Fic: Antichrist V 2.0
Fic: Antichrist V 2.0
Series: Chance Winchesterverse
Summary: Chance Winchester, meet Gordon walker.
Author: pen37
Beta: Clarksmuse
Fandoms: Smallville/Supernatural/DCU
Pairing:Chloe/Dean
Rating: Pg
The rest of the Chance stories can be found here.
Submitted for the Crossovers100 challenge. Prompt #97 Writer's Choice (cartoons). The table is here.
“Dude, you shot my mom in the face. She’s going to be pissed!”
Gordon Walker gritted his teeth and stared down at Dean Winchester’s kid. The kid was kind of like a miniature version of his dad. Short and . . . mouthier, if that were possible.
He rolled his eyes heavenward in a silent plea for patience. Then he leveled his sawed-off.
“Kid, I just shot your mom in the face. What does that tell you?”
The kid looked up at him. Gordon could practically see the wheels turning in the kids head. It was like watching Winchester do math.
“Um? That you’re really stupid.”
Gordon sighed. “Kid, I’m going to make this really easy for you. You go sit in that chair over there, and don’t move. You move, I start cutting off bits of you to send to your dad.”
“What do you have against my dad?”
“Your dad and your uncle are bad men.”
“Are not.”
“Are so.”
“Are not.”
“Are so.”
“Are not.”
“Are . . . corner. Now.”
“Fine.” The kid threw his hands up and stomped over there in a huff.
Gordon couldn’t believe he’d lower himself to arguing with a kid like that. But even then, he couldn’t resist getting a last dig in.
“Just so you know kid, your dad and uncle tied me to a chair and then left me there.”
“Oh, so they were babysitting you, too?”
Gordon rolled his eyes, but then tried again. “And then they got me thrown in jail. I’ve been planning to get back at them ever since.”
“What? Like Sideshow Bob?”
“Who?”
“Never mind.”
** *
Gordon didn’t put it past the littlest Winchester to vanish when his back was turned. So he watched the kid. Closely.
At least until the caffeine wore out, and then he found himself nodding off. But a sudden growl at that disconcerting level where soft parts dwelled had him snapping to full wakefulness again. He opened his eyes wide and found himself nose-to-nose with the biggest, blackest animal he’d ever seen. It looked like some kind of bear - except for the red eyes. Those were the giveaway. He was staring down the muzzle of a black dog.
“Dog!” the kid said. “Leave Mr. Gordon alone.”
The dog whined at him, then trotted over to the kid, rolled on its back, and whined like a jet engine until the kid scratched its belly.
“Black dog!” Gordon leveled his shotgun at the kid again.
The kid rolled his eyes in a move that Gordon felt had to be mocking him. “No. Irish wolfhound.”
“It’s a black dog,” Gordon insisted.
“His name is Jack Jack. He’s an Irish wolfhound. You could ask my mom. If you hadn’t shot her in the face.”
Gordon scowled at him. “It’s a black dog. And you’re controlling it. So you must be an Antichrist, just like your uncle.”
The kid pinned Gordon with a look that seemed to say that he thought Gordon was the biggest idiot on the planet. Gordon figured that he’d learned that look from his mom. After all, she was married to Dean Winchester.
“Okay, first off dude, the Antichrist is a proper person. It’s not genetic, or contagious. Secondly, don’t you have to be pope to be the Antichrist? Dude, I’m not even in the seminary.”
“Is not,” Gordon said.
“Is too.”
“Not.”
“Too.”
“How would you know?”
“Because I’m catholic?” The kid said. “It’s practically a Sullivan family tradition to get kicked out of catechism. Mom said so.”
“Whatever, kid.” Gordon sat down, gun still pointed on him and the dog.
“You really should read your scripture before you go around accusing people of antichristing.”
“Just . . . watch TV, or something.”
“Got any Veggie Tales?”
** *
Gordon was conflicted. On one hand, the kid was a Winchester. Which had to mean that he had some bad genes in him. On the other hand . . .
Broccoli, Celery, Gotta Be
Veggie Tales.
Cauliflower, sweet and sour.
Half an hour
Veggie tales.
Gordon just couldn’t see this kid as the Antichrist. Sure, he had his own quote-Irish wolfhound - end-quote. On the other. Shouldn’t the Antichrist prefer Barney?
He was still puzzling over this existential question when the doorbell rang.
“Who is it?”
“Candygram,” came a sweet voice on the other side of the door.
“Land shark?” He snarked back.
“Okay, fine.” The voice sounded tired. The next thing he knew, the door blew inward, knocking him down and landing on top of him. Then he felt the slight weight of someone walking over the door, and into the room.
With a groan, he looked up in time to see a set of stylish-yet-affordable shoes settle on the other side.
“Mom!” The kid yelled.
Gordon groaned. Mom. It would figure that Winchester would marry someone too stubborn to die from a gunshot blast to the face. He considered lying there and just letting the lady, the dog, and the kid leave. But the door was suddenly pulled off of him, and he found himself staring face-to-face with a very stern looking Superman.
Gordon groaned inwardly.
“You know, you really should think twice before kidnapping a friend of mine.”
Gordon watched as Superman turned a kind smile on the mom - whose face looked whole and quite pretty. Not at all like shotgun pizza, in fact.
“You okay there, Tower?”
She checked over the kid, and then favored the hero with a relieved smile. “Five by five, big guy.”
“Good. Why don’t you take Chance and Dog home? I’ll take care of this miscreant.”
The kid laughed. “Miscreant? Who talks like that?”
“Superman does, honey.” The mom shushed the kid.
“Whatever. See ya’ unc-I mean Superman.” The kid wriggled out of his mom’s overprotective grasp and raced the Hellhound out the door.
“Thanks, Superman.” The kid’s mom gave the big blue superhero a kiss on the cheek as she left.
“Any time,” Superman blushed.
Gordon groaned again. It would figure that Winchester married some kind of super hero.
“Now,” Superman’s stern face was back. “You know, a lot of folks say that I’m not nearly as scary as Batman. But I’m willing to find out. Why don’t you tell me?”
Gordon decided that maybe, if he got out of this alive, that he’d call it even with the Winchester clan. After all, there was something to be said for his own skin. He kind of liked it where it was.
And really, it’s not like any of them were running for pope or anything.