Impossible, PG-13, Crossover Crack!fic
Title: Impossible
Author: SylvanWitch
Rating: PG-13 (language)
Characters/Pairings: Anya (BtVS), Captain Jack Harkness (TW), Dean and Sam (SPN), Sam/Jack (briefly)
Category: crossover, crack!fic
Summary: When the brothers Winchester investigate what they think is a routine haunting, they're rather surprised what they find instead.
Author's Notes:
avg_gay_guy99 asked for Dean and Sam, Anya, and Capt. Jack. And lo, there was crack!fic.
Disclaimer: The ones you recognize aren't mine. The one you don't might be.
The bar is dark, the kind of place Dean might like if there were a few more women and a few less strange-sounding beers on tap.
There’s a woman at the bar, smokin’ legs and a pretty decent rack, from what he can see, and a guy farther down who gives Dean a long look, one that makes him uncomfortable.
The look the gives Sam just pisses Dean off.
A little too loud, maybe, since they’re working a job, Dean rests his hands on the bar and says, “We’re here about a plumbing problem.”
If the bartender is surprised to see plumbers dressed like pool sharks, he doesn’t show it, just nods without saying anything and moves toward the far end, near the guy, who’s smiling now in a decidedly suggestive fashion.
“What are you lookin’ at?” Dean growls.
“An embarrassment of riches,” the guy answers, throwing a wink over Dean’s shoulder at Sam.
Dean tells himself he’d have a comeback if it weren’t that the bartender is waiting for them, shoulders hunched so far he’s practically staring at the apron he wears over a stained grey tee-shirt.
“I didn’t get your name.”
The bartender mumbles something that might be “Willy” or could be “Al” for all Dean hears it, since Sam picks that moment to say, “Have we met?”
The woman down the bar snorts audibly and starts muttering something to herself, but Dean’s got ears only for his brother, who he’s swung around to take in with what’s probably a landed fish expression.
Since when does Sammy chat up tall, dark, and gay as the day is long?
“Oh, I think I’d remember. Unless…you haven’t been to Arkorogothica, by any chance?”
“That a club?” Sam asks, sliding onto a stool next to the guy.
“Sam,” Dean hisses, jerking his head toward the bartender, who’s waiting in the middle of a narrow hallway at the back of the bar, head down, fingers moving in an odd weaving motion, like he’s playing an invisible flute. “Workin’ here, remember?”
“He always this tense?”
“You have no idea.”
There are a lot of things Dean hates-demons, Power Bars, doctors that hesitate to prescribe painkillers-but being talked about like he’s not even there tops all of those on his shit list.
“Look, buddy, my brother and me are here on a job, and it’s been a long day already”-understatement; Dean hates California traffic almost as much as demons-“so if you don’t mind.”
He takes Sam’s arm, but his brother shrugs off Dean’s hand. Dean’s glare lands on blind eyes; Sam’s not even looking at him.
“It’s a losing battle,” the woman says from his left, and Dean turns his head to take her in. Reddish-blonde hair, gorgeous eyes, lips that could suck a boulder through a straw.
“And you are?” Brotherly betrayal momentarily forgotten, Dean turns on the charm.
“Out of your league.”
Dean’s smile widens wolfishly. “Really?”
“She is,” the smiling stranger confirms. “Way, way out. On the other hand, I’m easy.”
The lights seem to dim as the man flashes a thousand-watt smile.
Sam simpers in place.
“Okay, what the fuck is going on?”
It’s a question directed at the universe, but surprisingly, the taciturn bartender answers, “It’s the demon.”
Dean has a second to be amazed that such a pig-like sound could come out of such a beautiful woman before Anya’s scorn-laden voice says, “Puh-lease. A demon? You wouldn’t know a demon if she turned your penis into a tuna steak and unleashed a pack of feral cats on you.”
Then, as though in confidence to Dean alone, “I did that once, you know, to a clockmaker in Lucerne. I was across the lake and I could still hear his screams clearly. Wonderful acoustics.” She sighs and trails off, a wistful expression on her no longer quite so beautiful face.
“It’s trying to keep you two from exorcising it. It can control your mind.”
Dean wonders for a second if he’s wandered into some college production of a play he’d never have gone to see anyway.
“You told us on the phone that it was a haunted toilet.”
The bartender shrugs eloquently. “I lied.”
“Great. Sam, let’s go.”
But his brother isn’t listening, still apparently transfixed by the guy at the far end of the bar, who has leaned close and is saying something in a low voice to Sam.
“Leave him alone!” Dean’s bark is fairly impressive and usually does the trick.
Pretty Boy flashes a smirk that puts Dean’s own to shame and says, “No need to be jealous. There’s plenty to share.”
“It’s the demon,” the bartender says again, more inflection this time, like he knows something. “It likes to play practical jokes by making people…do things.”
