Corner of Your Eye (7/14)
Icon chosen because of ALL THE FREAKIN' QUESTIONS IN THIS CHAPTER! Agh. JacknDean are so suspicious, sometimes. I hope it's not boring or anything. It was harder to write than usual, partly because these guys are dab snippety stubborn and like to glare a lot and NOT TALK. ::shakes finger at recalcitrant characters:: Get along now, okay? I love you, but you can be really annoying sometimes. LIKE NOW.
And now I shall go and enjoy the fair some more. Sorry for being spammy today.
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: 2004 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
7
In all of Jack's admittedly short acquaintance with Dean, he'd never seen the kid so unenthusiastic about running his mouth. Always ready with the quips and the sarcastic retorts, that was clear, but deeply unwilling to talk about anything that actually mattered. Daniel would call this justice. He'd pointed out pretty much the exact same thing about Jack more than once.
A couple of beers always helped loosen tongues, though, and at least Dean seemed relaxed and at peace here, in Jack's rustic little getaway. The TV was on a boring post-game show that Jack had all but muted, and evening was seeping in outside the cabin, deep blue-gray and full of stars.
"So." Jack rested his head against the back of the recliner, staring up at the ceiling. "Ghosts are real."
"Yeah." It seemed to be easier for Dean to talk when they weren't actually looking at each other.
"Ghosts."
"That's the one."
"Are real."
"You got it."
"As well as…what were the others things you said?"
"Werewolves, death omens, revenants, skinwalkers, witches, wendigos, black dogs, curses, spells, and magical freakin' wards." It came out in a kind of light sing-song, though Dean's voice wasn't slurred with drink. Everything was clear and sharp. "Nixies, pixies, nymphs, and elves. All kinds of elementals and other fey. Monsters in the closet, under the bed, in the dark outside your window. All real."
"In the sewers, too?"
"Yeah, probably."
Jack tipped the beer bottle to his mouth again and was disappointed to find it empty. "Vampires?"
"Nope. Far as I know that was just some Bavarian prince with hemophilia. Poor bastard."
He blew out a long breath. "Christ."
"I don't think so. I mean, I know my mom believed in that stuff, but I don't."
Jack slanted a sidelong look at the younger man, but Dean wasn't smiling. Just sitting there as serious as could be, eyes bright in the subdued light of the cabin. Jack hadn't missed the past tense combined with Dean's mom, either.
Well, that sucked.
"And this is… This is what you do."
"Yep. All my life, just about."
Dean fidgeted, and abruptly lurched to his feet. He didn't go far, though-just over to the mantel over the fireplace, where he stared at the pictures there with fierce and unwavering focus, studying each as if they held the secrets of the universe.
Jack thought about getting more beer, but decided that two was probably enough, what with Dean's head and all, and it would be cruel of him to indulge while denying his guest.
And, he had to admit, he didn't really need more alcohol to deal with this. Ghosts are real. Yeah, that…actually kinda made sense, in a crazy, totally screwed-up way. Why not? Why wouldn't they be real? In this universe, it seemed like practically every tall tale and made-up story turned out to be true, in some twisted, awful way.
"So…how do you get into this sort of life? Did they send a recruiter to your high school's job fair?"
"My dad does it," Dean answered absently, peering closer at one particular picture. "I do it, too. Family business. We're a good team." The kid's eyes darted back and forth, reading something in the picture.
He whirled around, swaying slightly with the movement, and fixed Jack with an accusing glare. "You're a general?"
Jack scowled. "Major General. Retired."
Oh God, the kid wasn't going to get all wide-eyed and expect Jack to fix everything now, was he? That was why Jack retired. He didn't like being The Man, having random strangers look at him like he knew everything, could take care of any problem. He liked being on a team, not having lackeys-he missed SG-1, not the SGC.
But Dean's mouth hardened, took on a mulish tilt. Jack sighed silently. Nah, this was gonna be a whole different kind of trouble.
The boy's eyes narrowed. "Army?"
"Air Force."
Oddly, he flinched at that and looked away.
Jack inclined his head, bemused and strangely intrigued by that reaction. "You have a problem with the Air Force, kid?"
