Corner of Your Eye (2/14)
I wanted to make this bit longer, but I am le tired. Turns out that it's not a good idea to take two Dramamine in one day, especially if you're as susceptible to sleepy-making drugs as I am, and yes, even if you're at an amusement park and you REALLY WANT TO RIDE THE ROLLERCOASTERS but don't want to get sick. It was a bad decision on my part, and I spent most of today sleeping and peeing in an attempt to get rid of this stupid stuff.
No more drugs for me! I'm swearing 'em off.
The coasters were fun, though.
Fandom: Supernatural/Stargate Xover!
Title: Corner of Your Eye
Author: Maychorian
Characters: Jack O'Neill, Dean Winchester
Category: Action/Adventure as of now
Rating: T/PG-13
Spoilers: Pilot for SPN, up to Season 9 for SG-1
Summary: Jack O'Neill is not very good at being retired. Dean Winchester is not very good at staying out of trouble. And there's something lurking in these here woods….
Word Count: 1501 for this part
Disclaimer: As soon as I own them, you'll know. Oh yes, yes, the day is coming.
Author's Note: JACKNDEAN! This has every potential for becoming a whole universe of crossover stories, because these two are so perfect it makes me teary with joy. Timelines have been fudged a bit to make this work, with the idea that Jack tried to retire again when the Goa'uld were defeated and SG-1 disbanded, and John left Dean a few months before Dean went to find Sam, maybe going after the death in April instead of October. But you know, both of those totally could have happened, so it's not exactly AU. ::shifty eyes::
Complete chapter list: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14
The story is also available in one document on my website: Corner of Your Eye
2
Jack could feel the zat at the small of his back under his jacket, hard and cold, a misshapen lump of metal that wasn't from this world seeming to radiate alienness into his skin. He wasn't supposed to have it, of course, but being the retired director of the SGC had its perks, including no one looking at his briefcase when he left. And obviously, this was entirely justified, since he'd now found himself in need of one.
The zat wasn't the only bit of ex-military paraphernalia he'd brought along for this little excursion into the woods. He was even wearing an old set of fatigues, dark green and as tough and rugged as those Ford commercials wanted you to believe their trucks were. What was the use of giving all that time and energy to Uncle Sam if he couldn't give a little back? Fatigues, ammo, a nicely customized handgun-all part of the pension package.
At least he'd left the C4 back at the cabin. Let it never be said that Jack O'Neill was not a cautious and discreet man.
Okay, this should be close to where Russ Tamlin said he thought he saw something. Jack paused his ground-eating stride and turned slowly around, taking in the surrounding woods through narrowed eyes. Looked like just about any other random patch of trees, and Jack had seen plenty of them, on this and hundreds of other worlds. Like that actually meant anything.
He looked back at the little GPS locator in his hand. Yep, this was as close as he was gonna get without a clairvoyant to tell him exactly where the guy had been standing. Or Tamlin himself, of course. But the old-timer had refused to have anything more to do with this sorry business, and Jack couldn't really blame him. At least Tamlin had plotted his position on a map, close enough for this little doohickey to be of some use. It was a lot more and better information than Jack often had to work with.
As if it purposefully chose this moment to ruin every good feeling Jack was having about it, the GPS made a poit noise, and the screen started fuzzing in and out. Jack growled and hit a few buttons with a stiff, angry finger, then shook the thing a little bit, just in case that would help. But yeah, he should have expected what would happen when he tried his own brand of home repair. The demon-toy just quit working altogether, screen winking to black in a mocking hiss of electronic death. Gah! Technology. He should have known better than to try to deal with this stuff without Carter.
Whatever. Jack stuck the thing in a deep pocket and took a breath. In with Mr. Good Air, out with Mr. Bad Air. In with Mr. Good Air, out with Mr. Bad Air. Gradually he calmed, and felt a flash of gratitude for his Jaffa teammate, especially the time they had accidentally switched bodies and Jack had been forced to figure this out. Teal'c would never use these terms to describe his meditations, but it was the same basic idea, and performed the same function for Jack.
