SPN FIC - Man Down
It's been a quiet night for Preacher, curled up in his usual spot in the alley, in the shelter of the Dumpsters -- right up until that THING shows up, chasing a man in fatigues, and all of a sudden, it's wartime again.
"Man down!" Preacher howled. "No, no, no! ECs in the sector, sir! Oh no! Man down!"
CHARACTERS: Sam, Dean, OMC
GENRE: Gen (Outsider POV), hurt!Dean
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 1900 words
NB: I've set this Now, but it's got nothing much to do with S8.
MAN DOWN
By Carol Davis
"Man down!" Preacher howled. "No, no, no! ECs in the sector, sir! Oh no! Man down!"
He scrambled into a crouch, weapon in hand, and scanned his surroundings. Still there, the murdering son of a bitch, and wasn't that was a boot right in the damn nuts? The whole damned area was supposed to be clear of enemy combatants, was supposed to be SAFE.
His heart thundered inside his ribcage and he fought to control his breathing.
He could make the shot. He COULD, even though there was no moon, the sector was almost fully dark, and the enemy was on the move. Deep breath in, slowly, count of five. Hold it. Exhale in a whisper, another count of five.
Eyes found him, locked on him.
Bastard.
He pulled the trigger, but it was too late. The recoil thrummed through his arm and shoulder as that murdering SOB raised himself to full height. White, Preacher thought - the enemy was full, pure white, and that was odd, because the damned ECs wore dusty colors, the better to blend in with the sand and the dirty walls. Even when they wore white, it was dusty. Not luminous, like this. Preacher's brain struggled for an explanation, for a reason why the bastard kept standing up and up and up, into a full height that had to be something like fifteen feet.
"SIR," he squeaked. "Man down, sir. Oh, help. Man down."
The hand wrapped around the grip of his weapon began to tremble. Run, his head told him; save yourself. But with those eyes on him, with the pure white evil of that gaze fixed right dead on him, his arms and legs turned traitor, and he was struck numb, cowering close to the ground as a pair of enormous wings unfolded, spreading the entire width of the alley.
Bird??? he thought, wildly confused.
But if it had been a bird, it could not have grinned at him. Would not have been so huge.
It had its prey gripped in its talons, like the hawks Preacher had seen back on the farm, grabbing mice, squirrels, moles, small rabbits, a cat or two. Clearly, it intended to carry its kill off to some quieter, more secluded place, where it would pick him apart bit by bit.
MAN DOWN!! Preacher's brain insisted.
He groped around him, found something his fingers could curl around, wound back for the pitch, and hurled the object at the glowering bird. The pitcher's mound of the ball field out back of Huntington High was long ago and far away, but muscle memory endured, and the pitch flew straight and true; the butt of the old green bottle struck the bird between the eyes and with a screech piercing enough to send Preacher sprawling backwards onto his butt, the creature sprang skyward and disappeared.
The man it had attacked lay still, crumpled face down on the pavement.
Heart ricocheting through his chest, Preacher gingerly shifted his weight, intent on climbing to his feet. His entire body was quivering, but that was nothing new; he'd spent most his life quivering in one way or another.
Weapon, he thought - secure your weapon.
But it wasn't there. Hadn't been for a good long time. He'd surrendered it. Hadn't he?
That man was dead.
Had to be dead.
Preacher duck-walked to him, clumsily, unwilling to stand, to thrust his head into the line of fire. He'd lost his helmet along with his weapon, and wasn't that one serious nest of shit. Might as well be walking around naked, with the words GO AHEAD, SHOOT ME painted on his chest. Clusterfuck, sir, he thought fleetingly. Man down. Need extraction.
He fully expected to be grabbed, or shot, as he crept forward.
No one back home would have blamed him if he bugged out, ran for cover and let the rest of the world fend for itself, but the Captain would sure as hell have an issue with it.
No man left behind, his mind whispered. He wouldn't leave YOU. Now go get him.