“I could make you do things,” Anya remarks, reverie apparent in her voice. “Dance naked on the church steps on a Sunday, marry the town hag, cut off your own penis with a pair of nailclippers…”
Dean flinches. “Enough with the penis talk, okay sister. Just tell me what’s going on.”
“He thinks it’s a demon.” By the emphasis she puts on the first word, it’s clear she doesn’t have a very high opinion of the bartender’s diagnostic skills.
“And you know something about demons that makes you think otherwise?”
“Know something? Know something!”
And okay, she might be hot, but the shrillness in her voice makes Dean grateful that he doesn’t have to spend much time getting to know her.
“I was a demon for a thousand years! I wrought terrible vengeance on unfaithful men the world over. For centuries I struck fear in the hearts of philanderers, adulterers, and horny men everywhere. Now what am I? What?”
Dean isn’t sure what she is, actually, but he’s already got his gun out and at the ready.
“Nothing! I’m nothing! A jilted bride, a washed-up has-been of an ex-demon with no prospects and very few stock options.”
He’s almost happy when she starts sobbing into her drink because at least she’s no longer shrieking and babbling nonsense.
That near-happy state lasts until he turns to look at Sam and finds him playing tonsil inspector with Captain Hotpants.
“Hey, hey, hey! That’s my brother. And he’s not gay!” Dean pulls Sam out of the stranger’s clutches and puts an arm across his chest to restrain him when he leans forward like a thirsty man reaching for a man-shaped straw.
The stranger’s snort is at least as impressive as Anya’s and twice as wet.
“Everyone’s a little gay,” he explains, running his tongue lewdly over his lower lip.
Dean finds himself resisting the urge to mimic the action.
“Who the hell are you?”
“Captain Jack Harkness,” he answers with the slightest incline of his handsome head. “And she’s right, you know. This isn’t much of a demon. More an imp, unless I miss my guess.”
“Captain of what? The gay pride parade?”
Jack looks thoughtful. “Not since…1987? Or was it ’88.” A shrug. “It’s hard to keep the years straight. Then again, I don’t keep anything straight.”
Sam laughs giddily, but Dean’s scowl only deepens.
“What do you know about demons?”
“Depends. Are we talking demonic possession or the Elder race?”
“I thought those were elves,” Anya chimes in, apparently done with her soliloquy on one hundred and one ways to remove a man’s penis.
Jack rolls his eyes. “Please. Tolkien was a hack. Now Milton…” He sucks in a deep, appreciative breath. “There was a man.”
For the first time, Sam stirs himself to say, “Wasn’t he blind?”
“Yes,” Jack answers breathily, and Dean has to suppress a little shiver.
“You want to tell me what you expect me to do about an imp infestation?” This he directs at the bartender, obviously having decided that the man with the poor posture is the least of all evils in the room at the moment.
“Draw it out and then banish it,” Willy-Al answers, shrugging again, as if to indicate that this answer should’ve been obvious to Dean.
“Oh, of course. Right. Why didn’t I think of that?”
“You were too stunned by my masculine beauty?” Jack licks his lips again.
“Put a cork in it, or I swear I’ll-“
“Ooooo-get rough with me?”
Sam giggles again.
“That’s it. We’re done here. You can take care of your own imp problem, man. Sam, let’s go.”
Dean suits action to words, grabbing his brother by the collar of his hoodie and yanking him backward off the stool. Sam stumbles, has some trouble getting his feet under him, and then surges up and out of Dean’s grip.
“Dean, man, what the hell?”
“Sam, is that you?”
“Who else would it be, Dean?”
“You were acting all…weird and…”
“And…?”
Dean shakes his head, banishing the image of his brother with his tongue down Jack’s throat. He’s willing to lose the ammunition of a lifetime if it means he can forget it forever.
“Just…weird, okay? Let’s go.”
“We just got here, Dean. And we haven’t done the job yet.” Sam lowers his voice for this last argument and Dean shakes his head wearily.
“Forget it, Sam. The bartender lied. There’s no job here.”
“Really? Oh.” And Sam actually sounds disappointed.
Fearing it’s a sign of further insanity on his brother’s part, Dean claps Sam on the shoulder and says, “Let’s go find a motel, get some sleep.”
“Yeah. Yeah, okay.”
They exit, Dean with a hand firmly planted between his brother’s shoulder blades until the door closes.
From the corner, heretofore unnoticed, a figure emerges and heads into the brighter light around the bar.
Rubbing his hands together and smiling a wide, evil smile, the man drops a card on the bar and says to the bartender, who’s resumed his customary place: “I’ve got this great idea for a television show about a haunted bar that attracts all kinds of supernatural creatures. Let me know if you’re interested in working up a treatment.”
He exits, whistling.
The bartender picks up the card and, squinting, and reads aloud, “KEI, Kripke Enterprises, Scrap Metal and Entertainment.”