The sound of a step in the forest alerted him to the presence of someone-or something-else, and Jack turned toward the sound, smooth and silent. Then came another step, the crunch of twigs, the shuffle of leaves. The noise was too heavy to belong to one of nature's harmless little denizens, too imprecise to be just a deer. And it was coming closer.
Jack ducked behind a tree, crouching down in a convenient spray of bushes so he could watch the stranger approach. After a moment he caught a flash of something brown through the tree screen, then a pale hand holding some sort of object, small, dark, and oblong. Not a gun. The brief glimpse Jack had gotten seemed to bespeak some sort of little black box, but that made no sense at all.
At last the unwary idiot stepped straight out into the open where anyone could see him. Jack blinked. It was just a kid, somewhere in his twenties, wearing a brown leather jacket and dark green shirt, a shotgun slung over his back, pockets heavy with what Jack was willing to bet were unspent shells. He was holding a stupid Walkman in his hand, the headphones in his ears.
Well, at least that somewhat explained his inability to walk quietly in the woods. But it didn't explain his pure, complete, incomparable idiocy in walking out here, brazen and unguarded, where three people had recently died for no good reason.
Great. It's a civilian.
X
Dad had taken the EMF meter with him, of course. On his way up to Minnesota, Dean stopped at a Goodwill and bought a junky old Walkman, then went to a Radio Shack for a few other components. One evening of work, parts spread over a motel dining table (and a few small electrical burns on his hands, but they didn't count), and he had his own meter, cleverly disguised as a tape player. He was quite pleased. See, Dad? I can do this. No problem.
Russ Tamlin was not quite as easy to work with. The guy seemed exasperated by the questions, said something about way too many people being way too interested in this morbid topic. "That poor boy is dead," he told Dean, frowning fiercely through his gray mustache. "Let the dead rest in peace."
Dean could agree with this sentiment in theory, but sometimes the dead needed a little help to find their peace. Help that he could provide in the form of a bag of salt and a lighted match. So he nodded solemnly, then explained that the dead kid had been a friend of his in high school and he just wanted to understand what had happened. Tamlin sort of melted at this, Dean turned up the charm another few watts, and he had his info.
"Be careful!" The old-timer called as he stepped out of the bait shop. "That thing could get you, too!"
Dean waved back in acknowledgement, gave him a hearty, confident smile. The concern was…kind of sweet, actually. He wanted to assure the fellow that he was a professional, that he could handle it. Just a simple haunting. No sweat.
Now here he was just strolling through the woods, cool as a cuke. He was packing his favorite Colt .45 on one hip and a flask of holy water on the other, Bowie through his belt, pure iron down his boot, shotgun loaded with rock salt on his back. And brand-new EMF meter in his hand. He'd had yet to hear so much as a peep out of the thing, but he was still a little ways off from the spot Tamlin had marked.
This was just initial recon, seeing what he could see. The next few days would be full of research, digging through records at the town hall, charming the locals, eating pie at the local diner. He would find out who the restless spirit had belonged to, discover where they were buried, and put them to rest. First, though, he had to prove to his own satisfaction that he was correct in his assumptions about what was causing this. Protocol. S.O.P. This was what his dad had taught him, the steps and the tools of their trade, and he would prove that he had learned the lessons well.
Dean hummed a little as he stumped through the bracken, cheerful, not taking a lot of care at this point. He could walk quietly in the woods if he wanted, but this was broad daylight, the domain of picnickers and nature enthusiasts. This wasn't a hunt, not yet. Rather, he was hoping that he would draw attention to himself. Let the angry thing come. He was ready to deal with anything. Better him than some poor bastard out for a pleasure hike.
As if responding to the summons, the EMF released a muffled squawk of static in his ear, low, not particularly strong, but definitely there. Dean grinned and swung the Walkman back the other way, stepping forward quickly, hoping for more. Obligingly, here came more hisses and pops, building in intensity. Good. There was definitely something supernatural going on here.
Excited, Dean crunched through some twigs and hit a pile of leaves with his long stride. Then the EMF readings abruptly stopped, the Walkman dead in his hands. He paused momentarily, nonplussed, staring down at his creation. It was silent, just a little block of metal and plastic. Had he crossed a wire somewhere?
