Supernatural fic: Immunity [Gen, PG-13]
Immunity
by dotfic
Rating: PG-13, Gen
Disclaimer: Not mine, alas. They belong to Eric Kripke and the CW.
Timeline: pre-series, 1991
Wordcount: ~2,400
Summary: John takes Dean on a hunt. Everything that could go wrong, does.
A/N: This story happened because iamstealthyone offered me a plot bunny, complete with carrots. (" I wonder at what point Dean realized John didn't provide 100-percent protection.")
A/N 2: Beethoven's Symphony #7 was on repeat as I wrote this, along with the song Figlio Perduto, which is set to that music. The English lyrics are here if you scroll down. They helped set the mood, although needless to say, this doesn't end like the song. Also there's no elf king, for a very good reason.
"My Weakness" by Moby is also good to write pre-series angst by.
Dean would not approve. :p
Many thanks to sargraf, my patient beta reader who has incredible instincts and with each revision said "Great, now go make it better."
"Dean, drop!" John orders, and he does.
There's the bang of Dad's shotgun, and the powrie dies with smoke curling from its iron shot skin.
Its five brothers surge forward, shrieking with rage.
"Upstairs, now Dean, go."
He doesn't question, he just obeys. Gripping his own shotgun, which he hasn't even had a chance to fire yet, in one hand, a flashlight in the other, he runs.
The former mansion, turned into a smallpox hospital, abandoned, then finally resold, has narrow, dark corridors and tall skinny windows. There's scaffolding all around the outside of it; Dad told him the trouble started when the construction crew working for the new owner did a night shift and discovered the hard way that a nest of powries had claimed squatter's rights.
Behind him he can still hear their shrieking. Another blast comes from Dad's shotgun. He finds the stairs, the steps nearly rotted out now, the once beautiful carvings of balustrade coated heavily with dust.
He takes the steps two at a time. There's nowhere else for him to go; there were seven of the creatures in the main hall where they'd come in, cutting off his route out to the car. He's got to find another way out of the building, and the best way to do that is to go up, away from the powries on the ground floor, maybe find a back stairs and then one of the mansion's many other exits.
If he can get outside, then circle around, he can go back in through the main door and help Dad.
The place stinks of mildew and the odd, musty scent of the powries, and he wonders if he should still smell them up here. He reaches the top of the stairs and stops, catching his breath. He shines the flashlight first one direction, then the other, down the long corridor.
There are so many doors along the hallway, he loses track of how many he's passed. He figures there has to be a back stairs down near the end somewhere.
"Ironshot kills them pretty good," Dad had said on the way over. "After all, they are unseelie. Anyone who tells you holy words are enough to repel them is full of crap. You stay with me, watch what I do. Don't fire your gun. This ain't your hunt yet, just training." He'd yawned, keeping one hand on the wheel while he fisted the other over his mouth.
"Did you sleep last night?" Dean had asked.
"Some."
Liar. Dad had been staying up late plenty lately, learning some new incantations and jotting research into his journal.
There's a movement ahead, caught in the flashlight beam and he jerks to a halt. He stays on the balls of his feet, like Dad taught him, raises his sawed-off shotgun which stopped being too heavy for him to heft one-handed only a few months ago.
He clicks off the flashlight and tucks it into the back of his jeans, then curls his finger into the trigger. Ready. You don't need your eyes, listen for movement. You have to be able to hunt in the dark, you have to be prepared for them to come at you from above, behind, any way at all. Three-sixty-five, all the way around, learn to sense it.
This time, he hears the movement, a skittering, scratching noise. The crescent moon sheds a slender rectangle of pale light onto the corridor floor. His scalp crinkles.
There's more than one. The skittering comes from ahead of him and behind. He turns in a slow circle, the weight of the shotgun some reassurance, and wonders where Dad is, why he hasn't called up the All Clear.
They rush at him, shrieking with hunger. In the moonlight they're just small shadows with a flash of crimson and something that looks like many knives but Dean knows are talons.
He darts to the side. The wood of the nearest door gives way immediately beneath his kick, and despite the situation he feels a small thrill of pride up his back. He'd been practicing his kicks and so far hadn't succeeded in kicking a door down, so this was his first, and sure, the thing was already half-rotted, but it counted. Right?
