Distance - PG-13 - Supernatural/Highlander crossover
I surprised myself :P My first Supernatural crossover fic for crossovers100 is not an AtS crossover :P Or a S.W.A.T. crossover (I'm still working on that one). It's a Highlander crossover.
Heh.
I know nothing about Highlander. (Though now that I've done a little research, I'd like to. The show sounds so interesting.) Nonetheless, I give you:
Distance
Rated: PG-13
Disclaimer: Highlander was created by Gregory Widen; Supernatural belongs to the WB.
Notes: Information on Highlander can be found here.
Summary: For crossovers100 challenge 83: Wet. "All in all, it was everything Dean might have wanted in a death scene. Minus a few explosions, and with bloodstains on the Impala's leather seats and Sam weeping rather than some pretty girl in a tight, black dress. Good thing that, so far as death scenes went, Dean's didn't last long."
Sam kept half his thoughts on the gravel skidding beneath his feet as he half-dragged his brother to the Impala. He kept the other half on the demon still thrashing somewhere in the distance, down but not dead. He and Dean were both soaking wet from their little dip in the flat-bottom creek that ran through the center of these Virginian woods.
When Sam reached the car, he yanked the passenger door open and tried to ease Dean down onto the front seat. Dean collapsed heavily, instead, hissing weakly through his front teeth.
"Shit. Just hold on, we'll-"
Sam didn't finish. He slammed the door shut with shaking fingers and thought of anything but the red tint to the mudtracks he and Dean had left behind on the cracked pavement of the service road they'd parked beside.
"Hu-"
Dean could barely speak. Sam went through the motions of starting the car, pulling out onto the road, hitting the gas - too hard - without paying attention to anything.
"Just hold on, Dean. Just-" '-hold on, please, hold on...'
Dean slumped against the door at his side. Sam couldn't look at him. Sam had to look at him.
Barely a mile onto the highway, Sam broke down - shaking now so violently he had to put effort into keeping his foot on the accelerator.
"Oh, God."
Dean's head had lolled back against the headrest. His arms lay limp at his sides. The three, long gashes in his torso gaped at Sam through Dean's torn clothing, impossibly wide. Dean's skin was pale, and his eyes were open (but closed) and Sam's teeth weren't chattering because he was wet and cold.
Sam jerked the Impala off the shoulder and, somehow, managed to bring it to a skidding stop before he killed them bo-
Sam stumbled out of the car and vomited.
Sam didn't move for a long time, crouched low in the grass, with the Impala - driver side door still open - at his back as he sobbed.
All in all, it was everything Dean might have wanted in a death scene. Minus a few explosions, and with bloodstains on the Impala's leather seats and Sam weeping rather than some pretty girl in a tight, black dress.
Good thing that, so far as death scenes went, Dean's didn't last long.
Sam heard it almost immediately. A soft rasp of uneven breathing where there'd been silence before. Sam was in that place that comes after numbness. Where everything is overly sharp but strangely distant and even the chirp of a cricket seems too real, too loud. Sam's head was throbbing and he didn't know how long he'd been sitting there, against the bumper of the Impala, head hung between his bent knees.
It occured to Sam that it could be the Grundnakt demon, come after him. Though he wouldn't have thought the creature would wander so far from the safety of its wood, even in pursuit of wounded prey.
Sam didn't move.
Sam thought it could be something much more common. Or more common for normal people. A stray dog. A wolf, perhaps. Sam tried to remember what kind of wildlife lived in this area, but couldn't. He still didn't move.
Sam realized the sound was coming from inside the Impala, not nearby it, and scrambled to his feet. Then his knees almost gave out. And not because Sam had been sitting on the ground so long the sun was going down.
In the dusk, Sam stared through the windshield of the Impala.
And Dean stared back at him.
Dean spoke first, licking his dry lips. "What the fuck just happened?"
Sam only stared. He trembled.
"Sammy?"
Sam hesitated before forcing his feet to take the first, few steps around the front of the car to his open door. He ducked down and looked through it. Dean was sitting up, no longer looking at him.
Instead, he was staring down at his body. And the black-red blood that had dyed his clothing and the deep, ugly ga-
The deep, ugly gashes the Grundnakt's claws had made in Dean's body, but which seemed to have...disappeared.
"D- Dean?"
Dean was so still. So unnaturally still.
He turned towards Sammy slowly. Sam barely breathed.
