a face plant on a filthy, worn out blue carpet.
Feeling disoriented, he raised his head up just enough to take in his surroundings.
Shitty motel...
He let his head drop back down to the floor, eyes squeezed shut against the sunlight coming in from a crack between the drapes of the window in front of him. Being in some seedy no-tell motel wasn't anything special... hell, he'd grown up in places like this. But not recognizing said crap hole might be a problem.
He tried moving his arms, finding them free and unbound. So he wasn't a prisoner. Or if he was, whatever had him wasn't worried about him escaping.
Just as he began to put distance between his face and a disturbing carpet stain the very familiar sound of a gun cocking next to his right ear captured his full attention.
"I wouldn't move if I were you," a man said from behind him, the very familiar voice low and dangerous.
Dean froze mid-motion, caught half standing. Swaying slightly, feeling dizzy, he dropped down to his knees, arms held out to the side to show he was unarmed.
Sort of. Nothing in his hands, anyway.
Please let this be a concussion-induced dream.
Cold steel pressed into the side of his head, a burning sensation radiated out from the mark on his right arm and the possibility of this being a dream went down a few notches. It all felt very real.
Heart beginning to race, Dean closed his eyes for a moment and let out a slow, calming breath. He couldn't afford to lose it now.
"How'd you get in here?" the man behind him demanded.
Dread crept down his spine, and he still prayed this was some incredibly lucid dream, a hallucination, a djinn-induced nightmare... anything not truly real... because the alternative was far worse, and far more dangerous.
"Still trying to figure that one out," Dean finally answered, opening his eyes and staring straight ahead. This could get ugly fast if he didn't play it cool... and playing it cool was something that had become harder and harder to do the longer he had the damn mark on his arm.
There was a slight easing up of the press of steel against his skull. Dean knew his voice had changed over the years, but he guessed that it still sounded familiar enough to give the man standing above him pause.
It wasn't for long.
A heavy boot slammed into his back. He went down hard, gasping, finding himself flat on the floor for the second time in two minutes. A knee pressed painfully into his mid-back, keeping him down. The mark shot a spike of rage into his veins, and he felt like he was on fire. A low, animalistic growl escaped him before he could stop it, and he shut his eyes tight from the effort to push down the mark's effects.
No. Not again.
A room full of dead bodies - bad men, but men none-the-less - savagely cut down flashed in his mind. The knee ground into his back further, pain shooting into his spine at the full weight of the man against him, the gun once again deciding his skull made a pretty good target.
"Who and what are you?" he demanded.
"I don't..." Dean started, still out of breath from the kick to his back, then stopped himself. Started again. "It's Dean."
The pressure let up on his spine as a hand grabbed him roughly by the right shoulder, and flipped him onto his back so they were facing each other.
Dean met the piercing stare of his father standing over him, gun still aimed squarely at his head. "Hey, dad," Dean managed to get out, voice still a little horse from getting the wind knocked out of him. "Itchy trigger finger?" He tried for a smirk, but was pretty sure he failed miserably.
His dad looked the same as he remembered all those years ago, certainly didn't look years older... the same couldn't be said for himself.
Shit. No way can I pass off being this time's Dean... whatever this time is. It's at least ten years ago. Fucking time travel.
Seeing his dad, Dean was pretty sure that's what had happened, although how that had happened... well, he didn't have any damn idea, and he didn't have time to search his suspiciously foggy memory for an answer... what with his dad ready to gank him if he even dared to look at the man wrong.
John's gaze swept over him, shock and confusion playing over his face for a few long seconds before being quickly overtaken by his hunter instincts. Dean knew what that look meant.
"Go ahead," Dean said, not breaking eye contact. "Do the tests."
Eyes narrowing suspiciously, he shook his head. "You can't be Dean. That's - you look -"
"Older?" Dean said, helping him out. "I don't exactly know what happened, but-"
"Shut up."
Dean's mouth instinctively snapped shut.
Always such a good little soldier.
He frowned, more at himself then at his dad's demand. He knew he'd have to let the man do his monster tests before he would listen. Didn't blame him. After all, he'd do the same.
John tucked his gun into the back of his pants. Pulled a silver knife out from a nearby bag. Dean held out his arm for his dad to cut. John grabbed it, pushed up his sleeve only slightly, and made a small one inch cut. Nothing. Not a shape-shifter.
'There's no test for what I am,' Dean thought as he watched his dad begin to put away the knife. "You too," Dean demanded, and his dad looked at him like he'd grown a third head. Dean shrugged at him. He wasn't about to take any chances either. "Hey, we're on this crazy little roller-coaster ride together. You do what you gotta do, but you do the same tests to yourself."
His dad thought about that for a moment before nodding silently, rolling up his sleeve and making another small cut. Nothing.
John then grabbed a flask from under his jacket and took a swig of it, giving Dean a pointed look.
Dean couldn't help the slight instinctive cringe when the holy water hit his face. Before... before he'd never held anything but annoyance when someone doused him with holy water. But now? He couldn't help but wonder... would it burn this time? Has the human/demon scale within him finally tipped to the demon side just enough for the holy water to burn. What would it take? 51% demon to 49% human? How much of him had to be blackened for him to be a monster?
