SPN/Doctor Who fic: Car Parts (Gen, PG-13)
Title: Car Parts
A Supernatural/Doctor Who crossover
Author: dotfic
W/C: 4,400
Rating: Dean thinks the story is gen. Jack does his best to convince him it's slash. No actual pairings, PG-13.
Characters: Jack, Martha, Ten, Sam, Dean.
Disclaimer: Sam and Dean Winchester belong to Eric Kripke. Doctor Who belongs to the BBC.
a/n: Set between 3x01 and 3x02 of Supernatural, time of year pinpointed with the help of killabeez's season 2 and 3 timeline. This fic references events that took place in my prior SPN/Dr Who crossover, Memo to Self, which has already happened for Sam and Dean but hasn't yet happened for The Doctor and Martha. Because time travel is slippery slidey that way.
There is no time in Doctor Who season 3 where this fits in the continuity. Sorry about that.
Many thanks to mclittlebitch for betaing and checking the voices for me.
The rain didn't bother him much. It was only a fine drizzle and Jack liked the way it felt against his face, cool and tasting of planet earth. Summer had hit the Northern Hemisphere, but the fields and trees that should have looked green seemed a bit washed out in the overcast, wet day. So Jack looked at Martha, enjoying not only how her red leather jacket offered a bright-hot spot of color against the drabness, but outlined her curves.
Martha glanced back as she walked, caught him watching her, and gave him a smile that was both mock-reproving and pleasure at being watched.
The Doctor was in the lead, striding along the shoulder of the road as if he knew where he was going, his coat flapping behind him. In fact, Jack knew The Doctor was only following the certainty that he'd stumble across what he needed if he only kept moving. The Doctor was always in motion anyway.
He was fairly certain The Doctor would find what he needed, and Jack's stomach jumped a little in anticipation, because whatever it was, it was bound to be a rush.
"Excuse me, how much farther are we going to walk?" Martha called out.
The Doctor turned, the rain making his hair stick up in intriguing ways, and walked backwards several paces as he answered her. "No idea whatsoever," he said, before turning forwards again.
Jack took two long strides to catch up to Martha and touched her elbow, falling into step with her. "I wouldn't worry about it. He knows what he's doing."
"Where are we again?"
"The great state of Michigan, USA, earth."
Her eyes scanned the empty fields and woods. "All right, when are we?"
"21st century. June 2007."
He heard the car before he saw it, a roaring purr. All three of them turned to watch as the reason tarmac had been invented rushed by them, long lines and power and black paint and chrome. The sides were mud-spattered but even in the total lack of sunlight it seemed to shine.
The Doctor's eyebrows went up. Even he looked suitably impressed. Jack wasn't sure, but there might have been a flash of recognition mixed in there as well. Martha's eyes brightened a bit the way they did when she'd seen something particularly fantastic out there in the stars.
"Brilliant!" She said.
To Jack's surprise, the brilliant car slowed, and stopped.
When he saw the occupants of the car Jack tilted his head back up at the cloudy earth sky and mouthed his thanks to the universe generally.
Long, lanky glass of water folded into the passenger seat, too much leg and shoulders and torso to fit comfortably even into a car that size; wide, generous mouth, and hello-there eyes. But the one in the driver's seat made Jack catch his breath. If the lanky one in the passenger seat was the reason big cars had been invented, then the driver was the reason sex had been invented.
The engine shut off, the driver's side door opened, and the reason sex had been invented stepped out of the car, moving with an economical, brisk power. He puts his palms flat on the roof. "You again," he said to The Doctor.
"I beg your pardon?" The Doctor squinted at him.
"What now? Got any more weird-ass messages from the future for us?" He strode around the car.
The lean one opened the passenger door and scrambled out. Jack hadn't realized just how tall he was until he was standing outside. "Dean, I don't think he remembers," he muttered.
"It was just last month," green eyes said. (Dean, his name was Dean; Jack tucked it away in his mind for what he hoped was frequent future use).
"Ah, I see, I see." The Doctor steepled his fingers against his mouth, then lowered his hands and nodded. "Time travel."
"You told us it was slippery," the tall one offered.
"Oh, very slippery, very slippery indeed. Apparently, at some point in the future, I travel back to your recent past and give you some sort of a message. But of course, I wouldn't remember that, because I haven't done it yet. So we don't know each other."
Dean put out his hand and made a terse, protective gesture at the tall one, who stopped. "You're nuts. Sam, let's go."
"Now wait, we didn't ask you to stop," Martha spoke up, heat in her voice. "There's no reason to be rude."
The hardness in Dean's face softened a fraction. "I don't suppose you remember me," he said, an innuendo in the tone of his voice, if not the words.
"Sorry, no," she said, voice clipped. "I don't."
Crash and burn. Dean might have had a chance with her, until he went and insulted The Doctor.
"Maybe we should just go," Sam said quietly, moving next to Dean, either protecting him or preparing to protect them from Dean.
But Dean didn't move. "Don't you have some kind of weird...box...you travel around in?"
"Yes, I have a 'weird box,'" The Doctor said, sounding only mildly offended. "It's called the TARDIS." He squinted across the highway, towards the woods.
"It broke down." Martha put a hand on her hip. "I didn't think it could break down."
"Nothing to worry about, we just need to find the right part for it. I have reason to believe I can find it on twenty-first century earth." The Doctor was still staring towards the woods. "We were on our way here anyway."
"We were?" This was news to Jack, who assumed The Doctor had taken the closest refuge at random; Martha turned, her mouth gaping a little, also a bit surprised. "What are we supposed to be doing here?"
The Doctor stretched his arm grandly towards the woods. He was the ringmaster, the tour guide, the herald, his voice going gravelly with a dark glee. "Fighting them."
The creatures scattered out from under the trees, heading for the highway, tentacled, bug-eyed things of varying sizes, with slimy, scaly skin mottled in vivid greens and browns and reds. They made a low-pitched shrieking noise, the sound of things that lurked in dark, muddy, dank places.
