Corner of Your Eye (5/14)
Perhaps I will slow down on this story soon. I dunno. It's kind of cool, being so excited. Writing is fun again! This pleases me.
So does JACKNDEAN!
Fandom: Supernatural/Stargate Xover!
Title: Corner of Your Eye
Author: Maychorian
Characters: Jack O'Neill, Dean Winchester
Category: Action/Adventure, Hurt/Comfort
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: 1690 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
5
Damn, it had been a long time since Jack had carried a buddy out of enemy territory, though he'd certainly done it plenty of times, and the memories still felt fresh. By the time he got back to where he'd parked the truck, hauling Dean over his shoulder in a fireman's carry, both knees were aching and he was just about ready to call it quits. He was definitely too old for this.
But he'd still beaten the punk kid in a fair fight, and Dean had been a very worthy sparring partner, so he guessed he hadn't lost all of his teeth yet. Jack allowed himself a small smirk as he wrestled the passenger door open with one hand, then hefted the kid's dead weight into the seat. The smirk faded, though, as he remembered that thing he had shot at, first with his sidearm, then with the zat, and finally with Dean's shotgun. What was that? No alien Jack had ever seen or heard of, though he supposed he could still be right.
Maybe not, though. Could be that Dean had been the one with the correct theory all along, whatever it was. And wasn't that just a kick in the pants.
Dean moaned softly as Jack settled him in the truck, shivering in the spring air. The boy was too pale, face slack in unconsciousness, hands clammy and shuddering with post-trauma chills. Probably some mild shock setting in.
Jack took off his fatigue jacket and pulled Dean's arms through the sleeves, backward, wrapping it around the slim figure, then leaned over to start the truck and turn the heater up to full. Then he took the kid's head in his hands, feeling around for the bump. The crack of Dean's skull hitting that tree still echoed in his ears. It had sounded like a hard one, and he wasn't surprised that the young man was still out.
There was a patch of blood-matted hair at the back of Dean's head, but the bleeding had stopped. Jack explored the bump as carefully as he could. It didn't feel too bad, but he was sure it would hurt like a son-of-a-bitch. And every blow to the head brought the risk of internal hemorrhaging, brain damage, death. If Dean didn't wake up soon, he'd have to take him to a clinic. From what he knew of the kid, he figured that the attention wouldn't be welcome.
Just as he started to pull his hands back, though, Dean released a little whimper and his eyes slid open, just a sliver. Jack gave the kid a smile, studying his eyes. Pupils were the same size, and when he turned Dean's head in his hands, they reacted to the light the way they ought to.
"Hey, buddy. How ya feeling?"
"Mmrmph." Dean's eyes tracked him carefully, sluggish and confused. "Dad?"
"Nope, just me. Jack. The old guy."
"Oh." Dean let his eyes slide shut again, utterly relaxed, practically melting back against the seat. Apparently he trusted Jack as fully as he trusted his dad. Heartwarming, but not what Jack needed at the moment.
Jack lowered his hands to Dean's shoulders and gave them a little shake, trying not to jostle his head. "Hey, I need you to stay awake for a little bit, okay?"
"Mmm…'kay." Dean forced his eyes open again, struggling to focus on Jack's face.
"Can you remember what happened?"
"Ummm… Yeah. Dark. Cold. It was gonna pull me down. You shot it with the salt." He attempted a queasy-looking smile and gave Jack a shaky thumbs up. "Was awesome."
The words were a little slurred, but not too bad, and no temporary amnesia. Jack nodded. "Okay, good. How do you feel? Think you're gonna throw up?"
"Nope. 'M good."
"Dizzy? Weak?"
Dean let out a put-upon sigh. "I'm tired, man. Lemme sleep."
That was a yes, then. "In a minute, I promise. First, can you tell me what that was and how I can kill it?"
Dean had let his eyelids slip down again, but at this he opened up one more time and fixed Jack with a pleading stare. "Nap first. Then I tell you. Okay?"
God, the youngster was trying to negotiate with him. Concussed, ill, and making a deal. Jack supposed he shouldn't be surprised. This boy was clearly a soldier of some kind, fighting a war at the edges of society, giving no quarter and taking no chances.
He couldn't help but smile. "All right, Dean. You go ahead and nap. I'll keep an eye out."