"Dude. If you let me come back from the dead as a freakin' zombie, I'm kicking your ass."
The little man in the motel room's office looked at Sam strangely when he went in and rented the room. No more strangely than motel management ever did when Sam and Dean showed up at strange hours of the night and paid with wads of cash. This time the attendant had even more reason to stare at Sam than usual. Sam was wet and bloody and - he realized too late - he probably should have changed his clothes before pulling into the motel's drive. Sam caught a glimpse of his own reflection in the glass behind the check in counter and winced. He looked like a cross between a serial killer and a drowned rat.
The attendant gave Sam a set of keys, though, without many words. And Sam didn't linger in the office waiting for any. He pulled the car around to the other side of the lot, where their room was, and ran around the car to help Dean out.
"I can do it," Dean insisted when Sam took his arm. He didn't try to shrug Sam off, though, when Sam didn't back away.
They were both quiet while they had other things to focus on. Sam showered and changed while Dean lay on one of the room's two beds with his arm flung over his eyes. Then Sam got a clean set of clothes and Dean's bag out of the car so Dean could shower, as well. Dean was feeling enough like himself to quip, "Much as I love you, bro, I hope you aren't planning to hold the soap for me, too."
Sam smirked. But his expression faltered when the bathroom door closed. Sam pulled out Dad's journal and started flipping through it right away, to calm himself before Dean got finished.
"Well, you're not a vampire."
"No shit, Sherlock."
"I didn't reanimate you."
"Yeah. You probably would've botched that up."
"Only on purpose."
It was surprisingly easy to slip back into routine. As if Sam hadn't spent all evening sitting in the dirt, in the middle of nowhere, with his brother's car and his brother's (supposed) corpse.
"It couldn't be-"
"What?"
Dean shook his head, looking uncomfortable. Well. Uncomfortable-er. Coming back from the dead, Sam would imagine, had to be pretty damn uncomfortable.
"Nah. It's stupid."
"We're running out of smart at this point, Dean. Stupid's better than nothing."
"Says you." But Dean reached for the journal and took it from Sam's hands. "Let's see..."
Dean flipped through the journal shortly, as Sam watched him fumble with the pages. It occurred to Sam that maybe slipping back into routine was easier for Dean, too. He was just working up the nerve to say something about it when Dean's page-fumbling stopped.
"Here."
Sam looked over the page Dean had turned to. He shifted the journal so he could read it, eyebrows rising once he had.
"I told you it was stupid."
"Immortal?"
“I’m not dead. I’m not undead. Only other time I’ve seen anything like this was in ‘92. Remember that antique store owner in Washington?”
Sam didn’t remember. In ‘92 he’d been nine years old. And still fascinated enough by the “family business” that hunting trips were like little adventures. He hadn't taken many details away from any of them. Only vague memories of how excited he'd felt in the middle of chasing this demon, or exorcising that spirit. Sam looked to the journal. "Tessa Noel?"
"We were in Seacouver hunting gremlins. Dad saved her and her friend from a mugging. Dad thought her husband looked familiar, but he couldn't figure out why. Did a little research, found out-"
"He was an Immortal," Sam read from their father's notes. "Born in Scotland in...1592. I can't believe this is for real."
"Believe it. Dad left us back at the hotel that night, but he said another Immortal challenged the first Immortal for a Quickening with him right there."
A Quickening. Sam frowned at the word and looked for it in the journal. He didn't like what he found.
"A Quickening. One Immortal absorbs another Immortal's powers and knowledge by beheading- If you're one of these Immortals...does that mean other Immortals are gonna come challenging you?"
Dean's answer came to Sam in his hesitation, for a moment after Sam had finished speaking. Then Dean shrugged. He said, quietly, "Not like I needed the extra enemies, huh?
"They aren't all like that, though. Dad seemed to think that guy in Washington was pretty cool. If he's still around we should probably look him up. He can tell us if this is the real deal or-"
"Or what?"
"Or we'll figure that out when we have to."
Sam dropped their father's journal onto the tabletop between himself and Dean. Crude sketches of swords and Dad's speculations about Immortal origins and codes of honor stretched across the open pages.
Sam reached for his laptop.
"You think 413 year-old Scotsmen keep driver's licenses? I could look him up through the DMV."
Dean leaned back in his chair.
"It's worth a shot. Did Dad write down his name?"
It was written in ink along the margin of one of the journal pages.
