Fic: This Wasn't In the User Manual (SGA/SPN) pt. 1 & 2
So, does anyone remember my SGA/SPN crossover fic with the exploding appliances and oven mitts? No? Well I finished it anyway! It took me a while, but I think I'm satisfied with the way it turned out. It teeters close to crack on a few occassions (if not falling into it full on), but it works. Hopefully, this will be my last crossover fic for a while, because I don't want to become known as the girl that writes SGA/SPN fic.
Since it's been a few months, and I don't know what you guys remember (if anything) I've linked up part one and part two for easy reading. Thank you so much to celtic_tigress for editing, and to quidditchkiss and bitter_crimson for not only pulling beta duty, but for listening to me whine for days upon end about this thing.
This Wasn't in the User Manual
SGA/SPN 4,308 words
“Salt,” Rodney said, his disbelief made all the more poignant by his lack of pants.
(part 1) /
“Your walls are leaking?”
The men on John’s porch were smiling, obviously more amused by Rodney’s abrupt shift than thrown. “We think one of our pipes burst,” John explained, “but we haven’t gotten a hold of the plumber yet.”
The taller one nodded, “Would it be a problem if we took a look?”
“Not at all,” John said, stepping back to allow the two men entrance, “It’s upstairs.”
“This is a lovely home.” The shorter one said pointedly, grinning at John, “You live here long?” He had his hands stuffed down into his pockets, surveying the entryway with a manufactured sort of fascination.
“No, we’re renting.” Rodney said, crossing his arms against his chest; the man changed his focus,
“Renting? So this is just temporary.”
The lower half of Rodney’s jaw clenched, “Yes, our permanent home is somewhere else.”
“Uh,” The taller one stepped in, “how long has it been leaking?”
“About a day, maybe more,” John replied bemused, waving a hand toward the stairway and motioning the men to follow. The spare room smelled wet, the left wall’s plaster swollen with moisture. It had been consistently secreting liquids since Steve the Technician discovered it.
“You said there were other people in the area having problems?” John asked, giving Rodney a look as he pressed in behind the shorter man--Greene, if John was reading his tag right.
“There’ve been spikes in the amount of water usage throughout the entire area. We assumed that an underground pipe burst, but so far there hasn’t been any irregular activity reported. So, we’ve being going door to door to ask people if they’ve been experiencing problems.”
“That’s very thorough of you,” Rodney said, arms crossed and lips slanted downwards.
“We get paid to be thorough,” Greene grinned, winking in John’s direction. Rodney made a strangled sound low in his throat.
“I’m sure they pay you in ones, too.”
Greene didn’t miss a beat, “Depends on how long I stay.”
John felt the fleeting urge to warn the men of the impending barrage, but figured it was better to let Rodney get it out of his system instead of leaving it to hit him later when he was unaware.
Thankfully or not, the taller of the two--Cornwallis--stepped in to diffuse the situation. “So, what do you do for a living?”
“I’m an astrophysicist.” Rodney sniffed.
“An astrophysicist?” Cornwallis repeated.
“Yes, it’s a very involved field that requires a great deal of--”
“That’s great. You big on baking, too?” Greene interrupted, head inclined towards Rodney’s hands.
“What?” Rodney looked momentarily startled, pausing before following the man’s gaze to his oven mitts, “No,” he said, “These are for safety precautions.”
“Like taking something hot out of the oven.”
“Like preventing them from identifying my finger prints when they find your body!”
John coughed, stepping forward and taking Rodney by the elbow. “We’ll be downstairs if you need us.”
----
“I’m looking into their credentials!”
“Calm down, Rodney.”
“Calm down? He practically threw himself at you! Five more minutes and I’d have been prying him off your leg! This is completely unprofessional, I can’t believe--”
John sighed, settling down at the kitchen table while Rodney continued muttering to himself. He’d pulled off his oven mitts in a fit of rage and was now plugging the coffee pot in repeatedly to test the outlet.
“--the man’s a walking penis. If it weren’t for the fact that--”
“The American Revolution,” John said suddenly.
“What?”
“The American Revolution,” he repeated, “Cornwallis and Greene.”
“Is this some sort of secret code for sex?” Rodney asked.
John frowned. “It’s the name of the men from the water company, Cornwallis and Greene. They were generals during the American Revolution.”
“Thank you Mr. Fifth-Grade-Facts, would you like to start regurgitating battle statistics now?”
“You don’t find that weird?” John continued, ignoring Rodney completely.
“Not as ‘weird’ as I find the one’s repeated attempts to get into your pants.”