Jack felt the same dark glee resonate in him.
"Holy shit," said Dean, straightening up like the car had burned him. His voice had appreciation in it, not the same tone as The Doctor's, but the same underlying note that relished the idea of battle.
It had been a while since Jack'd had a good, old-fashioned fight with anything scaly, tentacled, and bug-eyed. There were about thirty of them, as far as he could tell.
This could be fun.
"What kills them?" Dean asked, terse and authoritative. It was a tone Jack wasn't used to hearing people use with The Doctor.
The Doctor pursed his lips, as calm as if Dean had asked him how to mix an unfamiliar drink. "Their skin is a bit tough, but they aren't invulnerable. Any projectile going at sufficient velocity..."
"Regular bullets," Dean said and added a sharp, "Sam," but Sam was already at his side. They'd done this together many, many times before. Jack wondered what their relationship was.
"Can't you just..." Martha made a gesture, pinching her index finger and thumb together as if she were holding a fine instrument.
"Oh, the screwdriver?" The Doctor wrinkled his nose. "Afraid not, wrong frequency. It doesn't work against everything."
Dean opened the trunk and Jack whistled when he saw the arsenal inside, a hodge-podge of weapons, and not particularly tidy. There were things besides knives and guns and machetes in there, herbs and salt and candles, iron and wood and crosses.
They were soldiers.
It helped to explain the haunted, dangerous edges on Sam, the coiled tension in Dean. He thought Sam was a warrior by misfortune, Dean by choice. Given the way Sam caught the shotgun Dean tossed to him, and cocked it with grim assurance, they were equally seasoned, even though Dean appeared to be a few years older.
Meanwhile the things were still shrieking and still advancing towards them. Jack pulled out his revolver.
Dean snagged a sawed-off shotgun for him. He reached in for a handgun, hesitated, and then offered it to The Doctor.
"No," The Doctor said, with a twitch of his hand.
Dean held it out to Martha next. "You know how to shoot one of these?"
She shook her head, backing up until she bumped into Jack. Shrugging as if there wasn't a horde of aliens about to descend upon them, Dean tucked the gun into the waistband of his jeans, nestled at the small of his back. He slammed the trunk closed, no time for the nervousness of a civilian, even one he had an interest in bedding. He kept his eyes on her in a different way now, businesslike, watchful. She was someone to be protected.
The Doctor said, "Run."
The five of them raced across the field, headed for a small, boulder-strewn hill with a few twisted trees. Higher ground had the advantage. From behind the boulders, they could pick the critters off one by one. At least, that's how Jack had it worked out.
Sam turned out to be the fastest, long legs taking him past The Doctor, and so he got there first and scrambled up the rise. He moved with a speed and grace that didn't fit the way he looked when standing still, shoulders a little hunched like he was embarrassed by his height, a giant afraid of breaking the china.
The shrieks of the creatures grew louder behind them as The Doctor raced up the slope after Sam. Jack slowed deliberately to make sure Martha got up okay ahead of him, and realized Dean had also slowed to do the same.
At the top, Sam dropped to his knees behind a boulder and aimed the shotgun. He fired and Jack heard a shriek turn to a roar of pain. The Doctor crouched behind another boulder, eyes sharply watching while Dean dropped next to Sam and took aim. Jack took Martha's elbow and pulled her down behind a boulder with him, where he could keep an eye on her. He should teach her to shoot.
"Nuisances, skreelixes," The Doctor said, over the sound of a blast from Dean's shotgun. As Jack fired off several rounds, he nattered on, "poor things are displaced, lost their home planet to a colliding asteroid. They're looking for a new place to settle.
"Unfortunately," Jack finished, "their way of trying to settle is to crash-land on a planet and try to kill all the inhabitants."
"It's a precautionary measure," said The Doctor. "In case the natives are hostile."
Dean fired and another one went down; The Doctor cocked an eyebrow.
"Which usually, they are," The Doctor added.
"Damn straight we're hostile," said Dean. "They're what we've been hunting. Nasties've left a trail of slaughter from Kalamazoo to Sturgis."
"I might be able to persuade them to leave," The Doctor said, peering over the top of his rock.
"Fine. You go out and have a chat, offer them some tea, we'll keep shooting." Dean began to reload.
"Hey, hey, easy." Jack was all for shooting the bug-eyed aliens first, ask questions later, but there was something in Dean's posture, a coiled restraint, that made the back of his neck prickle (not in an unpleasant way, actually, but it still registered as dangerous).
Aside from the freckles, there wasn't much physically about Dean that reminded Jack of The Doctor. Something in the air around Dean, in the green eyes, though...he'd seen The Doctor very, very angry and it was an anger that burned everything in its path. Jack thought that if Dean Winchester got very angry, he would leave scorched earth.
Beside him, Martha was crouched with her back against the boulder, hands over her ears. Now she lowered her hands, watching Sam as he reached into his pocket for more shotgun shells.
"You do this sort of thing a lot?" Martha turned and looked over the rock at the advancing creatures, catching her lower lip between her teeth before she glanced back over at Sam.
"Yeah. Kind of." Sam reloaded.
"It's just that you don't seem like..." she stopped.
In his head, Jack finished the sentence for her. Despite the haunted look, Sam didn't look much like he belonged with a gun held in those long, thin fingers. At a guess, Jack thought he'd spent more time in his life holding books than firearms.
On the other side of Sam, Dean's focus was all on the skreelixes, as was The Doctor's, but Sam's glance slid over to Martha, then Jack. "So...who are you people?"
"Martha Jones." She held out her hand and Sam shook it. "I'm a medical student," she said. "In England. And he's...The Doctor."
"He's a doctor?"
"No, he's the Doctor. I'm going to become a doctor."
Sam's forehead wrinkled up in confusion. "O-kay."
