fiction: My message read clear [crossover fic, gen, R, 600wds]
My message read clear
Pairing: Mostly gen, with a side of Dean/Tyler Durden
Rating: R, maybe, for the violence. There's no porn, honey, sorry.
Summary: Maybe Sam dreams of a life without Dean, of 2.5 kids with a bathroom straight out of an Ikea catalogue, a sensuous wife with honey-blonde hair, a Smurfs t-shirt and a generous smile, and it makes Dean sick.
A/N: Set in Supernatural season 1, this is a SPN/Fight Club crossover for jelloh0530. Because gratuitous violence always cheers me up :)
It smells of concrete and copper, sweat and salt. Dean takes off his silver ring, and there’s a small patch of pale skin underneath it. He places it inside his boot, and steps onto the thin mat.
The guy opposite him stands still, waiting, rolling his shoulders and loosely clenching his fists by his side. He’s the guy who stands at the front, preaching like he’s the Messiah, the second coming of Christ, and he’s the guy who stared straight at him when he said if it’s your first night, you have to fight.
The guy looks at him, his eyes traveling from the bottom upward, and likes what he sees. His tosses his head backwards, and howls a laugh to the roof, which doesn’t hang much above their heads, and all the bodies crammed into the small room makes Dean claustrophobic.
Sam’s back at the motel room, tossing in his bed, his head filled of nightmares - of dreams - of what could have been. What could have been if Jess had never been killed. Maybe he dreams of a life without Dean, of 2.5 kids with a bathroom straight out of an Ikea catalogue, a sensuous wife with honey-blonde hair, a Smurfs t-shirt and a generous smile.
When the man barrels toward Dean, he sees it from a mile off, and knows he’s not trained. He holds his hands too low, keeps his feet too far apart. But he’s quick, and doesn’t have any regard for his own safety.
He’s pale, small and has non-descript brown hair. The only thing that would make you remember him the next morning would be the mass of scar tissue around his eyes and his mouth, and the way he limps on his right leg when there’s a storm coming. He’s got muscle carved into his lean chest, and Dean recognizes it as muscle cut from necessity, rather than sculpted in a gym.
He hears whispers in the crowd, a formless back shadow in the background pulsing with violence and aggression, anger on their lips and fear in their hearts. They hiss in tongues, cries of pain and rage, but all Dean can focus on is the pound of his heart against his chest, and the sickly crunch of bone on bone.
Dean’s got a bruise blooming under his kidney, and is bleeding out of his ear when he realizes skill isn’t going to win. His head echoes dully, and it’s different from fighting a normal civilian, because his opponent has learned to fight from experience, has catalogued the punishment and filed away the hurt in some compartmentalized part of his brain.
The other guy has a cracked rib, a broken nose and a severely strained wrist when he gives up, but Dean thinks it’s only because he can’t see out of either of his eyes.
When Dean lets go, the guy laughs again, manic and barely conscious, and he grins at Dean with a mouth with too few teeth.
“Welcome to Fight Club,” he says, blood spraying from between his lips. He presses a small yellow envelope into Dean’s hand, his fingers clasping for a second too long. He sways a little on his feet, his voice rasping as he raises it to the room.
“Batter up,” he says, indicating at another two men, and retreats to a dark corner, separated from his nameless disciples. He beckons Dean to stand with him, and he feels an odd pride bubble within his chest. He spends the rest of the night watching his blood make splatter patterns as it drips onto the concrete floor, the man’s cigarette smoke curling across his vision.
Pairing: Mostly gen, with a side of Dean/Tyler Durden
Rating: R, maybe, for the violence. There's no porn, honey, sorry.
Summary: Maybe Sam dreams of a life without Dean, of 2.5 kids with a bathroom straight out of an Ikea catalogue, a sensuous wife with honey-blonde hair, a Smurfs t-shirt and a generous smile, and it makes Dean sick.
A/N: Set in Supernatural season 1, this is a SPN/Fight Club crossover for jelloh0530. Because gratuitous violence always cheers me up :)
It smells of concrete and copper, sweat and salt. Dean takes off his silver ring, and there’s a small patch of pale skin underneath it. He places it inside his boot, and steps onto the thin mat.
The guy opposite him stands still, waiting, rolling his shoulders and loosely clenching his fists by his side. He’s the guy who stands at the front, preaching like he’s the Messiah, the second coming of Christ, and he’s the guy who stared straight at him when he said if it’s your first night, you have to fight.
The guy looks at him, his eyes traveling from the bottom upward, and likes what he sees. His tosses his head backwards, and howls a laugh to the roof, which doesn’t hang much above their heads, and all the bodies crammed into the small room makes Dean claustrophobic.
Sam’s back at the motel room, tossing in his bed, his head filled of nightmares - of dreams - of what could have been. What could have been if Jess had never been killed. Maybe he dreams of a life without Dean, of 2.5 kids with a bathroom straight out of an Ikea catalogue, a sensuous wife with honey-blonde hair, a Smurfs t-shirt and a generous smile.
When the man barrels toward Dean, he sees it from a mile off, and knows he’s not trained. He holds his hands too low, keeps his feet too far apart. But he’s quick, and doesn’t have any regard for his own safety.
He’s pale, small and has non-descript brown hair. The only thing that would make you remember him the next morning would be the mass of scar tissue around his eyes and his mouth, and the way he limps on his right leg when there’s a storm coming. He’s got muscle carved into his lean chest, and Dean recognizes it as muscle cut from necessity, rather than sculpted in a gym.
He hears whispers in the crowd, a formless back shadow in the background pulsing with violence and aggression, anger on their lips and fear in their hearts. They hiss in tongues, cries of pain and rage, but all Dean can focus on is the pound of his heart against his chest, and the sickly crunch of bone on bone.
Dean’s got a bruise blooming under his kidney, and is bleeding out of his ear when he realizes skill isn’t going to win. His head echoes dully, and it’s different from fighting a normal civilian, because his opponent has learned to fight from experience, has catalogued the punishment and filed away the hurt in some compartmentalized part of his brain.
The other guy has a cracked rib, a broken nose and a severely strained wrist when he gives up, but Dean thinks it’s only because he can’t see out of either of his eyes.
When Dean lets go, the guy laughs again, manic and barely conscious, and he grins at Dean with a mouth with too few teeth.
“Welcome to Fight Club,” he says, blood spraying from between his lips. He presses a small yellow envelope into Dean’s hand, his fingers clasping for a second too long. He sways a little on his feet, his voice rasping as he raises it to the room.
“Batter up,” he says, indicating at another two men, and retreats to a dark corner, separated from his nameless disciples. He beckons Dean to stand with him, and he feels an odd pride bubble within his chest. He spends the rest of the night watching his blood make splatter patterns as it drips onto the concrete floor, the man’s cigarette smoke curling across his vision.