Fic: Tell Me I Told You So- Supernatural/X-Men Crossover
Tell Me I Told You So
by Tracy (lunarknightz)
Rating: PG-13.
Pairing: Gen.
Spoilers: X3.
Disclaimer: Fanfic is like playing Barbies with fandom characters. Except with words instead of plastic dolls. And while I do own Barbie dolls, I don’t own the stuff I write fan fiction about. At all.
Summary: The mutant cure isn't permanent.
Author's Note: A sequel of The X2/SPN crossover I wrote Proof in the Blood. Dean's exact power is inspired by the remix of "Proof in the Blood"- Man of War (Both Sides Now Remix)by trollprincess.
“Turn it up.” He growls, after the television in this seedy little bar smack dab in the middle of catches his attention. The barkeep fumbles under the bar for the remote, and gives up after knocking over a pitcher of beer- not the cheap stuff that’s on special that night, but some import that he’d just poured to take over to the rowdy group of bachelor party guests over in the far corner of the bar.
“Damn it.” The barkeep says, standing on his tip toes to reach the television from the spot where it is hangs down from the ceiling. “Happy now?” He glares at Dean, making it known that he’s expecting Dean’s tip to even out the loss of the imported beer.
That’s not bloody likely, and Dean doesn’t even acknowledge the barkeep. His attention is solely on the talking head on the television.
“Stock in Worthington Industries plummeted further today, as more reports of more and more relapses for those who took the so called “Mutant Cure” months ago. The FDA released a statement today about the cure, stating “The cure, which was thought to eliminate the discrepancies in DNA that cause these super powered mutations, does do what it was designed to do, however it the DNA manipulation is temporary, not permanent like previously believed. The Cure was rushed into production out of a desire that it could greatly enrich the quality of life of those affected by the mutant malady.”
A video of a young man, somewhere in his early twenties, dressed smartly in a suit, replaced the image of the female news anchor. Two large ivory feathered wings sprouted from the man’s back, and they waved slightly in the breeze as he talked. The audio was a voice over from the news anchor.
”Warren Worthington the III, Chairman and CEO of Worthington Industries, has pledged his company’s support to those whose powers have returned. Worthington, a mutant himself, who took over the family’s company after the fall out from the battle with the mutant terrorist called Magneto, seems to be sincere in his efforts, as trauma centers in every big city are being set up and funded by Worthington Industries.”
“Oh great.” The barkeep mutters, looking up at the TV while filling a glass full of cheap beer. “Just what the world needs. More freaks. I thought that whole freaking thing was over now.”
“Not every mutant took the freaking cure.” Dean spits, slamming down a couple of bucks to pay for his drink. “Ever think about that, wise ass?”
He stalks out the bar at a furious pace. The wheels of the Impala spin in the parking lot, taking him back to his hotel room in a flea bitten hole in the wall, empty save a few changes of clothes, just like he left it.
Dean’s gotten used to being alone.
____________________________
Weeks later, he wakes up in the middle of the night, shaking in the middle of the night, his head spinning and pounding. He’s sweating slightly, a cold and chilly sweat that soaks into every pore of his skin.
Guess the cure didn’t work after all.
He grabs a slip of paper and jots down all the little details he can remember. And then he gets up, walks over to the sink and pops a couple of Advils. Those damn visions pack quite a punch, especially after not having one for so long. Damn it.
He fires up the laptop, and after Googling and after trying all the other backdoor web searching methods that his brother and father perfected, he’s got a lead- the name of a small town in middle Tennessee.
Columbia. Mule Capital of the world.
The perfect place for a jackass.
He’s on the road by dawn, and he watches the sunrise as he searches in vain for music that won’t bring back his headache.
Reception sucks out here in the middle of Nowhere.
___________________________
“Former Presidential Homes.” He says with a chuckle. “They’re not just for tourists anymore.” It feels good to be back in the game, to have the upper hand, again. He isn’t falling back-asswards into fighting this demon, relying on chance and newspaper articles. He’d forgotten how much the visions simplified the process of kicking demon ass.
He runs towards the door, gun in his hand, rock salt in his pocket.
He reaches the first door at the same time as another person.
A quick tilt of his flashlight beam to the face reveals a familiar face.
“Finally. We’re back in this again.” Dean says with a grin. “Welcome back to the game, Sammy.”
Sam nods swiftly, and a minute later, they knock down the antique door, assured in the fact that the demon would have knocked it down, eventually, anyway.
_______________________
Sam is sitting in the passenger seat again, as Dean drives through the deserted streets of the tiny town.
It’s easy to pretend that this is just another day, another case in their long road trip on the way to nowhere. But they both know it’s not.
As the scenery turns from city scenery to cows at the roadside, Dean opens his mouth to talk.
“Don’t say it.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were going to.”
“Oh tell me, Sammy, what in the hell was I going to say?”
“I told you so.”