"Duncan McLeod," Sam said. He booted up and started the search.
[ end. ]
All my crossover100 fics can be found/will be found here.
Heh.
I know nothing about Highlander. (Though now that I've done a little research, I'd like to. The show sounds so interesting.) Nonetheless, I give you:
Distance
Rated: PG-13
Disclaimer: Highlander was created by Gregory Widen; Supernatural belongs to the WB.
Notes: Information on Highlander can be found here.
Summary: For crossovers100 challenge 83: Wet. "All in all, it was everything Dean might have wanted in a death scene. Minus a few explosions, and with bloodstains on the Impala's leather seats and Sam weeping rather than some pretty girl in a tight, black dress. Good thing that, so far as death scenes went, Dean's didn't last long."
Sam kept half his thoughts on the gravel skidding beneath his feet as he half-dragged his brother to the Impala. He kept the other half on the demon still thrashing somewhere in the distance, down but not dead. He and Dean were both soaking wet from their little dip in the flat-bottom creek that ran through the center of these Virginian woods.
When Sam reached the car, he yanked the passenger door open and tried to ease Dean down onto the front seat. Dean collapsed heavily, instead, hissing weakly through his front teeth.
"Shit. Just hold on, we'll-"
Sam didn't finish. He slammed the door shut with shaking fingers and thought of anything but the red tint to the mudtracks he and Dean had left behind on the cracked pavement of the service road they'd parked beside.
"Hu-"
Dean could barely speak. Sam went through the motions of starting the car, pulling out onto the road, hitting the gas - too hard - without paying attention to anything.
"Just hold on, Dean. Just-" '-hold on, please, hold on...'
Dean slumped against the door at his side. Sam couldn't look at him. Sam had to look at him.
Barely a mile onto the highway, Sam broke down - shaking now so violently he had to put effort into keeping his foot on the accelerator.
"Oh, God."
Dean's head had lolled back against the headrest. His arms lay limp at his sides. The three, long gashes in his torso gaped at Sam through Dean's torn clothing, impossibly wide. Dean's skin was pale, and his eyes were open (but closed) and Sam's teeth weren't chattering because he was wet and cold.
Sam jerked the Impala off the shoulder and, somehow, managed to bring it to a skidding stop before he killed them bo-
Sam stumbled out of the car and vomited.
Sam didn't move for a long time, crouched low in the grass, with the Impala - driver side door still open - at his back as he sobbed.
All in all, it was everything Dean might have wanted in a death scene. Minus a few explosions, and with bloodstains on the Impala's leather seats and Sam weeping rather than some pretty girl in a tight, black dress.
Good thing that, so far as death scenes went, Dean's didn't last long.
Sam heard it almost immediately. A soft rasp of uneven breathing where there'd been silence before. Sam was in that place that comes after numbness. Where everything is overly sharp but strangely distant and even the chirp of a cricket seems too real, too loud. Sam's head was throbbing and he didn't know how long he'd been sitting there, against the bumper of the Impala, head hung between his bent knees.
It occured to Sam that it could be the Grundnakt demon, come after him. Though he wouldn't have thought the creature would wander so far from the safety of its wood, even in pursuit of wounded prey.
Sam didn't move.
Sam thought it could be something much more common. Or more common for normal people. A stray dog. A wolf, perhaps. Sam tried to remember what kind of wildlife lived in this area, but couldn't. He still didn't move.
Sam realized the sound was coming from inside the Impala, not nearby it, and scrambled to his feet. Then his knees almost gave out. And not because Sam had been sitting on the ground so long the sun was going down.
In the dusk, Sam stared through the windshield of the Impala.
And Dean stared back at him.
Dean spoke first, licking his dry lips. "What the fuck just happened?"
Sam only stared. He trembled.
"Sammy?"
Sam hesitated before forcing his feet to take the first, few steps around the front of the car to his open door. He ducked down and looked through it. Dean was sitting up, no longer looking at him.
Instead, he was staring down at his body. And the black-red blood that had dyed his clothing and the deep, ugly ga-
The deep, ugly gashes the Grundnakt's claws had made in Dean's body, but which seemed to have...disappeared.
"D- Dean?"
Dean was so still. So unnaturally still.
He turned towards Sammy slowly. Sam barely breathed.
"Dude. If you let me come back from the dead as a freakin' zombie, I'm kicking your ass."
