For 14valentines, Fic: Mariner (SPN/PotC, Gen)
Title: Mariner
Fandoms: Supernatural and Pirates of the Caribbean
Rating: Gen, PG
Spoilers: “No Exit” for Supernatural, “Dead Man’s Chest” and mere speculation for “At World’s End”
Disclaimer: Just borrowing, please don't sue.
Notes: Title from Coleridge, the kappa in Ohio is the Loveland Frog. Beta by the marvelous
cold_poet; any remaining mistakes are mine. A very early version of this was prompted and posted somewhere in the Hodgepodge Challenge of
summercon.
Ellen will tell you that over the years she’s been running the Roadhouse, she’s met more hunters than she’d have guessed were out there. They’re interesting people, with stories enough to last a thousand and one nights or more. Many of them will tell their stories with a little coaxing, much to Jo’s delight, while others need more time, more booze-or both-before they’ll tell their tales. There are a few, though, who only speak when spoken to, who won’t tell their stories without good reason.
Like the guy at the back, for instance.
He’s a quiet one, keeps to himself. Scruffy-looking like most of them, brown hair tied back off his face into a tail that falls just past his collar. He’s tall, with a long, solemn face, sometimes clean-shaven, sometimes not. Ex-military, like so many of the others. When he speaks, though, it’s with a British accent.
He’s been coming in for as long as she can remember. Bill had known him before their marriage, had trusted him; had even hunted with him once or twice. He’d been one of those who’d come by more often in the first year after Bill’d died. Not looking for anything, or offering to help-she’d scared off the ones who’d been stupid enough to straight out try anything either selfish or helpful-but there just in case.
He’s been coming in for as long as she can remember, and he’s never aged a day.
She hadn’t seen it, at first, not for a good long while. He told her, later, that not many did; it seemed to be part of the package. He’s one of those people who doesn’t look any particular age anyway. Well, except around the eyes, where he looks old, but that’s common enough in hunters. His eyes, though, look even older now that she knows.
---
It had been a stormy Tuesday in November, wind lashing the rain against the windows, when she had finally noticed. The place was nearly empty; he was the only customer left. Ellen was cleaning glasses, watching as Jo wiped down the bar one last time to avoid her homework, sullen as only a teenager could be. They’d had a fight about school, another fight that was really about hunting. Watching her work, Ellen couldn’t help but think about how tall she was getting. She could picture her daughter as an eight-year-old, sitting on the bar, swinging her feet, watching this man paging through his journal.
This man who-unlike her daughter-looked the same now as he had back then.
“Jo, that’s enough. You go and get started on your homework.”
“But Mom-”
“No buts. Get to it.”
After Jo left, Ellen waited long enough for her to get to her room, waited until she heard the reverberation of a rhythmic bass line that was Jo’s way of letting her know she wasn’t happy. Then she set down the glass she was cleaning and reached under the bar for her gun. She came up with it only to find that he’d drawn on her, too, in the time it took to blink.
Her voice and her hand were steady. Bill had trusted him, but Bill had been wrong before. In the end. “What are you?”
“A hunter.”
They were both speaking in low voices. Ellen hoped that Jo was doing her homework, that she wasn’t going to come back to the bar. That the music was loud enough to drown out any gunshots. That he wouldn’t go after her daughter when he finished with her, because with a draw like that she wasn’t counting on having a chance to shoot him. If it’ll even work. “What the hell kind of hunter doesn’t age?”
He smiled at her, bitterly. “An unsuccessful one.”
“Right.” She could hear her heart pounding in time to the bass line from Jo’s room.
He sighed softly. “I hunted a man through a hurricane, once. Hunted him to the shores of Hades and back.” He paused. “It… didn’t go well.”
“And what are you hunting now?”
“Clichéd as it may sound, redemption.” The twist of his lips was sad, regretful. “Once in my life I did something very selfish, made a fool’s bargain. I like to think it was against my nature; it would, perhaps, explain why it went so very badly.”
She narrowed her eyes. “So you’re cursed?”
“Thoroughly, and by someone who knew what she was doing.”
“Why should I believe you? How do I know you aren’t… aren’t one of them, hunting us?”
“I have no proof other than the years that I have come here and done nothing wrong.” He held her gaze steadily. “Your husband trusted me. You know me, Ellen.”
It was true. It was true, but… “That’s not enough.”
He frowned, hesitated. “A long time ago, I swore to be on the side of right and order, and vowed to serve them before myself. I sank so low that I believed I could go no lower.” He stopped again, a muscle jumping in his jaw. “I broke my vows and found out I was wrong.” With that, he lowered his gun, slowly putting it back under his coat. “I was forsworn once, and I never will be again. I’m not going to hurt you, Ellen. Do what you will.”
She hesitated. God help her, she believed him. He looked as much resigned as relieved, and that settled it. How long? She wondered, but she wasn’t sure she wanted to know.