As he flings himself into the empty room he realizes too late kicking the door open was a mistake, because now it's splintered and he has nothing he can use to keep the powries out--
There's more in the room. Their red eyes gleam in the shadows. The row of big windows lets in moonlight, and he catches a flash of yellowed teeth as one of them grins. There are four in here, three out in the corridor.
He turns sideways, remembering not to turn his back on the ones in the room, pulls the trigger to blast his way through the group in the hall.
His gun jams.
Shit.
There's a commotion in the direction of the main stairs, another shotgun blast, a familiar voice cursing loudly, boot steps running on the stairs.
"Dad!" he yells. He dodges inches ahead of the little slashing hands, drops, rolls, comes up on his feet, turns towards the corridor. Two are blocking him.
He uses the shotgun like a club, smacking one with the stock. The creature reels back. Dean hits the other one.
But the third comes out of nowhere, its arm a blur. His t-shirt rips. There's a sharp sting across his stomach, just below his ribs. Instinctively, he jumps back, a second too late, into the room.
The rest are waiting, but he clubs at them with his useless shotgun and runs to the window. It opens easily and he wriggles his body through, crawling out onto the scaffolding.
Something sharp closes around his ankle, but he ignores the pain and kicks it off. His t-shirt feels damp in front but he's afraid to check as he crawls along the wooden planks, away from the window.
Behind him the powries are following, he can hear their long claws rasping against the glass.
Out on the scaffolding it's cold and windy, but he's a good climber, he figures he can avoid them until Dad gets there.
A loud bang sounds back in the room. Relief floods through him. He grips the metal struts, feeling oddly light-headed, tells himself to keep it together, but he doesn't have time to think about that anymore because four powries are out on the scaffold with him.
He's got no choice. He hurls the shotgun at them, hoping it will give them a few bruises to think about, and begins to climb. They grab at the cuffs of his jeans. He shakes them off and keeps going up.
Another shot from inside, and now he's halfway up to the third floor, hanging onto the metal poles. The wind's tearing through his t-shirt, turning his belly to ice, when he finally hears what he's been waiting for.
"Dean?"
"Up here!"
"Hold still."
He obeys. Dad shoots the one reaching for his ankle again, and Dean notices with a strange detachment a gleam of blood in the moonlight, staining the top of his sneaker.
Now also out on the scaffolding, his father reloads. Dean wonders what's wrong with him, why he's fumbling so much with the cartridges, why he isn't doing this with his usual assurance.
Suddenly all he can do is cling to the metal struts. It's like his legs and arms will no longer obey him. He hooks his elbow around the cross pole, grasps his wrist with his other hand. The sliver of moon wavers and blurs. Looking down, he sees his father shoot again, another powrie fall.
It's the last one, there aren't any more but no, that doesn't seem right somehow and Dean's trying to sort it out in his head when his father's voice cuts through the fog.
"All clear."
The neglected grounds are very far below, the Impala tiny like a Matchbox car. He clenches his teeth hard enough to make his jaw ache and forces himself to move.
His father gives a sharp intake of breath. When Dean glances down, his father is staring at the back of his hand. Then he looks up and meets his son's gaze.
"Are you--swing left!"
Again Dean obeys without question.
He was right, there was one more. Because he moves in time, its claws just graze his shoulder. The powrie falls, shrieking, and thuds to the cement steps far below.
He swallows. The moon and the grass switch places for a dizzying moment. He closes his eyes, tightening his grip on the metal. It should be an easy thing, to climb down the few remaining feet, drop down beside his father, another hunt completed.
He can't do it. Every time he opens his eyes, the world pitches again, and his stomach and shoulders sting like crazy. So he keeps his eyes shut.
The scaffolding quivers, then a hand is firm on his back.
When his sneakers touch down on the boards again, his knees buckle, and only his father's grasp keeps him from falling.
There's a leaden weight in Dean's chest that has nothing to do with the pain of his injuries.
With quick, practical movements Dad rechecks the bandages he just put on Dean's ankle minutes ago. "Never think you know the terrain if you haven't actually been through before."
