NEW QAF/SPN FIC: The Rule and The Exception, Rated R, 1/1
The Rule and The Exception
by Suz
Disclaimer - CowLip/Showtime own the characters, SPN people/CW own some of the ideas.
Well, hey! It's an entirely different Queer as Folk/Supernatural fusion fic to the series I've been posting lately! *facepalm* I was not intending to do another one, but I suddenly got inspired today, and...here it is!
Brian/Justin AU, rated R for language and sexual situations. Some angst. And trying to be clever with warnings got too complicated last time, so: minor character death. Many thanks to My Smoochie for her beta work :)
Feedback would be wonderful!
*
Hunters come in all shapes and sizes, but they always look the same.
This is something Brian knows.
Male, female, tall, short - physical features differ from hunter to hunter, but everything else is the same. Comfortable, sturdy clothes, that are easy to clean and fast to move in. Hair that never gets trimmed as often as it should, and never gets styled at all. Dark circles under the eyes. They usually drive a car or truck that has seen better days, but was bought only for its reliability. And somewhere in that car - in a bag, in the trunk, wherever there's space - there's a collection of everything you could ever want for sending something evil back to Hell.
The hunt is all they have.
Brian knows all this because it's his life, and it's the nature of the job. If you're tracking a demon, sometimes you're not the only one, and Brian's been doing this long enough that he's bumped into his fair share of demon hunters. He's worked with them when that's happened, because it's pointless letting his pride get in the way of the job, and the odds of survival are greater with higher numbers.
But that's as far as it goes. Hunters are loners by nature - greater numbers mean a greater chance of losing someone you know.
So Brian recognises the guy in the corner of the bar. He's taken the seat Brian would've preferred. Hunters have different ways of working - some sit as close to the exit as possible, ready to make a quick escape. Others - like him - prefer the corners. With their backs to the walls nothing can sneak up on them, and they can see what's coming.
And fight.
He's younger than Brian is used to seeing, but the circles under his eyes tell the same story as everyone else. There's a reason for what they do, and he has one.
Sitting at the same table without invitation, Brian sips at his beer and looks at him calmly. "You here for the nest?"
He nods.
"You cover my ass, I'll cover yours."
"Sure," the guy agrees, and for an amused moment Brian thinks he's actually going to initiate a handshake. He doesn't. "I'm Justin."
"Brian," he nods, taking another sip before setting his drink down on the sticky table top. "Tell me what you know."
*
They're lucky, and Brian takes luck wherever he can get it. Justin knows where the nest is and it turns out it's a small one - four of them - so they set fire to the old barn and cover opposite sides of the building. When the vampires run out they're hysterical, screaming, obviously new and freshly turned. It doesn't take much effort to stake them, but something must've gone wrong with the plan because a few moments later, Justin's car explodes.
Lowering the arm he'd used to protect his face from the blast, Justin sighs. "Well, fuck."
Brian helpfully suggests that his shitty little car probably had a gas leak somewhere. A stray spark, a flailing vampire...
But it's not Brian's problem. He says as much of a thank you as he ever does, and turns away to start the walk to his truck. Only when he gets there, Justin is strolling up to the passenger-side door.
Brian's not amused. "What the fuck are you doing?"
"Setting the fire was your idea," he points out, climbing calmly into the truck.
And that's how it starts.
A week later and they're still travelling together. Justin can hunt, read a map, and pay his own way - like most hunters, he has a wide array of credit cards in different names, and he'd taken his bag of shit out of the car before the fire to get at his stakes quickly. They don't talk much, which suits Brian just fine, although not everything does.
Justin has appalling taste in music, and frequently tries to inflict it on Brian. By the end of the first day of travelling together, Brian had banned him from touching the radio.
They cross the state border on the trail of something they haven't been able to identify yet, and fifteen minutes later see a truck on the side of the road with a For Sale sign stuck on the window.
Brian doesn't mention it.
That night they stay in the same kind of shitty motel Brian's become used to living in. The shower leaks and the sheets haven't been white in ten years. The TV works perfectly.