Dean mumbled something that sounded like "Don' like planes. Not s'posed t'go that high." He looked back, eyes fierce again. "You know all about me, now. Who are you? What did you think was out there in the woods?"
Jack set his empty beer bottle aside and stood up to be on eye-level with the other guy, and also so he could stick his hands casually in his pockets. It just felt better.
"My name is Jonathan O'Neill. Jack to my friends. I was born in Chicago, but spent much of my growing up years here in Minnesota. When I was old enough, I joined the Air Force. I flew over Iraq. I crashed, was captured, spent time as a prisoner of war. I was in the special forces for awhile, did things I'm not proud of and can't talk about. I was married, had a son. He died. I got divorced, never remarried. Later I was recruited for some very, very classified stuff, and I was there until I retired. I like astronomy, Canadian beer, opera music, classy leather jackets, and the Simpsons. That's who I am. Jack O'Neill. Is that enough for you?"
He met Dean's eyes, forthright, challenging. It was true-he knew far more about Dean than the kid was obviously comfortable with. And now he had returned the favor. What else was there to say?
X
Dean blinked first, breaking their little undeclared staring contest. He ran a hand through his hair, looked back to the pictures on the mantel. Now he understood that picture of the kid with the eighties haircut in the middle, all by itself; now he understood why there weren't any more pictures of the boy growing up. He was gone. Jack's son. Dead.
Shit. That sucked.
All the other pictures, though… Jack young, in desert camo, arm slung around a burly guy with a rough face and a full grin. Jack in his dress blues, that name tag that had alerted Dean to his rank, the fruit salad of medals on his chest. Jack and more buddies, many pictures with the same three-a big black guy with a serious expression, a gorgeous blond with sparkling blue eyes and the best smile Dean had ever seen, a geeky dude with glasses, sometimes with long floppy hair, sometimes with short. Pictures in uniform, in civvies, in all kinds of terrain. He could see the way they were with each other, comfortable, worn-in like old, high-quality boots. The kind of friendship that could take anything, weather any adversity, simultaneously as tough as hard leather and as easy as cream pie. Jack had been part of a team. A really, really good one.
It made him ache for the old days, for Sam at his back, Dad in front of him, the moon above and a hunt waiting, a bloodthirsty son of a bitch just hours away from taking a bullet from the gun in his hand. Always together. Always strong. A three-fold cord is not easily broken. What were they now? Fractured. Lost. Alone.
This wasn't the way it was supposed to be.
Finally, he looked back at the older man, standing there with his fists jammed in his pockets, eyes hard, feet spread, ready to continue their verbal match. Dean didn't try to hide the weariness in his face, his voice. "Yeah, that's enough for me."
Jack looked surprised, then shuffled his feet a little and sat back down, letting all of the tension run out of his body. Dean hesitated, then sat down, too. He hadn't missed the fact that Jack had deliberately side-stepped giving an explanation for what he thought was going on in the woods. But he'd mentioned being in special forces, working on classified stuff… Dean could put together a guess. A spy with stealth equipment, maybe, or some other cockamamie government cover-up bullshit.
But Jack hadn't called in his team. He'd been out there alone. Armed to the teeth and ready for anything, but alone.
"So you're retired, huh?" Dean asked, voice suddenly light, almost teasing.
A little smile flirted over Jack's mouth. "Yup."
"And you thought you'd go after an 'invisible murderer,'" he used his fingers to put gigantic quotes in the air, "all alone, out there in the Minnesota woods, for…what? For fun? Is that what retired Air Force major generals do for fun?"
"Oh, yeah. It was all that and a barrel of monkeys."
Dean chuckled and leaned back in his seat, feeling his eyelids droop in amused contentment. "Dude, you are freakin' Rambo."
"That's me. And you? Where's your dad? You said you were a team."
The contentment fled, dissipating like smoke in the wind, there then gone. Dean felt his mouth twitch, but kept himself from frowning. "He had a job. I had another one. We'll meet up again when we're done."
"So he lets you go up against this stuff all alone?"