He tugs down Dean's t-shirt in back and presses the tape more firmly into place over the gauze covering the cuts on his shoulder. "And even if you have, you don't know what might be lurking."
Dean bites his lip against what's threatening to get out, the sting in his eyes. The leaden weight grows heavier.
"Do a full sweep of the area first." His father reaches down to check the bandage on Dean's stomach, but it's too much, it's the second time Dad's rechecked there. Dean pushes his hands away.
Dad's face gives nothing away. He hasn't look at Dean's face since they got into the car back at the mansion. Not once. Even while he was bandaging Dean up.
"The workmen said they only saw four powries," Dad goes on, gathering up stray bits of medical tape. "Never assume."
Why, oh why won't Dad just shut up?
With brisk, deliberate care, his father tucks the extra pieces of gauze back into the first aid kit for when they need it again, because they will.
"And don't go hunting sleep-deprived if you can avoid it. If you can't get a full night's sleep, make sure you get a two-hour catnap."
"My gun jammed," Dean offers, as if that explains everything and makes it okay.
"Gun won't jam if it's properly maintained and cleaned regularly."
The leaden weight turns to ice. Right before they left for the hunt, Dean had cleaned the gun himself with Dad looking over his shoulder.
The door shuts softly, and his father is gone, finally.
Dean can't remembering being this terrified, not since he was four. His fingers clench around a fold of bedspread. The lamp with the tattered brown lampshade sheds warm light over room.
It's like the end of the world.
It was just a bunch of stupid powries that delayed John Winchester.
Smelly, nasty, creepy, greedy, little... he grabs the edge of the pillow, folding it inward to bury his face into its softness as the ache in his chest lets loose. He makes no sound.
When there's a light tap on the door, he lets go of the pillow, quickly swipes his fingers over his eyes, and clears his throat.
"Come in," he says loudly.
The door squeaks open and Sammy rushes in holding a stack of comic books. "Dean!" He drops the comics into a loose pile on the blankets, then bounds onto the bed.
A hiss of pain escapes his lips before he can prevent it.
"Sorry. Are you okay?" Sam immediately stills, peering into his face, as if that's where the damage is. "Does it hurt?"
"Nah. Just got a little cut up, is all." He flips up his t-shirt to show Sam the bandage.
He doesn't show his brother the gauze taped to his ankle, or over the back of his right shoulder. Discarded in a heap on the rug, his bloodied t-shirt and sneakers tell a fuller story, and he wishes he'd kicked them under the bed. Sneakers are expensive, but he's burning the pile in the morning.
Sammy's eyes widen. Frowning, he pokes at the bandage carefully. "Jeeze." He whistles, the way Dean taught him. "Good thing Dad was there."
Shifting uncomfortably, Dean opens his mouth to speak. Then he looks at his brother's face, sees what's shining out of his eyes, and hesitates.
"Don't say 'Jeeze,'" Dean says instead, curt.
"Why not? You say it all the time."
He pulls down his shirt and leans back against the pillows. The wound stings. "I'm allowed."
Stretching across the bed, Sam snatches a comic book. "You want me to read to you?"
He can't even look at the cover. "No. Nothing wrong with my eyes, Sammy."
"I know that." He drops the comic and gets up. "Okay, I'll leave them with you in case you get bored."
His little brother heads for the door.
"Sam!"
And Sam stops, because he asked him to.
"Don't go yet."
Slowly, Sam returns to the bed and sits. Now he looks wary, and a little confused. "What?"
"Nothin'."
Sam puffs out a breath to move his bangs out of his eyes.
"You need a haircut, dummy." Dean ruffles Sam's hair, and Sam squirms out of reach.
"Stoppit!"
Dean just leans after him, reaching to ruffle Sam's hair again, but the movement sends a fine thread of pain across his belly. He falls back quickly, grateful for the pillows.
Sam is watching him, a little crease of worry between his eyes that makes him look ten years older, the illusion of a second. Then he crawls around on the bed until he's sitting with his back against the headboard, right next to Dean. He crosses his ankles, legs stretched out in imitation of his big brother.
They just sit. Sam doesn't try to talk, doesn't ask any more questions. Sometimes his kid brother is smart.
It's only his presence that makes Dean believe maybe the world isn't going to end just yet after all.