John hummed in indecision, dragging Rodney’s abandoned coffee mug from earlier to his side of the table and downing what was left in it.
“Great,” Rodney said, “now the coffee pot isn’t working.”
“It’s probably just waiting for you stop being epileptic with its plug.”
“Oh, ha ha,” Rodney sneered.
John licked his lips. It wasn’t unreasonable to crave normalcy, to long for the occasional day without exploding appliances, overbearing workmen, lasers--well, no, lasers were always welcome.
“Excuse me,” Cornwallis appeared in the doorway, “could you point me to the water tank if it’s not too much trouble?”
John smiled politely, tilting his head to the door opposite Rodney, “It’s in the basement.”
Cornwallis nodded in thanks and shifted out around Rodney, leaving behind him an awkward silence.
“He’s nice.”
“I hate you,” Rodney replied, turning his back to John as he continued fiddling with the coffee machine.
“Lies,” John muttered, amused.
----
It didn’t take long for Rodney to disappear back into the den, oven mitts officially abandoned, mouth spitting warnings at John about the wiles of virile young men.
The virile young men in question were currently upstairs ‘stealing jewelry and smelling John’s under things.’ Or at least one of them was, if Rodney’s cognitive powers were correct.
“Excuse me, sir?” John smiled--looked like Rodney was wrong. “I was wondering if it would be at all possible for me to ask you a few questions.”
Cornwallis was a sturdy fellow, built like a tree. John had been internally debating his height since he met him, first guess including the numerals seven and infinity. Assessing him now, it might have been an overshoot.
“Of course.”
Cornwallis’ stature did seem to lessen the need for a ladder; the extermination of which undoubtedly prevented injuries and lawsuits.
“Have there been any other odd occurrences lately? Water related or not.” John paused to glance down the hall to the den door.
“Define odd.”
He made short work of niceties, drilling John with a series of questions: How long have you lived here? Have you noticed anything abnormal recently; unusual noises, flickering lights, scratching?
John nodded slowly, processing, “We’ve been having electrical problems.” Cornwallis inclined his head, motioning for John to continue. “It’s actually how we discovered the wall was leaking. We hired a technician to check the outlets things have been--combusting lately.”
“Breaking?”
“More like exploding.”
“Oh.”
“Would an electrical problem affect the plumbing?” John wasn’t a hack when it came to home repairs, but anything that required more than a wrench and screws was outside his vicinity.
“Not necessarily, but depending on how long the water’s been leaking, it might affect some of the house’s basic wiring.” Cornwallis smiled reassuringly, brows still knit in contemplation, “Well,” he said, “I’d, uh, better head back upstairs and make sure everything is going alright.”
“Right,” John said, waving him off as a sound like air being let out of a tire reached his ears. He tensed instinctively, mentally preparing to take refuge beneath the table if something decided to explode but the sound shifted and John could make out words.
“Pssst,” John tilted in his chair, catching half of Rodney’s face as he leaned around the den doorway. His cheeks were flushed and his eyes watery, “John.”
John hesitated, internally debating if it was at all possible to pretend he hadn’t noticed him or if he’d already retained eye contact for too long.
“JOHN.”
He sighed.
Setting down the paper and abandoning his mug with a forlorn glance, John stood up and made his way down the hallway. “If this doesn’t involve sex or exploding appliances, I am stapling you to your chair.”
Rodney’s face twisted, displeasure and annoyance flitting to the surface. He moved back as John got closer, vanishing into the abyss of the den, gently lit by the numerous laptops.
“They aren’t who they say they are” he hissed, gesticulating wildly--laptop, wall, John, himself, laptop--John felt a pang of remorse when understanding set in.
“You looked up their credentials.”
“Yes,” Rodney grabbed John’s wrist, dragging him in the direction of the desk.
“You actually looked into their credentials. You were one of those kids that went outside to play encased in bubble wrap, weren’t you?”
Rodney barely paused, “Look, I have a sense for these things. I knew there was something wrong with those two the minute I opened the door.”
“Was this the first or second time?”
He stilled, fingers hovering over the laptop’s keys.
“There are murderers inside our house and you’re mocking me?”
John shrugged. “Just trying to keep things normal.”
Rodney scoffed, twisting the laptop around so John could see it. “Look.”
Well, fuck, John thought as the site swam into focus. Rodney had apparently hacked his way into the FBI private personnel files. Sam and Dean Winchester, brothers.
“I’d like to see what--”
“Hello?” Rodney jumped, snapping the laptop shut and folding it up towards his chest. “Hello?” John wrapped a hand around his elbow and dragged them both to the floor. It wasn’t much protection, but if the Winchesters looked in they’d be hidden by the desk.