“Actually, I was gonna make a snide quip about the fact that the secret service totally screwed over James K. Polk, but since you mentioned it, I told you so.”
“Dean…”
“The whole cure thing was too easy, Sam. Too neat and tidy- and there ain’t nothing in our life that has been neat or tidy.”
“I’m not going to apologize.” Sam indignantly crosses his arms firmly in front of him, acting very much like the sullen teenager he’d been years before. “I didn’t do anything wrong. I did what I thought was best for me.”
“Well, yippee for you.” Dean says dryly. “So how did the whole concept of having a normal life again go for you? Because it just went over gangbusters before, with your girlfriend being murdered by a demon and burning in a fire, didn’t it?”
“Don’t…” Sam warns.
“It’s true.”
“Dean…”
“Was it worth it, Sammy?”
Dean’s question hangs in the air for a moment before Sam replies. “I kept waiting for the other shoe to drop. For it not to work, right from the get go. That made me miserable. And I stayed miserable, until last week, when I went to the park. There was this little girl named Carol, and she fell off the jungle gym. Her nanny went to help her, and the nanny started, I don’t know, sucking the life force from this girl. The nanny had gotten the cure, and her powers suddenly kicked back into gear. Carol’s in a coma in the hospital, and the nanny was carted off somewhere by the authorities. And it made me thankful, at least, that I didn’t have powers like that. And if my powers came back, at least I wouldn’t be ruining anyone else’s life.”
“No, but you came pretty damn close when you took that stinking cure.” Dean mutters.
“What?” Sam said, staring at his brother. “You told me you took the cure.”
“Yeah, well, I lied. It’s not like being empathetic has any outward signs or shit.”
“Why would you do that?”
“Being normal was what you wanted. You wanted a normal life, the fancy law career and 2.5 kids in the suburbs. You’ve never been happy being a hunter, Sammy.”
“You don’t know what I want.” Sam pouts.
“Hell.” Dean swears, pulling over into a country gas station. “Every damn time you try to carry the world on your puny little shoulders, I’m the one that feels the fall out.”
“Well, I’m sorry that all my angst ruins your life.” Sam growls.
“Damn it, Sam. It felt like somebody freaking cut off half of my body. It would be a hell of a lot easier if I wasn’t emotionally co-dependent on your stinky ass, but it seems that fate didn’t give me that chance. When you took that cure, you didn’t just take away a part of yourself, Sammy boy. You took away a part of me, too.” Dean gets out of the Impala and slams the door shut, leaving Sam alone in the a car that is as silent as a tomb.
by Tracy (lunarknightz)
Rating: PG-13.
Pairing: Gen.
Spoilers: X3.
Disclaimer: Fanfic is like playing Barbies with fandom characters. Except with words instead of plastic dolls. And while I do own Barbie dolls, I don’t own the stuff I write fan fiction about. At all.
Summary: The mutant cure isn't permanent.
Author's Note: A sequel of The X2/SPN crossover I wrote Proof in the Blood. Dean's exact power is inspired by the remix of "Proof in the Blood"- Man of War (Both Sides Now Remix)by trollprincess.
“Turn it up.” He growls, after the television in this seedy little bar smack dab in the middle of catches his attention. The barkeep fumbles under the bar for the remote, and gives up after knocking over a pitcher of beer- not the cheap stuff that’s on special that night, but some import that he’d just poured to take over to the rowdy group of bachelor party guests over in the far corner of the bar.
“Damn it.” The barkeep says, standing on his tip toes to reach the television from the spot where it is hangs down from the ceiling. “Happy now?” He glares at Dean, making it known that he’s expecting Dean’s tip to even out the loss of the imported beer.
That’s not bloody likely, and Dean doesn’t even acknowledge the barkeep. His attention is solely on the talking head on the television.
“Stock in Worthington Industries plummeted further today, as more reports of more and more relapses for those who took the so called “Mutant Cure” months ago. The FDA released a statement today about the cure, stating “The cure, which was thought to eliminate the discrepancies in DNA that cause these super powered mutations, does do what it was designed to do, however it the DNA manipulation is temporary, not permanent like previously believed. The Cure was rushed into production out of a desire that it could greatly enrich the quality of life of those affected by the mutant malady.”
A video of a young man, somewhere in his early twenties, dressed smartly in a suit, replaced the image of the female news anchor. Two large ivory feathered wings sprouted from the man’s back, and they waved slightly in the breeze as he talked. The audio was a voice over from the news anchor.
”Warren Worthington the III, Chairman and CEO of Worthington Industries, has pledged his company’s support to those whose powers have returned. Worthington, a mutant himself, who took over the family’s company after the fall out from the battle with the mutant terrorist called Magneto, seems to be sincere in his efforts, as trauma centers in every big city are being set up and funded by Worthington Industries.”
“Oh great.” The barkeep mutters, looking up at the TV while filling a glass full of cheap beer. “Just what the world needs. More freaks. I thought that whole freaking thing was over now.”