And then a tough-looking old guy in a beat-up army jacket stepped out from behind a tree and just stood there scowling at him. "Hey, kid! Don't you think it's time you got home, before your supper gets cold and your mommy starts thinking you got lost?"
Great. It's a civilian.
Part 3
No more drugs for me! I'm swearing 'em off.
The coasters were fun, though.
Fandom: Supernatural/Stargate Xover!
Title: Corner of Your Eye
Author: Maychorian
Characters: Jack O'Neill, Dean Winchester
Category: Action/Adventure as of now
Rating: T/PG-13
Spoilers: Pilot for SPN, up to Season 9 for SG-1
Summary: Jack O'Neill is not very good at being retired. Dean Winchester is not very good at staying out of trouble. And there's something lurking in these here woods….
Word Count: 1501 for this part
Disclaimer: As soon as I own them, you'll know. Oh yes, yes, the day is coming.
Author's Note: JACKNDEAN! This has every potential for becoming a whole universe of crossover stories, because these two are so perfect it makes me teary with joy. Timelines have been fudged a bit to make this work, with the idea that Jack tried to retire again when the Goa'uld were defeated and SG-1 disbanded, and John left Dean a few months before Dean went to find Sam, maybe going after the death in April instead of October. But you know, both of those totally could have happened, so it's not exactly AU. ::shifty eyes::
Complete chapter list: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14
The story is also available in one document on my website: Corner of Your Eye
2
Jack could feel the zat at the small of his back under his jacket, hard and cold, a misshapen lump of metal that wasn't from this world seeming to radiate alienness into his skin. He wasn't supposed to have it, of course, but being the retired director of the SGC had its perks, including no one looking at his briefcase when he left. And obviously, this was entirely justified, since he'd now found himself in need of one.
The zat wasn't the only bit of ex-military paraphernalia he'd brought along for this little excursion into the woods. He was even wearing an old set of fatigues, dark green and as tough and rugged as those Ford commercials wanted you to believe their trucks were. What was the use of giving all that time and energy to Uncle Sam if he couldn't give a little back? Fatigues, ammo, a nicely customized handgun-all part of the pension package.
At least he'd left the C4 back at the cabin. Let it never be said that Jack O'Neill was not a cautious and discreet man.
Okay, this should be close to where Russ Tamlin said he thought he saw something. Jack paused his ground-eating stride and turned slowly around, taking in the surrounding woods through narrowed eyes. Looked like just about any other random patch of trees, and Jack had seen plenty of them, on this and hundreds of other worlds. Like that actually meant anything.
He looked back at the little GPS locator in his hand. Yep, this was as close as he was gonna get without a clairvoyant to tell him exactly where the guy had been standing. Or Tamlin himself, of course. But the old-timer had refused to have anything more to do with this sorry business, and Jack couldn't really blame him. At least Tamlin had plotted his position on a map, close enough for this little doohickey to be of some use. It was a lot more and better information than Jack often had to work with.
As if it purposefully chose this moment to ruin every good feeling Jack was having about it, the GPS made a poit noise, and the screen started fuzzing in and out. Jack growled and hit a few buttons with a stiff, angry finger, then shook the thing a little bit, just in case that would help. But yeah, he should have expected what would happen when he tried his own brand of home repair. The demon-toy just quit working altogether, screen winking to black in a mocking hiss of electronic death. Gah! Technology. He should have known better than to try to deal with this stuff without Carter.
Whatever. Jack stuck the thing in a deep pocket and took a breath. In with Mr. Good Air, out with Mr. Bad Air. In with Mr. Good Air, out with Mr. Bad Air. Gradually he calmed, and felt a flash of gratitude for his Jaffa teammate, especially the time they had accidentally switched bodies and Jack had been forced to figure this out. Teal'c would never use these terms to describe his meditations, but it was the same basic idea, and performed the same function for Jack.
The sound of a step in the forest alerted him to the presence of someone-or something-else, and Jack turned toward the sound, smooth and silent. Then came another step, the crunch of twigs, the shuffle of leaves. The noise was too heavy to belong to one of nature's harmless little denizens, too imprecise to be just a deer. And it was coming closer.
