c1, r1: Strangers on a Train, Team HL
Title: Strangers on a Train
Author: idontlikegravy
Beta: strangevisitor7 although not all of it, so most of it is totally my fault *g*.
Written for: spn_twisted: Challenge 1: Round 2: Public Transportation.
Rated: PG
Fandom: SPN/Highlander
Characters: The Winchesters, Richie Ryan
Disclaimer: None of it is mine, not one little bit
Strangers on a Train
“I swear it was him Sammy,” Dean said.
“Come on, Dean, you only glimpsed him for about ten seconds before the train moved off,” Sam replied sceptically.
“I don’t care, I know it was him,” Dean replied, adamant.
“So you want us to chase a train halfway to hell knows where because you think you saw a dead guy in one of the compartments?” Sam said.
They had been at the station for three days, hunting a demon that had been picking off indigents riding the rails for months. They had finally found it and destroyed it that night. Sam was beat and he wasn’t interested in starting another hunt right now, especially if it was Wild Goose they were after.
“Not think, know. About ten years back, Richie Ryan was the most promising rookie on the superbike minor circuit. His career was spectacular and his death even more so. I wouldn’t forget that face.”
“Maybe it’s his doppelganger?” Sam suggested, feebly.
“Doppelganger, schmoppelganger,.” Dean replied, already heading for the Impala. Sam rolled his eyes, knowing the argument was lost, and followed him from the platform.
When they reached the car, Sam paused, his hand on the door.
“If this guy died racing in France, how did you see the crash?” Sam asked.
“World’s Most Fatal Crashes. Gotta love cable,” Dean replied with a grin and hopped in behind the wheel. Sam looked heavenward for a moment, exasperated, before dropping onto the passenger seat.
“But if this was 10 years ago, he’d look older. It can’t be him,” Sam pushed
“Exactly. He didn’t look older.”
Understanding dawned on Sam, “If it is him, he maybe carrying around a demon. I doubt it’s his ghost riding the rails if he died in France.”
Dean looked over at his brother as he turned the car on. “So, we chasing a train?”
Sam nodded, “It appears we are.”
They had been in luck. When they enquired about the train, they discovered that it was a slow train, and it would be easy to beat it to the next station, two hours north of them. They made it in plenty of time, and bought tickets. When the train arrived they would make sure that nobody got off, then board the train at the last possible moment. Once they found the guy Dean thought was Richie Ryan, they would find out exactly who, or what, he was.
They boarded the train and began a methodical search of the compartments, working their way from back to front. They didn’t have far to search, as they discovered their quarry seated in the club car. Not wishing to confront him in public, the pair took a table where they could watch, and wait.
It grew late, and gradually the passengers drifted back to their compartments. Richie, or rather the demon wearing his face, remained at its table, staring out the window into the darkness, nursing a drink.
Discreetly, they locked the doors at either end of the car and then made their way to the table, Dean staggering slightly, pretending to be drunk.
“Hey, Richie!” Dean called, slurring his words.
*-*
Richie was lost in his own thoughts, and had barely touched his beer. It was all so horribly familiar. He was running back to Mac, running from a headhunter and the law, blamed for something he didn’t do.
The only difference was that this time, he knew the headhunter was after him, not Mac. He had nearly had him in LA, but the police showed up. Richie’s gratitude was short lived however, as the cops immediately assumed him to be the serial killer they were looking for and opened fire.
He would have to switch identities, probably leave the country. He would see Duncan, get a new name, get the bastard hunting him, and then disappear for a generation. But with his current ID useless, and his bike impounded, he had been forced to take this train to get back to Seacouver.
Richie looked up at the sound of his name. Two young men had approached his table.
What now? he thought
“I knew it was you man! The great Richie Ryan. My bro here said it couldn’t be you, that you were dead, but I knew!” slurred the shorter haired one.
Oh, brilliant, Richie thought, just what I needed. “Sorry guy, you’ve got me confused with somebody else,” he said politely, but firmly.
“See Dean? I told you,” said the other man. The one now identified as Dean sat down opposite Richie.
“No way Sammy. I know Richie Ryan.”
Aw hell, I’m gonna have to change train now, Richie mused before saying aloud, “I’m really sorry, but I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Could you maybe show my brother your ID? That would settle this easily,” Sam suggested. Richie nodded and reached for his back pocket before he remembered that his current alias was wanted in ten states. Because of that, Richie had been forced to use his real identity until he could pick up one of his backups from Duncan.
“I must have left it in my compartment, sorry,” he said with a shrug. The two brothers exchanged a look that got Richie worried. He suddenly realised that they might be Hunters. Sloppy Ryan, very sloppy, he chastised himself. He tried to casually glance at their wrists, but they both wore long-sleeved shirts. Damn.
*-*
The demon began to get nervous when he couldn’t produce any proof that he wasn’t Richie Ryan. This seemed pretty conclusive to Dean, and Sam wasn’t going to disagree with him. They looked at each other, holding silent conversation and coming to agreement.