Justin bends over, apparently rummaging through his bag for something, but Brian knows better. He keeps telling Justin to fuck off and Justin keeps ignoring him, so he figures he might as well get it over with and fuck him.
Sex is rarely a priority in their line of work, which is a shame because Justin turns out to be really fucking horny and Brian enjoys fucking someone who can keep up with him. He can only figure Justin assumes it means something's changed, though, because later that night when they're pressed tightly against each other in a single bed, Justin speaks quietly into the silence.
"It was my sister," he offers. Then, after a pause: "She was nine."
Brian knows how this story goes - offer a truth and receive one in return.
He says nothing, and sleep is long in coming.
*
It goes on. They don't discuss it, but after a month they stop pretending that Justin's going to buy another car. After three months and eight kills together, they walk into a tattoo parlour and Brian pulls off his shirt, exposing the design on his chest.
"Give him the same one," he says, "in exactly the same place."
It's not sentimentality - matching tattoos for queers. It has a purpose and it's about fucking time Justin had it done. He hadn't heard of it before Brian, and they haven't really had a breather, until now. One case after another had just landed on their laps.
In the truck the next day, Justin asks him a question.
"How long were you doing this alone?"
"A few years. I don't remember," is the standard lie he tells when he occasionally - rarely - gets asked that question. But he remembers the exact date and time he launched into this career solo. Remembers how hard Mikey tried; to be a good friend, to help him get his revenge.
Remembers Mikey crying. How sorry he was, but that he had to think about his own family.
Brian hasn't seen him since, but every month or so there's a new enthusiastic-sounding message on his voicemail.
"Four years," Justin admits wistfully, confessing his own history, and he pictures Justin at seventeen - terrified and alone but defiant, nonetheless. Learning how to fight. How to kill. Learning the best tactics to use, usually through hardly-learnt lessons (Justin has two angry red scars on his back that he's never explained). It's usually another hunter who shows a newbie the ropes, and Brian wonders if there's someone like that in Justin's past.
Wonders what it would've been like if it'd been him.
*
Brian has a closer shave than usual when a creature smelling alarmingly of rotting fish bites a chunk out of his shoulder.
But Justin is there, wielding an axe with remarkable aim. While the creature's head is still rolling across the damp ground, Justin shoves its body off Brian and helps him to his feet.
"Fuck," Brian curses, pain blossoming across his left shoulder. Jesus Christ, this job sucked ass most of the time.
Justin takes most of his weight, and drives them to their motel. He threatens to take Brian to a hospital, but Brian immediately puts a halt to that idea.
"Not life threatening," he hisses, as Justin fumbles with the first aid kit, pressing a compress against the wound.
"Sure," Justin bitches, "there's just a *chunk* missing from your *shoulder*. Happens every day."
Brian gives him the finger with his left hand.
Finally, there's the good shit. They try not to use the morphine unless absolutely necessary, and apparently Justin has determined it to be absolutely necessary. Brian can't find it within himself to bitch about it, but maybe that's just the morphine. Or the huge chunk of skin missing from his body.
"You need to be more careful," Justin hisses, straddling him as he fusses over the injury again. "We're a team now. Partners."
And that's the truth of it. He can rationalise it any way he wants - it's someone to fight with. Someone to share costs. Someone to fuck.
But he's never had anyone to do all that with before, and he's not sure why it's happening now.
Brian does know he'll be killed by the things he hunts, one day - has known, ever since he started doing this. One day his luck will run out, or he won't be skilled enough, or sheer numbers will ensure his death. It's something he accepts because he has no other choice. This is the life he's chosen, and he has to live with the consequences.
Brian has always known that he'd die to avenge his son. And he looks at Justin, blowing his hair out of his face and muttering as he fights with a roll of medical tape. Imagines that thing biting a chunk out of him, instead.
And knows that Gus isn't the only one he'd die for.
He should tell Justin to fuck off. Tell him to fuck off and mean it, this time. Lock him out of the room, drive off and leave him behind.
He doesn't, just like he hasn't a dozen times before.
Hunters are loners by nature.
But there's an exception to every rule.