"Don't worry about it," Jack said, as Dean fired again.
"And who's he?" Sam added.
"That's Jack," and the way Martha said it, a rich, fond note of amusement and pride, made his chest feel warm. Rose was, and always would be, Rose, irreplaceable, filling up lonely hollow spaces even if she no longer existed in his reality, but Martha was Martha and Jack thought that maybe The Doctor was a bit of an idiot.
Jack put out his hand, and Sam shook it with a warm grasp, his fingers practically swallowing Jack's hand. He might be more scholar than soldier, but there was power in that grasp and for a moment, he caught the same sort of dangerous under-crackle in him that was in Dean.
"I'm Sam, that's my brother Dean," Sam said.
Ah. So it was in the blood, then. It fit. Although Jack felt a twinge of disappointment; the cultures on some planets were fine with that sort of thing, but here he felt his chances of a threesome sinking like a stone. He took out his frustration by firing off several more rounds at the skreelixes. The field was strewn with the fallen, now, but there were eight or so left.
"Hunters," The Doctor said, clicking his tongue against his teeth. "Centuries-old tradition. No doubt your father was a--"
"You shut up about our father," Dean said, and reloaded again.
"He passed," Sam explained.
"Shut up, Sam," Dean grated out, and fired. Another skreelix went down in a screeching jumble of flailing tentacles and green blood.
"I'm very sorry," said The Doctor, face going sad with all the loss and grief of the universe in a way only The Doctor's face could. Sam swallowed and had to look away.
"Grenades," Dean said.
"What?" Martha was starting to look as if she regretted refusing a firearm. Her fingers dug into the crevices of the rock, her gaze flickering from Dean to the things that lumbered towards their outpost.
"In the trunk of my car. Should've gotten the grenades." Dean was on his feet, stepping out from behind the sheltering rock.
"What the hell are you doing?" Sam was on his feet as well, following his brother.
"This whole thing could've been over twenty minutes ago. Cover me, I'm making a break for the car."
"Are you insane?" Sam's voice went up several decibels. From the tone, Jack deduced that the question was merely rhetorical; that in fact Sam was quite certain Dean was insane and was growing tired of having to point it out all the time.
"That really doesn't seem like the best plan," Martha said, in the kind of voice Jack imagined she would use with a hysterical patient.
"Look, they're slow. And it'll lure a bunch of 'em off to follow me. All I have to do is get to the trunk and--"
But Sam had grabbed Dean's arm, stopping him from getting any further down the hill.
"Let go, Sam," Dean said, sharp-edged.
"Hello? Skreelixes?" Martha flapped her arm as one of the remaining critters arrived at the base of the hill.
Dean wrenched his arm from Sam's grasp, turning to make a run for it, but Sam launched himself at him. They both went down as something twitched the branches over their head. There was a flash of tentacles and a shriek as a small skreelix dropped down on them from above.
The Doctor and Martha were both on their feet, although what they thought they could do, Jack wasn't sure, but he didn't have time to think about it because he was already running towards the Winchesters over the rough ground, aiming his revolver but unable to get a clear shot where he could be sure he wouldn't hit Sam or Dean. He imagined Gwen's voice, sharp and furious, shit!
Lying on his back, Dean clubbed the skreelix with the stock of his shotgun. The thing fell off Sam, but one of its tentacles smacked him across the arm. Jack fired three rounds into the skreelix, killing it, as a line of blood began to stain Sam's flannel shirt.
Dean scrambled to his feet, shotgun in one hand, the other fumbling at his brother's arm. He drew his fingers away, staring down at the blood staining them. Sam was still on his feet, looking a little pale. "Sam..." Dean said.
Another skreelix got too close, making a run up the hill. Jack fired off the last bullet. The thing staggered but kept advancing, and he grabbed a handful of bullets from his pocket, loaded them fast, fired again, and the bug-eyed alien finally went down.
He couldn't recall anything about skreelix tentacles being poisonous. Serrated, yes. Poisonous, no.
At least he hoped so.
The Doctor was on his feet, headed over towards Sam. Before Jack could ask The Doctor about poison, Martha brushed past him, reaching Sam and Dean before The Doctor did. "Take off your shirt," she said to Dean.
"No, I'll..."
"We need you to help Jack shoot at them." Martha jabbed her hand towards the remaining skreelixes, who had stopped advancing for the moment, as if they'd finally decided that perhaps this hadn't been such a good idea after all. "Take off your shirt." It was the voice of She Who Must Be Obeyed; Dean quickly tore at the buttons of his flannel shirt, shrugged out of one sleeve, transferred his gun to his left hand, and shrugged out of the other.
He tossed the shirt at Martha. Martha tore off a strip of cloth, made Sam sit down on a rock while he protested that he was fine and could hold a gun, and wrapped Sam's bicep. The flannel quickly stained with blood.
Wearing only a white undershirt against the cold drizzle now, Dean stepped next to Jack.
"You take the two on the left." Jack took a moment to appreciate the effect of white undershirts on rainy days, before they both fired.
The pub (a "dive" Dean called it) was empty except for them. They hadn't solved the TARDIS problem yet, and this was a place out of the rain, which had started pelting down after the battle.
Martha, who went over to the jukebox straight off, bless her heart, had put on David Bowie.
As Dean handed Sam a beer, Jack heard him mutter, "Outside of a period movie, who wears suspenders anymore, for Chrissake?"
Jack leaned his elbows on the nicked, stained surface of the bar, and stifled a grin. Well, at least Dean had noticed what he was wearing. He took a swig from his drink. Not nearly the same kick as a Flaming Fire Kiss from Cadmas 12, but it would do.
"Nine." Dean was at his shoulder, his shirt still a little damp, short hair sticking up in spikes.
"No, eight. That green one was mine." Jack took another swallow of his drink, concentrated on the feeling of warmth running down his throat, chest, throughout his body. Hm. Not nearly the same, but close.