“Oh my god! They’re coming to kill us!” Rodney’s breath was thick, “I knew we shouldn’t have let them in! Water repair men aren’t that good looking!”
John growled, teeth clicking as Rodney twitched into his side. The Winchesters had obviously finished whatever they’d been pretending to do upstairs.
“We need to call 911!” Rodney said, fumbling for his cell phone. John ignored him, peeking around the desk to the door--still slightly ajar. Getting to it wouldn’t be a problem, it was deciding whether he should lock it and wait for the police, or take matters into his own hands.
It was his house. He headed an entire military, fought aliens, taught Ronon how to use utensils! If he couldn’t protect his own home than what good was he as a military leader? Deciding fast, John bounced from the crouched position and went for the door.
“Wha--” Rodney’s fingers slipped over the key pads on the phone as he tried to twist around, “Where are you going?”
John held up a hand, “They’re in the kitchen.”
“Stay here,” he whispered, tone implying that John was acting far stupider than usual. “We don’t have time for your macho ‘I can bench press 220’mindset!”
The skin between John’s brows crinkled. “I can bench press 240.”
“THAT ONE GUY WEIGHS AT LEAST 300 LBS!”
The shuffling in the kitchen stopped and Rodney snapped his mouth shut. The entire situation was horribly familiar, except Ronon and Teyla were missing and all John had was Rodney McKay and three very nice laptops (none of which he could hurl at their intruders).
“Rodney,” John said, voice calm, “we’re just going to treat this like we would any other mission. You stay here and call the police, and I’ll go out and distract them.”
“Distract them?” Rodney repeated, “How? By waving your arms about and letting them pump you full of lead?”
John stilled, “Pump me full of lead?”
“The history channel was having a mobster marathon.”
The floorboards creaked and Rodney flailed, grabbing onto the hem of John’s jeans and pulling him backwards.
“Mr. Sheppard?”
“They know who we are!”
“We gave them our names” John said.
“Oh,” Rodney appeared momentarily deflated, “right.”
“Dr. McKay?”
John licked his lips, glancing around the room for any possible means of escape. If it came down to it the window was the most viable option. Slowly, he shuffled Rodney backwards towards the wall.
His heels had barely hit the molding when the lamp to his left popped in a burning inferno. From that point on, things slowed down considerably. Rodney jumped away, mouth contorted mid-shout--just in time for the Winchester brothers to burst through the door and take him down.
It was Sam that got a hold on Rodney, encircling his midsection and hitting the ground as his brother cocked a rifle. John had three seconds of morbid fascination before he pulled the trigger and something a few inches from his face disintegrated.
“Get off of me!” Rodney yelled.
“Stop! Your pants are on fire.”
“My pants are not on fire! I would feel it if--Oh my god my pants are on fire!”
John used the distraction to take Dean by surprise, vaulting over the desk and prying the shotgun from his hands. He tripped backwards, back hitting the enamel surrounding the door. Rodney stumbled up onto his feet, pants in tatters around his ankles.
“Don’t move.” John said, re-cocking the gun.
“Look,” Sam said, hands raised. “It’s salt.”
John eyed him warily, rolling his shoulders as he shifted the gun to get better aim.
“In the gun,” Sam repeated, eyes pleading, “it’s just rock salt.”
“Rock salt,” John said.
“For ghosts.”
There were a few moments of silence before Rodney opened his mouth, “Wait, what?”
Dean pulled a small vial from his back pocket, “It wards off spirits.” He tossed the bottle to John, watching as he cracked open the gun barrel and poured out all that was left inside.
“Salt,” Rodney said, his disbelief made all the more poignant by his lack of pants. “You’re shooting salt at ghosts.”
“A poltergeist actually,” Dean clarified.
“Yes, of course,” Rodney snorted, “you’re shooting salt at a poltergeist--a poltergeist--a poltergeist as in ‘Carol Anne, don’t go into the light!’ poltergeist.”
“Yes,” Sam said, standing to full height and rubbing ash off his pants.
“A poltergeist--”
“Rodney, we’ve got it.” John sighed, cutting him off.
“Yes, but it’s a poltergeist.”
Dean shrugged, “It’s hard for most people to grasp, but we--”
“No, no, no,” Rodney said, holding up a hand “It’s not hard to grasp, it’s improbable. A spirit--a non-corporeal life form that floats through walls and rattles chains--the entire idea is completely unrealistic--”
“So are aliens,” John offered, Rodney glared.
