SLINGSHOT - CHAPTER 1/6
My first year participating in the spnbigbang_era challenge!
The Winchesters and a powerful witch? Never a good idea! Especially in this case, since she was powerful enough to send them on a slingshot trip back through time. We've got multiple eras, snarky boys, grumpy Bobby and read on to find out how Lizzie Borden and a T-rex can fit together in the same story! Hope you all like it cause I had a ball writing it!
And remember to check out the glorious artwork from Sammycolt24 at http://spnbigbang-era.livejournal.com/6018.html and Amber1960 at http://amber1960.livejournal.com/126421.html
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CHAPTER ONE
Bobby shuffled downstairs, yawning and scratching his balls.
There was another knock on the door, louder this time.
“Hold your damned horses!” he bellowed. “I’m comin’!”
Ticked off now - he’d been up until almost dawn trying to find out how to kill a soul-sucking eidolon for that damned Rufus - he stomped to the front door and flung it open, glaring at the uniformed man standing outside. “What the hell do you want?”
Mr. Speedy Delivery gaped at the man standing in front of him. “Uh . . . ”
Bobby gritted his teeth. “What?”
Mr. Speedy Delivery, keeping his eyes well above waist level, motioned to Bobby’s open fly. “Um . . . “
Bobby looked down, rolled his eyes and zipped himself up. “Happy now?”
Mr. Speedy Delivery, eyes safe now from whatever might be lurking behind Bobby’s fly, held out a package. About the size of an oversized paperback, it was wrapped in plain brown, extremely beat-up brown paper.
“Robert Singer?”
Bobby nodded reluctantly and the man held out a clipboard. “Signature, please?”
Bobby ignored the clipboard and took the package, examining it carefully. His name and address, in vaguely familiar handwriting. No return address.
Speedy poked the clipboard forward again. “Sir?”
Shooting a “quit bugging me, kid” look at the man, Bobby snatched the clipboard and scribbled something illegible across the bottom of the page. Then he stepped back into the house and slammed the door.
Huh.
Examining the package, Bobby frowned, puzzled.
The wrapping paper was old butcher paper. The kind his mom had used to wrap meat in before she stuck it in the freezer. There was a lot of tape on it -- some old, some new - clearing having been wrapped around the package at different times.
Curious, he tore the tape off and ripped open the paper, revealing a spiral bound notebook, filled with more of the same familiar handwriting from the front of the package.
He opened it to the first page.
“Hey, Bobby! It’s us. Sam and Dean.”
“What, you two idjits forget how to pick up a phone?” he grumbled, a wisp of unease curling up the back of his neck.
“Listen, don’t freak out, but Dean pissed off another witch and she cursed us into the sixteenth century . . . “
Bobby clapped a hand to his forehead and groaned.
“Oh, balls!”
********
“Oh, crap!” Dean ducked down deeper into the ditch, pulling Sam down with him. “Get down, ya freakin’ moose!” he hissed. “You tryin’ to get us killed?”
“Are they coming?”
“Well, I’m sure they freaking will be!” Dean snapped, running an agitated hand through his spiky hair. “They haven’t burnt this week’s witch quota yet! Jesus, Sam, what the hell were you thinking, arguing with that priest about predestination?”
Sam rolled his eyes. “Oh, yeah, and he reacted so much better when you told him that all angels were dicks - ”
“Quiet!” Dean clapped a hand over his brother’s mouth. “I hear something!”
He took a cautious peek over the top of the ditch and groaned when he saw a crowd of dirty-faced, pitchfork-waving lunatics coming over the top of the hill, a furiously shouting priest stomping along right out in front of them.
“Damn it!” Dean looked around wildly for an escape and saw a whole lot of freaking nothing.
Just a lot of empty land and a few ratty-looking sheep standing around, chewing whatever it was they were chewing.
And of course the aforementioned rabble looking to separate the Winchesters’ heads from their necks.
Wait.
Dean’s eyes brightened.
Oh - Hell - Yes!
A man on a tall, rawboned horse - strike that, a monk on a horse, complete with cassock, tonsured head and crucifix - riding slowly toward them.
“About time we got some fucking luck!” Dean muttered. He scrambled out of the ditch, Sam close behind him, and headed at a dead run for the rider.
The rabid rabble spotted them as soon as they emerged from the ditch and a chorus of unholy yips and howls rose to the sky. The crowd broke into a run, with the priest, despite his pendulous belly, holding firm to his position in front.
