Corner of Your Eye (3/14)
This part was really easy to write. Dang, I love these two. JACKNDEAN!
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: 1610 for this part
Disclaimer: As soon as I own them, you'll know. Oh yes, yes, the day is coming.
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
3
From the cocky upturned collar of his leather jacket and the total stupidity of being here at all, Jack had pegged the kid as the kind to rise to cheap shots, get angry, and then stomp off in a pique. It should be easy enough to rile the little punk up to the point that he would voluntarily leave this area, where his life was in very real danger. Jack started his salvo with a low, obvious insult to the youngster's age and inexperience, and was gratified to see him immediately pale with rage, lips tightening, freckles standing out.
Then the kid seemed to gather himself, sticking the Walkman in his pocket and settling back on his heels, an insouciant, white-toothed grin spreading out over his face. Laying claim to the territory. "Nah, I'm good," he said, an insolent lilt in his voice. "Gorgeous weather, beautiful spring day, and mmm-" He spread his arms wide, taking in a deep breath through his nose, chest rising grandiosely. "-gotta love that zesty fresh scent in the air." Dark eyebrows lowered in mock concern, hands falling back to his hips. "I'm more worried about you, old guy. Air's got a bit of a nip to it-is your arthritis acting up? I can walk you back to the road if you like-won't take more'n a few minutes." He twisted back toward the way he came, hands gesturing in invitation, face open and innocent.
Jack prevented his mouth from drawing tight, keeping his face carefully blank. He leaned against the tree on one shoulder, letting his jacket slide aside to reveal the sidearm on his hip. "You must be new around here. Tourist? You know, there's a reason they tell you not to go off the trails. You could twist your ankle in a rabbit hole or something."
"Not me, man. Got reflexes like a cat. But you're probably slowing down in your old age, huh? Kind of you to be so concerned when you really ought to be more worried for yourself."
"Hey, don't hurt yourself, getting all bent out of shape over my safety. I've been tracking the most dangerous game alive since before you could peepee in the potty." Jack flipped a hand casually toward the kid's arsenal, the guns on his back and in his belt, the knife down his boot. "Sure you shouldn't be more worried about yourself? That sawed-off looks a bit finicky to me. Could go off by itself at any second."
"Dude, the safety is on Old Bessie." The kid reached back with his free hand to pat the shotgun's bore. "I could let a toddler play with it."
"You already are, kid."
"Takes one to know one, old guy."
"You keep calling me that, you're gonna get called something else."
"You keep calling me 'kid,' I'll keep calling you 'old guy.' Equivalency in communication, man."
As they spoke they had gradually stepped toward each other until they were practically chest to chest, voices rising, eyes sparking, hands gesticulating. But Jack fell back a little at the last one, forced to concede this one point. He swiped a hand over his face and adjusted the bill of his cap.
"Look, kid, it isn't safe for you out here," he tried again, in a more reasonable tone of voice. "There's something out here killing people your age. I know these woods, and I'm gonna take care of it."
Genuine bewilderment spilled over the youngster's face then, and he, too, took a small step back. Then he shook his head, slow and sure. "No, old guy, you don't get it. I'm fine. I know what's going on."
Jack blinked. "No, I don't think you do. I have it under control. Go. Play with the other kids." He flapped a hand back toward the road.
"Yeah, no." A short, incredulous laugh burst out of the young man's mouth. "You really should let me handle it."
"And you should really get back to the daycare before they figure out you've escaped."
"Yeah? Did you get a free pass out of the nursing home? 'Cause really, man, you shouldn't be wandering around here alone." The kid stepped away for a minute, calling into the trees. "Hey! Hello! Anyone? Nurse, hospice worker, candy striper? You lost your Alzheimer's patient! I'll look after him till you get here!" He turned back to Jack, holding out a hand as if in reassurance. "Don't worry, buddy," he said in an infuriatingly condescending voice, "I'll make sure you don't get hurt while we wait for your helper to come find you."
