Corner of Your Eye (9/14)
I think I'm over halfway done with this story now. I'm thinking maybe twelve, thirteen, fourteen chapters altogether. I've been having a little trouble pulling the plot together, especially since Dean would still much rather ANGST instead of snarking at Jack like I want him to, but I think I've got it now.
Fandom: Supernatural/Stargate Xover!
Title: Corner of Your Eye
Author: Maychorian
Characters: Jack O'Neill, Dean Winchester
Category: Action/Adventure, Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Crossover, Angst (how many more do you think I can get out of this?)
Rating: T/PG-13
Spoilers: Pilot for SPN, up to Season 9 for SG-1
Summary: Jack O'Neill is not very good at being retired. Dean Winchester is not very good at staying out of trouble. And there's something lurking in these here woods….
Word Count: 1721
Disclaimer: As soon as I own them, you'll know. Oh yes, yes, the day is coming.
Author’s Note: OMG INNUENDO. Is this possibly the dirtiest thing I’ve ever written? It just might be. Not that that’s hard, exactly. And this is still gen, I swear.
Complete chapter list: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14
The story is also available in one document on my website: Corner of Your Eye
9
Jack had to admit it-Dean really did love that car. And “my baby” was probably the least disturbing thing he could call it.
The moment they found the long, black classic parked off the road under the overhang of trees, Dean didn’t even wait for the truck to roll to a stop before he flung open the door and jogged over. It was a beaut of a muscle car, Jack admitted silently, a sixties Chevy Impala, sleek and shiny, sex on wheels. Dean circled it-her-a couple of times, gently brushing a few fallen leaves off the roof, devouring every inch with his eyes. Then he lay down on the hood with both arms spread wide, eyes shut, cheek against the smooth, polished surface, a sweet smile curving his lips.
Jack really ought to look away-it was obviously a very private moment between a man and his car. Instead he exited the truck and strolled over to the Impala, hands deep in his pockets. “Should I leave you two alone?”
“Just…gimme a minute,” Dean said softly.
“Sixty seconds starting now, kid.” And he started to count down, slowly and deliberately, and very, very loud.
“Jerk,” Dean muttered, but he stayed down, laying on the car until Jack got all the way to “One.” Then he popped up like a jack-in-a-box, cocky smile firmly in place, once more all hard candy shell and no gooey soft chocolate. That act wasn’t fooling Jack anymore, though. “’Kay, I’m done. Where to next?”
Jack shrugged. “I dunno. Town? You said we gotta find out what this thing is. You don’t know?”
Dean settled back, leaning against the Impala’s grill, suddenly dead serious. “It reacted to the salt, so I know it’s some kind of spirit. Probably a ghost. Some ghosts follow patterns, and this one certainly does-always young people, always in the same patch of woods, and I think it kills with fear.”
“Is that what you felt? Out there, yesterday?”
The full lips tightened, and the answer was quiet. “Yeah.” Dean looked away, then back, and his voice was certain and solid again. “It spoke to me. Offered peace and quiet or some such shit, I don’t know. But I didn’t feel peace. And it sure as hell wasn’t quiet.”
“You sure it’s a ghost? Last night you said ‘we have to find out what it is,’ like you didn’t know.”
“Dude, last night I was still in shock over being hauled to some old guy’s gingerbread house deep in the Minnesota woods without my consent.”
“Worried about your honor, kiddo? I solemnly swear, I’m not a switch hitter.”
“Yeah, but do you play on my team?”
“Depends on which one that is.”
Dean grinned, brief and white. “Hey, man, I’m on the side of the angels.”
“There’s some debate over which team they’re on, too.” Jack shook his head abruptly. “Never mind. This metaphor just got far too stretched for me. But, look, you know that you’re too young for me, right?” He put on a very kind, reassuring tone. “Maybe when you’ve had a little more mileage.”
Dean tried to pull a sardonic expression, but instead just looked far too old for his years. “Yeah. More mileage. That’s what I need.”
God, the poor kid looked so damned tired. Jack felt his arms jerk a little, hands almost sliding out of his pockets, and had to resist the urge to go over there and hug the bejeezus out of him. Considering the content of their conversation, that probably wouldn’t go over too well.
Instead he scratched his nose for a little bit. “Right. Anyway. Ghost. You think it’s a ghost. You’re sure?”
“Slept on it. Pretty sure now. Thing disappeared when you shot it with the salt, right?”
Jack had to think back. That corner of time in the woods was a little blurry in his memory, edged with shock, the world tipping over an edge that he hadn’t even known was there. But that one image was clear, hard-edged, the thing holding onto Dean, leaching him white, the blast of the shotgun, the smell of salt in the leaves. As soon as the salt hit the dark, cloudy figure, it had dissipated like a flock of birds started by a sudden noise in the center of their company. Pieces shooting off, disappearing, sinking into trunk and loam.