"Thanks, Jack." Dean faded easily down into sleep, turning his head and curling up in the seat.
Jack pulled the seatbelt around and strapped him in, then closed the door as quietly as he could. Back to the cabin, then. Let the kid rest and recover a bit. And then they were going to have a talk.
X
Back at the cabin, Jack roused Dean enough to walk from the truck to the door. The young man's arm was slung heavily about his neck, and their feet almost tangled together as they made their way up the porch steps and stumble-thumped across the rough wooden planking, Dean clumsy with weakness and fatigue, Jack fighting the soreness in his knees. He got them inside, deposited the kid on the biggest, comfiest sofa, and went to the bathroom for supplies.
He returned to find a confused and cross-eyed Dean struggling to take off the fatigue jacket and failing miserably, tugging ineffectively at one wrist and then the other. As Jack stood there watching, fighting to contain his amusement, he grunted in frustration and gave up, glaring blearily down at the jacket's back wrapped around his torso. Jack snorted quietly and hesitated for a moment before deciding to go ahead and rescue the poor kid from the vicious coat-creature.
He set the first aid kit on the end table next to the sofa and sat down, reaching over to help untangle the tough green fabric. "Here, let me get that for ya."
Dean accepted the assistance in much the same way that an exhausted five-year-old would accept help getting out of a snowsuit, letting the other man peel off the fatigues, and then his own leather jacket underneath that. But when Jack reached for his head again, he jerked away with a hiss. "'S fine," he blurted, the words garbled and almost unintelligible. His narrow-eyed scowl, though, spoke much more clearly.
"I'm sure it is," Jack said calmly. "I just want to make sure."
"Don' touch it!" The kid tried to stiff-arm him away, his entire body stretching tight, vibrating with "keep-off" vibes. He was too dizzy and befuddled to put up any effective resistance, but the struggle still wasn't doing him any favors, and Jack growled in irritation.
"Hold it, Dean Winchester." He put on the barking commander's voice again, and again the younger man responded. Like flipping a switch, he went still and quiet, blinking at Jack in silent confusion. Again, Jack wondered what branch of the military this boy had been in. Army? Marines?
"Let me help you," the older man said, trying on a soothing tone just to see how it felt. He could still hear the annoyance surging beneath it, though-"soothing" was not his best. "If you don't let me take care of it, I'll have to drag you to the clinic forty-five minutes away, and that won't be any fun for either of us. Now, you took a good smack to your noggin, and I just want to make sure that nothing's broken. You gonna let me?"
Dean nodded slowly, and offered no more trouble. He turned sideways to let Jack clean the wound on the back of his head and bandage it with butterfly strips. Though he trembled a bit when the antiseptic hit the raw flesh, he held absolutely still, pressing his side against the back of the couch as if he could hide there. Like it was his job to obey, to give every scrap of energy he had in order to do what he was told. When Jack finished, he let his fingers wander into the soft, mussed hair on the side of the kid's head, away from the wound, and rested them there for a moment like a quiet benediction.
"Good boy," he said softly, hardly knowing why. "Good soldier. You're gonna be fine."
He went back to the bathroom for ibuprofen and a glass of water. Dean took the small brown pills from his palm without question, drained the glass, and stretched his wiry length out on the sofa with a small sigh. Wordlessly, Jack unlaced the kid's dirt-crusted boots and set them aside, then covered him with a Native American-patterned afghan. Dean let his eyes drift shut, was already gone before Jack finished tucking him in and stood up.
Jack stood there for a moment looking down at him. Charlie…Charlie would be in his early twenties, now. He would be strong, and tall, and Jack could only hope that he would have been half as smart and brave as this young man was. Maybe he would have joined the Air Force. Maybe not-he'd been an independent-minded little cuss, just as ornery as his old man-he might have decided to be a lawyer just to spite him.
God, he didn't know why he was thinking of his son, so long dead and buried. Jack turned sharply away and strode over to the telephone. There was someone he needed to call.
Still, he found himself gazing back over at the sleeping young man as he listened to the ringing at the other end. Dean looked peaceful, there, sleeping under Jack's afghan, the lamp by his head spreading a pool of warm, yellow light. The kid would be fine, he was sure.
Jack jerked his eyes away as the person on the other end picked up. "Yeah, hey, Daniel? I was wondering if you knew about any sort of alien, or legend, or folk creature or something, some kind of entity that doesn't like salt…."