"Okay, that's enough," Jack growled. He stepped forward and grabbed the kid's elbow, intent on dragging him out of the danger zone.
X
"The hell-!"
Dean was so startled by the sudden invasion of his personal space that he didn't immediately react when the guy lunged forward and grabbed his arm, then started hauling him back the way he'd come.
"Hey, whoa! Hands off, Mr. Grabby! I'm not that kinda girl." Dean wrenched his arm free and turned to face the other man. Reflexively, he settled into a defensive stance, legs apart, knees bent, arms spread and loose. He grinned, aware that it was probably a little shaky. This sucker was fast. "You gotta at least buy me a drink first."
He blinked a little when the guy automatically mirrored his stance, ready to take him on. And then the older man smiled, wide and predatory, eyes dark and focused. This dude knew what he was doing. "No alcohol for you, kid. I don't want to be hauled away on charges of corrupting minors."
The old guy swung in, open-handed, reaching for Dean's arm again. He blocked it, then retaliated with an easy move he'd been practicing since he was eight. And just like that, they were sparring, finding their balance on the uneven ground, trading blows and blocks and evasions, falling into the rhythm of it as if they did this every day.
They weren't trying to hurt each other, even at the beginning when they reached out in anger and frustration. It felt more like a testing, two equals discovering each other's capabilities. To Dean it felt like fighting with his dad, each pushing the other, enjoying the competition, each determined to win. He swung around a tree and shucked the shotgun, coming out the side aiming another blow. The other man let him do it, was waiting on the other side with a vicious block.
Before long the anger and frustration faded, and it was just two guys trying to beat each other fairly. Their grins became genuine. And they laughed at each other, Dean hot and bright, the old guy ferocious and joyful.
They backed each other up against the trees, fell in the bracken, leaped up to face each other, blocked fists and hand-chops on forearms and raised knees. Dean had the edge in agility and stamina, but the old guy was no slouch. He knew moves Dean had never seen before, never, and he had studied an awful lot of fighting techniques, everything he and Dad could find. Dean knew he was going to win it, though, all he had to do was keep wearing the guy down, it seemed like his knee was bothering him, he would have to give in soon…
A hand on his arm, an elbow to his back, a whirling rush of green as Dean grunted and air deserted him, and he found himself on the ground. He gasped breathlessly, chest pressed into the dirt, black spots floating before his eyes. His arm was twisted behind him and he could feel the old guy's knee in the small of his back, pinning him down. He'd lost. For a moment all he could do was fight to catch his breath. Damn, that hurt.
"Okay, okay! You win! Lemme up!"
The weight vanished and Dean rolled over on his back, still gasping. The guy was holding out a hand. For a moment Dean just stared at him, but then he took the offered help, grasping the callused palm in his.
The other man pulled him to his feet like it was nothing, then clapped him on the shoulder, hard. Dean winced and tried to stretch out that arm. Crap, that ached.
"Sorry, kid. You would have had me, but I don't play fair. Now go on, get outta here. It isn't safe for you here."
Dean panted, staring. The guy had lost his baseball cap and he was sweaty and a little winded, but not nearly as worn out as he should have been. This was no ordinary yokel out hunting squirrels.
"No, listen, man." Dean spoke as calmly and sincerely as he could manage while still struggling for every breath. "You don't know what's going on out here. I do. You don't know how to handle it. You don't have the tools. I'm ready. I've been preparing all my life. I'm not just a kid out screwing around. I know what I'm doing, and this is not a good place for you to be right now. You gotta believe me."
The man looked at him seriously, sucking on his lower lip. "You know that this isn't just a bunch of accidents, heart failure and that junk."
"Yeah. I know."
"Well, okay then. What do you think is going on?"
Dean laughed shortly. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."
The old guy crossed his arms over his chest, eyes narrowed, sweaty gray hair sticking up all over the place. "Try me."