~END~
by dotfic
Rating: PG-13, Gen
Disclaimer: Not mine, alas. They belong to Eric Kripke and the CW.
Timeline: pre-series, 1991
Wordcount: ~2,400
Summary: John takes Dean on a hunt. Everything that could go wrong, does.
A/N: This story happened because iamstealthyone offered me a plot bunny, complete with carrots. (" I wonder at what point Dean realized John didn't provide 100-percent protection.")
A/N 2: Beethoven's Symphony #7 was on repeat as I wrote this, along with the song Figlio Perduto, which is set to that music. The English lyrics are here if you scroll down. They helped set the mood, although needless to say, this doesn't end like the song. Also there's no elf king, for a very good reason.
"My Weakness" by Moby is also good to write pre-series angst by.
Dean would not approve. :p
Many thanks to sargraf, my patient beta reader who has incredible instincts and with each revision said "Great, now go make it better."
"Dean, drop!" John orders, and he does.
There's the bang of Dad's shotgun, and the powrie dies with smoke curling from its iron shot skin.
Its five brothers surge forward, shrieking with rage.
"Upstairs, now Dean, go."
He doesn't question, he just obeys. Gripping his own shotgun, which he hasn't even had a chance to fire yet, in one hand, a flashlight in the other, he runs.
The former mansion, turned into a smallpox hospital, abandoned, then finally resold, has narrow, dark corridors and tall skinny windows. There's scaffolding all around the outside of it; Dad told him the trouble started when the construction crew working for the new owner did a night shift and discovered the hard way that a nest of powries had claimed squatter's rights.
Behind him he can still hear their shrieking. Another blast comes from Dad's shotgun. He finds the stairs, the steps nearly rotted out now, the once beautiful carvings of balustrade coated heavily with dust.
He takes the steps two at a time. There's nowhere else for him to go; there were seven of the creatures in the main hall where they'd come in, cutting off his route out to the car. He's got to find another way out of the building, and the best way to do that is to go up, away from the powries on the ground floor, maybe find a back stairs and then one of the mansion's many other exits.
If he can get outside, then circle around, he can go back in through the main door and help Dad.
The place stinks of mildew and the odd, musty scent of the powries, and he wonders if he should still smell them up here. He reaches the top of the stairs and stops, catching his breath. He shines the flashlight first one direction, then the other, down the long corridor.
There are so many doors along the hallway, he loses track of how many he's passed. He figures there has to be a back stairs down near the end somewhere.
"Ironshot kills them pretty good," Dad had said on the way over. "After all, they are unseelie. Anyone who tells you holy words are enough to repel them is full of crap. You stay with me, watch what I do. Don't fire your gun. This ain't your hunt yet, just training." He'd yawned, keeping one hand on the wheel while he fisted the other over his mouth.
"Did you sleep last night?" Dean had asked.
"Some."
Liar. Dad had been staying up late plenty lately, learning some new incantations and jotting research into his journal.
There's a movement ahead, caught in the flashlight beam and he jerks to a halt. He stays on the balls of his feet, like Dad taught him, raises his sawed-off shotgun which stopped being too heavy for him to heft one-handed only a few months ago.
He clicks off the flashlight and tucks it into the back of his jeans, then curls his finger into the trigger. Ready. You don't need your eyes, listen for movement. You have to be able to hunt in the dark, you have to be prepared for them to come at you from above, behind, any way at all. Three-sixty-five, all the way around, learn to sense it.
This time, he hears the movement, a skittering, scratching noise. The crescent moon sheds a slender rectangle of pale light onto the corridor floor. His scalp crinkles.
There's more than one. The skittering comes from ahead of him and behind. He turns in a slow circle, the weight of the shotgun some reassurance, and wonders where Dad is, why he hasn't called up the All Clear.
They rush at him, shrieking with hunger. In the moonlight they're just small shadows with a flash of crimson and something that looks like many knives but Dean knows are talons.
He darts to the side. The wood of the nearest door gives way immediately beneath his kick, and despite the situation he feels a small thrill of pride up his back. He'd been practicing his kicks and so far hadn't succeeded in kicking a door down, so this was his first, and sure, the thing was already half-rotted, but it counted. Right?