"No, nine. I killed the little one with the tie-dye markings that jumped on me and Sam."
"Sorry, my friend, that was my kill. Which makes my total nine and your total eight. You owe me a drink."
In a booth in the corner, Martha changed the dressing on Sam's wound with proper gauze and tape from the Winchesters' first aid supply. Sam called out, "My total's eleven. You both owe me a drink."
"No way!" Dean turned.
"Sam is correct," The Doctor said, sitting next to Martha. He sniffed at his drink but didn't sip. "He killed eleven. Jack killed nine and Dean killed eight."
"I can't believe you all kept count." Martha finished taping down the gauze and gave Sam's arm a final pat. "There. Change that again in a few hours, when it gets too bloody, and keep it clean."
"I know, we usually handle most of our own first aid." Sam paused as if realizing how that sounded. "I mean, thanks."
"Everyone needs extra help now and again." She paused; Jack waited for it. Her eyes slid to The Doctor, then away. "Even if some can't admit it."
At that, Sam looked right at Dean and Dean looked everywhere but at Sam. He caught Jack's gaze by accident, and for a moment, Jack read something there that might have been guilt, and more mixed in besides, before Dean quickly looked away again.
"You said hunting was an ancient tradition," Sam said to The Doctor. "You know about it?"
"Yes. There are hunters all over the universe, Sam. You think earth is the only place with ghosts and succubi and demons?"
"Oh. Right. Well, you told me...I mean, you are going to tell me...that demons are alien in origin anyway."
"Do I? It's true, they are."
"To hunters." Martha raised her glass.
"To hunters," Sam echoed.
As Jack clinked his glass against Dean's beer mug, he brushed his thumb over Dean's finger, over the silver ring and onto warm skin, exploratory, a question.
Dean pulled his hand away and took a long swallow.
Well, Jack had to give it a try, right? He quelled the ache of always wanting to hold onto quicksilver, and never being able to.
The rain stopped. The setting sun pushed red light in through the pub's large front window, painting the letters of the place's name, Al's Watering Hole, onto the fake wood of the back wall.
Time to go.
They stood outside in the last burning light. The Doctor faced the hood of the big black car. A '67 Chevy Impala, Dean had said.
The Doctor folded his arms, cocked his head to one side, clicked his tongue against his teeth. With two long strides he reached the hood, sonic screwdriver already out. He touched it to the car and the hood popped open.
"Hey!" Dean said. The Doctor reached his hand into the engine. "Hey, get your goddamned hands off my car!"
Dean's face hardened and he surged forward, hands curling into fists.
"Take it easy, Dean," Sam said, putting his hand on Dean's shoulder.
"He's touching my car!"
He started to struggle past Sam, while The Doctor kept poking around inside the Chevy, ignoring him. He hummed a little under his breath. The Doctor touched the Impala the way he touched the TARDIS, with a familiar enthusiasm.
"Dean." Jack stepped in, gripped Dean's other shoulder. "He won't hurt her," Jack said softly, and felt the muscles under his fingers relax a fraction.
"Ah!" The Doctor popped his head out from under the hood and held up a small object. "This should do it!" He turned and strode across the parking lot, then began to march along the side of the road, back in the direction where they'd left the stranded TARDIS.
Martha sighed and put her hand to her face. She followed The Doctor.
"What?" Sam's forehead creased.
"Spark plug." Dean wrenched out of Jack and Sam's grip and hurried after The Doctor. "He stole a spark plug from my baby!"
Jack and Sam loped after them.
"Sorry." The Doctor stopped and turned, the crimson and gold of sunset behind him, outlining him in bright shadow. "It's all right, isn't it? This is what I need to fix my ship." His eyes went distant a moment. "I expect the part will turn out to be compatible."
"Dean," Sam caught up with his brother. "It's a spark plug. We can get another one at the gas station. There's one half a mile down the road."
Dean didn't answer.
They followed The Doctor in a line, troops following the leader, or like baby ducks, Jack thought. The TARDIS sat in an open field, fireflies blinking about it in the twilight.
While The Doctor went inside, Jack said to Dean. "You ever thought of killing monsters and aliens professionally?"
"Uh, we do. Well, except we don't battle aliens normally. And we're not exactly paid for it."
"Would you like to be?"
"To be what?"
"Paid for it. Ever heard of Torchwood?"
"No."
"Google it sometime. The website comes up as a think tank. Send us an email when you're ready."
Martha kissed Sam on the cheek. "Take care of that arm."
"Yeah, I will."
Dean got a sulky, what-about-me expression on his face, but when Martha smiled at him he stifled it and smiled back. "Good-bye, Dean," she said. Jack heard the shot of affection and amusement in her voice; he wasn't sure if Dean did.
"See ya, doc." Dean touched his fingers to his forehead.
The Doctor poked his head out the TARDIS door. "Time to go."
It was always time to go, Jack thought, with a pang of guilt for other places he maybe should be and was needed.
To his surprise, Dean put his hand out for Jack to shake. His grasp was as strong as Sam's, the lines of many scars making his hands rougher.
Jack let go first. "Maybe we'll get together and shoot up bug-eyed aliens again sometime."
"Unlikely," Dean said. It wasn't a refusal of Jack's offer, at least, not for the reasons Jack would've expected. There was a small twist to his mouth, more sad than bitter. Resigned to something Jack couldn't identity. "But...yeah," Dean added. "That'd be fun."
"Sam." Jack held out his hand and Sam shook it, comfortable with the contact. He almost said, look after your brother; an impulse, stifled in time. Because that wasn't anything he had a right to say, and it seemed about the most redundant thing to tell either of them.
When they were inside the TARDIS, door shut firmly behind them, Jack walked right up The Doctor as he started up the ship.
"They're great in a battle," Jack said.
The Doctor ignored him.
"Smart, resourceful...they wouldn't be easily freaked out."
The TARDIS began to hum.
"Aw, c'mon, Doctor, please?"