~FINIS
NB: For those of you who may not watch Supernatural, the tattoo prevents demon possession.
by Suz
Disclaimer - CowLip/Showtime own the characters, SPN people/CW own some of the ideas.
Well, hey! It's an entirely different Queer as Folk/Supernatural fusion fic to the series I've been posting lately! *facepalm* I was not intending to do another one, but I suddenly got inspired today, and...here it is!
Brian/Justin AU, rated R for language and sexual situations. Some angst. And trying to be clever with warnings got too complicated last time, so: minor character death. Many thanks to My Smoochie for her beta work :)
Feedback would be wonderful!
*
Hunters come in all shapes and sizes, but they always look the same.
This is something Brian knows.
Male, female, tall, short - physical features differ from hunter to hunter, but everything else is the same. Comfortable, sturdy clothes, that are easy to clean and fast to move in. Hair that never gets trimmed as often as it should, and never gets styled at all. Dark circles under the eyes. They usually drive a car or truck that has seen better days, but was bought only for its reliability. And somewhere in that car - in a bag, in the trunk, wherever there's space - there's a collection of everything you could ever want for sending something evil back to Hell.
The hunt is all they have.
Brian knows all this because it's his life, and it's the nature of the job. If you're tracking a demon, sometimes you're not the only one, and Brian's been doing this long enough that he's bumped into his fair share of demon hunters. He's worked with them when that's happened, because it's pointless letting his pride get in the way of the job, and the odds of survival are greater with higher numbers.
But that's as far as it goes. Hunters are loners by nature - greater numbers mean a greater chance of losing someone you know.
So Brian recognises the guy in the corner of the bar. He's taken the seat Brian would've preferred. Hunters have different ways of working - some sit as close to the exit as possible, ready to make a quick escape. Others - like him - prefer the corners. With their backs to the walls nothing can sneak up on them, and they can see what's coming.
And fight.
He's younger than Brian is used to seeing, but the circles under his eyes tell the same story as everyone else. There's a reason for what they do, and he has one.
Sitting at the same table without invitation, Brian sips at his beer and looks at him calmly. "You here for the nest?"
He nods.
"You cover my ass, I'll cover yours."
"Sure," the guy agrees, and for an amused moment Brian thinks he's actually going to initiate a handshake. He doesn't. "I'm Justin."
"Brian," he nods, taking another sip before setting his drink down on the sticky table top. "Tell me what you know."
*
They're lucky, and Brian takes luck wherever he can get it. Justin knows where the nest is and it turns out it's a small one - four of them - so they set fire to the old barn and cover opposite sides of the building. When the vampires run out they're hysterical, screaming, obviously new and freshly turned. It doesn't take much effort to stake them, but something must've gone wrong with the plan because a few moments later, Justin's car explodes.
Lowering the arm he'd used to protect his face from the blast, Justin sighs. "Well, fuck."
Brian helpfully suggests that his shitty little car probably had a gas leak somewhere. A stray spark, a flailing vampire...
But it's not Brian's problem. He says as much of a thank you as he ever does, and turns away to start the walk to his truck. Only when he gets there, Justin is strolling up to the passenger-side door.
Brian's not amused. "What the fuck are you doing?"
"Setting the fire was your idea," he points out, climbing calmly into the truck.
And that's how it starts.
A week later and they're still travelling together. Justin can hunt, read a map, and pay his own way - like most hunters, he has a wide array of credit cards in different names, and he'd taken his bag of shit out of the car before the fire to get at his stakes quickly. They don't talk much, which suits Brian just fine, although not everything does.
Justin has appalling taste in music, and frequently tries to inflict it on Brian. By the end of the first day of travelling together, Brian had banned him from touching the radio.
They cross the state border on the trail of something they haven't been able to identify yet, and fifteen minutes later see a truck on the side of the road with a For Sale sign stuck on the window.
Brian doesn't mention it.
That night they stay in the same kind of shitty motel Brian's become used to living in. The shower leaks and the sheets haven't been white in ten years. The TV works perfectly.
Justin bends over, apparently rummaging through his bag for something, but Brian knows better. He keeps telling Justin to fuck off and Justin keeps ignoring him, so he figures he might as well get it over with and fuck him.