“Yeah. Yeah, it disappeared. Nothing left of it.”
Dean nodded. “No corporeal form, so it’s not a revenant or a draug, which was my first thought, considering the cultural heritage around these parts. It could have a few tricks up its…well, not sleeves, obviously, since it doesn’t have any. But mostly there are just two ways to get rid of ghosts.”
Jack made a little twirling motion with one finger. Keep it coming, kid.
The young man obliged. “You can ask it to leave, if it’s benevolent, just a lost soul or something. Not an option here. Or you find the body it belonged to and salt and burn the bones. That breaks the connection, and the thing moves on.”
Jack waited for more, but Dean just sat there, gazing off at something over Jack’s shoulder. After a bit, he got impatient and snapped his fingers to catch the guy’s attention. “Come on, Dean, you gotta tell me more. I need to know all the angles, everything you can tell me about what we’re up against. Don’t leave anything out. I want to know it all. Tell me everything.”
X
Dean blinked. “Everything. You want to know everything about hunting ghosts? That’s a freaking Encyclopedia Brittanica, man.”
“Then start with Volume A.”
Jack just stood there, looking back at him, utterly serious. Major General, Dean remembered. This guy was a leader, a tactician. He wanted every detail about the situation, everything that could give him even the slightest edge, help keep his people alive.
It reminded him of his father. John Winchester didn’t enjoy research, particularly, not the way Sam had, but he did it, meticulous and thorough, unturning every rock, unearthing every skeleton. So he could deal with anything. So he could keep his sons safe.
Dean’s outlook was a little more straightforward. Just tell him what to do and let him do it. He understood the value of research, he really did, but he didn’t need to know everything. Just enough.
Dammit, why was everything reminding him of his family this morning? This was supposed to be a simple hunt-go in, kill the bad guy, get out. Instead, he’d been thinking more about his little brother in the past two hours than he had in the previous year.
He laughed, turned away, ran a hand through his hair. “I’m not really the man to ask, old guy. I’m not a walking library. All I know is that now, it’s time to go to nearby towns and start reading old newspapers and schmoozing the locals, figuring out who that ghost is and where the body’s buried. That’s the next step. Not more talking.”
Jack nodded slowly. “Okay. We can do that.” He pointed firmly at Dean. “But this conversation isn’t over. I want you to keep talking, tell me what I need to know.”
“That’s fair.” Dean started to move around to the driver’s side of the Impala, then hesitated, looked at Jack’s truck still sitting there idling. He’d been listening for following footsteps, waiting for Jack to follow him, take shotgun, his new partner. Already forgetting that this wasn’t the same. “Uh, back to your place, then? We can drop your old beater off, take my car into town.”
“That’ll work.”
Behind the wheel again, Dean let his hands rest on cool leather, the familiar grooves that held his fingers with the familiarity of an old, trusted friend. This was where he belonged, his first romance, his childhood home. This was where he wanted to be. He started the car and listened to the engine rumble into a purr, warm and throaty, welcoming him back.
Jack led the way back to the cabin, Dean following in the Impala, music turned up as loud as he could stand it. The bump on his head throbbed in time with the beat, and he propped his left elbow against the door, rubbing a hand over his chin. He could peel out, turn right when Jack turned left, leave this crazy-ass hunt behind and go find a simpler one.
No, Jack would notice, hunt him down. This was one stubborn old dude. Scary, too, and very good with guns as well as hand-to-hand. Screw that. Dean had enough problems.
Tempting, though.
Back at the cabin, he parked, then sat there for a moment and let the engine run, just feeling the comfort sink into his skin. Jack leaned against the truck’s door, waiting patiently. In a little while that man was going to come over here, sit beside Dean in the passenger’s seat, where someone else was supposed to be. Dean had invited him. Hadn’t meant to, just had.
But this was what Dean did, right? Dad and Sam researched obsessively before setting out. Dean worked more by what he felt in his bones, his stomach. By instinct. Instinct had opened his mouth, said those words, opened his home to a near-stranger. If Dean couldn’t trust that, what could he trust?
He reached forward and turned the key back, then got out of the Impala and went around the back to pop the trunk. “C’mere, old guy. I got something to show ya.”
Jack ambled over, tugging on the brim of his cap to shade his eyes. He came around to Dean’s side, then stared down at the contents of the trunk. Guns, knives, unidentifiable bags of various occult supplies, the dreamcatcher hanging from the lid.
He didn’t even blink. “Nice arsenal, kid.”
“Thanks.” Dean dug down through the layers of crap, got his hands on a burlap sack and dragged it up. “You said you wanted to know everything I could tell you about hunting ghosts. Well, here’s a start.”