Part 6
So does JACKNDEAN!
Fandom: Supernatural/Stargate Xover!
Title: Corner of Your Eye
Author: Maychorian
Characters: Jack O'Neill, Dean Winchester
Category: Action/Adventure, Hurt/Comfort
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: 1690 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
5
Damn, it had been a long time since Jack had carried a buddy out of enemy territory, though he'd certainly done it plenty of times, and the memories still felt fresh. By the time he got back to where he'd parked the truck, hauling Dean over his shoulder in a fireman's carry, both knees were aching and he was just about ready to call it quits. He was definitely too old for this.
But he'd still beaten the punk kid in a fair fight, and Dean had been a very worthy sparring partner, so he guessed he hadn't lost all of his teeth yet. Jack allowed himself a small smirk as he wrestled the passenger door open with one hand, then hefted the kid's dead weight into the seat. The smirk faded, though, as he remembered that thing he had shot at, first with his sidearm, then with the zat, and finally with Dean's shotgun. What was that? No alien Jack had ever seen or heard of, though he supposed he could still be right.
Maybe not, though. Could be that Dean had been the one with the correct theory all along, whatever it was. And wasn't that just a kick in the pants.
Dean moaned softly as Jack settled him in the truck, shivering in the spring air. The boy was too pale, face slack in unconsciousness, hands clammy and shuddering with post-trauma chills. Probably some mild shock setting in.
Jack took off his fatigue jacket and pulled Dean's arms through the sleeves, backward, wrapping it around the slim figure, then leaned over to start the truck and turn the heater up to full. Then he took the kid's head in his hands, feeling around for the bump. The crack of Dean's skull hitting that tree still echoed in his ears. It had sounded like a hard one, and he wasn't surprised that the young man was still out.
There was a patch of blood-matted hair at the back of Dean's head, but the bleeding had stopped. Jack explored the bump as carefully as he could. It didn't feel too bad, but he was sure it would hurt like a son-of-a-bitch. And every blow to the head brought the risk of internal hemorrhaging, brain damage, death. If Dean didn't wake up soon, he'd have to take him to a clinic. From what he knew of the kid, he figured that the attention wouldn't be welcome.
Just as he started to pull his hands back, though, Dean released a little whimper and his eyes slid open, just a sliver. Jack gave the kid a smile, studying his eyes. Pupils were the same size, and when he turned Dean's head in his hands, they reacted to the light the way they ought to.
"Hey, buddy. How ya feeling?"
"Mmrmph." Dean's eyes tracked him carefully, sluggish and confused. "Dad?"
"Nope, just me. Jack. The old guy."
"Oh." Dean let his eyes slide shut again, utterly relaxed, practically melting back against the seat. Apparently he trusted Jack as fully as he trusted his dad. Heartwarming, but not what Jack needed at the moment.
Jack lowered his hands to Dean's shoulders and gave them a little shake, trying not to jostle his head. "Hey, I need you to stay awake for a little bit, okay?"
"Mmm…'kay." Dean forced his eyes open again, struggling to focus on Jack's face.
"Can you remember what happened?"
"Ummm… Yeah. Dark. Cold. It was gonna pull me down. You shot it with the salt." He attempted a queasy-looking smile and gave Jack a shaky thumbs up. "Was awesome."
The words were a little slurred, but not too bad, and no temporary amnesia. Jack nodded. "Okay, good. How do you feel? Think you're gonna throw up?"
"Nope. 'M good."
"Dizzy? Weak?"
Dean let out a put-upon sigh. "I'm tired, man. Lemme sleep."
That was a yes, then. "In a minute, I promise. First, can you tell me what that was and how I can kill it?"
Dean had let his eyelids slip down again, but at this he opened up one more time and fixed Jack with a pleading stare. "Nap first. Then I tell you. Okay?"
God, the youngster was trying to negotiate with him. Concussed, ill, and making a deal. Jack supposed he shouldn't be surprised. This boy was clearly a soldier of some kind, fighting a war at the edges of society, giving no quarter and taking no chances.
He couldn't help but smile. "All right, Dean. You go ahead and nap. I'll keep an eye out."
"Thanks, Jack." Dean faded easily down into sleep, turning his head and curling up in the seat.