He had to travel no more than twenty yards, but it might as well have been twenty miles. Only the fact that he'd had nothing to drink since morning kept him from pissing himself as he inched over wet, rough terrain, past obstacles that could easily conceal any number of ECs. His body thrummed as if he were sitting aboard a chopper, weapon in hand, the other hand clutching the edge of his seat as the world tilted and bobbed.
"You chickenshit, son?" the Cap asked him, grinning.
"Sir, no SIR," he wheezed.
"Lookin kinda white there. You figure on blowing your lunch?"
"Bird, sir," he whispered. "Some kinda new weapon? God, sir, it's big."
On hands and knees, he approached the fallen man, barely aware of the wet soaking into his ragged fatigues.
Some part of him knew it for what it was: rainwater, blood, seepage from the row of Dumpsters lining the alley - but the wet, the filth, was so much a part of his life that he seldom paid it, or anything like it, much attention. You had to work past an obstacle like that. Get the job done. Complete the mission and return to base.
Gently, sitting back on his haunches, he turned the fallen man over onto his back, revealing a gleaming, pearl-gripped weapon the man had lost hold of. Preacher secured it, then leaned close to the man, pressing fingers to his throat, searching for a pulse.
He found one.
Not dead, then.
The man jerked as if he'd been shocked. Flailed a couple of times like someone having a seizure. Half his face was scraped raw, and his clothing was shredded, blood oozing up through the tears in the fabric. Bad wounds, serious wounds, the kind that would easily become infected.
"MEDIC!" Preacher yelled into the darkness. "Man down! Need help here!"
Underneath his hands, the man began to tremble. Preacher patted his face, his arms, murmured words of reassurance. Those wounds needed treatment, something to stop the flow of blood, but when Preacher groped through his pockets for something to use as a bandage he found nothing. No good, something told him, and he understood that it wasn't the lack of first aid supplies that was the problem; he could have pulled off his jacket and used that, but it was filthy. Would have created more problems than it solved.
Booted feet came thundering down the alley.
"Man down!" Preacher yelped, and before he could move himself aside to give the medics room in which to work, he was shoved aside, manhandled onto his butt by a big man in a heavy jacket, someone who seized the fallen man and cried into his face, "Dean! Dean, can you hear me? Dean!"
"Bird," Preacher said.
The big man swung to face him and barked, "What?"
"Man down, sir."
Something in the big man's expression changed. Gentled. Quietly, he said, "Is it gone?"
"Sir. Yes, sir."
To Preacher's surprise, the fallen man jerked again, and this time he opened his eyes. He sat fully upright, grabbed a fistful of the big man's jacket and announced, "I need THIS right now? Getting attacked by a giant frigging BIRD?"
"You're bleeding," the big man told him.
"Shit," the fallen man said. Then: "When am I not bleeding? Did you get it?"
The big man shook his head, then tipped it in Preacher's direction. "He says it's gone. We should - regroup."
And the fallen man chuckled, though not in a way that said he thought anything was funny. "We're gonna need a bigger boat," he told the bigger man.
As if they'd entirely forgotten he was there, the two men climbed to their feet (the bigger one providing more than a little help for the other one) and began to move away from Preacher. It took some effort for Preacher to reach his own feet; his legs had turned completely to jelly, and he was half inclined to simply let the two men go. He recognized neither of them, and they were out of uniform. Not his unit. Not his responsibility.
He stumbled toward them anyway, holding out the pearl-gripped weapon, calling after them, "Sir. Your weapon, sir."
The fallen man accepted it with a frown. "SHOT the son of a bitch," he told the bigger man. "Didn't do a damn bit of good."
"I'm thinking 'cannon'," the bigger man said.
"Rocket launcher?"
"Maybe a small nuke."
Funny, then, after all? The situation was funny. Preacher struggled to reconcile that with the after-image of those glaring, malevolent eyes, could not, and asked softly, "Sir? What was it?"
"It's not -" the big man started, but the fallen man cut him off.
"Roc," the fallen man said.
Rock.
Rock?
"Sir?" Preacher said.