At the sight of the two fleeing men and the crowd boiling behind them, the monk’s jaw dropped. He tried to pull the horse around in the other direction but, not used to using his muscles for more than turning the pages of his Bible, he couldn’t get the animal to do more than come to a dead stop.
Panicking, he lost his head and started kicking the animal. The horse, an evil-tempered bay, swung its head around, rolling an astounded eye at its rider, and took a savage bite out of the monk’s thigh.
“Jesus!” The monk whacked the horse on the top of its head with his wooden crucifix and the animal swung its head around for a bite on the other side.
“Mary!” The monk dropped his crucifix and crossed himself.
At which time Dean grabbed the monk’s arm, jerked him down from the horse and sent him sprawling to the ground.
“Joseph!” The monk squealed, covering his head with his arms.
“Sorry, dude!” Dean apologized breathlessly. “ Lynch mob!”
Eyes popping, the monk struggled back to his feet and spun to face the approaching mob. They were close enough that the shouts of Witch and Burn and Kill were clearly understandable and not a few of their shouts were directed at him.
Knowing from past experience that once a mob got is blood up, they tended not to give a crap who they roasted, the monk deserted his horse and ran like hell, bare legs flashing underneath his robe.
Cursing, Dean scrambled up onto the horse and reached down to Sam, hauling him up behind him.
“Giddyap!”
The horse looked back at them in confusion.
Dean glared at him. “Damn it, move, you worthless sack of hair! Or I’ll turn your dumb ass into soap!” He drummed his heels into the animal’s sides.
Dean’s kicks being much stronger than the monk’s, the horse lunged into a jolting trot, heading straight for the mob.
“Oh, shit!”
Dean hauled frantically on the reins and got the animal turned in the other direction, but the speed the horse was moving at wouldn’t keep them out of the mobs’ hands for more than a few seconds.
Sam darted a frantic glance over his shoulder at their pursuers, now not more than a hundred yards away. Raising a big hand he slammed it down on the horse’s ass.
“MOVE!” he bellowed.
With a startled whinny the beleaguered horse broke into a dead run, Dean and Sam bouncing back and forth on top of him.
The crowd soldiered on for a few minutes but when the horse and its fugitive load disappeared into the distance, leaving nothing behind but a cloud of dust, they ground to a disappointed halt, panting and cursing.
The monk, however, was still in sight, pounding across the barren fields.
With a rousing shout, the priest raised his crucifix and gave chase, breathless congregation close behind him.
********
FYI, the sixteenth century sucks, but don’t worry, we didn’t stay there long.
It looks like the witch put some kind of boomerang time travel spell on us! She didn’t just sending us back to one time -- we’re going back and forth to different times and places. Guess the freaking skank was a lot more powerful than we thought she was, huh?
********
Bobby lowered the letter. He went into his study and pulled a bottle of whiskey out of the desk drawer and poured himself a stiff drink, draining it one quick gulp.
As the liquor burned through him, he blew out a breath and shook his head dolefully. Then, after careful consideration, he poured another one and sent it after the first.
Ready now for more bad news, Bobby flopped down on the couch and settled in to read.
********
The boys rode hell for leather down the road, empty fields stretching out in every direction around them.
After a few miles, Sam cast a look behind them. No monk. No priest. No mob. “Pull up, Dean, pull up! We lost ‘em!”
After taking a quick look himself, Dean hauled back clumsily on the reins. “Whoa, Seabiscuit! Whoa!”
The horse slowed and fell into a slow walk, huffing out a weary snort.
Dean sighed and shifted uncomfortably in the saddle. “Freaking witch.”
Sam snorted. “Well, you’re the one pissed her off, Dean! Again! Once, just once I’d like to see you keep your trap shut when we’re hunting witches! But no, you’ve always gotta mouth off!”
Dean said nothing, just shifted position again, trying to ease his aching ass.
They rode on in silence.
********
The road seemed to stretch on forever. The land around them never changed.
Empty fields. No towns, no houses, no people.
When the sun started to go down, the horse decided it was done. It stopped in the middle of the road and nothing -- slapping hindquarters, ferocious glares, soap threats -- nothing would get it moving again.
The boys climbed off the stalled horse and looked at each other.
“Truthfully,” Sam ventured, “I’d rather walk. My ass is killing me.”