“--they’re faint traces of energy manipulated into ‘apparitions’ by people who are too high on ‘faith’ and want a sign.”
“Optimism isn’t your strong suit, is it?” Dean mused, leaning against the doorway and crossing his arms.
“It’s not being a pessimist, it’s being a realist.”
“Rodney is what’s commonly known as a ‘jackass’” John supplied happily.
Rodney frowned, “Are you telling me you believe this?”
John shrugged, “Seen worse.”
“Whether you believe it or not, there’s a poltergeist in your house and we need to kill it before it hurts someone.” Sam said.
“As opposed to breaking all of our appliances and setting me on fire?”
John twisted his lips there was a dark patch on the floor from Rodney’s burnt khakis. Whether it was a “spirit” or not, something needed to be done before one of them was fully engulfed.
“So,” John spread his hands, palms up, “a poltergeist.”
“A poltergeist,” Dean repeated, grin all teeth.
----
“How are we supposed to shoot at something that isn’t real?” Rodney hissed over John’s shoulder.
“I don’t know-- you seem to do an okay job of it back home.”
“Oh, funny.” Rodney had a borrowed shotgun pressed between his hands, following closely on John’s heels as they made rounds in the upstairs hallway.
The Winchesters had taken what was left of the downstairs, double-checking rooms and leaving behind trails of salt for the ones they found clean. The current plan consisted of two steps--1.) Trap spirit, 2.) Kill spirit--it was simple, logical, and easy to follow. They couldn’t kill the poltergeist unless it physically manifested. After all, you couldn’t shoot something that didn’t have a body--okay, you could, but it didn’t do much.
“Okay, so, let’s say there is a poltergeist in our house. What’s to stop it from just, I don’t know, hovering over the lines of salt?” Rodney hadn’t quite given over to the new logic of lore.
John shrugged a shoulder, muscles taut with tension. He didn’t have an answer; at least not one Rodney wanted to hear. He was happy as long as it worked; he’d ask questions and soothe curiosities later.
“You don’t care?” Rodney prodded, waving vaguely into the halls dark lighting.
“Not really.”
“Oh, honestly, how in the world did I--” John held up a hand, using his feet to re-direct Rodney into a nearby closet. “--What are you doing?”
“Shhh,” John covered Rodney’s mouth with his hands, holding still until the only noise was the sound of their breathing. “It’s close,” he whispered, eying the overhead light as it began to flicker.
“I can see that! Would you get off of me,” Rodney shoved back, catching his heel on a loose floor board and slamming into the wall; it cracked, breaking off in small chunks to paint the air white. “AH!” Rodney coughed violently, John trying to grab hold of his elbow before he slipped any further through the plaster.
John could hear the Winchesters mounting the staircase, moving fast towards the sound of Rodney’s yelling.
“Rodney,” John was having a hard time trying to pull him to his feet, the debris from the collapsed wall clouding his vision and clogging his lungs, “Rodney, just take my hand.”
“You okay?” Sam had pulled the closet door open, letting in a flood of light and fresh air.
“No,” Rodney replied sourly, “our house hates me.”
“I think it hates the both of us,” John said, finally getting Rodney back on his feet and backing them both out into the hallway.
“I wouldn’t say that,” Dean remarked, squinting into the closet where Rodney had come into contact with the wall. “I think you guys just found our culprit.”
John leaned in around him, blinking hard into the dissipating dust there was a gray figure curled up behind the hole. “Jesus.”
Dean grinned darkly, “Let’s salt and burn it.”
----
Sam and Dean managed to drag the small body out into the backyard without any interference. The poltergeist in question had apparently attached itself to the child a while back and continued to pull energy from her spirit after she was gone. As long as it was able to prevent her from crossing over, it could live forever off her remains.
There wasn’t much explanation in the way of what had triggered the poltergeist’s sudden reappearance, but John guessed it was Rodney scrubbing out the closet in a fit of allergen fear that set the thing off. He wouldn’t say so, of course--Rodney had suffered enough physical and mental traumas in the past week to earn him a reprieve.
They burned the bones till there was nothing left but ash. “So this is your job,” John said.
“Yeah,” Dean crouched down to run his fingers through what was left, “this is it.”
----
On Sunday evening John Sheppard found a body in his closet, a real body, not a metaphorical one that therapists often used to represent personal secrets.
He watched it disappear in a blaze with two criminals and his boyfriend. “I knew we should have bought the house on Birchwood,” Rodney said, plucking plaster from his hair.
----
On Monday evening he coated every surface of his house in salt, only slightly surprised when Rodney put down a second layer.
They’d already started packing boxes.