“Not every mutant took the freaking cure.” Dean spits, slamming down a couple of bucks to pay for his drink. “Ever think about that, wise ass?”
He stalks out the bar at a furious pace. The wheels of the Impala spin in the parking lot, taking him back to his hotel room in a flea bitten hole in the wall, empty save a few changes of clothes, just like he left it.
Dean’s gotten used to being alone.
____________________________
Weeks later, he wakes up in the middle of the night, shaking in the middle of the night, his head spinning and pounding. He’s sweating slightly, a cold and chilly sweat that soaks into every pore of his skin.
Guess the cure didn’t work after all.
He grabs a slip of paper and jots down all the little details he can remember. And then he gets up, walks over to the sink and pops a couple of Advils. Those damn visions pack quite a punch, especially after not having one for so long. Damn it.
He fires up the laptop, and after Googling and after trying all the other backdoor web searching methods that his brother and father perfected, he’s got a lead- the name of a small town in middle Tennessee.
Columbia. Mule Capital of the world.
The perfect place for a jackass.
He’s on the road by dawn, and he watches the sunrise as he searches in vain for music that won’t bring back his headache.
Reception sucks out here in the middle of Nowhere.
___________________________
“Former Presidential Homes.” He says with a chuckle. “They’re not just for tourists anymore.” It feels good to be back in the game, to have the upper hand, again. He isn’t falling back-asswards into fighting this demon, relying on chance and newspaper articles. He’d forgotten how much the visions simplified the process of kicking demon ass.
He runs towards the door, gun in his hand, rock salt in his pocket.
He reaches the first door at the same time as another person.
A quick tilt of his flashlight beam to the face reveals a familiar face.
“Finally. We’re back in this again.” Dean says with a grin. “Welcome back to the game, Sammy.”
Sam nods swiftly, and a minute later, they knock down the antique door, assured in the fact that the demon would have knocked it down, eventually, anyway.
_______________________
Sam is sitting in the passenger seat again, as Dean drives through the deserted streets of the tiny town.
It’s easy to pretend that this is just another day, another case in their long road trip on the way to nowhere. But they both know it’s not.
As the scenery turns from city scenery to cows at the roadside, Dean opens his mouth to talk.
“Don’t say it.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were going to.”
“Oh tell me, Sammy, what in the hell was I going to say?”
“I told you so.”
“Actually, I was gonna make a snide quip about the fact that the secret service totally screwed over James K. Polk, but since you mentioned it, I told you so.”
“Dean…”
“The whole cure thing was too easy, Sam. Too neat and tidy- and there ain’t nothing in our life that has been neat or tidy.”
“I’m not going to apologize.” Sam indignantly crosses his arms firmly in front of him, acting very much like the sullen teenager he’d been years before. “I didn’t do anything wrong. I did what I thought was best for me.”
“Well, yippee for you.” Dean says dryly. “So how did the whole concept of having a normal life again go for you? Because it just went over gangbusters before, with your girlfriend being murdered by a demon and burning in a fire, didn’t it?”
“Don’t…” Sam warns.
“It’s true.”
“Dean…”
“Was it worth it, Sammy?”
Dean’s question hangs in the air for a moment before Sam replies. “I kept waiting for the other shoe to drop. For it not to work, right from the get go. That made me miserable. And I stayed miserable, until last week, when I went to the park. There was this little girl named Carol, and she fell off the jungle gym. Her nanny went to help her, and the nanny started, I don’t know, sucking the life force from this girl. The nanny had gotten the cure, and her powers suddenly kicked back into gear. Carol’s in a coma in the hospital, and the nanny was carted off somewhere by the authorities. And it made me thankful, at least, that I didn’t have powers like that. And if my powers came back, at least I wouldn’t be ruining anyone else’s life.”
“No, but you came pretty damn close when you took that stinking cure.” Dean mutters.
“What?” Sam said, staring at his brother. “You told me you took the cure.”
“Yeah, well, I lied. It’s not like being empathetic has any outward signs or shit.”
“Why would you do that?”
“Being normal was what you wanted. You wanted a normal life, the fancy law career and 2.5 kids in the suburbs. You’ve never been happy being a hunter, Sammy.”
“You don’t know what I want.” Sam pouts.
“Hell.” Dean swears, pulling over into a country gas station. “Every damn time you try to carry the world on your puny little shoulders, I’m the one that feels the fall out.”
“Well, I’m sorry that all my angst ruins your life.” Sam growls.
“Damn it, Sam. It felt like somebody freaking cut off half of my body. It would be a hell of a lot easier if I wasn’t emotionally co-dependent on your stinky ass, but it seems that fate didn’t give me that chance. When you took that cure, you didn’t just take away a part of yourself, Sammy boy. You took away a part of me, too.” Dean gets out of the Impala and slams the door shut, leaving Sam alone in the a car that is as silent as a tomb.