Dean smirked, but there wasn’t much humor behind it. Sam’s wasn’t the only unhappy ass in the vicinity. “Yeah, me too.”
They started walking on down the road. With a relieved huff, the horse ambled over into the field beside the road and started to graze.
********
Hours passed with more of the same. Nothing. Just miles of empty road.
The moon was hidden behind clouds and there was nothing but darkness. A darkness unleavened by moon, stars or the reflections from a human population.
Sam glanced sideways at Dean. “Any ideas?”
“I thought about calling Cas,” Dean admitted. “But we don’t know if he’d hear us in this century. Or if he did, if he’d know us. Or if he could even get us back that far.”
“Sucks,” Sam said gloomily.
The only good thing about the sucky situation was the fact that it appeared to be summer. As the night wore on, though the temperature dropped a bit, it wasn’t enough to make them uncomfortable.
After they’d been walking for something more than forever, Sam said, definitely not whining, “We should stop, get some sleep - ”
“Where?” Dean said grumpily. “You see any Motel 6’s around here?”
Sam flushed. “We need to rest, Dean. We’re both exhausted.”
“On the ground? What about snakes? You think about that?” Dean looked into the darkness around them and shuddered. “You really wanna wake up snuggled up to a rattlesnake?”
“No, but - ”
Dean stopped and looked around. “Did you hear something?”
Rrrrrrrrroooowwwoooooorrrrr . . . .
“Was that you?” Dean asked uncertainly.
Rrrrroooowwwoooorrrr . . . .
“Fuck, no!” Sam exclaimed.
“Great. Just great.”
Dean pulled out the one knife they had between them and the two hunters put their backs together, searching the darkness.
“What the fuck is it?” Sam hissed.
“Shut up!”
The sound of footsteps shuffled closer in the darkness.
Another low growl, this time closer.
Wolf, maybe. Or a bear. Sam strained his eyes into the darkness. Can’t be a freaking lion, no matter how big and bad it sounds. Can it?
“Keep close to me, Sammy,” Dean whispered.
There was a loud shriek right next to them.
Something slammed into Sam, taking him to the ground, Dean’s voice a harsh shout above him.
Before he could move, before he could even think, a pair of strong hands grabbed Sam’s hair and slammed his head into the ground, once, twice, stunning him. Then the weight was pulled off him in unison with another angry shout from Dean and Sam lay still, trying to get his brain working as the battle raged around him.
After a minute, woozy as hell, he made it to his knees. “Dean?”
Whap!
Sam was knocked flat again when Dean and whoever the hell else it was fell on top of him, invisible hands, knees and elbows knocking the breath out of him.
There was a sudden, deep groan and one of the figures slumped to the side, groan trailing off into a rattling breath and silence.
The second figure bent over Sam.
“You okay, Sammy?” Dean said anxiously.
Still trying to pull air into dazed lungs, Sam fumbled for his brother’s arm, grabbing weakly onto it.
“Jesus,” Dean muttered. “Let’s get you up.” He helped his brother up from the ground, rubbed a hand soothingly over his back until Sam got his breath, and his voice, back.
“What the fuck was that?” Sam wheezed.
“Dead, whatever it was.” Dean fumbled in his pocket and brought out a lighter. After a couple of clicks, a small flame caught and rose and the two stared down at the still figure on the ground.
A man, bearded, filthy, clothes ragged and torn and thin, he was so thin.
But just a man.
And yes, dead, Dean’s knife sticking out of his chest.
Sam rubbed the back of his head, wincing when he touched a couple of lumps. “What was he doing out here? What do you think he wanted?”
“You always got the big questions, Sammy,” Dean said wearily. “Does it matter?” He bent over the body.
“What are you doing?”
“Seeing if he’s got anything we can use,” Dean said, not looking up. He went through the man’s clothing but came up empty. “Looks like he’s got even less than we do.” He pulled his blade out of the corpse’s chest, wiped it off and stuck it back into his pocket. “If this guy had been in better shape, we might be the ones on the ground right now.”
He stood back up, stared down at the body.
“Dean?” Sam asked awkwardly. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” He shrugged, expression blank. “It’s not like I had much of a choice.”
With a jerk of his head, he gestured toward what passed for a road and the Winchesters moved on into the night.
********
Bobby stood in the middle of his library and looked around. Where, exactly, had he put the section on “Time Traveling Spells”?
Oh, yeah, right next to the section on ‘Are You Fucking Kidding Me.’
Awesome.