The Freakiest Show: Chapter 1
I'm usually not totally pleased with my finished efforts, but I really like this chapter (so that probably means you'll hate it).
Feedback would be wonderfully awesomely brilliant with both Sams on top. ;)
Prologue is here.
Title: The Freakiest Show: Chapter 1
Author: misplacedmarble
Fandom: Supernatural/Life On Mars
Characters/Pairing: Dean, Sam W, Sam T, Gene
Word Count: 1095
Rating: PG
Summary: Dean and Sam get chased. Sam and Gene do the chasing. So far? This is pretty much canon.
Author's Notes: So, I feel like bits of this looks like there are plot holes, but maybe that’s just me. I don’t even remember what they were that I was thinking about (this is making so much sense, isn’t it?), but if you do think anything is off, then bear in mind that it’s on purpose. Probably.
Cross Posted: misplacedmarble, lifein1973, sn_fic, crossoverfic
The Freakiest Show: Chapter 1
“Oh, fuck this shit, man.”
Dean Winchester’s awakening, it’s safe to say, was a lot more angry and vocal than his brother’s - though this should hardly be surprising.
Quickly raising his head from where it had been lying on the dashboard, he growled in frustration and clutched his forehead, screwing his eyes shut against the pain and the blinding sunli-
Wait. Sunlight? Dean supposed he must have been out for a pretty long time; it had been midnight or thereabouts when the car had swerved off the road, he was sure, yet now it couldn’t be earlier than ten or eleven in the morning. He groaned again and watched the world swim in and out of focus.
After resting his head against the back of the seat while the faint dizziness passed, he opened his eyes.
Then closed them again and counted to ten.
Then opened them once more.
It didn’t work - though Dean, to be fair, hadn’t really thought it would - he still saw exactly the same thing that had faced him a few moments ago; a street of red bricked, uniform terraced houses, a bright sun in a perfect, clear blue sky, and the interior of a car that certainly wasn’t his.
…Toto, I don’t think we’re on I-29 anymore...
* * *
Sam Tyler strolled along the road at a slow pace, eyes watching the pavement pass by underneath his feet, hands occupied with a paper bag of various unhealthy snack foods (most of which wouldn’t actually make it anywhere near Sam’s mouth) and the morning paper.
The sun was shining, the sky was a beautiful cornflower blue, and Sam was feeling sort-of-slightly-just-a-little-bit content with being in 1973. Life was good.
And this mentality lasted just about as long as it took for him to see that some complete stranger was climbing out of his boss’s car.
“Oi!” he yelled, putting all his anger (and confusion) into that one sound. The figure stilled long enough to glance back at Sam’s thunderous face before taking off up the pavement, leather-clad copper hard on his heels.
* * *
Oh. Oh. Damn. Sheer panic raced through Sam’s body as he realised that a.) he had absolutely no idea where his brother was, b.) he had absolutely no idea who the man sitting next to him was, and c.) whatever his identity may have been - he was waking up.
“Unghhhh,” the man groaned, “…Sam?” he continued to mumble, “What the bloody hell happened? Why do I feel like some bastard’s kicked me in the head a few hundred times?”
Sam’s panic simmered down to a low boil in the pit of his stomach as the middle-aged man in front of him spoke, confusion taking over for the time being. How could this guy know his name? Things were descending rapidly past Twilight Zone and into Twin Peaks territory; all he could think about was finding Dean and getting back to something, anything, familiar.
The man looked up. Sam froze.
If he had been capable of any other emotion besides paralysing terror (and the vague thought that this is weird, I’ve faced much worse and here I am scared of a human being with nothing scarier than probable concussion), he might have been chagrined by the fact that his face wore an expression not unlike that of a deer caught in a pair of high-beams.
But, as it is, he wasn’t, so all Sam felt was the fear worming around in his gut until the other man, glaring at him with a gaze that looked perfectly capable to not only kill, but bury and resurrect you again for some more torturous fun, spoke carefully, deliberately, and venomously,
“What. The bollocking. Hell?”