As he flings himself into the empty room he realizes too late kicking the door open was a mistake, because now it's splintered and he has nothing he can use to keep the powries out--
There's more in the room. Their red eyes gleam in the shadows. The row of big windows lets in moonlight, and he catches a flash of yellowed teeth as one of them grins. There are four in here, three out in the corridor.
He turns sideways, remembering not to turn his back on the ones in the room, pulls the trigger to blast his way through the group in the hall.
His gun jams.
Shit.
There's a commotion in the direction of the main stairs, another shotgun blast, a familiar voice cursing loudly, boot steps running on the stairs.
"Dad!" he yells. He dodges inches ahead of the little slashing hands, drops, rolls, comes up on his feet, turns towards the corridor. Two are blocking him.
He uses the shotgun like a club, smacking one with the stock. The creature reels back. Dean hits the other one.
But the third comes out of nowhere, its arm a blur. His t-shirt rips. There's a sharp sting across his stomach, just below his ribs. Instinctively, he jumps back, a second too late, into the room.
The rest are waiting, but he clubs at them with his useless shotgun and runs to the window. It opens easily and he wriggles his body through, crawling out onto the scaffolding.
Something sharp closes around his ankle, but he ignores the pain and kicks it off. His t-shirt feels damp in front but he's afraid to check as he crawls along the wooden planks, away from the window.
Behind him the powries are following, he can hear their long claws rasping against the glass.
Out on the scaffolding it's cold and windy, but he's a good climber, he figures he can avoid them until Dad gets there.
A loud bang sounds back in the room. Relief floods through him. He grips the metal struts, feeling oddly light-headed, tells himself to keep it together, but he doesn't have time to think about that anymore because four powries are out on the scaffold with him.
He's got no choice. He hurls the shotgun at them, hoping it will give them a few bruises to think about, and begins to climb. They grab at the cuffs of his jeans. He shakes them off and keeps going up.
Another shot from inside, and now he's halfway up to the third floor, hanging onto the metal poles. The wind's tearing through his t-shirt, turning his belly to ice, when he finally hears what he's been waiting for.
"Dean?"
"Up here!"
"Hold still."
He obeys. Dad shoots the one reaching for his ankle again, and Dean notices with a strange detachment a gleam of blood in the moonlight, staining the top of his sneaker.
Now also out on the scaffolding, his father reloads. Dean wonders what's wrong with him, why he's fumbling so much with the cartridges, why he isn't doing this with his usual assurance.
Suddenly all he can do is cling to the metal struts. It's like his legs and arms will no longer obey him. He hooks his elbow around the cross pole, grasps his wrist with his other hand. The sliver of moon wavers and blurs. Looking down, he sees his father shoot again, another powrie fall.
It's the last one, there aren't any more but no, that doesn't seem right somehow and Dean's trying to sort it out in his head when his father's voice cuts through the fog.
"All clear."
The neglected grounds are very far below, the Impala tiny like a Matchbox car. He clenches his teeth hard enough to make his jaw ache and forces himself to move.
His father gives a sharp intake of breath. When Dean glances down, his father is staring at the back of his hand. Then he looks up and meets his son's gaze.
"Are you--swing left!"
Again Dean obeys without question.
He was right, there was one more. Because he moves in time, its claws just graze his shoulder. The powrie falls, shrieking, and thuds to the cement steps far below.
He swallows. The moon and the grass switch places for a dizzying moment. He closes his eyes, tightening his grip on the metal. It should be an easy thing, to climb down the few remaining feet, drop down beside his father, another hunt completed.
He can't do it. Every time he opens his eyes, the world pitches again, and his stomach and shoulders sting like crazy. So he keeps his eyes shut.
The scaffolding quivers, then a hand is firm on his back.
When his sneakers touch down on the boards again, his knees buckle, and only his father's grasp keeps him from falling.
There's a leaden weight in Dean's chest that has nothing to do with the pain of his injuries.
With quick, practical movements Dad rechecks the bandages he just put on Dean's ankle minutes ago. "Never think you know the terrain if you haven't actually been through before."
He tugs down Dean's t-shirt in back and presses the tape more firmly into place over the gauze covering the cuts on his shoulder. "And even if you have, you don't know what might be lurking."