Sex is rarely a priority in their line of work, which is a shame because Justin turns out to be really fucking horny and Brian enjoys fucking someone who can keep up with him. He can only figure Justin assumes it means something's changed, though, because later that night when they're pressed tightly against each other in a single bed, Justin speaks quietly into the silence.
"It was my sister," he offers. Then, after a pause: "She was nine."
Brian knows how this story goes - offer a truth and receive one in return.
He says nothing, and sleep is long in coming.
*
It goes on. They don't discuss it, but after a month they stop pretending that Justin's going to buy another car. After three months and eight kills together, they walk into a tattoo parlour and Brian pulls off his shirt, exposing the design on his chest.
"Give him the same one," he says, "in exactly the same place."
It's not sentimentality - matching tattoos for queers. It has a purpose and it's about fucking time Justin had it done. He hadn't heard of it before Brian, and they haven't really had a breather, until now. One case after another had just landed on their laps.
In the truck the next day, Justin asks him a question.
"How long were you doing this alone?"
"A few years. I don't remember," is the standard lie he tells when he occasionally - rarely - gets asked that question. But he remembers the exact date and time he launched into this career solo. Remembers how hard Mikey tried; to be a good friend, to help him get his revenge.
Remembers Mikey crying. How sorry he was, but that he had to think about his own family.
Brian hasn't seen him since, but every month or so there's a new enthusiastic-sounding message on his voicemail.
"Four years," Justin admits wistfully, confessing his own history, and he pictures Justin at seventeen - terrified and alone but defiant, nonetheless. Learning how to fight. How to kill. Learning the best tactics to use, usually through hardly-learnt lessons (Justin has two angry red scars on his back that he's never explained). It's usually another hunter who shows a newbie the ropes, and Brian wonders if there's someone like that in Justin's past.
Wonders what it would've been like if it'd been him.
*
Brian has a closer shave than usual when a creature smelling alarmingly of rotting fish bites a chunk out of his shoulder.
But Justin is there, wielding an axe with remarkable aim. While the creature's head is still rolling across the damp ground, Justin shoves its body off Brian and helps him to his feet.
"Fuck," Brian curses, pain blossoming across his left shoulder. Jesus Christ, this job sucked ass most of the time.
Justin takes most of his weight, and drives them to their motel. He threatens to take Brian to a hospital, but Brian immediately puts a halt to that idea.
"Not life threatening," he hisses, as Justin fumbles with the first aid kit, pressing a compress against the wound.
"Sure," Justin bitches, "there's just a *chunk* missing from your *shoulder*. Happens every day."
Brian gives him the finger with his left hand.
Finally, there's the good shit. They try not to use the morphine unless absolutely necessary, and apparently Justin has determined it to be absolutely necessary. Brian can't find it within himself to bitch about it, but maybe that's just the morphine. Or the huge chunk of skin missing from his body.
"You need to be more careful," Justin hisses, straddling him as he fusses over the injury again. "We're a team now. Partners."
And that's the truth of it. He can rationalise it any way he wants - it's someone to fight with. Someone to share costs. Someone to fuck.
But he's never had anyone to do all that with before, and he's not sure why it's happening now.
Brian does know he'll be killed by the things he hunts, one day - has known, ever since he started doing this. One day his luck will run out, or he won't be skilled enough, or sheer numbers will ensure his death. It's something he accepts because he has no other choice. This is the life he's chosen, and he has to live with the consequences.
Brian has always known that he'd die to avenge his son. And he looks at Justin, blowing his hair out of his face and muttering as he fights with a roll of medical tape. Imagines that thing biting a chunk out of him, instead.
And knows that Gus isn't the only one he'd die for.
He should tell Justin to fuck off. Tell him to fuck off and mean it, this time. Lock him out of the room, drive off and leave him behind.
He doesn't, just like he hasn't a dozen times before.
Hunters are loners by nature.
But there's an exception to every rule.
~FINIS
NB: For those of you who may not watch Supernatural, the tattoo prevents demon possession.