Usually so good at thinking on his feet - a trait he’d learned well in his early years of hunting - Sam stumbled over his reply. Something about the whole (utterly insane, even by his standards) situation he’d been thrust into had thrown him completely off balance.
“Um - Um…”
The hard faced man cranked up the intensity of his glare a notch.
Now, he may not have been as street-smart as Dean, but he certainly knew danger when he saw it in a man’s eyes, and damn sure knew what to do afterwards when the odds are stacked against you:
Run.
* * *
Dean sprinted down the street, not needing to look behind him to know that the man who had just spotted him was in hot pursuit. He followed a winding, erratic path of his own making, down roads lined with houses of all descriptions, slipping through side streets and cutting across gardens, until he found himself at a wire mesh fence blocking his path into what he assumed was an industrial waste ground.
Launching himself at it, Dean managed to grab the top, starting to swing himself up and over, feeling relief flood through him because he’d almost made it and-
He came crashing down to the ground in a heap as a forceful pair of hands tugged hard at his legs. However, he wasn’t allowed to remain there for long; in an instant he found himself pushed against the fence, distantly hearing it jangle behind him as two heated eyes stared into his, a carefully controlled voice asking him,
“Who the hell are you, and what have you done with my DCI?”
* * *
Sam grabbed at the door handle, eyes still fixed on the other man’s face. Finding his quarry, maybe by instinct or just sheer dumb luck, he rammed it forwards, nearly falling out of the Impala and running hell for leather down the alley.
Skidding around the corner into the street, he quickly looked round at the man on his tail, assessing the situation in the blink of an eye; he was close, no doubt about that, but clearly wasn’t in the best of shape. Sam was confident he could outrun the man easily.
Unfortunately, Sam Winchester was not particularly (or, in fact, at all) familiar with the streets he was being pursued along, although the man doing the pursuing certainly was - which was probably why he soon found himself faced with nine feet of solid brick wall on one side and an angry Mancunian on the other.
With barely time to react, Sam found himself shoved hard against the brick, a livid face very much invading his personal space. The face then proceeded to ask (with a considerable amount of spitting and hissing),
“Who the hell are you, and what have you done with my DI?”
Feedback would be wonderfully awesomely brilliant with both Sams on top. ;)
Prologue is here.
Title: The Freakiest Show: Chapter 1
Author: misplacedmarble
Fandom: Supernatural/Life On Mars
Characters/Pairing: Dean, Sam W, Sam T, Gene
Word Count: 1095
Rating: PG
Summary: Dean and Sam get chased. Sam and Gene do the chasing. So far? This is pretty much canon.
Author's Notes: So, I feel like bits of this looks like there are plot holes, but maybe that’s just me. I don’t even remember what they were that I was thinking about (this is making so much sense, isn’t it?), but if you do think anything is off, then bear in mind that it’s on purpose. Probably.
Cross Posted: misplacedmarble, lifein1973, sn_fic, crossoverfic
The Freakiest Show: Chapter 1
“Oh, fuck this shit, man.”
Dean Winchester’s awakening, it’s safe to say, was a lot more angry and vocal than his brother’s - though this should hardly be surprising.
Quickly raising his head from where it had been lying on the dashboard, he growled in frustration and clutched his forehead, screwing his eyes shut against the pain and the blinding sunli-
Wait. Sunlight? Dean supposed he must have been out for a pretty long time; it had been midnight or thereabouts when the car had swerved off the road, he was sure, yet now it couldn’t be earlier than ten or eleven in the morning. He groaned again and watched the world swim in and out of focus.
After resting his head against the back of the seat while the faint dizziness passed, he opened his eyes.
Then closed them again and counted to ten.
Then opened them once more.
It didn’t work - though Dean, to be fair, hadn’t really thought it would - he still saw exactly the same thing that had faced him a few moments ago; a street of red bricked, uniform terraced houses, a bright sun in a perfect, clear blue sky, and the interior of a car that certainly wasn’t his.
…Toto, I don’t think we’re on I-29 anymore...