The two strangers looked him over. He should apologize for the condition of his uniform, he supposed, but they looked no better, which meant they might not report this business to the Cap. Preacher ducked his head as the two strangers murmured something back and forth, and let himself fall into parade rest, though he was unable to decide whether that was appropriate or not.
Not there any more, something told him. Don't need to salute. Don't need to say Sir.
"You okay, man?" the fallen man asked him.
Not any more, he thought.
The fallen man reached for Preacher, but the gesture pulled at those gaping wounds, and he grimaced and fell back. The bigger man frowned at him as he recovered himself - made a gesture that the fallen man brushed off. Don't help me, it said. I got this.
"It was a bird?" Preacher asked.
"Something like that," the fallen man told him, hauling breath in and out in a way that said he was in pain. "You're comin' with us, okay? We'll get you something to eat. Get you cleaned up a little. Figure things out from there."
Capture, Preacher's mind said.
"No, sir," he told the strangers. "Need to rejoin my unit, sir. Respectfully."
Again, the two men had a conversation without saying anything. Then the fallen man told Preacher, "Damn thing was gonna carry me off. You saved my life. I owe you one."
"I did my duty, sir."
"Need to evacuate the area, soldier. Friggin' thing could come back."
"But we can't fall back now, sir. We've made good progress."
Once more, the two strangers looked at each other. The bigger man straightened up a little bit before he asked, "What unit are you with, soldier?"
Preacher told him.
The big man smiled, and there was more kindness in it than Preacher had seen in a good long while. "We've got a vehicle right there, around the corner. You're in kind of tough shape - had a rough night, huh? How about if we take you back to your unit, and you can get something to eat, get cleaned up a little bit, and give your report? My bro - my buddy, here, needs to see the medic. After we're back in shape, we can regroup."
"Take down that fugly son of a bitch," the fallen man put in.
Preacher hesitated.
"You hungry, man?" the big man asked him. "You kinda look like you're hungry. Let's go get something to eat."
"ECs, sir," Preacher murmured. "Situation's friggin' FUBAR."
"Yeah," the fallen man said. "We know."
* * * * *
"Man down!" Preacher howled. "No, no, no! ECs in the sector, sir! Oh no! Man down!"
CHARACTERS: Sam, Dean, OMC
GENRE: Gen (Outsider POV), hurt!Dean
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 1900 words
NB: I've set this Now, but it's got nothing much to do with S8.
MAN DOWN
By Carol Davis
"Man down!" Preacher howled. "No, no, no! ECs in the sector, sir! Oh no! Man down!"
He scrambled into a crouch, weapon in hand, and scanned his surroundings. Still there, the murdering son of a bitch, and wasn't that was a boot right in the damn nuts? The whole damned area was supposed to be clear of enemy combatants, was supposed to be SAFE.
His heart thundered inside his ribcage and he fought to control his breathing.
He could make the shot. He COULD, even though there was no moon, the sector was almost fully dark, and the enemy was on the move. Deep breath in, slowly, count of five. Hold it. Exhale in a whisper, another count of five.
Eyes found him, locked on him.
Bastard.
He pulled the trigger, but it was too late. The recoil thrummed through his arm and shoulder as that murdering SOB raised himself to full height. White, Preacher thought - the enemy was full, pure white, and that was odd, because the damned ECs wore dusty colors, the better to blend in with the sand and the dirty walls. Even when they wore white, it was dusty. Not luminous, like this. Preacher's brain struggled for an explanation, for a reason why the bastard kept standing up and up and up, into a full height that had to be something like fifteen feet.
"SIR," he squeaked. "Man down, sir. Oh, help. Man down."
The hand wrapped around the grip of his weapon began to tremble. Run, his head told him; save yourself. But with those eyes on him, with the pure white evil of that gaze fixed right dead on him, his arms and legs turned traitor, and he was struck numb, cowering close to the ground as a pair of enormous wings unfolded, spreading the entire width of the alley.
Bird??? he thought, wildly confused.