----
On Tuesday evening he sat in the den with Rodney and the laptops, feet bare and body loose.
“You know,” he said, nudging Rodney’s thigh with his big toe “this makes your threat to haunt me when you die a hell of a lot more valid.”
Since it's been a few months, and I don't know what you guys remember (if anything) I've linked up part one and part two for easy reading. Thank you so much to celtic_tigress for editing, and to quidditchkiss and bitter_crimson for not only pulling beta duty, but for listening to me whine for days upon end about this thing.
This Wasn't in the User Manual
SGA/SPN 4,308 words
“Salt,” Rodney said, his disbelief made all the more poignant by his lack of pants.
(part 1) /
“Your walls are leaking?”
The men on John’s porch were smiling, obviously more amused by Rodney’s abrupt shift than thrown. “We think one of our pipes burst,” John explained, “but we haven’t gotten a hold of the plumber yet.”
The taller one nodded, “Would it be a problem if we took a look?”
“Not at all,” John said, stepping back to allow the two men entrance, “It’s upstairs.”
“This is a lovely home.” The shorter one said pointedly, grinning at John, “You live here long?” He had his hands stuffed down into his pockets, surveying the entryway with a manufactured sort of fascination.
“No, we’re renting.” Rodney said, crossing his arms against his chest; the man changed his focus,
“Renting? So this is just temporary.”
The lower half of Rodney’s jaw clenched, “Yes, our permanent home is somewhere else.”
“Uh,” The taller one stepped in, “how long has it been leaking?”
“About a day, maybe more,” John replied bemused, waving a hand toward the stairway and motioning the men to follow. The spare room smelled wet, the left wall’s plaster swollen with moisture. It had been consistently secreting liquids since Steve the Technician discovered it.
“You said there were other people in the area having problems?” John asked, giving Rodney a look as he pressed in behind the shorter man--Greene, if John was reading his tag right.
“There’ve been spikes in the amount of water usage throughout the entire area. We assumed that an underground pipe burst, but so far there hasn’t been any irregular activity reported. So, we’ve being going door to door to ask people if they’ve been experiencing problems.”
“That’s very thorough of you,” Rodney said, arms crossed and lips slanted downwards.
“We get paid to be thorough,” Greene grinned, winking in John’s direction. Rodney made a strangled sound low in his throat.
“I’m sure they pay you in ones, too.”
Greene didn’t miss a beat, “Depends on how long I stay.”
John felt the fleeting urge to warn the men of the impending barrage, but figured it was better to let Rodney get it out of his system instead of leaving it to hit him later when he was unaware.
Thankfully or not, the taller of the two--Cornwallis--stepped in to diffuse the situation. “So, what do you do for a living?”
“I’m an astrophysicist.” Rodney sniffed.
“An astrophysicist?” Cornwallis repeated.
“Yes, it’s a very involved field that requires a great deal of--”
“That’s great. You big on baking, too?” Greene interrupted, head inclined towards Rodney’s hands.
“What?” Rodney looked momentarily startled, pausing before following the man’s gaze to his oven mitts, “No,” he said, “These are for safety precautions.”
“Like taking something hot out of the oven.”
“Like preventing them from identifying my finger prints when they find your body!”
John coughed, stepping forward and taking Rodney by the elbow. “We’ll be downstairs if you need us.”
----
“I’m looking into their credentials!”
“Calm down, Rodney.”
“Calm down? He practically threw himself at you! Five more minutes and I’d have been prying him off your leg! This is completely unprofessional, I can’t believe--”
John sighed, settling down at the kitchen table while Rodney continued muttering to himself. He’d pulled off his oven mitts in a fit of rage and was now plugging the coffee pot in repeatedly to test the outlet.
“--the man’s a walking penis. If it weren’t for the fact that--”
“The American Revolution,” John said suddenly.
“What?”
“The American Revolution,” he repeated, “Cornwallis and Greene.”
“Is this some sort of secret code for sex?” Rodney asked.
John frowned. “It’s the name of the men from the water company, Cornwallis and Greene. They were generals during the American Revolution.”
“Thank you Mr. Fifth-Grade-Facts, would you like to start regurgitating battle statistics now?”
“You don’t find that weird?” John continued, ignoring Rodney completely.
“Not as ‘weird’ as I find the one’s repeated attempts to get into your pants.”
John hummed in indecision, dragging Rodney’s abandoned coffee mug from earlier to his side of the table and downing what was left in it.
“Great,” Rodney said, “now the coffee pot isn’t working.”
“It’s probably just waiting for you stop being epileptic with its plug.”