The little man in the motel room's office looked at Sam strangely when he went in and rented the room. No more strangely than motel management ever did when Sam and Dean showed up at strange hours of the night and paid with wads of cash. This time the attendant had even more reason to stare at Sam than usual. Sam was wet and bloody and - he realized too late - he probably should have changed his clothes before pulling into the motel's drive. Sam caught a glimpse of his own reflection in the glass behind the check in counter and winced. He looked like a cross between a serial killer and a drowned rat.
The attendant gave Sam a set of keys, though, without many words. And Sam didn't linger in the office waiting for any. He pulled the car around to the other side of the lot, where their room was, and ran around the car to help Dean out.
"I can do it," Dean insisted when Sam took his arm. He didn't try to shrug Sam off, though, when Sam didn't back away.
They were both quiet while they had other things to focus on. Sam showered and changed while Dean lay on one of the room's two beds with his arm flung over his eyes. Then Sam got a clean set of clothes and Dean's bag out of the car so Dean could shower, as well. Dean was feeling enough like himself to quip, "Much as I love you, bro, I hope you aren't planning to hold the soap for me, too."
Sam smirked. But his expression faltered when the bathroom door closed. Sam pulled out Dad's journal and started flipping through it right away, to calm himself before Dean got finished.
"Well, you're not a vampire."
"No shit, Sherlock."
"I didn't reanimate you."
"Yeah. You probably would've botched that up."
"Only on purpose."
It was surprisingly easy to slip back into routine. As if Sam hadn't spent all evening sitting in the dirt, in the middle of nowhere, with his brother's car and his brother's (supposed) corpse.
"It couldn't be-"
"What?"
Dean shook his head, looking uncomfortable. Well. Uncomfortable-er. Coming back from the dead, Sam would imagine, had to be pretty damn uncomfortable.
"Nah. It's stupid."
"We're running out of smart at this point, Dean. Stupid's better than nothing."
"Says you." But Dean reached for the journal and took it from Sam's hands. "Let's see..."
Dean flipped through the journal shortly, as Sam watched him fumble with the pages. It occurred to Sam that maybe slipping back into routine was easier for Dean, too. He was just working up the nerve to say something about it when Dean's page-fumbling stopped.
"Here."
Sam looked over the page Dean had turned to. He shifted the journal so he could read it, eyebrows rising once he had.
"I told you it was stupid."
"Immortal?"
“I’m not dead. I’m not undead. Only other time I’ve seen anything like this was in ‘92. Remember that antique store owner in Washington?”
Sam didn’t remember. In ‘92 he’d been nine years old. And still fascinated enough by the “family business” that hunting trips were like little adventures. He hadn't taken many details away from any of them. Only vague memories of how excited he'd felt in the middle of chasing this demon, or exorcising that spirit. Sam looked to the journal. "Tessa Noel?"
"We were in Seacouver hunting gremlins. Dad saved her and her friend from a mugging. Dad thought her husband looked familiar, but he couldn't figure out why. Did a little research, found out-"
"He was an Immortal," Sam read from their father's notes. "Born in Scotland in...1592. I can't believe this is for real."
"Believe it. Dad left us back at the hotel that night, but he said another Immortal challenged the first Immortal for a Quickening with him right there."
A Quickening. Sam frowned at the word and looked for it in the journal. He didn't like what he found.
"A Quickening. One Immortal absorbs another Immortal's powers and knowledge by beheading- If you're one of these Immortals...does that mean other Immortals are gonna come challenging you?"
Dean's answer came to Sam in his hesitation, for a moment after Sam had finished speaking. Then Dean shrugged. He said, quietly, "Not like I needed the extra enemies, huh?
"They aren't all like that, though. Dad seemed to think that guy in Washington was pretty cool. If he's still around we should probably look him up. He can tell us if this is the real deal or-"
"Or what?"
"Or we'll figure that out when we have to."
Sam dropped their father's journal onto the tabletop between himself and Dean. Crude sketches of swords and Dad's speculations about Immortal origins and codes of honor stretched across the open pages.
Sam reached for his laptop.
"You think 413 year-old Scotsmen keep driver's licenses? I could look him up through the DMV."
Dean leaned back in his chair.
"It's worth a shot. Did Dad write down his name?"
It was written in ink along the margin of one of the journal pages.
"Duncan McLeod," Sam said. He booted up and started the search.
[ end. ]
All my crossover100 fics can be found/will be found here.