"No."
And that was that.
~end
A Supernatural/Doctor Who crossover
Author: dotfic
W/C: 4,400
Rating: Dean thinks the story is gen. Jack does his best to convince him it's slash. No actual pairings, PG-13.
Characters: Jack, Martha, Ten, Sam, Dean.
Disclaimer: Sam and Dean Winchester belong to Eric Kripke. Doctor Who belongs to the BBC.
a/n: Set between 3x01 and 3x02 of Supernatural, time of year pinpointed with the help of killabeez's season 2 and 3 timeline. This fic references events that took place in my prior SPN/Dr Who crossover, Memo to Self, which has already happened for Sam and Dean but hasn't yet happened for The Doctor and Martha. Because time travel is slippery slidey that way.
There is no time in Doctor Who season 3 where this fits in the continuity. Sorry about that.
Many thanks to mclittlebitch for betaing and checking the voices for me.
The rain didn't bother him much. It was only a fine drizzle and Jack liked the way it felt against his face, cool and tasting of planet earth. Summer had hit the Northern Hemisphere, but the fields and trees that should have looked green seemed a bit washed out in the overcast, wet day. So Jack looked at Martha, enjoying not only how her red leather jacket offered a bright-hot spot of color against the drabness, but outlined her curves.
Martha glanced back as she walked, caught him watching her, and gave him a smile that was both mock-reproving and pleasure at being watched.
The Doctor was in the lead, striding along the shoulder of the road as if he knew where he was going, his coat flapping behind him. In fact, Jack knew The Doctor was only following the certainty that he'd stumble across what he needed if he only kept moving. The Doctor was always in motion anyway.
He was fairly certain The Doctor would find what he needed, and Jack's stomach jumped a little in anticipation, because whatever it was, it was bound to be a rush.
"Excuse me, how much farther are we going to walk?" Martha called out.
The Doctor turned, the rain making his hair stick up in intriguing ways, and walked backwards several paces as he answered her. "No idea whatsoever," he said, before turning forwards again.
Jack took two long strides to catch up to Martha and touched her elbow, falling into step with her. "I wouldn't worry about it. He knows what he's doing."
"Where are we again?"
"The great state of Michigan, USA, earth."
Her eyes scanned the empty fields and woods. "All right, when are we?"
"21st century. June 2007."
He heard the car before he saw it, a roaring purr. All three of them turned to watch as the reason tarmac had been invented rushed by them, long lines and power and black paint and chrome. The sides were mud-spattered but even in the total lack of sunlight it seemed to shine.
The Doctor's eyebrows went up. Even he looked suitably impressed. Jack wasn't sure, but there might have been a flash of recognition mixed in there as well. Martha's eyes brightened a bit the way they did when she'd seen something particularly fantastic out there in the stars.
"Brilliant!" She said.
To Jack's surprise, the brilliant car slowed, and stopped.
When he saw the occupants of the car Jack tilted his head back up at the cloudy earth sky and mouthed his thanks to the universe generally.
Long, lanky glass of water folded into the passenger seat, too much leg and shoulders and torso to fit comfortably even into a car that size; wide, generous mouth, and hello-there eyes. But the one in the driver's seat made Jack catch his breath. If the lanky one in the passenger seat was the reason big cars had been invented, then the driver was the reason sex had been invented.
The engine shut off, the driver's side door opened, and the reason sex had been invented stepped out of the car, moving with an economical, brisk power. He puts his palms flat on the roof. "You again," he said to The Doctor.
"I beg your pardon?" The Doctor squinted at him.
"What now? Got any more weird-ass messages from the future for us?" He strode around the car.
The lean one opened the passenger door and scrambled out. Jack hadn't realized just how tall he was until he was standing outside. "Dean, I don't think he remembers," he muttered.
"It was just last month," green eyes said. (Dean, his name was Dean; Jack tucked it away in his mind for what he hoped was frequent future use).
"Ah, I see, I see." The Doctor steepled his fingers against his mouth, then lowered his hands and nodded. "Time travel."
"You told us it was slippery," the tall one offered.
"Oh, very slippery, very slippery indeed. Apparently, at some point in the future, I travel back to your recent past and give you some sort of a message. But of course, I wouldn't remember that, because I haven't done it yet. So we don't know each other."
Dean put out his hand and made a terse, protective gesture at the tall one, who stopped. "You're nuts. Sam, let's go."
"Now wait, we didn't ask you to stop," Martha spoke up, heat in her voice. "There's no reason to be rude."
The hardness in Dean's face softened a fraction. "I don't suppose you remember me," he said, an innuendo in the tone of his voice, if not the words.
"Sorry, no," she said, voice clipped. "I don't."
Crash and burn. Dean might have had a chance with her, until he went and insulted The Doctor.
"Maybe we should just go," Sam said quietly, moving next to Dean, either protecting him or preparing to protect them from Dean.
But Dean didn't move. "Don't you have some kind of weird...box...you travel around in?"
"Yes, I have a 'weird box,'" The Doctor said, sounding only mildly offended. "It's called the TARDIS." He squinted across the highway, towards the woods.
"It broke down." Martha put a hand on her hip. "I didn't think it could break down."
"Nothing to worry about, we just need to find the right part for it. I have reason to believe I can find it on twenty-first century earth." The Doctor was still staring towards the woods. "We were on our way here anyway."
"We were?" This was news to Jack, who assumed The Doctor had taken the closest refuge at random; Martha turned, her mouth gaping a little, also a bit surprised. "What are we supposed to be doing here?"
The Doctor stretched his arm grandly towards the woods. He was the ringmaster, the tour guide, the herald, his voice going gravelly with a dark glee. "Fighting them."
The creatures scattered out from under the trees, heading for the highway, tentacled, bug-eyed things of varying sizes, with slimy, scaly skin mottled in vivid greens and browns and reds. They made a low-pitched shrieking noise, the sound of things that lurked in dark, muddy, dank places.