Dean bites his lip against what's threatening to get out, the sting in his eyes. The leaden weight grows heavier.
"Do a full sweep of the area first." His father reaches down to check the bandage on Dean's stomach, but it's too much, it's the second time Dad's rechecked there. Dean pushes his hands away.
Dad's face gives nothing away. He hasn't look at Dean's face since they got into the car back at the mansion. Not once. Even while he was bandaging Dean up.
"The workmen said they only saw four powries," Dad goes on, gathering up stray bits of medical tape. "Never assume."
Why, oh why won't Dad just shut up?
With brisk, deliberate care, his father tucks the extra pieces of gauze back into the first aid kit for when they need it again, because they will.
"And don't go hunting sleep-deprived if you can avoid it. If you can't get a full night's sleep, make sure you get a two-hour catnap."
"My gun jammed," Dean offers, as if that explains everything and makes it okay.
"Gun won't jam if it's properly maintained and cleaned regularly."
The leaden weight turns to ice. Right before they left for the hunt, Dean had cleaned the gun himself with Dad looking over his shoulder.
The door shuts softly, and his father is gone, finally.
Dean can't remembering being this terrified, not since he was four. His fingers clench around a fold of bedspread. The lamp with the tattered brown lampshade sheds warm light over room.
It's like the end of the world.
It was just a bunch of stupid powries that delayed John Winchester.
Smelly, nasty, creepy, greedy, little... he grabs the edge of the pillow, folding it inward to bury his face into its softness as the ache in his chest lets loose. He makes no sound.
When there's a light tap on the door, he lets go of the pillow, quickly swipes his fingers over his eyes, and clears his throat.
"Come in," he says loudly.
The door squeaks open and Sammy rushes in holding a stack of comic books. "Dean!" He drops the comics into a loose pile on the blankets, then bounds onto the bed.
A hiss of pain escapes his lips before he can prevent it.
"Sorry. Are you okay?" Sam immediately stills, peering into his face, as if that's where the damage is. "Does it hurt?"
"Nah. Just got a little cut up, is all." He flips up his t-shirt to show Sam the bandage.
He doesn't show his brother the gauze taped to his ankle, or over the back of his right shoulder. Discarded in a heap on the rug, his bloodied t-shirt and sneakers tell a fuller story, and he wishes he'd kicked them under the bed. Sneakers are expensive, but he's burning the pile in the morning.
Sammy's eyes widen. Frowning, he pokes at the bandage carefully. "Jeeze." He whistles, the way Dean taught him. "Good thing Dad was there."
Shifting uncomfortably, Dean opens his mouth to speak. Then he looks at his brother's face, sees what's shining out of his eyes, and hesitates.
"Don't say 'Jeeze,'" Dean says instead, curt.
"Why not? You say it all the time."
He pulls down his shirt and leans back against the pillows. The wound stings. "I'm allowed."
Stretching across the bed, Sam snatches a comic book. "You want me to read to you?"
He can't even look at the cover. "No. Nothing wrong with my eyes, Sammy."
"I know that." He drops the comic and gets up. "Okay, I'll leave them with you in case you get bored."
His little brother heads for the door.
"Sam!"
And Sam stops, because he asked him to.
"Don't go yet."
Slowly, Sam returns to the bed and sits. Now he looks wary, and a little confused. "What?"
"Nothin'."
Sam puffs out a breath to move his bangs out of his eyes.
"You need a haircut, dummy." Dean ruffles Sam's hair, and Sam squirms out of reach.
"Stoppit!"
Dean just leans after him, reaching to ruffle Sam's hair again, but the movement sends a fine thread of pain across his belly. He falls back quickly, grateful for the pillows.
Sam is watching him, a little crease of worry between his eyes that makes him look ten years older, the illusion of a second. Then he crawls around on the bed until he's sitting with his back against the headboard, right next to Dean. He crosses his ankles, legs stretched out in imitation of his big brother.
They just sit. Sam doesn't try to talk, doesn't ask any more questions. Sometimes his kid brother is smart.
It's only his presence that makes Dean believe maybe the world isn't going to end just yet after all.
~END~