And Dean didn't know what the hell he was supposed to do next.
Part 4
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: 1610 for this part
Disclaimer: As soon as I own them, you'll know. Oh yes, yes, the day is coming.
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
3
From the cocky upturned collar of his leather jacket and the total stupidity of being here at all, Jack had pegged the kid as the kind to rise to cheap shots, get angry, and then stomp off in a pique. It should be easy enough to rile the little punk up to the point that he would voluntarily leave this area, where his life was in very real danger. Jack started his salvo with a low, obvious insult to the youngster's age and inexperience, and was gratified to see him immediately pale with rage, lips tightening, freckles standing out.
Then the kid seemed to gather himself, sticking the Walkman in his pocket and settling back on his heels, an insouciant, white-toothed grin spreading out over his face. Laying claim to the territory. "Nah, I'm good," he said, an insolent lilt in his voice. "Gorgeous weather, beautiful spring day, and mmm-" He spread his arms wide, taking in a deep breath through his nose, chest rising grandiosely. "-gotta love that zesty fresh scent in the air." Dark eyebrows lowered in mock concern, hands falling back to his hips. "I'm more worried about you, old guy. Air's got a bit of a nip to it-is your arthritis acting up? I can walk you back to the road if you like-won't take more'n a few minutes." He twisted back toward the way he came, hands gesturing in invitation, face open and innocent.
Jack prevented his mouth from drawing tight, keeping his face carefully blank. He leaned against the tree on one shoulder, letting his jacket slide aside to reveal the sidearm on his hip. "You must be new around here. Tourist? You know, there's a reason they tell you not to go off the trails. You could twist your ankle in a rabbit hole or something."
"Not me, man. Got reflexes like a cat. But you're probably slowing down in your old age, huh? Kind of you to be so concerned when you really ought to be more worried for yourself."
"Hey, don't hurt yourself, getting all bent out of shape over my safety. I've been tracking the most dangerous game alive since before you could peepee in the potty." Jack flipped a hand casually toward the kid's arsenal, the guns on his back and in his belt, the knife down his boot. "Sure you shouldn't be more worried about yourself? That sawed-off looks a bit finicky to me. Could go off by itself at any second."
"Dude, the safety is on Old Bessie." The kid reached back with his free hand to pat the shotgun's bore. "I could let a toddler play with it."
"You already are, kid."
"Takes one to know one, old guy."
"You keep calling me that, you're gonna get called something else."
"You keep calling me 'kid,' I'll keep calling you 'old guy.' Equivalency in communication, man."
As they spoke they had gradually stepped toward each other until they were practically chest to chest, voices rising, eyes sparking, hands gesticulating. But Jack fell back a little at the last one, forced to concede this one point. He swiped a hand over his face and adjusted the bill of his cap.
"Look, kid, it isn't safe for you out here," he tried again, in a more reasonable tone of voice. "There's something out here killing people your age. I know these woods, and I'm gonna take care of it."
Genuine bewilderment spilled over the youngster's face then, and he, too, took a small step back. Then he shook his head, slow and sure. "No, old guy, you don't get it. I'm fine. I know what's going on."
Jack blinked. "No, I don't think you do. I have it under control. Go. Play with the other kids." He flapped a hand back toward the road.
"Yeah, no." A short, incredulous laugh burst out of the young man's mouth. "You really should let me handle it."
"And you should really get back to the daycare before they figure out you've escaped."
"Yeah? Did you get a free pass out of the nursing home? 'Cause really, man, you shouldn't be wandering around here alone." The kid stepped away for a minute, calling into the trees. "Hey! Hello! Anyone? Nurse, hospice worker, candy striper? You lost your Alzheimer's patient! I'll look after him till you get here!" He turned back to Jack, holding out a hand as if in reassurance. "Don't worry, buddy," he said in an infuriatingly condescending voice, "I'll make sure you don't get hurt while we wait for your helper to come find you."