“Oh, ha ha,” Rodney sneered.
John licked his lips. It wasn’t unreasonable to crave normalcy, to long for the occasional day without exploding appliances, overbearing workmen, lasers--well, no, lasers were always welcome.
“Excuse me,” Cornwallis appeared in the doorway, “could you point me to the water tank if it’s not too much trouble?”
John smiled politely, tilting his head to the door opposite Rodney, “It’s in the basement.”
Cornwallis nodded in thanks and shifted out around Rodney, leaving behind him an awkward silence.
“He’s nice.”
“I hate you,” Rodney replied, turning his back to John as he continued fiddling with the coffee machine.
“Lies,” John muttered, amused.
----
It didn’t take long for Rodney to disappear back into the den, oven mitts officially abandoned, mouth spitting warnings at John about the wiles of virile young men.
The virile young men in question were currently upstairs ‘stealing jewelry and smelling John’s under things.’ Or at least one of them was, if Rodney’s cognitive powers were correct.
“Excuse me, sir?” John smiled--looked like Rodney was wrong. “I was wondering if it would be at all possible for me to ask you a few questions.”
Cornwallis was a sturdy fellow, built like a tree. John had been internally debating his height since he met him, first guess including the numerals seven and infinity. Assessing him now, it might have been an overshoot.
“Of course.”
Cornwallis’ stature did seem to lessen the need for a ladder; the extermination of which undoubtedly prevented injuries and lawsuits.
“Have there been any other odd occurrences lately? Water related or not.” John paused to glance down the hall to the den door.
“Define odd.”
He made short work of niceties, drilling John with a series of questions: How long have you lived here? Have you noticed anything abnormal recently; unusual noises, flickering lights, scratching?
John nodded slowly, processing, “We’ve been having electrical problems.” Cornwallis inclined his head, motioning for John to continue. “It’s actually how we discovered the wall was leaking. We hired a technician to check the outlets things have been--combusting lately.”
“Breaking?”
“More like exploding.”
“Oh.”
“Would an electrical problem affect the plumbing?” John wasn’t a hack when it came to home repairs, but anything that required more than a wrench and screws was outside his vicinity.
“Not necessarily, but depending on how long the water’s been leaking, it might affect some of the house’s basic wiring.” Cornwallis smiled reassuringly, brows still knit in contemplation, “Well,” he said, “I’d, uh, better head back upstairs and make sure everything is going alright.”
“Right,” John said, waving him off as a sound like air being let out of a tire reached his ears. He tensed instinctively, mentally preparing to take refuge beneath the table if something decided to explode but the sound shifted and John could make out words.
“Pssst,” John tilted in his chair, catching half of Rodney’s face as he leaned around the den doorway. His cheeks were flushed and his eyes watery, “John.”
John hesitated, internally debating if it was at all possible to pretend he hadn’t noticed him or if he’d already retained eye contact for too long.
“JOHN.”
He sighed.
Setting down the paper and abandoning his mug with a forlorn glance, John stood up and made his way down the hallway. “If this doesn’t involve sex or exploding appliances, I am stapling you to your chair.”
Rodney’s face twisted, displeasure and annoyance flitting to the surface. He moved back as John got closer, vanishing into the abyss of the den, gently lit by the numerous laptops.
“They aren’t who they say they are” he hissed, gesticulating wildly--laptop, wall, John, himself, laptop--John felt a pang of remorse when understanding set in.
“You looked up their credentials.”
“Yes,” Rodney grabbed John’s wrist, dragging him in the direction of the desk.
“You actually looked into their credentials. You were one of those kids that went outside to play encased in bubble wrap, weren’t you?”
Rodney barely paused, “Look, I have a sense for these things. I knew there was something wrong with those two the minute I opened the door.”
“Was this the first or second time?”
He stilled, fingers hovering over the laptop’s keys.
“There are murderers inside our house and you’re mocking me?”
John shrugged. “Just trying to keep things normal.”
Rodney scoffed, twisting the laptop around so John could see it. “Look.”
Well, fuck, John thought as the site swam into focus. Rodney had apparently hacked his way into the FBI private personnel files. Sam and Dean Winchester, brothers.
“I’d like to see what--”
“Hello?” Rodney jumped, snapping the laptop shut and folding it up towards his chest. “Hello?” John wrapped a hand around his elbow and dragged them both to the floor. It wasn’t much protection, but if the Winchesters looked in they’d be hidden by the desk.
“Oh my god! They’re coming to kill us!” Rodney’s breath was thick, “I knew we shouldn’t have let them in! Water repair men aren’t that good looking!”