Like lightning, the demon reached out and grabbed Dean by the wrists. Suddenly Dean was alert, all pretence of drunkenness gone. With his hands immobilised, he couldn’t go for a weapon, but Sam had a pistol drawn.
“Let him go,” he said coolly. The demon continued to hold Dean’s wrists, examining at the inside of them for something. It looked confused and let go, allowing Dean to grab his gun. Looking up at Sam, it asked,
“Who are you?”
“What are you?” Dean asked. He leaned forward until the muzzle of his gun was almost touching the demon’s face.
“What the hell are you talking about? I’m just a guy!” it said, scooting back in the seat and raising its hands.
“A guy that died over ten years ago,” Dean added.
“I told you, I’m not that guy! What do you think I am?”
“I’m thinking demon. And there’s one way to find out. Sam, cover him, if he so much as blinks funny, shoot him,” Dean instructed. Sam nodded and moved to get a better angle.
Dean grabbed the demon’s wrist, and produced a knife.
“What the hell?” it protested, squirming momentarily. Sam cocked his gun and that made the demon stop, eyeing them warily.
“If you’re a demon, this won’t do any harm. If you’re who you say you are, it’s only a cut, we apologise and go on our way,” Dean explained before pressing the knife to the demon’s hand and cutting, just enough to draw blood.
At the sight of the cut, Dean pulled back and looked at Sam, who shrugged. A moment later, they watched, surprised, as little blue sparks of electricity flickered across the wound, knitting the flesh together again.
“Well, that was new,” Dean commented, “But definitely not human,” he finished, pointing his gun at the demon again.
“Wait, please, I can explain! I’m not a demon…”
“Not interested,” Dean said, and fired. The bullet wouldn’t do much, but it might incapacitate long enough for them to perform the exorcism. Dean was only sorry he couldn’t hide the shotgun under his coat.
*-*
Richie awoke to find that he was lying on the floor of the compartment, Sam and Dean standing over him, reading something in what he thought was Latin. From the pain in his back, he figured he was lying on his sword.
Good, they didn’t take it from me, he thought bitterly, Finally my luck is in.
He leapt up, surprising the two men, and scattering some sort of white powder everywhere. He didn’t know what these two were up to, but he didn’t want a part of it. After checking his sword was still secure, he took a running jump through the window, landing heavily on the rail, bouncing and rolling down the embankment.
He awoke again as the sun was rising. He stood up, dusted himself off and looked around. He could see a small town in the distance, and headed in that direction.
Next time, I take the bus.
Author: idontlikegravy
Beta: strangevisitor7 although not all of it, so most of it is totally my fault *g*.
Written for: spn_twisted: Challenge 1: Round 2: Public Transportation.
Rated: PG
Fandom: SPN/Highlander
Characters: The Winchesters, Richie Ryan
Disclaimer: None of it is mine, not one little bit
Strangers on a Train
“I swear it was him Sammy,” Dean said.
“Come on, Dean, you only glimpsed him for about ten seconds before the train moved off,” Sam replied sceptically.
“I don’t care, I know it was him,” Dean replied, adamant.
“So you want us to chase a train halfway to hell knows where because you think you saw a dead guy in one of the compartments?” Sam said.
They had been at the station for three days, hunting a demon that had been picking off indigents riding the rails for months. They had finally found it and destroyed it that night. Sam was beat and he wasn’t interested in starting another hunt right now, especially if it was Wild Goose they were after.
“Not think, know. About ten years back, Richie Ryan was the most promising rookie on the superbike minor circuit. His career was spectacular and his death even more so. I wouldn’t forget that face.”
“Maybe it’s his doppelganger?” Sam suggested, feebly.
“Doppelganger, schmoppelganger,.” Dean replied, already heading for the Impala. Sam rolled his eyes, knowing the argument was lost, and followed him from the platform.
When they reached the car, Sam paused, his hand on the door.
“If this guy died racing in France, how did you see the crash?” Sam asked.
“World’s Most Fatal Crashes. Gotta love cable,” Dean replied with a grin and hopped in behind the wheel. Sam looked heavenward for a moment, exasperated, before dropping onto the passenger seat.
“But if this was 10 years ago, he’d look older. It can’t be him,” Sam pushed
“Exactly. He didn’t look older.”
Understanding dawned on Sam, “If it is him, he maybe carrying around a demon. I doubt it’s his ghost riding the rails if he died in France.”
Dean looked over at his brother as he turned the car on. “So, we chasing a train?”
Sam nodded, “It appears we are.”
They had been in luck. When they enquired about the train, they discovered that it was a slow train, and it would be easy to beat it to the next station, two hours north of them. They made it in plenty of time, and bought tickets. When the train arrived they would make sure that nobody got off, then board the train at the last possible moment. Once they found the guy Dean thought was Richie Ryan, they would find out exactly who, or what, he was.
