[Fic] "Bystander" (Supernatural, gen, PG-13)
Title: Bystander
Author: Kurukami
Rating: PG-13 (for language)
Word Count: 997.
Characters: Dean, Sam, and mystery BtVS guest
Disclaimer: I’m making no money from this, just playing with the characters. BtVS and Supernatural were created by Joss Whedon and Eric Kripke, respectively.
Author’s Note: I blame both poisontaster and mona1347 for this one. It’s the idea from hell that was too wicked not to write. : ) Unbeta'd, so all mistakes are mine and concrit is definitely welcome.
Sluuuuurk. Sluuuuurk. Sluuuuuuuuurk.
The sound rasped at Dean continuously, but it was almost better than the alternative. His hand itched for the grip of his pistol, wanting the smooth texture of the steel and plastic in his palm, craving some means to just make the noises stop.
But he just couldn’t do that. Not here. It would be too noisy. It would leave way the hell too much of a mess. And besides...
Sluuuuuuuuurk.
... this was something which couldn’t really be defeated with a fusillade of gunshots. Well, not couldn’t. Shouldn’t. But the thought of trying was getting more and more tempting with each agonizing moment that passed.
Sluuuuuuuuuuuurk. The sound finally, mercifully, guttered to a halt. Then... “So, um, hey guys... how much further is it to Cleveland?”
Dean tightened his white-knuckled grip on the Impala’s steering wheel and glared into the rear-view mirror at the unconcerned features of Andrew Wells - bystander, self-proclaimed junior member of the Watcher’s Council (whatever the hell that was), and all-around pain in the ass - who had, apparently, just finished his Big Gulp. Dean gritted his teeth, but nonetheless managed to reply calmly. “About ten miles less than the last time you asked.”
“Oh. OK.”
There was perhaps fifteen seconds of blissfully calm silence as Andrew considered his empty soda container. “So you guys are like, freelance fighters against evil, right? I mean, that’s what I figured, what with the way you took out those vampires back in that town. I probably could’ve taken out a few of them myself, y’know, but you really saved my bacon back there. Do you have a name for yourself? You know - Slayers of the Dark Vahm-Pyres, or Rogue Demon Hunters, or something like that? Because that would be so utterly cool, I think. Like the Watcher’s Council, but better, ‘cuz you wouldn’t have to report in to stuffy English guys all the time and...”
Dean glanced sideways at Sam, trying desperately to tune out the nonstop banter emanating from the back seat. His brother was staring stonily out the windshield, fingers drumming on one leg and jaw clenched. Guess he must be rethinking his arguing in favor of giving the guy a ride right about now.
“... so that’s why I think you should totally name your car,” Andrew concluded.
Dean blinked. For a few seconds there, he’d actually managed to ignore the conversation - which was apparently just long enough to lose the thread of something that might have been important. “What?”
“Your car. It’s a 1968 four-door Chevy Impala sedan, right? Three hundred fifty cubic inch engine, something like that?”
“Uh... yeah. Yeah, it is.” Huh. So he knows something about cars. Maybe there’s more to this guy than meets the -
“So you should totally name it Vlad.”
Dean paused just long enough to be certain of what he thought he’d just heard. Beside him, Sam was pinching the bridge of his nose as though in sudden pain, but Dean ignored that for the moment and stared into the rearview mirror. “Name it what now?”
“Vlad. The Impala.” Andrew smirked like a kid who’d just gotten away with a dirty joke, clearly holding back laughter, then put a hand on his midsection. “Hey, I don’t suppose we could stop at a restroo-“
The Impala’s tires squealed as Dean cranked the wheel hard to the right and braked, cornering into a gas station they’d already nearly passed. Andrew popped out of the backseat like a jack-in-the-box before the car had come to a complete stop, moving swiftly towards the labeled restrooms with the teetering gait of a man with a very full bladder.