John growled, teeth clicking as Rodney twitched into his side. The Winchesters had obviously finished whatever they’d been pretending to do upstairs.
“We need to call 911!” Rodney said, fumbling for his cell phone. John ignored him, peeking around the desk to the door--still slightly ajar. Getting to it wouldn’t be a problem, it was deciding whether he should lock it and wait for the police, or take matters into his own hands.
It was his house. He headed an entire military, fought aliens, taught Ronon how to use utensils! If he couldn’t protect his own home than what good was he as a military leader? Deciding fast, John bounced from the crouched position and went for the door.
“Wha--” Rodney’s fingers slipped over the key pads on the phone as he tried to twist around, “Where are you going?”
John held up a hand, “They’re in the kitchen.”
“Stay here,” he whispered, tone implying that John was acting far stupider than usual. “We don’t have time for your macho ‘I can bench press 220’mindset!”
The skin between John’s brows crinkled. “I can bench press 240.”
“THAT ONE GUY WEIGHS AT LEAST 300 LBS!”
The shuffling in the kitchen stopped and Rodney snapped his mouth shut. The entire situation was horribly familiar, except Ronon and Teyla were missing and all John had was Rodney McKay and three very nice laptops (none of which he could hurl at their intruders).
“Rodney,” John said, voice calm, “we’re just going to treat this like we would any other mission. You stay here and call the police, and I’ll go out and distract them.”
“Distract them?” Rodney repeated, “How? By waving your arms about and letting them pump you full of lead?”
John stilled, “Pump me full of lead?”
“The history channel was having a mobster marathon.”
The floorboards creaked and Rodney flailed, grabbing onto the hem of John’s jeans and pulling him backwards.
“Mr. Sheppard?”
“They know who we are!”
“We gave them our names” John said.
“Oh,” Rodney appeared momentarily deflated, “right.”
“Dr. McKay?”
John licked his lips, glancing around the room for any possible means of escape. If it came down to it the window was the most viable option. Slowly, he shuffled Rodney backwards towards the wall.
His heels had barely hit the molding when the lamp to his left popped in a burning inferno. From that point on, things slowed down considerably. Rodney jumped away, mouth contorted mid-shout--just in time for the Winchester brothers to burst through the door and take him down.
It was Sam that got a hold on Rodney, encircling his midsection and hitting the ground as his brother cocked a rifle. John had three seconds of morbid fascination before he pulled the trigger and something a few inches from his face disintegrated.
“Get off of me!” Rodney yelled.
“Stop! Your pants are on fire.”
“My pants are not on fire! I would feel it if--Oh my god my pants are on fire!”
John used the distraction to take Dean by surprise, vaulting over the desk and prying the shotgun from his hands. He tripped backwards, back hitting the enamel surrounding the door. Rodney stumbled up onto his feet, pants in tatters around his ankles.
“Don’t move.” John said, re-cocking the gun.
“Look,” Sam said, hands raised. “It’s salt.”
John eyed him warily, rolling his shoulders as he shifted the gun to get better aim.
“In the gun,” Sam repeated, eyes pleading, “it’s just rock salt.”
“Rock salt,” John said.
“For ghosts.”
There were a few moments of silence before Rodney opened his mouth, “Wait, what?”
Dean pulled a small vial from his back pocket, “It wards off spirits.” He tossed the bottle to John, watching as he cracked open the gun barrel and poured out all that was left inside.
“Salt,” Rodney said, his disbelief made all the more poignant by his lack of pants. “You’re shooting salt at ghosts.”
“A poltergeist actually,” Dean clarified.
“Yes, of course,” Rodney snorted, “you’re shooting salt at a poltergeist--a poltergeist--a poltergeist as in ‘Carol Anne, don’t go into the light!’ poltergeist.”
“Yes,” Sam said, standing to full height and rubbing ash off his pants.
“A poltergeist--”
“Rodney, we’ve got it.” John sighed, cutting him off.
“Yes, but it’s a poltergeist.”
Dean shrugged, “It’s hard for most people to grasp, but we--”
“No, no, no,” Rodney said, holding up a hand “It’s not hard to grasp, it’s improbable. A spirit--a non-corporeal life form that floats through walls and rattles chains--the entire idea is completely unrealistic--”
“So are aliens,” John offered, Rodney glared.
“--they’re faint traces of energy manipulated into ‘apparitions’ by people who are too high on ‘faith’ and want a sign.”
“Optimism isn’t your strong suit, is it?” Dean mused, leaning against the doorway and crossing his arms.
“It’s not being a pessimist, it’s being a realist.”