They boarded the train and began a methodical search of the compartments, working their way from back to front. They didn’t have far to search, as they discovered their quarry seated in the club car. Not wishing to confront him in public, the pair took a table where they could watch, and wait.
It grew late, and gradually the passengers drifted back to their compartments. Richie, or rather the demon wearing his face, remained at its table, staring out the window into the darkness, nursing a drink.
Discreetly, they locked the doors at either end of the car and then made their way to the table, Dean staggering slightly, pretending to be drunk.
“Hey, Richie!” Dean called, slurring his words.
*-*
Richie was lost in his own thoughts, and had barely touched his beer. It was all so horribly familiar. He was running back to Mac, running from a headhunter and the law, blamed for something he didn’t do.
The only difference was that this time, he knew the headhunter was after him, not Mac. He had nearly had him in LA, but the police showed up. Richie’s gratitude was short lived however, as the cops immediately assumed him to be the serial killer they were looking for and opened fire.
He would have to switch identities, probably leave the country. He would see Duncan, get a new name, get the bastard hunting him, and then disappear for a generation. But with his current ID useless, and his bike impounded, he had been forced to take this train to get back to Seacouver.
Richie looked up at the sound of his name. Two young men had approached his table.
What now? he thought
“I knew it was you man! The great Richie Ryan. My bro here said it couldn’t be you, that you were dead, but I knew!” slurred the shorter haired one.
Oh, brilliant, Richie thought, just what I needed. “Sorry guy, you’ve got me confused with somebody else,” he said politely, but firmly.
“See Dean? I told you,” said the other man. The one now identified as Dean sat down opposite Richie.
“No way Sammy. I know Richie Ryan.”
Aw hell, I’m gonna have to change train now, Richie mused before saying aloud, “I’m really sorry, but I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Could you maybe show my brother your ID? That would settle this easily,” Sam suggested. Richie nodded and reached for his back pocket before he remembered that his current alias was wanted in ten states. Because of that, Richie had been forced to use his real identity until he could pick up one of his backups from Duncan.
“I must have left it in my compartment, sorry,” he said with a shrug. The two brothers exchanged a look that got Richie worried. He suddenly realised that they might be Hunters. Sloppy Ryan, very sloppy, he chastised himself. He tried to casually glance at their wrists, but they both wore long-sleeved shirts. Damn.
*-*
The demon began to get nervous when he couldn’t produce any proof that he wasn’t Richie Ryan. This seemed pretty conclusive to Dean, and Sam wasn’t going to disagree with him. They looked at each other, holding silent conversation and coming to agreement.
Like lightning, the demon reached out and grabbed Dean by the wrists. Suddenly Dean was alert, all pretence of drunkenness gone. With his hands immobilised, he couldn’t go for a weapon, but Sam had a pistol drawn.
“Let him go,” he said coolly. The demon continued to hold Dean’s wrists, examining at the inside of them for something. It looked confused and let go, allowing Dean to grab his gun. Looking up at Sam, it asked,
“Who are you?”
“What are you?” Dean asked. He leaned forward until the muzzle of his gun was almost touching the demon’s face.
“What the hell are you talking about? I’m just a guy!” it said, scooting back in the seat and raising its hands.
“A guy that died over ten years ago,” Dean added.
“I told you, I’m not that guy! What do you think I am?”
“I’m thinking demon. And there’s one way to find out. Sam, cover him, if he so much as blinks funny, shoot him,” Dean instructed. Sam nodded and moved to get a better angle.
Dean grabbed the demon’s wrist, and produced a knife.
“What the hell?” it protested, squirming momentarily. Sam cocked his gun and that made the demon stop, eyeing them warily.
“If you’re a demon, this won’t do any harm. If you’re who you say you are, it’s only a cut, we apologise and go on our way,” Dean explained before pressing the knife to the demon’s hand and cutting, just enough to draw blood.
At the sight of the cut, Dean pulled back and looked at Sam, who shrugged. A moment later, they watched, surprised, as little blue sparks of electricity flickered across the wound, knitting the flesh together again.
“Well, that was new,” Dean commented, “But definitely not human,” he finished, pointing his gun at the demon again.
“Wait, please, I can explain! I’m not a demon…”
“Not interested,” Dean said, and fired. The bullet wouldn’t do much, but it might incapacitate long enough for them to perform the exorcism. Dean was only sorry he couldn’t hide the shotgun under his coat.
*-*
Richie awoke to find that he was lying on the floor of the compartment, Sam and Dean standing over him, reading something in what he thought was Latin. From the pain in his back, he figured he was lying on his sword.
Good, they didn’t take it from me, he thought bitterly, Finally my luck is in.
He leapt up, surprising the two men, and scattering some sort of white powder everywhere. He didn’t know what these two were up to, but he didn’t want a part of it. After checking his sword was still secure, he took a running jump through the window, landing heavily on the rail, bouncing and rolling down the embankment.
He awoke again as the sun was rising. He stood up, dusted himself off and looked around. He could see a small town in the distance, and headed in that direction.
Next time, I take the bus.