But if it had been a bird, it could not have grinned at him. Would not have been so huge.
It had its prey gripped in its talons, like the hawks Preacher had seen back on the farm, grabbing mice, squirrels, moles, small rabbits, a cat or two. Clearly, it intended to carry its kill off to some quieter, more secluded place, where it would pick him apart bit by bit.
MAN DOWN!! Preacher's brain insisted.
He groped around him, found something his fingers could curl around, wound back for the pitch, and hurled the object at the glowering bird. The pitcher's mound of the ball field out back of Huntington High was long ago and far away, but muscle memory endured, and the pitch flew straight and true; the butt of the old green bottle struck the bird between the eyes and with a screech piercing enough to send Preacher sprawling backwards onto his butt, the creature sprang skyward and disappeared.
The man it had attacked lay still, crumpled face down on the pavement.
Heart ricocheting through his chest, Preacher gingerly shifted his weight, intent on climbing to his feet. His entire body was quivering, but that was nothing new; he'd spent most his life quivering in one way or another.
Weapon, he thought - secure your weapon.
But it wasn't there. Hadn't been for a good long time. He'd surrendered it. Hadn't he?
That man was dead.
Had to be dead.
Preacher duck-walked to him, clumsily, unwilling to stand, to thrust his head into the line of fire. He'd lost his helmet along with his weapon, and wasn't that one serious nest of shit. Might as well be walking around naked, with the words GO AHEAD, SHOOT ME painted on his chest. Clusterfuck, sir, he thought fleetingly. Man down. Need extraction.
He fully expected to be grabbed, or shot, as he crept forward.
No one back home would have blamed him if he bugged out, ran for cover and let the rest of the world fend for itself, but the Captain would sure as hell have an issue with it.
No man left behind, his mind whispered. He wouldn't leave YOU. Now go get him.
He had to travel no more than twenty yards, but it might as well have been twenty miles. Only the fact that he'd had nothing to drink since morning kept him from pissing himself as he inched over wet, rough terrain, past obstacles that could easily conceal any number of ECs. His body thrummed as if he were sitting aboard a chopper, weapon in hand, the other hand clutching the edge of his seat as the world tilted and bobbed.
"You chickenshit, son?" the Cap asked him, grinning.
"Sir, no SIR," he wheezed.
"Lookin kinda white there. You figure on blowing your lunch?"
"Bird, sir," he whispered. "Some kinda new weapon? God, sir, it's big."
On hands and knees, he approached the fallen man, barely aware of the wet soaking into his ragged fatigues.
Some part of him knew it for what it was: rainwater, blood, seepage from the row of Dumpsters lining the alley - but the wet, the filth, was so much a part of his life that he seldom paid it, or anything like it, much attention. You had to work past an obstacle like that. Get the job done. Complete the mission and return to base.
Gently, sitting back on his haunches, he turned the fallen man over onto his back, revealing a gleaming, pearl-gripped weapon the man had lost hold of. Preacher secured it, then leaned close to the man, pressing fingers to his throat, searching for a pulse.
He found one.
Not dead, then.
The man jerked as if he'd been shocked. Flailed a couple of times like someone having a seizure. Half his face was scraped raw, and his clothing was shredded, blood oozing up through the tears in the fabric. Bad wounds, serious wounds, the kind that would easily become infected.
"MEDIC!" Preacher yelled into the darkness. "Man down! Need help here!"
Underneath his hands, the man began to tremble. Preacher patted his face, his arms, murmured words of reassurance. Those wounds needed treatment, something to stop the flow of blood, but when Preacher groped through his pockets for something to use as a bandage he found nothing. No good, something told him, and he understood that it wasn't the lack of first aid supplies that was the problem; he could have pulled off his jacket and used that, but it was filthy. Would have created more problems than it solved.
Booted feet came thundering down the alley.
"Man down!" Preacher yelped, and before he could move himself aside to give the medics room in which to work, he was shoved aside, manhandled onto his butt by a big man in a heavy jacket, someone who seized the fallen man and cried into his face, "Dean! Dean, can you hear me? Dean!"