Jack ducked behind a tree, crouching down in a convenient spray of bushes so he could watch the stranger approach. After a moment he caught a flash of something brown through the tree screen, then a pale hand holding some sort of object, small, dark, and oblong. Not a gun. The brief glimpse Jack had gotten seemed to bespeak some sort of little black box, but that made no sense at all.
At last the unwary idiot stepped straight out into the open where anyone could see him. Jack blinked. It was just a kid, somewhere in his twenties, wearing a brown leather jacket and dark green shirt, a shotgun slung over his back, pockets heavy with what Jack was willing to bet were unspent shells. He was holding a stupid Walkman in his hand, the headphones in his ears.
Well, at least that somewhat explained his inability to walk quietly in the woods. But it didn't explain his pure, complete, incomparable idiocy in walking out here, brazen and unguarded, where three people had recently died for no good reason.
Great. It's a civilian.
X
Dad had taken the EMF meter with him, of course. On his way up to Minnesota, Dean stopped at a Goodwill and bought a junky old Walkman, then went to a Radio Shack for a few other components. One evening of work, parts spread over a motel dining table (and a few small electrical burns on his hands, but they didn't count), and he had his own meter, cleverly disguised as a tape player. He was quite pleased. See, Dad? I can do this. No problem.
Russ Tamlin was not quite as easy to work with. The guy seemed exasperated by the questions, said something about way too many people being way too interested in this morbid topic. "That poor boy is dead," he told Dean, frowning fiercely through his gray mustache. "Let the dead rest in peace."
Dean could agree with this sentiment in theory, but sometimes the dead needed a little help to find their peace. Help that he could provide in the form of a bag of salt and a lighted match. So he nodded solemnly, then explained that the dead kid had been a friend of his in high school and he just wanted to understand what had happened. Tamlin sort of melted at this, Dean turned up the charm another few watts, and he had his info.
"Be careful!" The old-timer called as he stepped out of the bait shop. "That thing could get you, too!"
Dean waved back in acknowledgement, gave him a hearty, confident smile. The concern was…kind of sweet, actually. He wanted to assure the fellow that he was a professional, that he could handle it. Just a simple haunting. No sweat.
Now here he was just strolling through the woods, cool as a cuke. He was packing his favorite Colt .45 on one hip and a flask of holy water on the other, Bowie through his belt, pure iron down his boot, shotgun loaded with rock salt on his back. And brand-new EMF meter in his hand. He'd had yet to hear so much as a peep out of the thing, but he was still a little ways off from the spot Tamlin had marked.
This was just initial recon, seeing what he could see. The next few days would be full of research, digging through records at the town hall, charming the locals, eating pie at the local diner. He would find out who the restless spirit had belonged to, discover where they were buried, and put them to rest. First, though, he had to prove to his own satisfaction that he was correct in his assumptions about what was causing this. Protocol. S.O.P. This was what his dad had taught him, the steps and the tools of their trade, and he would prove that he had learned the lessons well.
Dean hummed a little as he stumped through the bracken, cheerful, not taking a lot of care at this point. He could walk quietly in the woods if he wanted, but this was broad daylight, the domain of picnickers and nature enthusiasts. This wasn't a hunt, not yet. Rather, he was hoping that he would draw attention to himself. Let the angry thing come. He was ready to deal with anything. Better him than some poor bastard out for a pleasure hike.
As if responding to the summons, the EMF released a muffled squawk of static in his ear, low, not particularly strong, but definitely there. Dean grinned and swung the Walkman back the other way, stepping forward quickly, hoping for more. Obligingly, here came more hisses and pops, building in intensity. Good. There was definitely something supernatural going on here.
Excited, Dean crunched through some twigs and hit a pile of leaves with his long stride. Then the EMF readings abruptly stopped, the Walkman dead in his hands. He paused momentarily, nonplussed, staring down at his creation. It was silent, just a little block of metal and plastic. Had he crossed a wire somewhere?
And then a tough-looking old guy in a beat-up army jacket stepped out from behind a tree and just stood there scowling at him. "Hey, kid! Don't you think it's time you got home, before your supper gets cold and your mommy starts thinking you got lost?"
Great. It's a civilian.
Part 3