He sat right down there in the dirt and dumped out the sack, separating the various articles and laying them in untidy rows. Jack mumbled something about his knees, rolled his eyes, then sat down next to him. And Dean started teaching him everything he knew.
Part 10
Fandom: Supernatural/Stargate Xover!
Title: Corner of Your Eye
Author: Maychorian
Characters: Jack O'Neill, Dean Winchester
Category: Action/Adventure, Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Crossover, Angst (how many more do you think I can get out of this?)
Rating: T/PG-13
Spoilers: Pilot for SPN, up to Season 9 for SG-1
Summary: Jack O'Neill is not very good at being retired. Dean Winchester is not very good at staying out of trouble. And there's something lurking in these here woods….
Word Count: 1721
Disclaimer: As soon as I own them, you'll know. Oh yes, yes, the day is coming.
Author’s Note: OMG INNUENDO. Is this possibly the dirtiest thing I’ve ever written? It just might be. Not that that’s hard, exactly. And this is still gen, I swear.
Complete chapter list: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14
The story is also available in one document on my website: Corner of Your Eye
9
Jack had to admit it-Dean really did love that car. And “my baby” was probably the least disturbing thing he could call it.
The moment they found the long, black classic parked off the road under the overhang of trees, Dean didn’t even wait for the truck to roll to a stop before he flung open the door and jogged over. It was a beaut of a muscle car, Jack admitted silently, a sixties Chevy Impala, sleek and shiny, sex on wheels. Dean circled it-her-a couple of times, gently brushing a few fallen leaves off the roof, devouring every inch with his eyes. Then he lay down on the hood with both arms spread wide, eyes shut, cheek against the smooth, polished surface, a sweet smile curving his lips.
Jack really ought to look away-it was obviously a very private moment between a man and his car. Instead he exited the truck and strolled over to the Impala, hands deep in his pockets. “Should I leave you two alone?”
“Just…gimme a minute,” Dean said softly.
“Sixty seconds starting now, kid.” And he started to count down, slowly and deliberately, and very, very loud.
“Jerk,” Dean muttered, but he stayed down, laying on the car until Jack got all the way to “One.” Then he popped up like a jack-in-a-box, cocky smile firmly in place, once more all hard candy shell and no gooey soft chocolate. That act wasn’t fooling Jack anymore, though. “’Kay, I’m done. Where to next?”
Jack shrugged. “I dunno. Town? You said we gotta find out what this thing is. You don’t know?”
Dean settled back, leaning against the Impala’s grill, suddenly dead serious. “It reacted to the salt, so I know it’s some kind of spirit. Probably a ghost. Some ghosts follow patterns, and this one certainly does-always young people, always in the same patch of woods, and I think it kills with fear.”
“Is that what you felt? Out there, yesterday?”
The full lips tightened, and the answer was quiet. “Yeah.” Dean looked away, then back, and his voice was certain and solid again. “It spoke to me. Offered peace and quiet or some such shit, I don’t know. But I didn’t feel peace. And it sure as hell wasn’t quiet.”
“You sure it’s a ghost? Last night you said ‘we have to find out what it is,’ like you didn’t know.”
“Dude, last night I was still in shock over being hauled to some old guy’s gingerbread house deep in the Minnesota woods without my consent.”
“Worried about your honor, kiddo? I solemnly swear, I’m not a switch hitter.”
“Yeah, but do you play on my team?”
“Depends on which one that is.”
Dean grinned, brief and white. “Hey, man, I’m on the side of the angels.”
“There’s some debate over which team they’re on, too.” Jack shook his head abruptly. “Never mind. This metaphor just got far too stretched for me. But, look, you know that you’re too young for me, right?” He put on a very kind, reassuring tone. “Maybe when you’ve had a little more mileage.”
Dean tried to pull a sardonic expression, but instead just looked far too old for his years. “Yeah. More mileage. That’s what I need.”
God, the poor kid looked so damned tired. Jack felt his arms jerk a little, hands almost sliding out of his pockets, and had to resist the urge to go over there and hug the bejeezus out of him. Considering the content of their conversation, that probably wouldn’t go over too well.
Instead he scratched his nose for a little bit. “Right. Anyway. Ghost. You think it’s a ghost. You’re sure?”
“Slept on it. Pretty sure now. Thing disappeared when you shot it with the salt, right?”
Jack had to think back. That corner of time in the woods was a little blurry in his memory, edged with shock, the world tipping over an edge that he hadn’t even known was there. But that one image was clear, hard-edged, the thing holding onto Dean, leaching him white, the blast of the shotgun, the smell of salt in the leaves. As soon as the salt hit the dark, cloudy figure, it had dissipated like a flock of birds started by a sudden noise in the center of their company. Pieces shooting off, disappearing, sinking into trunk and loam.
“Yeah. Yeah, it disappeared. Nothing left of it.”