Jack pulled the seatbelt around and strapped him in, then closed the door as quietly as he could. Back to the cabin, then. Let the kid rest and recover a bit. And then they were going to have a talk.
X
Back at the cabin, Jack roused Dean enough to walk from the truck to the door. The young man's arm was slung heavily about his neck, and their feet almost tangled together as they made their way up the porch steps and stumble-thumped across the rough wooden planking, Dean clumsy with weakness and fatigue, Jack fighting the soreness in his knees. He got them inside, deposited the kid on the biggest, comfiest sofa, and went to the bathroom for supplies.
He returned to find a confused and cross-eyed Dean struggling to take off the fatigue jacket and failing miserably, tugging ineffectively at one wrist and then the other. As Jack stood there watching, fighting to contain his amusement, he grunted in frustration and gave up, glaring blearily down at the jacket's back wrapped around his torso. Jack snorted quietly and hesitated for a moment before deciding to go ahead and rescue the poor kid from the vicious coat-creature.
He set the first aid kit on the end table next to the sofa and sat down, reaching over to help untangle the tough green fabric. "Here, let me get that for ya."
Dean accepted the assistance in much the same way that an exhausted five-year-old would accept help getting out of a snowsuit, letting the other man peel off the fatigues, and then his own leather jacket underneath that. But when Jack reached for his head again, he jerked away with a hiss. "'S fine," he blurted, the words garbled and almost unintelligible. His narrow-eyed scowl, though, spoke much more clearly.
"I'm sure it is," Jack said calmly. "I just want to make sure."
"Don' touch it!" The kid tried to stiff-arm him away, his entire body stretching tight, vibrating with "keep-off" vibes. He was too dizzy and befuddled to put up any effective resistance, but the struggle still wasn't doing him any favors, and Jack growled in irritation.
"Hold it, Dean Winchester." He put on the barking commander's voice again, and again the younger man responded. Like flipping a switch, he went still and quiet, blinking at Jack in silent confusion. Again, Jack wondered what branch of the military this boy had been in. Army? Marines?
"Let me help you," the older man said, trying on a soothing tone just to see how it felt. He could still hear the annoyance surging beneath it, though-"soothing" was not his best. "If you don't let me take care of it, I'll have to drag you to the clinic forty-five minutes away, and that won't be any fun for either of us. Now, you took a good smack to your noggin, and I just want to make sure that nothing's broken. You gonna let me?"
Dean nodded slowly, and offered no more trouble. He turned sideways to let Jack clean the wound on the back of his head and bandage it with butterfly strips. Though he trembled a bit when the antiseptic hit the raw flesh, he held absolutely still, pressing his side against the back of the couch as if he could hide there. Like it was his job to obey, to give every scrap of energy he had in order to do what he was told. When Jack finished, he let his fingers wander into the soft, mussed hair on the side of the kid's head, away from the wound, and rested them there for a moment like a quiet benediction.
"Good boy," he said softly, hardly knowing why. "Good soldier. You're gonna be fine."
He went back to the bathroom for ibuprofen and a glass of water. Dean took the small brown pills from his palm without question, drained the glass, and stretched his wiry length out on the sofa with a small sigh. Wordlessly, Jack unlaced the kid's dirt-crusted boots and set them aside, then covered him with a Native American-patterned afghan. Dean let his eyes drift shut, was already gone before Jack finished tucking him in and stood up.
Jack stood there for a moment looking down at him. Charlie…Charlie would be in his early twenties, now. He would be strong, and tall, and Jack could only hope that he would have been half as smart and brave as this young man was. Maybe he would have joined the Air Force. Maybe not-he'd been an independent-minded little cuss, just as ornery as his old man-he might have decided to be a lawyer just to spite him.
God, he didn't know why he was thinking of his son, so long dead and buried. Jack turned sharply away and strode over to the telephone. There was someone he needed to call.
Still, he found himself gazing back over at the sleeping young man as he listened to the ringing at the other end. Dean looked peaceful, there, sleeping under Jack's afghan, the lamp by his head spreading a pool of warm, yellow light. The kid would be fine, he was sure.
Jack jerked his eyes away as the person on the other end picked up. "Yeah, hey, Daniel? I was wondering if you knew about any sort of alien, or legend, or folk creature or something, some kind of entity that doesn't like salt…."
Part 6