Dean stared grimly at the receding form, then began to bang his head rhythmically against the steering wheel. “Please...” Thud. “Tell me...” Thud. “We can leave...” Thud. “... his dumb ass here...” Thud. “... and just drive away.”
“C’mon, Dean,” Sam muttered, clearly reluctant to support even his own argument. “We can’t just abandon him here.”
“Dude? This. Guy. Sucks.”
Sam opened the car door and opened up the gastank door. “I’m not saying he doesn’t. I’m just saying... we can’t just dump him here.”
“Why the hell not? Give me one good reason why we shouldn’t get the hell out of Indiana and go far, far away.”
“Well, for one thing - hey, twenty bucks on pump number four, alright? - for one thing, we promised him we’d give him a lift to Cleveland.”
Dean just glared.
“OK, fine. How about because Indiana is full of generally nice people and we wouldn’t want to inflict him on them?”
“I’m still waiting for a good reason, Sam.”
“Um... because he did manage to stall that last vamp long enough for you to reload the crossbow?”
“OK, granted... but come on. That guy’s driving me crazy with his nonstop talking.” Dean scowled. “ ‘Vlad the Impala’, my fucking ass.”
“C’mon, Dean. We’re just outside South Bend now. It’s less than three hundred miles to Cleveland, and then you’ll never have to see him again.” Sam finished filling the Impala’s tank and went to retrieve his change.
OK. OK. Less than three hundred miles. That’s not too far. I’ve endured painful things before. This is no different. I can do this. I can.
Sam slid back into the car through the open door, and Andrew, hands filled with another large soft drink and a bag full of the dubious food common to just about every convenience store east of the Rockies, followed shortly thereafter.
“Either of you two want a Slim Jim?” Andrew ripped open the wrapper and the pungent scent of beef jerky filled the interior of the car. “No? OK. More for me then...” The Impala slowly eased away from the pump island as the sounds of noisy eating came from the rear of the car. “So how much longer do you think we’ll be on the road, you guys?”
Dean just floored the accelerator and peeled out onto the highway.
Author: Kurukami
Rating: PG-13 (for language)
Word Count: 997.
Characters: Dean, Sam, and mystery BtVS guest
Disclaimer: I’m making no money from this, just playing with the characters. BtVS and Supernatural were created by Joss Whedon and Eric Kripke, respectively.
Author’s Note: I blame both poisontaster and mona1347 for this one. It’s the idea from hell that was too wicked not to write. : ) Unbeta'd, so all mistakes are mine and concrit is definitely welcome.
Sluuuuurk. Sluuuuurk. Sluuuuuuuuurk.
The sound rasped at Dean continuously, but it was almost better than the alternative. His hand itched for the grip of his pistol, wanting the smooth texture of the steel and plastic in his palm, craving some means to just make the noises stop.
But he just couldn’t do that. Not here. It would be too noisy. It would leave way the hell too much of a mess. And besides...
Sluuuuuuuuurk.
... this was something which couldn’t really be defeated with a fusillade of gunshots. Well, not couldn’t. Shouldn’t. But the thought of trying was getting more and more tempting with each agonizing moment that passed.
Sluuuuuuuuuuuurk. The sound finally, mercifully, guttered to a halt. Then... “So, um, hey guys... how much further is it to Cleveland?”
Dean tightened his white-knuckled grip on the Impala’s steering wheel and glared into the rear-view mirror at the unconcerned features of Andrew Wells - bystander, self-proclaimed junior member of the Watcher’s Council (whatever the hell that was), and all-around pain in the ass - who had, apparently, just finished his Big Gulp. Dean gritted his teeth, but nonetheless managed to reply calmly. “About ten miles less than the last time you asked.”
“Oh. OK.”