Dean nodded. “No corporeal form, so it’s not a revenant or a draug, which was my first thought, considering the cultural heritage around these parts. It could have a few tricks up its…well, not sleeves, obviously, since it doesn’t have any. But mostly there are just two ways to get rid of ghosts.”
Jack made a little twirling motion with one finger. Keep it coming, kid.
The young man obliged. “You can ask it to leave, if it’s benevolent, just a lost soul or something. Not an option here. Or you find the body it belonged to and salt and burn the bones. That breaks the connection, and the thing moves on.”
Jack waited for more, but Dean just sat there, gazing off at something over Jack’s shoulder. After a bit, he got impatient and snapped his fingers to catch the guy’s attention. “Come on, Dean, you gotta tell me more. I need to know all the angles, everything you can tell me about what we’re up against. Don’t leave anything out. I want to know it all. Tell me everything.”
X
Dean blinked. “Everything. You want to know everything about hunting ghosts? That’s a freaking Encyclopedia Brittanica, man.”
“Then start with Volume A.”
Jack just stood there, looking back at him, utterly serious. Major General, Dean remembered. This guy was a leader, a tactician. He wanted every detail about the situation, everything that could give him even the slightest edge, help keep his people alive.
It reminded him of his father. John Winchester didn’t enjoy research, particularly, not the way Sam had, but he did it, meticulous and thorough, unturning every rock, unearthing every skeleton. So he could deal with anything. So he could keep his sons safe.
Dean’s outlook was a little more straightforward. Just tell him what to do and let him do it. He understood the value of research, he really did, but he didn’t need to know everything. Just enough.
Dammit, why was everything reminding him of his family this morning? This was supposed to be a simple hunt-go in, kill the bad guy, get out. Instead, he’d been thinking more about his little brother in the past two hours than he had in the previous year.
He laughed, turned away, ran a hand through his hair. “I’m not really the man to ask, old guy. I’m not a walking library. All I know is that now, it’s time to go to nearby towns and start reading old newspapers and schmoozing the locals, figuring out who that ghost is and where the body’s buried. That’s the next step. Not more talking.”
Jack nodded slowly. “Okay. We can do that.” He pointed firmly at Dean. “But this conversation isn’t over. I want you to keep talking, tell me what I need to know.”
“That’s fair.” Dean started to move around to the driver’s side of the Impala, then hesitated, looked at Jack’s truck still sitting there idling. He’d been listening for following footsteps, waiting for Jack to follow him, take shotgun, his new partner. Already forgetting that this wasn’t the same. “Uh, back to your place, then? We can drop your old beater off, take my car into town.”
“That’ll work.”
Behind the wheel again, Dean let his hands rest on cool leather, the familiar grooves that held his fingers with the familiarity of an old, trusted friend. This was where he belonged, his first romance, his childhood home. This was where he wanted to be. He started the car and listened to the engine rumble into a purr, warm and throaty, welcoming him back.
Jack led the way back to the cabin, Dean following in the Impala, music turned up as loud as he could stand it. The bump on his head throbbed in time with the beat, and he propped his left elbow against the door, rubbing a hand over his chin. He could peel out, turn right when Jack turned left, leave this crazy-ass hunt behind and go find a simpler one.
No, Jack would notice, hunt him down. This was one stubborn old dude. Scary, too, and very good with guns as well as hand-to-hand. Screw that. Dean had enough problems.
Tempting, though.
Back at the cabin, he parked, then sat there for a moment and let the engine run, just feeling the comfort sink into his skin. Jack leaned against the truck’s door, waiting patiently. In a little while that man was going to come over here, sit beside Dean in the passenger’s seat, where someone else was supposed to be. Dean had invited him. Hadn’t meant to, just had.
But this was what Dean did, right? Dad and Sam researched obsessively before setting out. Dean worked more by what he felt in his bones, his stomach. By instinct. Instinct had opened his mouth, said those words, opened his home to a near-stranger. If Dean couldn’t trust that, what could he trust?
He reached forward and turned the key back, then got out of the Impala and went around the back to pop the trunk. “C’mere, old guy. I got something to show ya.”
Jack ambled over, tugging on the brim of his cap to shade his eyes. He came around to Dean’s side, then stared down at the contents of the trunk. Guns, knives, unidentifiable bags of various occult supplies, the dreamcatcher hanging from the lid.
He didn’t even blink. “Nice arsenal, kid.”
“Thanks.” Dean dug down through the layers of crap, got his hands on a burlap sack and dragged it up. “You said you wanted to know everything I could tell you about hunting ghosts. Well, here’s a start.”
He sat right down there in the dirt and dumped out the sack, separating the various articles and laying them in untidy rows. Jack mumbled something about his knees, rolled his eyes, then sat down next to him. And Dean started teaching him everything he knew.
Part 10