* * *
Sam Tyler strolled along the road at a slow pace, eyes watching the pavement pass by underneath his feet, hands occupied with a paper bag of various unhealthy snack foods (most of which wouldn’t actually make it anywhere near Sam’s mouth) and the morning paper.
The sun was shining, the sky was a beautiful cornflower blue, and Sam was feeling sort-of-slightly-just-a-little-bit content with being in 1973. Life was good.
And this mentality lasted just about as long as it took for him to see that some complete stranger was climbing out of his boss’s car.
“Oi!” he yelled, putting all his anger (and confusion) into that one sound. The figure stilled long enough to glance back at Sam’s thunderous face before taking off up the pavement, leather-clad copper hard on his heels.
* * *
Oh. Oh. Damn. Sheer panic raced through Sam’s body as he realised that a.) he had absolutely no idea where his brother was, b.) he had absolutely no idea who the man sitting next to him was, and c.) whatever his identity may have been - he was waking up.
“Unghhhh,” the man groaned, “…Sam?” he continued to mumble, “What the bloody hell happened? Why do I feel like some bastard’s kicked me in the head a few hundred times?”
Sam’s panic simmered down to a low boil in the pit of his stomach as the middle-aged man in front of him spoke, confusion taking over for the time being. How could this guy know his name? Things were descending rapidly past Twilight Zone and into Twin Peaks territory; all he could think about was finding Dean and getting back to something, anything, familiar.
The man looked up. Sam froze.
If he had been capable of any other emotion besides paralysing terror (and the vague thought that this is weird, I’ve faced much worse and here I am scared of a human being with nothing scarier than probable concussion), he might have been chagrined by the fact that his face wore an expression not unlike that of a deer caught in a pair of high-beams.
But, as it is, he wasn’t, so all Sam felt was the fear worming around in his gut until the other man, glaring at him with a gaze that looked perfectly capable to not only kill, but bury and resurrect you again for some more torturous fun, spoke carefully, deliberately, and venomously,
“What. The bollocking. Hell?”
Usually so good at thinking on his feet - a trait he’d learned well in his early years of hunting - Sam stumbled over his reply. Something about the whole (utterly insane, even by his standards) situation he’d been thrust into had thrown him completely off balance.
“Um - Um…”
The hard faced man cranked up the intensity of his glare a notch.
Now, he may not have been as street-smart as Dean, but he certainly knew danger when he saw it in a man’s eyes, and damn sure knew what to do afterwards when the odds are stacked against you:
Run.
* * *
Dean sprinted down the street, not needing to look behind him to know that the man who had just spotted him was in hot pursuit. He followed a winding, erratic path of his own making, down roads lined with houses of all descriptions, slipping through side streets and cutting across gardens, until he found himself at a wire mesh fence blocking his path into what he assumed was an industrial waste ground.
Launching himself at it, Dean managed to grab the top, starting to swing himself up and over, feeling relief flood through him because he’d almost made it and-
He came crashing down to the ground in a heap as a forceful pair of hands tugged hard at his legs. However, he wasn’t allowed to remain there for long; in an instant he found himself pushed against the fence, distantly hearing it jangle behind him as two heated eyes stared into his, a carefully controlled voice asking him,
“Who the hell are you, and what have you done with my DCI?”
* * *
Sam grabbed at the door handle, eyes still fixed on the other man’s face. Finding his quarry, maybe by instinct or just sheer dumb luck, he rammed it forwards, nearly falling out of the Impala and running hell for leather down the alley.
Skidding around the corner into the street, he quickly looked round at the man on his tail, assessing the situation in the blink of an eye; he was close, no doubt about that, but clearly wasn’t in the best of shape. Sam was confident he could outrun the man easily.
Unfortunately, Sam Winchester was not particularly (or, in fact, at all) familiar with the streets he was being pursued along, although the man doing the pursuing certainly was - which was probably why he soon found himself faced with nine feet of solid brick wall on one side and an angry Mancunian on the other.
With barely time to react, Sam found himself shoved hard against the brick, a livid face very much invading his personal space. The face then proceeded to ask (with a considerable amount of spitting and hissing),
“Who the hell are you, and what have you done with my DI?”