Decision made, she lowered her gun as well. “Hell. Would shooting you even work?”
He laughed, sharp and surprised, lowering his head for a moment before looking back at her. “I’m not entirely sure, but I imagine it wouldn’t have been pleasant.”
“Did Bill know?”
“He knew some of it. I knew your husband for a long time.”
She nodded and went back to the glasses. “Do you need to stay the night?”
“No, thank you.” He looked at her, a strange expression on his face. “I should be going.” He counted off some money and left it on the bar as he stood up.
“You sure? It’s coming down pretty hard out there.”
Pausing before the door, he looked back at her. “I’ve been through worse,” he said.
“You come on back if that bridge is out again.”
He nodded. “Good evening, Ellen.”
“Bye, James. Good hunting.”
With another nod he turned and went out into the rain.
---
He didn’t come back that night, or for a couple months afterwards. She had wondered if he would come back at all, if he didn’t think he’d be welcome anymore. The thought pissed her off. She’d always worked to make it clear that the Roadhouse open to everyone, so long as they behaved. Being cursed didn’t count as misbehaving. Hell, she knew two other hunters that carried curses, though not powerful ones. It was a risk of the job.
When he did turn up, in the late afternoon on a grey day in the middle of February, he seemed wary. More so than usual.
He kept his hands flat on the bar as he sat down. “Hello, Ellen.”
“Hi, James.” Did you find what you were looking for? “I’m glad you’re back,” she said as she brought him his usual.
He looked at her with caution and surprise. “Oh?”
“I’ve been trying to remember… Bill told me once about the time he found a kappa in Ohio. Up until a couple weeks ago, that was the only sighting outside Japan - Caleb called, he’s heard some stories that sound like there might be a handful that have turned up in California. The one Bill found was before we met, back in the seventies, but I thought you might remember.”
“A kappa? Yes, I remember.”
“Good, then you can remind me how Bill decided it wound up in Ohio. Caleb’s a little concerned.”
She never did ask outright how long it had been for him, but she kept asking about other things, and over the years he told her other stories. Recent ones at first, about Bill, about other hunters she had known. Eventually he told her older stories. About the places he’d been, the things he’d seen, the people he’d known. She liked to think that it meant that he was comfortable again, like he had been with her husband. Meant that he was a little less lonely.
Whatever else, it did mean that the day the Winchesters came to her with a story about a compass that didn’t point north, she knew who they needed to talk to.
Fandoms: Supernatural and Pirates of the Caribbean
Rating: Gen, PG
Spoilers: “No Exit” for Supernatural, “Dead Man’s Chest” and mere speculation for “At World’s End”
Disclaimer: Just borrowing, please don't sue.
Notes: Title from Coleridge, the kappa in Ohio is the Loveland Frog. Beta by the marvelous
cold_poet; any remaining mistakes are mine. A very early version of this was prompted and posted somewhere in the Hodgepodge Challenge of
summercon.
Ellen will tell you that over the years she’s been running the Roadhouse, she’s met more hunters than she’d have guessed were out there. They’re interesting people, with stories enough to last a thousand and one nights or more. Many of them will tell their stories with a little coaxing, much to Jo’s delight, while others need more time, more booze-or both-before they’ll tell their tales. There are a few, though, who only speak when spoken to, who won’t tell their stories without good reason.
Like the guy at the back, for instance.
He’s a quiet one, keeps to himself. Scruffy-looking like most of them, brown hair tied back off his face into a tail that falls just past his collar. He’s tall, with a long, solemn face, sometimes clean-shaven, sometimes not. Ex-military, like so many of the others. When he speaks, though, it’s with a British accent.
He’s been coming in for as long as she can remember. Bill had known him before their marriage, had trusted him; had even hunted with him once or twice. He’d been one of those who’d come by more often in the first year after Bill’d died. Not looking for anything, or offering to help-she’d scared off the ones who’d been stupid enough to straight out try anything either selfish or helpful-but there just in case.
He’s been coming in for as long as she can remember, and he’s never aged a day.
She hadn’t seen it, at first, not for a good long while. He told her, later, that not many did; it seemed to be part of the package. He’s one of those people who doesn’t look any particular age anyway. Well, except around the eyes, where he looks old, but that’s common enough in hunters. His eyes, though, look even older now that she knows.
---
It had been a stormy Tuesday in November, wind lashing the rain against the windows, when she had finally noticed. The place was nearly empty; he was the only customer left. Ellen was cleaning glasses, watching as Jo wiped down the bar one last time to avoid her homework, sullen as only a teenager could be. They’d had a fight about school, another fight that was really about hunting. Watching her work, Ellen couldn’t help but think about how tall she was getting. She could picture her daughter as an eight-year-old, sitting on the bar, swinging her feet, watching this man paging through his journal.