"Okay, that's enough," Jack growled. He stepped forward and grabbed the kid's elbow, intent on dragging him out of the danger zone.
X
"The hell-!"
Dean was so startled by the sudden invasion of his personal space that he didn't immediately react when the guy lunged forward and grabbed his arm, then started hauling him back the way he'd come.
"Hey, whoa! Hands off, Mr. Grabby! I'm not that kinda girl." Dean wrenched his arm free and turned to face the other man. Reflexively, he settled into a defensive stance, legs apart, knees bent, arms spread and loose. He grinned, aware that it was probably a little shaky. This sucker was fast. "You gotta at least buy me a drink first."
He blinked a little when the guy automatically mirrored his stance, ready to take him on. And then the older man smiled, wide and predatory, eyes dark and focused. This dude knew what he was doing. "No alcohol for you, kid. I don't want to be hauled away on charges of corrupting minors."
The old guy swung in, open-handed, reaching for Dean's arm again. He blocked it, then retaliated with an easy move he'd been practicing since he was eight. And just like that, they were sparring, finding their balance on the uneven ground, trading blows and blocks and evasions, falling into the rhythm of it as if they did this every day.
They weren't trying to hurt each other, even at the beginning when they reached out in anger and frustration. It felt more like a testing, two equals discovering each other's capabilities. To Dean it felt like fighting with his dad, each pushing the other, enjoying the competition, each determined to win. He swung around a tree and shucked the shotgun, coming out the side aiming another blow. The other man let him do it, was waiting on the other side with a vicious block.
Before long the anger and frustration faded, and it was just two guys trying to beat each other fairly. Their grins became genuine. And they laughed at each other, Dean hot and bright, the old guy ferocious and joyful.
They backed each other up against the trees, fell in the bracken, leaped up to face each other, blocked fists and hand-chops on forearms and raised knees. Dean had the edge in agility and stamina, but the old guy was no slouch. He knew moves Dean had never seen before, never, and he had studied an awful lot of fighting techniques, everything he and Dad could find. Dean knew he was going to win it, though, all he had to do was keep wearing the guy down, it seemed like his knee was bothering him, he would have to give in soon…
A hand on his arm, an elbow to his back, a whirling rush of green as Dean grunted and air deserted him, and he found himself on the ground. He gasped breathlessly, chest pressed into the dirt, black spots floating before his eyes. His arm was twisted behind him and he could feel the old guy's knee in the small of his back, pinning him down. He'd lost. For a moment all he could do was fight to catch his breath. Damn, that hurt.
"Okay, okay! You win! Lemme up!"
The weight vanished and Dean rolled over on his back, still gasping. The guy was holding out a hand. For a moment Dean just stared at him, but then he took the offered help, grasping the callused palm in his.
The other man pulled him to his feet like it was nothing, then clapped him on the shoulder, hard. Dean winced and tried to stretch out that arm. Crap, that ached.
"Sorry, kid. You would have had me, but I don't play fair. Now go on, get outta here. It isn't safe for you here."
Dean panted, staring. The guy had lost his baseball cap and he was sweaty and a little winded, but not nearly as worn out as he should have been. This was no ordinary yokel out hunting squirrels.
"No, listen, man." Dean spoke as calmly and sincerely as he could manage while still struggling for every breath. "You don't know what's going on out here. I do. You don't know how to handle it. You don't have the tools. I'm ready. I've been preparing all my life. I'm not just a kid out screwing around. I know what I'm doing, and this is not a good place for you to be right now. You gotta believe me."
The man looked at him seriously, sucking on his lower lip. "You know that this isn't just a bunch of accidents, heart failure and that junk."
"Yeah. I know."
"Well, okay then. What do you think is going on?"
Dean laughed shortly. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."
The old guy crossed his arms over his chest, eyes narrowed, sweaty gray hair sticking up all over the place. "Try me."
And Dean didn't know what the hell he was supposed to do next.
Part 4