Peace,
SW
Author: SylvanWitch
Rating: PG-13 (language)
Characters/Pairings: Anya (BtVS), Captain Jack Harkness (TW), Dean and Sam (SPN), Sam/Jack (briefly)
Category: crossover, crack!fic
Summary: When the brothers Winchester investigate what they think is a routine haunting, they're rather surprised what they find instead.
Author's Notes:
avg_gay_guy99 asked for Dean and Sam, Anya, and Capt. Jack. And lo, there was crack!fic.
Disclaimer: The ones you recognize aren't mine. The one you don't might be.
The bar is dark, the kind of place Dean might like if there were a few more women and a few less strange-sounding beers on tap.
There’s a woman at the bar, smokin’ legs and a pretty decent rack, from what he can see, and a guy farther down who gives Dean a long look, one that makes him uncomfortable.
The look the gives Sam just pisses Dean off.
A little too loud, maybe, since they’re working a job, Dean rests his hands on the bar and says, “We’re here about a plumbing problem.”
If the bartender is surprised to see plumbers dressed like pool sharks, he doesn’t show it, just nods without saying anything and moves toward the far end, near the guy, who’s smiling now in a decidedly suggestive fashion.
“What are you lookin’ at?” Dean growls.
“An embarrassment of riches,” the guy answers, throwing a wink over Dean’s shoulder at Sam.
Dean tells himself he’d have a comeback if it weren’t that the bartender is waiting for them, shoulders hunched so far he’s practically staring at the apron he wears over a stained grey tee-shirt.
“I didn’t get your name.”
The bartender mumbles something that might be “Willy” or could be “Al” for all Dean hears it, since Sam picks that moment to say, “Have we met?”
The woman down the bar snorts audibly and starts muttering something to herself, but Dean’s got ears only for his brother, who he’s swung around to take in with what’s probably a landed fish expression.
Since when does Sammy chat up tall, dark, and gay as the day is long?
“Oh, I think I’d remember. Unless…you haven’t been to Arkorogothica, by any chance?”
“That a club?” Sam asks, sliding onto a stool next to the guy.
“Sam,” Dean hisses, jerking his head toward the bartender, who’s waiting in the middle of a narrow hallway at the back of the bar, head down, fingers moving in an odd weaving motion, like he’s playing an invisible flute. “Workin’ here, remember?”
“He always this tense?”
“You have no idea.”
There are a lot of things Dean hates-demons, Power Bars, doctors that hesitate to prescribe painkillers-but being talked about like he’s not even there tops all of those on his shit list.
“Look, buddy, my brother and me are here on a job, and it’s been a long day already”-understatement; Dean hates California traffic almost as much as demons-“so if you don’t mind.”
He takes Sam’s arm, but his brother shrugs off Dean’s hand. Dean’s glare lands on blind eyes; Sam’s not even looking at him.
“It’s a losing battle,” the woman says from his left, and Dean turns his head to take her in. Reddish-blonde hair, gorgeous eyes, lips that could suck a boulder through a straw.
“And you are?” Brotherly betrayal momentarily forgotten, Dean turns on the charm.
“Out of your league.”
Dean’s smile widens wolfishly. “Really?”
“She is,” the smiling stranger confirms. “Way, way out. On the other hand, I’m easy.”
The lights seem to dim as the man flashes a thousand-watt smile.
Sam simpers in place.
“Okay, what the fuck is going on?”
It’s a question directed at the universe, but surprisingly, the taciturn bartender answers, “It’s the demon.”
Dean has a second to be amazed that such a pig-like sound could come out of such a beautiful woman before Anya’s scorn-laden voice says, “Puh-lease. A demon? You wouldn’t know a demon if she turned your penis into a tuna steak and unleashed a pack of feral cats on you.”
Then, as though in confidence to Dean alone, “I did that once, you know, to a clockmaker in Lucerne. I was across the lake and I could still hear his screams clearly. Wonderful acoustics.” She sighs and trails off, a wistful expression on her no longer quite so beautiful face.
“It’s trying to keep you two from exorcising it. It can control your mind.”
Dean wonders for a second if he’s wandered into some college production of a play he’d never have gone to see anyway.
“You told us on the phone that it was a haunted toilet.”
The bartender shrugs eloquently. “I lied.”
“Great. Sam, let’s go.”
But his brother isn’t listening, still apparently transfixed by the guy at the far end of the bar, who has leaned close and is saying something in a low voice to Sam.
“Leave him alone!” Dean’s bark is fairly impressive and usually does the trick.
Pretty Boy flashes a smirk that puts Dean’s own to shame and says, “No need to be jealous. There’s plenty to share.”
“It’s the demon,” the bartender says again, more inflection this time, like he knows something. “It likes to play practical jokes by making people…do things.”