Jack felt the same dark glee resonate in him.
"Holy shit," said Dean, straightening up like the car had burned him. His voice had appreciation in it, not the same tone as The Doctor's, but the same underlying note that relished the idea of battle.
It had been a while since Jack'd had a good, old-fashioned fight with anything scaly, tentacled, and bug-eyed. There were about thirty of them, as far as he could tell.
This could be fun.
"What kills them?" Dean asked, terse and authoritative. It was a tone Jack wasn't used to hearing people use with The Doctor.
The Doctor pursed his lips, as calm as if Dean had asked him how to mix an unfamiliar drink. "Their skin is a bit tough, but they aren't invulnerable. Any projectile going at sufficient velocity..."
"Regular bullets," Dean said and added a sharp, "Sam," but Sam was already at his side. They'd done this together many, many times before. Jack wondered what their relationship was.
"Can't you just..." Martha made a gesture, pinching her index finger and thumb together as if she were holding a fine instrument.
"Oh, the screwdriver?" The Doctor wrinkled his nose. "Afraid not, wrong frequency. It doesn't work against everything."
Dean opened the trunk and Jack whistled when he saw the arsenal inside, a hodge-podge of weapons, and not particularly tidy. There were things besides knives and guns and machetes in there, herbs and salt and candles, iron and wood and crosses.
They were soldiers.
It helped to explain the haunted, dangerous edges on Sam, the coiled tension in Dean. He thought Sam was a warrior by misfortune, Dean by choice. Given the way Sam caught the shotgun Dean tossed to him, and cocked it with grim assurance, they were equally seasoned, even though Dean appeared to be a few years older.
Meanwhile the things were still shrieking and still advancing towards them. Jack pulled out his revolver.
Dean snagged a sawed-off shotgun for him. He reached in for a handgun, hesitated, and then offered it to The Doctor.
"No," The Doctor said, with a twitch of his hand.
Dean held it out to Martha next. "You know how to shoot one of these?"
She shook her head, backing up until she bumped into Jack. Shrugging as if there wasn't a horde of aliens about to descend upon them, Dean tucked the gun into the waistband of his jeans, nestled at the small of his back. He slammed the trunk closed, no time for the nervousness of a civilian, even one he had an interest in bedding. He kept his eyes on her in a different way now, businesslike, watchful. She was someone to be protected.
The Doctor said, "Run."
The five of them raced across the field, headed for a small, boulder-strewn hill with a few twisted trees. Higher ground had the advantage. From behind the boulders, they could pick the critters off one by one. At least, that's how Jack had it worked out.
Sam turned out to be the fastest, long legs taking him past The Doctor, and so he got there first and scrambled up the rise. He moved with a speed and grace that didn't fit the way he looked when standing still, shoulders a little hunched like he was embarrassed by his height, a giant afraid of breaking the china.
The shrieks of the creatures grew louder behind them as The Doctor raced up the slope after Sam. Jack slowed deliberately to make sure Martha got up okay ahead of him, and realized Dean had also slowed to do the same.
At the top, Sam dropped to his knees behind a boulder and aimed the shotgun. He fired and Jack heard a shriek turn to a roar of pain. The Doctor crouched behind another boulder, eyes sharply watching while Dean dropped next to Sam and took aim. Jack took Martha's elbow and pulled her down behind a boulder with him, where he could keep an eye on her. He should teach her to shoot.
"Nuisances, skreelixes," The Doctor said, over the sound of a blast from Dean's shotgun. As Jack fired off several rounds, he nattered on, "poor things are displaced, lost their home planet to a colliding asteroid. They're looking for a new place to settle.
"Unfortunately," Jack finished, "their way of trying to settle is to crash-land on a planet and try to kill all the inhabitants."
"It's a precautionary measure," said The Doctor. "In case the natives are hostile."
Dean fired and another one went down; The Doctor cocked an eyebrow.
"Which usually, they are," The Doctor added.
"Damn straight we're hostile," said Dean. "They're what we've been hunting. Nasties've left a trail of slaughter from Kalamazoo to Sturgis."
"I might be able to persuade them to leave," The Doctor said, peering over the top of his rock.
"Fine. You go out and have a chat, offer them some tea, we'll keep shooting." Dean began to reload.
"Hey, hey, easy." Jack was all for shooting the bug-eyed aliens first, ask questions later, but there was something in Dean's posture, a coiled restraint, that made the back of his neck prickle (not in an unpleasant way, actually, but it still registered as dangerous).
Aside from the freckles, there wasn't much physically about Dean that reminded Jack of The Doctor. Something in the air around Dean, in the green eyes, though...he'd seen The Doctor very, very angry and it was an anger that burned everything in its path. Jack thought that if Dean Winchester got very angry, he would leave scorched earth.
Beside him, Martha was crouched with her back against the boulder, hands over her ears. Now she lowered her hands, watching Sam as he reached into his pocket for more shotgun shells.
"You do this sort of thing a lot?" Martha turned and looked over the rock at the advancing creatures, catching her lower lip between her teeth before she glanced back over at Sam.
"Yeah. Kind of." Sam reloaded.
"It's just that you don't seem like..." she stopped.
In his head, Jack finished the sentence for her. Despite the haunted look, Sam didn't look much like he belonged with a gun held in those long, thin fingers. At a guess, Jack thought he'd spent more time in his life holding books than firearms.
On the other side of Sam, Dean's focus was all on the skreelixes, as was The Doctor's, but Sam's glance slid over to Martha, then Jack. "So...who are you people?"
"Martha Jones." She held out her hand and Sam shook it. "I'm a medical student," she said. "In England. And he's...The Doctor."
"He's a doctor?"
"No, he's the Doctor. I'm going to become a doctor."
Sam's forehead wrinkled up in confusion. "O-kay."
"Don't worry about it," Jack said, as Dean fired again.