“Rodney is what’s commonly known as a ‘jackass’” John supplied happily.
Rodney frowned, “Are you telling me you believe this?”
John shrugged, “Seen worse.”
“Whether you believe it or not, there’s a poltergeist in your house and we need to kill it before it hurts someone.” Sam said.
“As opposed to breaking all of our appliances and setting me on fire?”
John twisted his lips there was a dark patch on the floor from Rodney’s burnt khakis. Whether it was a “spirit” or not, something needed to be done before one of them was fully engulfed.
“So,” John spread his hands, palms up, “a poltergeist.”
“A poltergeist,” Dean repeated, grin all teeth.
----
“How are we supposed to shoot at something that isn’t real?” Rodney hissed over John’s shoulder.
“I don’t know-- you seem to do an okay job of it back home.”
“Oh, funny.” Rodney had a borrowed shotgun pressed between his hands, following closely on John’s heels as they made rounds in the upstairs hallway.
The Winchesters had taken what was left of the downstairs, double-checking rooms and leaving behind trails of salt for the ones they found clean. The current plan consisted of two steps--1.) Trap spirit, 2.) Kill spirit--it was simple, logical, and easy to follow. They couldn’t kill the poltergeist unless it physically manifested. After all, you couldn’t shoot something that didn’t have a body--okay, you could, but it didn’t do much.
“Okay, so, let’s say there is a poltergeist in our house. What’s to stop it from just, I don’t know, hovering over the lines of salt?” Rodney hadn’t quite given over to the new logic of lore.
John shrugged a shoulder, muscles taut with tension. He didn’t have an answer; at least not one Rodney wanted to hear. He was happy as long as it worked; he’d ask questions and soothe curiosities later.
“You don’t care?” Rodney prodded, waving vaguely into the halls dark lighting.
“Not really.”
“Oh, honestly, how in the world did I--” John held up a hand, using his feet to re-direct Rodney into a nearby closet. “--What are you doing?”
“Shhh,” John covered Rodney’s mouth with his hands, holding still until the only noise was the sound of their breathing. “It’s close,” he whispered, eying the overhead light as it began to flicker.
“I can see that! Would you get off of me,” Rodney shoved back, catching his heel on a loose floor board and slamming into the wall; it cracked, breaking off in small chunks to paint the air white. “AH!” Rodney coughed violently, John trying to grab hold of his elbow before he slipped any further through the plaster.
John could hear the Winchesters mounting the staircase, moving fast towards the sound of Rodney’s yelling.
“Rodney,” John was having a hard time trying to pull him to his feet, the debris from the collapsed wall clouding his vision and clogging his lungs, “Rodney, just take my hand.”
“You okay?” Sam had pulled the closet door open, letting in a flood of light and fresh air.
“No,” Rodney replied sourly, “our house hates me.”
“I think it hates the both of us,” John said, finally getting Rodney back on his feet and backing them both out into the hallway.
“I wouldn’t say that,” Dean remarked, squinting into the closet where Rodney had come into contact with the wall. “I think you guys just found our culprit.”
John leaned in around him, blinking hard into the dissipating dust there was a gray figure curled up behind the hole. “Jesus.”
Dean grinned darkly, “Let’s salt and burn it.”
----
Sam and Dean managed to drag the small body out into the backyard without any interference. The poltergeist in question had apparently attached itself to the child a while back and continued to pull energy from her spirit after she was gone. As long as it was able to prevent her from crossing over, it could live forever off her remains.
There wasn’t much explanation in the way of what had triggered the poltergeist’s sudden reappearance, but John guessed it was Rodney scrubbing out the closet in a fit of allergen fear that set the thing off. He wouldn’t say so, of course--Rodney had suffered enough physical and mental traumas in the past week to earn him a reprieve.
They burned the bones till there was nothing left but ash. “So this is your job,” John said.
“Yeah,” Dean crouched down to run his fingers through what was left, “this is it.”
----
On Sunday evening John Sheppard found a body in his closet, a real body, not a metaphorical one that therapists often used to represent personal secrets.
He watched it disappear in a blaze with two criminals and his boyfriend. “I knew we should have bought the house on Birchwood,” Rodney said, plucking plaster from his hair.
----
On Monday evening he coated every surface of his house in salt, only slightly surprised when Rodney put down a second layer.
They’d already started packing boxes.
----
On Tuesday evening he sat in the den with Rodney and the laptops, feet bare and body loose.
“You know,” he said, nudging Rodney’s thigh with his big toe “this makes your threat to haunt me when you die a hell of a lot more valid.”