This man who-unlike her daughter-looked the same now as he had back then.
“Jo, that’s enough. You go and get started on your homework.”
“But Mom-”
“No buts. Get to it.”
After Jo left, Ellen waited long enough for her to get to her room, waited until she heard the reverberation of a rhythmic bass line that was Jo’s way of letting her know she wasn’t happy. Then she set down the glass she was cleaning and reached under the bar for her gun. She came up with it only to find that he’d drawn on her, too, in the time it took to blink.
Her voice and her hand were steady. Bill had trusted him, but Bill had been wrong before. In the end. “What are you?”
“A hunter.”
They were both speaking in low voices. Ellen hoped that Jo was doing her homework, that she wasn’t going to come back to the bar. That the music was loud enough to drown out any gunshots. That he wouldn’t go after her daughter when he finished with her, because with a draw like that she wasn’t counting on having a chance to shoot him. If it’ll even work. “What the hell kind of hunter doesn’t age?”
He smiled at her, bitterly. “An unsuccessful one.”
“Right.” She could hear her heart pounding in time to the bass line from Jo’s room.
He sighed softly. “I hunted a man through a hurricane, once. Hunted him to the shores of Hades and back.” He paused. “It… didn’t go well.”
“And what are you hunting now?”
“Clichéd as it may sound, redemption.” The twist of his lips was sad, regretful. “Once in my life I did something very selfish, made a fool’s bargain. I like to think it was against my nature; it would, perhaps, explain why it went so very badly.”
She narrowed her eyes. “So you’re cursed?”
“Thoroughly, and by someone who knew what she was doing.”
“Why should I believe you? How do I know you aren’t… aren’t one of them, hunting us?”
“I have no proof other than the years that I have come here and done nothing wrong.” He held her gaze steadily. “Your husband trusted me. You know me, Ellen.”
It was true. It was true, but… “That’s not enough.”
He frowned, hesitated. “A long time ago, I swore to be on the side of right and order, and vowed to serve them before myself. I sank so low that I believed I could go no lower.” He stopped again, a muscle jumping in his jaw. “I broke my vows and found out I was wrong.” With that, he lowered his gun, slowly putting it back under his coat. “I was forsworn once, and I never will be again. I’m not going to hurt you, Ellen. Do what you will.”
She hesitated. God help her, she believed him. He looked as much resigned as relieved, and that settled it. How long? She wondered, but she wasn’t sure she wanted to know.
Decision made, she lowered her gun as well. “Hell. Would shooting you even work?”
He laughed, sharp and surprised, lowering his head for a moment before looking back at her. “I’m not entirely sure, but I imagine it wouldn’t have been pleasant.”
“Did Bill know?”
“He knew some of it. I knew your husband for a long time.”
She nodded and went back to the glasses. “Do you need to stay the night?”
“No, thank you.” He looked at her, a strange expression on his face. “I should be going.” He counted off some money and left it on the bar as he stood up.
“You sure? It’s coming down pretty hard out there.”
Pausing before the door, he looked back at her. “I’ve been through worse,” he said.
“You come on back if that bridge is out again.”
He nodded. “Good evening, Ellen.”
“Bye, James. Good hunting.”
With another nod he turned and went out into the rain.
---
He didn’t come back that night, or for a couple months afterwards. She had wondered if he would come back at all, if he didn’t think he’d be welcome anymore. The thought pissed her off. She’d always worked to make it clear that the Roadhouse open to everyone, so long as they behaved. Being cursed didn’t count as misbehaving. Hell, she knew two other hunters that carried curses, though not powerful ones. It was a risk of the job.
When he did turn up, in the late afternoon on a grey day in the middle of February, he seemed wary. More so than usual.
He kept his hands flat on the bar as he sat down. “Hello, Ellen.”
“Hi, James.” Did you find what you were looking for? “I’m glad you’re back,” she said as she brought him his usual.
He looked at her with caution and surprise. “Oh?”
“I’ve been trying to remember… Bill told me once about the time he found a kappa in Ohio. Up until a couple weeks ago, that was the only sighting outside Japan - Caleb called, he’s heard some stories that sound like there might be a handful that have turned up in California. The one Bill found was before we met, back in the seventies, but I thought you might remember.”
“A kappa? Yes, I remember.”
“Good, then you can remind me how Bill decided it wound up in Ohio. Caleb’s a little concerned.”
She never did ask outright how long it had been for him, but she kept asking about other things, and over the years he told her other stories. Recent ones at first, about Bill, about other hunters she had known. Eventually he told her older stories. About the places he’d been, the things he’d seen, the people he’d known. She liked to think that it meant that he was comfortable again, like he had been with her husband. Meant that he was a little less lonely.
Whatever else, it did mean that the day the Winchesters came to her with a story about a compass that didn’t point north, she knew who they needed to talk to.