The older man sounded faintly incredulous, almost outraged. Dean could feel his shoulders hunching in reaction, and it made him suddenly, desperately angry. He didn't like it. He shouldn't be feeling defensive about the choices his dad made. This was all too familiar.
He deliberately hid all that, kept his voice smooth and even. "Dude, I'm twenty-six."
"So are a lot of people on teams." Jack stopped himself abruptly, looking away. "Look, never mind. I didn't mean to get into that. Just…tell me what we're supposed to do. What's the next step?"
Dean blinked, slow and disbelieving. "We? Uh, no, old guy. No 'we.' You really ought to let me handle this. Don't you get that now? Like you said, it's what I do. And it's what you…don't."
The muscles on Jack's jaw bunched, but he didn't rise to the bait, didn't lash out like Dean was expecting. "No, kid. I think you'd be surprised by just how close this is to what I do. Or did, before I retired." He shrugged, insolent and lazy. "Like you can ever retire from something like this. Listen, your dad isn't here right now, but I am. You need someone to watch your back. Think you would have gotten out of those woods without me? That thing… It's going after young people. It didn't go after me, it went straight for you. And it would have killed you. I know that as well as I know anything."
"Well, you're the one who made me drop my shotgun. I might have been able to get it if you hadn't distracted me." Dean tried to get up a sense of outrage, but it wasn't coming. He was just freakin' tired. And his head hurt like a son-of-a-bitch.
"Maybe you would have been able to get off a round in time. Maybe not. Point is, you don't have to do this alone, kid. And if you don't have to, do you really want to?"
Dean rolled his head over to give the old guy an assessing stare. No, he didn't. He'd never wanted to do this alone, never. It was a family thing. It was supposed to be a family thing. This wasn't his choice, never would have been.
Jack knew it, too. Dean could see it in the dark brown eyes, deep and focused and intense. The older man knew him way, way too well. How could you know someone so well in just a few hours? It was sort of terrifying.
Finally, Dean just gave a little nod, accepting. "Yeah. Okay."
Jack grinned, small, not triumphant or exultant in his win, just pleased. Happy. It was weird. Weird and wonderful, that was what it was.
"So, what's next?"
Dean let the corner of his mouth lift in an answering smile. "Well, we gotta find out what it actually is. And then we find out how to kill it. And then we kill it."
"Sounds like a plan."
Yeah. It was a good plan.
Part 8
And now I shall go and enjoy the fair some more. Sorry for being spammy today.
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: 2004 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
7
In all of Jack's admittedly short acquaintance with Dean, he'd never seen the kid so unenthusiastic about running his mouth. Always ready with the quips and the sarcastic retorts, that was clear, but deeply unwilling to talk about anything that actually mattered. Daniel would call this justice. He'd pointed out pretty much the exact same thing about Jack more than once.
A couple of beers always helped loosen tongues, though, and at least Dean seemed relaxed and at peace here, in Jack's rustic little getaway. The TV was on a boring post-game show that Jack had all but muted, and evening was seeping in outside the cabin, deep blue-gray and full of stars.
"So." Jack rested his head against the back of the recliner, staring up at the ceiling. "Ghosts are real."
"Yeah." It seemed to be easier for Dean to talk when they weren't actually looking at each other.
"Ghosts."
"That's the one."
"Are real."
"You got it."
"As well as…what were the others things you said?"
"Werewolves, death omens, revenants, skinwalkers, witches, wendigos, black dogs, curses, spells, and magical freakin' wards." It came out in a kind of light sing-song, though Dean's voice wasn't slurred with drink. Everything was clear and sharp. "Nixies, pixies, nymphs, and elves. All kinds of elementals and other fey. Monsters in the closet, under the bed, in the dark outside your window. All real."
"In the sewers, too?"
"Yeah, probably."
Jack tipped the beer bottle to his mouth again and was disappointed to find it empty. "Vampires?"
"Nope. Far as I know that was just some Bavarian prince with hemophilia. Poor bastard."
He blew out a long breath. "Christ."
"I don't think so. I mean, I know my mom believed in that stuff, but I don't."
Jack slanted a sidelong look at the younger man, but Dean wasn't smiling. Just sitting there as serious as could be, eyes bright in the subdued light of the cabin. Jack hadn't missed the past tense combined with Dean's mom, either.