“I could make you do things,” Anya remarks, reverie apparent in her voice. “Dance naked on the church steps on a Sunday, marry the town hag, cut off your own penis with a pair of nailclippers…”
Dean flinches. “Enough with the penis talk, okay sister. Just tell me what’s going on.”
“He thinks it’s a demon.” By the emphasis she puts on the first word, it’s clear she doesn’t have a very high opinion of the bartender’s diagnostic skills.
“And you know something about demons that makes you think otherwise?”
“Know something? Know something!”
And okay, she might be hot, but the shrillness in her voice makes Dean grateful that he doesn’t have to spend much time getting to know her.
“I was a demon for a thousand years! I wrought terrible vengeance on unfaithful men the world over. For centuries I struck fear in the hearts of philanderers, adulterers, and horny men everywhere. Now what am I? What?”
Dean isn’t sure what she is, actually, but he’s already got his gun out and at the ready.
“Nothing! I’m nothing! A jilted bride, a washed-up has-been of an ex-demon with no prospects and very few stock options.”
He’s almost happy when she starts sobbing into her drink because at least she’s no longer shrieking and babbling nonsense.
That near-happy state lasts until he turns to look at Sam and finds him playing tonsil inspector with Captain Hotpants.
“Hey, hey, hey! That’s my brother. And he’s not gay!” Dean pulls Sam out of the stranger’s clutches and puts an arm across his chest to restrain him when he leans forward like a thirsty man reaching for a man-shaped straw.
The stranger’s snort is at least as impressive as Anya’s and twice as wet.
“Everyone’s a little gay,” he explains, running his tongue lewdly over his lower lip.
Dean finds himself resisting the urge to mimic the action.
“Who the hell are you?”
“Captain Jack Harkness,” he answers with the slightest incline of his handsome head. “And she’s right, you know. This isn’t much of a demon. More an imp, unless I miss my guess.”
“Captain of what? The gay pride parade?”
Jack looks thoughtful. “Not since…1987? Or was it ’88.” A shrug. “It’s hard to keep the years straight. Then again, I don’t keep anything straight.”
Sam laughs giddily, but Dean’s scowl only deepens.
“What do you know about demons?”
“Depends. Are we talking demonic possession or the Elder race?”
“I thought those were elves,” Anya chimes in, apparently done with her soliloquy on one hundred and one ways to remove a man’s penis.
Jack rolls his eyes. “Please. Tolkien was a hack. Now Milton…” He sucks in a deep, appreciative breath. “There was a man.”
For the first time, Sam stirs himself to say, “Wasn’t he blind?”
“Yes,” Jack answers breathily, and Dean has to suppress a little shiver.
“You want to tell me what you expect me to do about an imp infestation?” This he directs at the bartender, obviously having decided that the man with the poor posture is the least of all evils in the room at the moment.
“Draw it out and then banish it,” Willy-Al answers, shrugging again, as if to indicate that this answer should’ve been obvious to Dean.
“Oh, of course. Right. Why didn’t I think of that?”
“You were too stunned by my masculine beauty?” Jack licks his lips again.
“Put a cork in it, or I swear I’ll-“
“Ooooo-get rough with me?”
Sam giggles again.
“That’s it. We’re done here. You can take care of your own imp problem, man. Sam, let’s go.”
Dean suits action to words, grabbing his brother by the collar of his hoodie and yanking him backward off the stool. Sam stumbles, has some trouble getting his feet under him, and then surges up and out of Dean’s grip.
“Dean, man, what the hell?”
“Sam, is that you?”
“Who else would it be, Dean?”
“You were acting all…weird and…”
“And…?”
Dean shakes his head, banishing the image of his brother with his tongue down Jack’s throat. He’s willing to lose the ammunition of a lifetime if it means he can forget it forever.
“Just…weird, okay? Let’s go.”
“We just got here, Dean. And we haven’t done the job yet.” Sam lowers his voice for this last argument and Dean shakes his head wearily.
“Forget it, Sam. The bartender lied. There’s no job here.”
“Really? Oh.” And Sam actually sounds disappointed.
Fearing it’s a sign of further insanity on his brother’s part, Dean claps Sam on the shoulder and says, “Let’s go find a motel, get some sleep.”
“Yeah. Yeah, okay.”
They exit, Dean with a hand firmly planted between his brother’s shoulder blades until the door closes.
From the corner, heretofore unnoticed, a figure emerges and heads into the brighter light around the bar.
Rubbing his hands together and smiling a wide, evil smile, the man drops a card on the bar and says to the bartender, who’s resumed his customary place: “I’ve got this great idea for a television show about a haunted bar that attracts all kinds of supernatural creatures. Let me know if you’re interested in working up a treatment.”
He exits, whistling.
The bartender picks up the card and, squinting, and reads aloud, “KEI, Kripke Enterprises, Scrap Metal and Entertainment.”
Peace,
SW