"And who's he?" Sam added.
"That's Jack," and the way Martha said it, a rich, fond note of amusement and pride, made his chest feel warm. Rose was, and always would be, Rose, irreplaceable, filling up lonely hollow spaces even if she no longer existed in his reality, but Martha was Martha and Jack thought that maybe The Doctor was a bit of an idiot.
Jack put out his hand, and Sam shook it with a warm grasp, his fingers practically swallowing Jack's hand. He might be more scholar than soldier, but there was power in that grasp and for a moment, he caught the same sort of dangerous under-crackle in him that was in Dean.
"I'm Sam, that's my brother Dean," Sam said.
Ah. So it was in the blood, then. It fit. Although Jack felt a twinge of disappointment; the cultures on some planets were fine with that sort of thing, but here he felt his chances of a threesome sinking like a stone. He took out his frustration by firing off several more rounds at the skreelixes. The field was strewn with the fallen, now, but there were eight or so left.
"Hunters," The Doctor said, clicking his tongue against his teeth. "Centuries-old tradition. No doubt your father was a--"
"You shut up about our father," Dean said, and reloaded again.
"He passed," Sam explained.
"Shut up, Sam," Dean grated out, and fired. Another skreelix went down in a screeching jumble of flailing tentacles and green blood.
"I'm very sorry," said The Doctor, face going sad with all the loss and grief of the universe in a way only The Doctor's face could. Sam swallowed and had to look away.
"Grenades," Dean said.
"What?" Martha was starting to look as if she regretted refusing a firearm. Her fingers dug into the crevices of the rock, her gaze flickering from Dean to the things that lumbered towards their outpost.
"In the trunk of my car. Should've gotten the grenades." Dean was on his feet, stepping out from behind the sheltering rock.
"What the hell are you doing?" Sam was on his feet as well, following his brother.
"This whole thing could've been over twenty minutes ago. Cover me, I'm making a break for the car."
"Are you insane?" Sam's voice went up several decibels. From the tone, Jack deduced that the question was merely rhetorical; that in fact Sam was quite certain Dean was insane and was growing tired of having to point it out all the time.
"That really doesn't seem like the best plan," Martha said, in the kind of voice Jack imagined she would use with a hysterical patient.
"Look, they're slow. And it'll lure a bunch of 'em off to follow me. All I have to do is get to the trunk and--"
But Sam had grabbed Dean's arm, stopping him from getting any further down the hill.
"Let go, Sam," Dean said, sharp-edged.
"Hello? Skreelixes?" Martha flapped her arm as one of the remaining critters arrived at the base of the hill.
Dean wrenched his arm from Sam's grasp, turning to make a run for it, but Sam launched himself at him. They both went down as something twitched the branches over their head. There was a flash of tentacles and a shriek as a small skreelix dropped down on them from above.
The Doctor and Martha were both on their feet, although what they thought they could do, Jack wasn't sure, but he didn't have time to think about it because he was already running towards the Winchesters over the rough ground, aiming his revolver but unable to get a clear shot where he could be sure he wouldn't hit Sam or Dean. He imagined Gwen's voice, sharp and furious, shit!
Lying on his back, Dean clubbed the skreelix with the stock of his shotgun. The thing fell off Sam, but one of its tentacles smacked him across the arm. Jack fired three rounds into the skreelix, killing it, as a line of blood began to stain Sam's flannel shirt.
Dean scrambled to his feet, shotgun in one hand, the other fumbling at his brother's arm. He drew his fingers away, staring down at the blood staining them. Sam was still on his feet, looking a little pale. "Sam..." Dean said.
Another skreelix got too close, making a run up the hill. Jack fired off the last bullet. The thing staggered but kept advancing, and he grabbed a handful of bullets from his pocket, loaded them fast, fired again, and the bug-eyed alien finally went down.
He couldn't recall anything about skreelix tentacles being poisonous. Serrated, yes. Poisonous, no.
At least he hoped so.
The Doctor was on his feet, headed over towards Sam. Before Jack could ask The Doctor about poison, Martha brushed past him, reaching Sam and Dean before The Doctor did. "Take off your shirt," she said to Dean.
"No, I'll..."
"We need you to help Jack shoot at them." Martha jabbed her hand towards the remaining skreelixes, who had stopped advancing for the moment, as if they'd finally decided that perhaps this hadn't been such a good idea after all. "Take off your shirt." It was the voice of She Who Must Be Obeyed; Dean quickly tore at the buttons of his flannel shirt, shrugged out of one sleeve, transferred his gun to his left hand, and shrugged out of the other.
He tossed the shirt at Martha. Martha tore off a strip of cloth, made Sam sit down on a rock while he protested that he was fine and could hold a gun, and wrapped Sam's bicep. The flannel quickly stained with blood.
Wearing only a white undershirt against the cold drizzle now, Dean stepped next to Jack.
"You take the two on the left." Jack took a moment to appreciate the effect of white undershirts on rainy days, before they both fired.
The pub (a "dive" Dean called it) was empty except for them. They hadn't solved the TARDIS problem yet, and this was a place out of the rain, which had started pelting down after the battle.
Martha, who went over to the jukebox straight off, bless her heart, had put on David Bowie.
As Dean handed Sam a beer, Jack heard him mutter, "Outside of a period movie, who wears suspenders anymore, for Chrissake?"
Jack leaned his elbows on the nicked, stained surface of the bar, and stifled a grin. Well, at least Dean had noticed what he was wearing. He took a swig from his drink. Not nearly the same kick as a Flaming Fire Kiss from Cadmas 12, but it would do.
"Nine." Dean was at his shoulder, his shirt still a little damp, short hair sticking up in spikes.
"No, eight. That green one was mine." Jack took another swallow of his drink, concentrated on the feeling of warmth running down his throat, chest, throughout his body. Hm. Not nearly the same, but close.
"No, nine. I killed the little one with the tie-dye markings that jumped on me and Sam."