There was perhaps fifteen seconds of blissfully calm silence as Andrew considered his empty soda container. “So you guys are like, freelance fighters against evil, right? I mean, that’s what I figured, what with the way you took out those vampires back in that town. I probably could’ve taken out a few of them myself, y’know, but you really saved my bacon back there. Do you have a name for yourself? You know - Slayers of the Dark Vahm-Pyres, or Rogue Demon Hunters, or something like that? Because that would be so utterly cool, I think. Like the Watcher’s Council, but better, ‘cuz you wouldn’t have to report in to stuffy English guys all the time and...”
Dean glanced sideways at Sam, trying desperately to tune out the nonstop banter emanating from the back seat. His brother was staring stonily out the windshield, fingers drumming on one leg and jaw clenched. Guess he must be rethinking his arguing in favor of giving the guy a ride right about now.
“... so that’s why I think you should totally name your car,” Andrew concluded.
Dean blinked. For a few seconds there, he’d actually managed to ignore the conversation - which was apparently just long enough to lose the thread of something that might have been important. “What?”
“Your car. It’s a 1968 four-door Chevy Impala sedan, right? Three hundred fifty cubic inch engine, something like that?”
“Uh... yeah. Yeah, it is.” Huh. So he knows something about cars. Maybe there’s more to this guy than meets the -
“So you should totally name it Vlad.”
Dean paused just long enough to be certain of what he thought he’d just heard. Beside him, Sam was pinching the bridge of his nose as though in sudden pain, but Dean ignored that for the moment and stared into the rearview mirror. “Name it what now?”
“Vlad. The Impala.” Andrew smirked like a kid who’d just gotten away with a dirty joke, clearly holding back laughter, then put a hand on his midsection. “Hey, I don’t suppose we could stop at a restroo-“
The Impala’s tires squealed as Dean cranked the wheel hard to the right and braked, cornering into a gas station they’d already nearly passed. Andrew popped out of the backseat like a jack-in-the-box before the car had come to a complete stop, moving swiftly towards the labeled restrooms with the teetering gait of a man with a very full bladder.
Dean stared grimly at the receding form, then began to bang his head rhythmically against the steering wheel. “Please...” Thud. “Tell me...” Thud. “We can leave...” Thud. “... his dumb ass here...” Thud. “... and just drive away.”
“C’mon, Dean,” Sam muttered, clearly reluctant to support even his own argument. “We can’t just abandon him here.”
“Dude? This. Guy. Sucks.”
Sam opened the car door and opened up the gastank door. “I’m not saying he doesn’t. I’m just saying... we can’t just dump him here.”
“Why the hell not? Give me one good reason why we shouldn’t get the hell out of Indiana and go far, far away.”
“Well, for one thing - hey, twenty bucks on pump number four, alright? - for one thing, we promised him we’d give him a lift to Cleveland.”
Dean just glared.
“OK, fine. How about because Indiana is full of generally nice people and we wouldn’t want to inflict him on them?”
“I’m still waiting for a good reason, Sam.”
“Um... because he did manage to stall that last vamp long enough for you to reload the crossbow?”
“OK, granted... but come on. That guy’s driving me crazy with his nonstop talking.” Dean scowled. “ ‘Vlad the Impala’, my fucking ass.”
“C’mon, Dean. We’re just outside South Bend now. It’s less than three hundred miles to Cleveland, and then you’ll never have to see him again.” Sam finished filling the Impala’s tank and went to retrieve his change.
OK. OK. Less than three hundred miles. That’s not too far. I’ve endured painful things before. This is no different. I can do this. I can.
Sam slid back into the car through the open door, and Andrew, hands filled with another large soft drink and a bag full of the dubious food common to just about every convenience store east of the Rockies, followed shortly thereafter.
“Either of you two want a Slim Jim?” Andrew ripped open the wrapper and the pungent scent of beef jerky filled the interior of the car. “No? OK. More for me then...” The Impala slowly eased away from the pump island as the sounds of noisy eating came from the rear of the car. “So how much longer do you think we’ll be on the road, you guys?”
Dean just floored the accelerator and peeled out onto the highway.