"Bird," Preacher said.
The big man swung to face him and barked, "What?"
"Man down, sir."
Something in the big man's expression changed. Gentled. Quietly, he said, "Is it gone?"
"Sir. Yes, sir."
To Preacher's surprise, the fallen man jerked again, and this time he opened his eyes. He sat fully upright, grabbed a fistful of the big man's jacket and announced, "I need THIS right now? Getting attacked by a giant frigging BIRD?"
"You're bleeding," the big man told him.
"Shit," the fallen man said. Then: "When am I not bleeding? Did you get it?"
The big man shook his head, then tipped it in Preacher's direction. "He says it's gone. We should - regroup."
And the fallen man chuckled, though not in a way that said he thought anything was funny. "We're gonna need a bigger boat," he told the bigger man.
As if they'd entirely forgotten he was there, the two men climbed to their feet (the bigger one providing more than a little help for the other one) and began to move away from Preacher. It took some effort for Preacher to reach his own feet; his legs had turned completely to jelly, and he was half inclined to simply let the two men go. He recognized neither of them, and they were out of uniform. Not his unit. Not his responsibility.
He stumbled toward them anyway, holding out the pearl-gripped weapon, calling after them, "Sir. Your weapon, sir."
The fallen man accepted it with a frown. "SHOT the son of a bitch," he told the bigger man. "Didn't do a damn bit of good."
"I'm thinking 'cannon'," the bigger man said.
"Rocket launcher?"
"Maybe a small nuke."
Funny, then, after all? The situation was funny. Preacher struggled to reconcile that with the after-image of those glaring, malevolent eyes, could not, and asked softly, "Sir? What was it?"
"It's not -" the big man started, but the fallen man cut him off.
"Roc," the fallen man said.
Rock.
Rock?
"Sir?" Preacher said.
The two strangers looked him over. He should apologize for the condition of his uniform, he supposed, but they looked no better, which meant they might not report this business to the Cap. Preacher ducked his head as the two strangers murmured something back and forth, and let himself fall into parade rest, though he was unable to decide whether that was appropriate or not.
Not there any more, something told him. Don't need to salute. Don't need to say Sir.
"You okay, man?" the fallen man asked him.
Not any more, he thought.
The fallen man reached for Preacher, but the gesture pulled at those gaping wounds, and he grimaced and fell back. The bigger man frowned at him as he recovered himself - made a gesture that the fallen man brushed off. Don't help me, it said. I got this.
"It was a bird?" Preacher asked.
"Something like that," the fallen man told him, hauling breath in and out in a way that said he was in pain. "You're comin' with us, okay? We'll get you something to eat. Get you cleaned up a little. Figure things out from there."
Capture, Preacher's mind said.
"No, sir," he told the strangers. "Need to rejoin my unit, sir. Respectfully."
Again, the two men had a conversation without saying anything. Then the fallen man told Preacher, "Damn thing was gonna carry me off. You saved my life. I owe you one."
"I did my duty, sir."
"Need to evacuate the area, soldier. Friggin' thing could come back."
"But we can't fall back now, sir. We've made good progress."
Once more, the two strangers looked at each other. The bigger man straightened up a little bit before he asked, "What unit are you with, soldier?"
Preacher told him.
The big man smiled, and there was more kindness in it than Preacher had seen in a good long while. "We've got a vehicle right there, around the corner. You're in kind of tough shape - had a rough night, huh? How about if we take you back to your unit, and you can get something to eat, get cleaned up a little bit, and give your report? My bro - my buddy, here, needs to see the medic. After we're back in shape, we can regroup."
"Take down that fugly son of a bitch," the fallen man put in.
Preacher hesitated.
"You hungry, man?" the big man asked him. "You kinda look like you're hungry. Let's go get something to eat."
"ECs, sir," Preacher murmured. "Situation's friggin' FUBAR."
"Yeah," the fallen man said. "We know."
* * * * *