"Sorry, my friend, that was my kill. Which makes my total nine and your total eight. You owe me a drink."
In a booth in the corner, Martha changed the dressing on Sam's wound with proper gauze and tape from the Winchesters' first aid supply. Sam called out, "My total's eleven. You both owe me a drink."
"No way!" Dean turned.
"Sam is correct," The Doctor said, sitting next to Martha. He sniffed at his drink but didn't sip. "He killed eleven. Jack killed nine and Dean killed eight."
"I can't believe you all kept count." Martha finished taping down the gauze and gave Sam's arm a final pat. "There. Change that again in a few hours, when it gets too bloody, and keep it clean."
"I know, we usually handle most of our own first aid." Sam paused as if realizing how that sounded. "I mean, thanks."
"Everyone needs extra help now and again." She paused; Jack waited for it. Her eyes slid to The Doctor, then away. "Even if some can't admit it."
At that, Sam looked right at Dean and Dean looked everywhere but at Sam. He caught Jack's gaze by accident, and for a moment, Jack read something there that might have been guilt, and more mixed in besides, before Dean quickly looked away again.
"You said hunting was an ancient tradition," Sam said to The Doctor. "You know about it?"
"Yes. There are hunters all over the universe, Sam. You think earth is the only place with ghosts and succubi and demons?"
"Oh. Right. Well, you told me...I mean, you are going to tell me...that demons are alien in origin anyway."
"Do I? It's true, they are."
"To hunters." Martha raised her glass.
"To hunters," Sam echoed.
As Jack clinked his glass against Dean's beer mug, he brushed his thumb over Dean's finger, over the silver ring and onto warm skin, exploratory, a question.
Dean pulled his hand away and took a long swallow.
Well, Jack had to give it a try, right? He quelled the ache of always wanting to hold onto quicksilver, and never being able to.
The rain stopped. The setting sun pushed red light in through the pub's large front window, painting the letters of the place's name, Al's Watering Hole, onto the fake wood of the back wall.
Time to go.
They stood outside in the last burning light. The Doctor faced the hood of the big black car. A '67 Chevy Impala, Dean had said.
The Doctor folded his arms, cocked his head to one side, clicked his tongue against his teeth. With two long strides he reached the hood, sonic screwdriver already out. He touched it to the car and the hood popped open.
"Hey!" Dean said. The Doctor reached his hand into the engine. "Hey, get your goddamned hands off my car!"
Dean's face hardened and he surged forward, hands curling into fists.
"Take it easy, Dean," Sam said, putting his hand on Dean's shoulder.
"He's touching my car!"
He started to struggle past Sam, while The Doctor kept poking around inside the Chevy, ignoring him. He hummed a little under his breath. The Doctor touched the Impala the way he touched the TARDIS, with a familiar enthusiasm.
"Dean." Jack stepped in, gripped Dean's other shoulder. "He won't hurt her," Jack said softly, and felt the muscles under his fingers relax a fraction.
"Ah!" The Doctor popped his head out from under the hood and held up a small object. "This should do it!" He turned and strode across the parking lot, then began to march along the side of the road, back in the direction where they'd left the stranded TARDIS.
Martha sighed and put her hand to her face. She followed The Doctor.
"What?" Sam's forehead creased.
"Spark plug." Dean wrenched out of Jack and Sam's grip and hurried after The Doctor. "He stole a spark plug from my baby!"
Jack and Sam loped after them.
"Sorry." The Doctor stopped and turned, the crimson and gold of sunset behind him, outlining him in bright shadow. "It's all right, isn't it? This is what I need to fix my ship." His eyes went distant a moment. "I expect the part will turn out to be compatible."
"Dean," Sam caught up with his brother. "It's a spark plug. We can get another one at the gas station. There's one half a mile down the road."
Dean didn't answer.
They followed The Doctor in a line, troops following the leader, or like baby ducks, Jack thought. The TARDIS sat in an open field, fireflies blinking about it in the twilight.
While The Doctor went inside, Jack said to Dean. "You ever thought of killing monsters and aliens professionally?"
"Uh, we do. Well, except we don't battle aliens normally. And we're not exactly paid for it."
"Would you like to be?"
"To be what?"
"Paid for it. Ever heard of Torchwood?"
"No."
"Google it sometime. The website comes up as a think tank. Send us an email when you're ready."
Martha kissed Sam on the cheek. "Take care of that arm."
"Yeah, I will."
Dean got a sulky, what-about-me expression on his face, but when Martha smiled at him he stifled it and smiled back. "Good-bye, Dean," she said. Jack heard the shot of affection and amusement in her voice; he wasn't sure if Dean did.
"See ya, doc." Dean touched his fingers to his forehead.
The Doctor poked his head out the TARDIS door. "Time to go."
It was always time to go, Jack thought, with a pang of guilt for other places he maybe should be and was needed.
To his surprise, Dean put his hand out for Jack to shake. His grasp was as strong as Sam's, the lines of many scars making his hands rougher.
Jack let go first. "Maybe we'll get together and shoot up bug-eyed aliens again sometime."
"Unlikely," Dean said. It wasn't a refusal of Jack's offer, at least, not for the reasons Jack would've expected. There was a small twist to his mouth, more sad than bitter. Resigned to something Jack couldn't identity. "But...yeah," Dean added. "That'd be fun."
"Sam." Jack held out his hand and Sam shook it, comfortable with the contact. He almost said, look after your brother; an impulse, stifled in time. Because that wasn't anything he had a right to say, and it seemed about the most redundant thing to tell either of them.
When they were inside the TARDIS, door shut firmly behind them, Jack walked right up The Doctor as he started up the ship.
"They're great in a battle," Jack said.
The Doctor ignored him.
"Smart, resourceful...they wouldn't be easily freaked out."
The TARDIS began to hum.
"Aw, c'mon, Doctor, please?"
"No."
And that was that.
~end