Well, that sucked.
"And this is… This is what you do."
"Yep. All my life, just about."
Dean fidgeted, and abruptly lurched to his feet. He didn't go far, though-just over to the mantel over the fireplace, where he stared at the pictures there with fierce and unwavering focus, studying each as if they held the secrets of the universe.
Jack thought about getting more beer, but decided that two was probably enough, what with Dean's head and all, and it would be cruel of him to indulge while denying his guest.
And, he had to admit, he didn't really need more alcohol to deal with this. Ghosts are real. Yeah, that…actually kinda made sense, in a crazy, totally screwed-up way. Why not? Why wouldn't they be real? In this universe, it seemed like practically every tall tale and made-up story turned out to be true, in some twisted, awful way.
"So…how do you get into this sort of life? Did they send a recruiter to your high school's job fair?"
"My dad does it," Dean answered absently, peering closer at one particular picture. "I do it, too. Family business. We're a good team." The kid's eyes darted back and forth, reading something in the picture.
He whirled around, swaying slightly with the movement, and fixed Jack with an accusing glare. "You're a general?"
Jack scowled. "Major General. Retired."
Oh God, the kid wasn't going to get all wide-eyed and expect Jack to fix everything now, was he? That was why Jack retired. He didn't like being The Man, having random strangers look at him like he knew everything, could take care of any problem. He liked being on a team, not having lackeys-he missed SG-1, not the SGC.
But Dean's mouth hardened, took on a mulish tilt. Jack sighed silently. Nah, this was gonna be a whole different kind of trouble.
The boy's eyes narrowed. "Army?"
"Air Force."
Oddly, he flinched at that and looked away.
Jack inclined his head, bemused and strangely intrigued by that reaction. "You have a problem with the Air Force, kid?"
Dean mumbled something that sounded like "Don' like planes. Not s'posed t'go that high." He looked back, eyes fierce again. "You know all about me, now. Who are you? What did you think was out there in the woods?"
Jack set his empty beer bottle aside and stood up to be on eye-level with the other guy, and also so he could stick his hands casually in his pockets. It just felt better.
"My name is Jonathan O'Neill. Jack to my friends. I was born in Chicago, but spent much of my growing up years here in Minnesota. When I was old enough, I joined the Air Force. I flew over Iraq. I crashed, was captured, spent time as a prisoner of war. I was in the special forces for awhile, did things I'm not proud of and can't talk about. I was married, had a son. He died. I got divorced, never remarried. Later I was recruited for some very, very classified stuff, and I was there until I retired. I like astronomy, Canadian beer, opera music, classy leather jackets, and the Simpsons. That's who I am. Jack O'Neill. Is that enough for you?"
He met Dean's eyes, forthright, challenging. It was true-he knew far more about Dean than the kid was obviously comfortable with. And now he had returned the favor. What else was there to say?
X
Dean blinked first, breaking their little undeclared staring contest. He ran a hand through his hair, looked back to the pictures on the mantel. Now he understood that picture of the kid with the eighties haircut in the middle, all by itself; now he understood why there weren't any more pictures of the boy growing up. He was gone. Jack's son. Dead.
Shit. That sucked.
All the other pictures, though… Jack young, in desert camo, arm slung around a burly guy with a rough face and a full grin. Jack in his dress blues, that name tag that had alerted Dean to his rank, the fruit salad of medals on his chest. Jack and more buddies, many pictures with the same three-a big black guy with a serious expression, a gorgeous blond with sparkling blue eyes and the best smile Dean had ever seen, a geeky dude with glasses, sometimes with long floppy hair, sometimes with short. Pictures in uniform, in civvies, in all kinds of terrain. He could see the way they were with each other, comfortable, worn-in like old, high-quality boots. The kind of friendship that could take anything, weather any adversity, simultaneously as tough as hard leather and as easy as cream pie. Jack had been part of a team. A really, really good one.
It made him ache for the old days, for Sam at his back, Dad in front of him, the moon above and a hunt waiting, a bloodthirsty son of a bitch just hours away from taking a bullet from the gun in his hand. Always together. Always strong. A three-fold cord is not easily broken. What were they now? Fractured. Lost. Alone.