Apparently 'a fucking lot' was the answer, because the holy water had no effect.
Not this time. Not yet.
As if listening to his thoughts the mark pulsed - like a single heartbeat - seeping out a little poison into his veins. A hit of adrenaline instantly flooding his system, his senses heightened, his feelings dampened.
Taking a deep breath, Dean closed his eyes for a moment, bowing his head as he tried to ignore the toxic rush in his veins. His dad continued with the tests. Salt. Christo. Some sort of chant Dean didn't even recognize to test for who the heck knew what.
None of that was going to help however, unless John Winchester had a chant to detect an ex-Knight of Hell or a human bearing the Mark of Cain which - even for John Winchester - seemed doubtful.
So he'd pass his dad's standard monster and demon screening... for now.
Having run out of tests, his dad backed up until the back of his legs hit the bed behind him and he sat down heavily. His father's eyes never left him. John seemed to be thoroughly at a loss, finally just asking, "Dean?"
Figuring it safe to move now, Dean nodded and stood.
"The one and only..." he said, without feeling. Then thought for a moment before muttering, "Or maybe not." Walking over to the window, Dean parted the thick cloth draps and looked out into the parking lot. His Baby wasn't waiting for him in the parking lot outside, just his dad's big, black truck. Biting his lower lip he looked around the small room, his dad still sitting on the edge of the bed observing him like a wild animal.
"What year is it?" Dean asked, meeting his dad's eyes.
John just blinked at him for a few seconds. Clearly, whatever question he'd been expecting that wasn't it. "2003. You hit your head or something?"
"Shit," Dean muttered, dragging a tired hand across his face as he let the drapes drop back down, making the room considerably darker again.
Taking a moment to get his bearings, it dawned on him just how careful he was going to have to be. Time was a bitch, and she'd bite you in the ass if you tried to change her. Who knew what could happen if he mucked with things here? The apocalypse? Hell on earth? Amazingly enough, as shitty as things were in 2015 the amount of possible outcomes for things being even worse then they currently were seemed endless. The last thing he needed to do was seriously alter the past. He had enough problems dealing with the mark; with keeping himself in check, with keeping himself human. He didn't need this now.
Unfortunately, popping up right in front of his dad was a crap start, and practically a guarantee to jack with the future.
"You're... different," John finally says, breaking the awkwardly growing silence.
Frowning, Dean turned to face him, crossing his arms across his chest. The word different making his jaw clench.
The mark itched.
John seemed to see something in his expression and changed his phrasing. "...you look older. What's happened? A witch or something?"
Dean didn't see any point in lying, but he also knew the truth might be a hard sell. His dad didn't know about the different ways someone could travel through time, had died before any of them had known it was possible. "Not too sure how, but I think I've Marty McFly'd myself here."
John blinked. "You mean time travel? That's impossible."
Dean barked out a laugh; it didn't sound pleasant, and John seemed to grow uneasy at the sound of it. It made Dean wonder how he must look to his dad now; how much different did he seem to this time's Dean? "Hardly," Dean answered, trying to get his thoughts in order and not freak his dad out any more then he already was. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he asked, "You got any beer around here?"
John, still stunned by the whole situation, simply nodded towards the mini fridge, so Dean helped himself to a cold one while John tried to wrap his head around things.
"If what you're saying is true... how?"
Popping the cap off his beer, Dean shook his head and sat down on the chair by the window. "I don't know," was all he could find to say. He took a sip of his beer, but still felt on edge. The mark still itching for a fight, unhappy with an outcome to the earlier confrontation that required no bloodshed. He forced it aside, thinking back to what had happened before he woke up here. But for the life of him, he didn't know. It was like the last few hours were disjointed and unreachable... like a dream where he knew something had happened but he couldn't quite recall it, the memories more elusive the longer he tried to focus on them. Sighing, he shook his head, giving up on trying to remember for now. "I don't remember. Me and Sam, we were on a hunt in Maryland. Ritualistic deaths. The rest? It's like Agent K hit me with a friggin' Neuralyzer."
His dad smirked a bit at that, before turning serious again. "Seems like whatever you were hunting might have gotten to you."
Dean nodded in acknowledgment. "Safe bet."
"So... how are you going to get back to... wait... what year did you come from?"
"2015." His dad's eyebrows raised at that, and he shook his head in disbelief. Still feeling antsy Dean pulled open the drapes, letting the sunlight spill in.
Ever since he'd been locked up in the dungeon, both as a demon and a mark of Cain bearing human, dim rooms with no windows made him anxious. He felt like he was a caged animal; something out of control. Dangerous. Rabid. Even his bedroom in the bunker didn't hold the same comfort it used to.
Goddamn, do I have issues.
His free hand instinctively covered where the mark was burned into his arm, even though it was hidden by his long sleeve shirt.
Issues he definitely did not want his dad ever finding out about.
Dean took a long pull off his beer, meeting his dad's scrutinizing gaze again. His dad was sharp. It wouldn't take long for him to figure out something was very wrong. He needed to get back to 2015 right away. He wondered if he should ditch his dad as soon as possible too, while he was at it. He put that thought away for later. "Not sure exactly how to get back yet," he finally answered. "But I know a good place to start."