This wasn't the way it was supposed to be.
Finally, he looked back at the older man, standing there with his fists jammed in his pockets, eyes hard, feet spread, ready to continue their verbal match. Dean didn't try to hide the weariness in his face, his voice. "Yeah, that's enough for me."
Jack looked surprised, then shuffled his feet a little and sat back down, letting all of the tension run out of his body. Dean hesitated, then sat down, too. He hadn't missed the fact that Jack had deliberately side-stepped giving an explanation for what he thought was going on in the woods. But he'd mentioned being in special forces, working on classified stuff… Dean could put together a guess. A spy with stealth equipment, maybe, or some other cockamamie government cover-up bullshit.
But Jack hadn't called in his team. He'd been out there alone. Armed to the teeth and ready for anything, but alone.
"So you're retired, huh?" Dean asked, voice suddenly light, almost teasing.
A little smile flirted over Jack's mouth. "Yup."
"And you thought you'd go after an 'invisible murderer,'" he used his fingers to put gigantic quotes in the air, "all alone, out there in the Minnesota woods, for…what? For fun? Is that what retired Air Force major generals do for fun?"
"Oh, yeah. It was all that and a barrel of monkeys."
Dean chuckled and leaned back in his seat, feeling his eyelids droop in amused contentment. "Dude, you are freakin' Rambo."
"That's me. And you? Where's your dad? You said you were a team."
The contentment fled, dissipating like smoke in the wind, there then gone. Dean felt his mouth twitch, but kept himself from frowning. "He had a job. I had another one. We'll meet up again when we're done."
"So he lets you go up against this stuff all alone?"
The older man sounded faintly incredulous, almost outraged. Dean could feel his shoulders hunching in reaction, and it made him suddenly, desperately angry. He didn't like it. He shouldn't be feeling defensive about the choices his dad made. This was all too familiar.
He deliberately hid all that, kept his voice smooth and even. "Dude, I'm twenty-six."
"So are a lot of people on teams." Jack stopped himself abruptly, looking away. "Look, never mind. I didn't mean to get into that. Just…tell me what we're supposed to do. What's the next step?"
Dean blinked, slow and disbelieving. "We? Uh, no, old guy. No 'we.' You really ought to let me handle this. Don't you get that now? Like you said, it's what I do. And it's what you…don't."
The muscles on Jack's jaw bunched, but he didn't rise to the bait, didn't lash out like Dean was expecting. "No, kid. I think you'd be surprised by just how close this is to what I do. Or did, before I retired." He shrugged, insolent and lazy. "Like you can ever retire from something like this. Listen, your dad isn't here right now, but I am. You need someone to watch your back. Think you would have gotten out of those woods without me? That thing… It's going after young people. It didn't go after me, it went straight for you. And it would have killed you. I know that as well as I know anything."
"Well, you're the one who made me drop my shotgun. I might have been able to get it if you hadn't distracted me." Dean tried to get up a sense of outrage, but it wasn't coming. He was just freakin' tired. And his head hurt like a son-of-a-bitch.
"Maybe you would have been able to get off a round in time. Maybe not. Point is, you don't have to do this alone, kid. And if you don't have to, do you really want to?"
Dean rolled his head over to give the old guy an assessing stare. No, he didn't. He'd never wanted to do this alone, never. It was a family thing. It was supposed to be a family thing. This wasn't his choice, never would have been.
Jack knew it, too. Dean could see it in the dark brown eyes, deep and focused and intense. The older man knew him way, way too well. How could you know someone so well in just a few hours? It was sort of terrifying.
Finally, Dean just gave a little nod, accepting. "Yeah. Okay."
Jack grinned, small, not triumphant or exultant in his win, just pleased. Happy. It was weird. Weird and wonderful, that was what it was.
"So, what's next?"
Dean let the corner of his mouth lift in an answering smile. "Well, we gotta find out what it actually is. And then we find out how to kill it. And then we kill it."
"Sounds like a plan."
Yeah. It was a good plan.
Part 8