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Title: Agnatus - Prologue
By: kellifer_fic
Fandom: SPN
Rating: PG (language/adult themes)
Category: Dean/Sam
Words: 1,252
Disclaimer: Don't own, don't sue, no money!
Spoilers: None
Notes: Thanks to my beta *superfox* and to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
lyra_wing for Americanisation and beating my grammer into some semblance of recognition.
Summary: Two sons were born to John Winchester, years and miles apart. They grew up strangers but fate had other plans for them, and a black sense of humour.
Prologue | Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Part Five
It was a powerful, brave or very stupid creature that would tempt Fate’s ire by messing with the threads that wove the tapestry of the world. A Demon, one of the more powerful of the Lower Beings, struck a bargain to turn back the wheels of time and unmake, destroying a mother before her second son was born.
Fate had plans and would not be denied.
As always, it found a way.
000
If you have a problem, call my son Dean. He can help.
At first he’d called the cell phone a couple of times a day, hoping against hope that his father would pick up. Even if it were by accident, John reaching for the phone while half-asleep in a motel somewhere and not realizing quite what he was doing until the phone was at his ear.
Dean would’ve been fine with that. Hell, even if John had hung up before he’d had a chance to say anything he wouldn’t have cared. Just a sound, a breath would’ve been enough.
Maybe then he wouldn’t have felt so terribly alone.
000
“Son, how did this happen?”
Sometimes a well-meaning doctor or nurse would call the police, worried when he dragged himself into the emergency room, bleeding and bruised and barely coherent. It had been easier when he had John to make the call. Either a cuff to the back of the ear, a couple of stitches and a you’ll be fine, dude, or a worried frown, darkening of the eyes and an order to get his butt into the car because they were going straight to the hospital.
His Father would always stare those asking straight in the eye, looking just the right amount of haggard and worried and he fell down some stairs or he got in a bar fight. No Officer, I didn’t see who, wouldn’t sound so ludicrous.
“My place is pretty old and I fell through the basement stairs straight through to the basement itself. Damn things just gave way under me,” Dean tried, knowing that bar fight and most definitely walking into a door was not going to cut it this time. A banshee had dragged him through a forest and then dropped him on his head and he pretty much looked like it.
“Right,” the policeman in front of him drawled, flipping his little black notebook closed and looking like he could have come with a better story in his sleep, but it was too late at night and close to his shift ending for him to worry about chasing the lie. “You watch out next time,” the man added and the sarcasm in his tone had Dean tensing and closing his hands into fists.
000
“Who you callin’?” A girl named Jayney asked, stretching one long leg, toes fetching up against his thigh and stroking lightly. Dean fought the urge to smack her foot away because he was going to be in town for another three days and Jayney was the type that called for a second go round. Being sweet the morning after was something that would cinch the deal, or so he figured.
“A friend,” Dean lied. “I keep getting his voicemail and it’s annoying.”
“You wanna check his messages, see if he’s collecting ‘em if you’re worried?” Jayney asked, and Dean looked at her, arresting the movement of her toes by gripping her foot, a little too hard he realized when she winced.
“You can do that?” he asked, marvelling at how small his voice sounded, how hopeful.
“Sure,” Jayney said, pulling her foot back and massaging it with a frown. “My brother works for a provider and he taught me a few things. It’ll probably take a while but I’m sure I can do it. If your friend is just being a jackass and not calling you back, we can change his message to something fun.”
Dean set the phone aside, knowing that although all he wanted was to shove the phone at her and demand she get to work, that it was the surest way to get his ass booted to the curb. He needed to be more than a little sweet.
He flashed a grin and crawled up Jayney’s body, doing what he did best.
Being patient.
000
There’d been twenty-six messages on his Father’s phone, twenty-three of them from Dean himself, all unheard according to Jayney.
Dean hadn’t thought he could feel worse, but there it was.
The first message that wasn’t his own was from Caleb, imploring John to get in contact, let one of them know he was okay. Even if you don’t want us to tell Dean, Caleb had said and Dean had felt something thick and burning roll through his stomach. The second was from Jim, not asking for his whereabouts but merely promising to keep the home fires burning, to be there if he needed help, and that he was going to keep an eye on Dean.
The third was a woman’s voice Dean had never heard before.
“John, it's Ellen, again. Look, don't be stubborn. You know I can help you. Call me." After a pause, the woman left a number, there was another breath and then the click of the line going dead.
Dean now stood in front of a ramshackle place simply called The Roadhouse, wondering what he was going to say, what this woman thought she could help with. He suspected he knew what but he didn’t really want to think about it too much. All he wanted was to find his Father and the woman’s voicemail was left only days after his Father disappeared.
It was a place to start and that was one thing Dean hadn’t had before.
He knocked a couple of times but didn’t get a response. He found a window at the back that lifted clear out of its frame with a little jiggling and slid through. There was a man sleeping on a pool table close to the window and Dean paused, only moving again when he heard the healthy buzz-saw of the man snoring.
He moved into the main bar area and a tall guy who was sweeping froze, head snapping up. The guy brought a foot down, snapping the brush part of the broom off the handle, bringing the handle up in a neat little arc and holding it in front of himself.
“Who are you?” he demanded, hands tightening on his make-shift weapon, huffing hair out of his eyes.
“I’m looking for a woman named Ellen,” Dean explained, circling the guy with his hands up, not really relishing the thought of getting his teeth knocked out by a busboy. The kid was shaggy haired and freaking huge with impossibly long arms, and his current weapon choice meant his reach would be half a room, at least. “She called my dad offering help. I’m just trying to find out why she thinks she can.”
The broom handle lowered fractionally, the guy’s eyes narrowing. “Mom!” he called, eyes never leaving Dean.
A woman emerged from the back, wiping her hands on a dishcloth, looking unfazed but Dean didn’t buy it. Giving her a quick once over, he noted the way her jeans pulled a little funny at the waist and knew she probably had a weapon tucked in the waistband at the back. Dean figured she was standing by the door, heard the whole thing.
“Sam?” she prompted, looking from the guy, Sam, back to Dean. “Who have we here?”
By: kellifer_fic
Fandom: SPN
Rating: PG (language/adult themes)
Category: Dean/Sam
Words: 1,252
Disclaimer: Don't own, don't sue, no money!
Spoilers: None
Notes: Thanks to my beta *superfox* and to
lyra_wing for Americanisation and beating my grammer into some semblance of recognition.Summary: Two sons were born to John Winchester, years and miles apart. They grew up strangers but fate had other plans for them, and a black sense of humour.
Prologue | Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Part Five
It was a powerful, brave or very stupid creature that would tempt Fate’s ire by messing with the threads that wove the tapestry of the world. A Demon, one of the more powerful of the Lower Beings, struck a bargain to turn back the wheels of time and unmake, destroying a mother before her second son was born.
Fate had plans and would not be denied.
As always, it found a way.
If you have a problem, call my son Dean. He can help.
At first he’d called the cell phone a couple of times a day, hoping against hope that his father would pick up. Even if it were by accident, John reaching for the phone while half-asleep in a motel somewhere and not realizing quite what he was doing until the phone was at his ear.
Dean would’ve been fine with that. Hell, even if John had hung up before he’d had a chance to say anything he wouldn’t have cared. Just a sound, a breath would’ve been enough.
Maybe then he wouldn’t have felt so terribly alone.
“Son, how did this happen?”
Sometimes a well-meaning doctor or nurse would call the police, worried when he dragged himself into the emergency room, bleeding and bruised and barely coherent. It had been easier when he had John to make the call. Either a cuff to the back of the ear, a couple of stitches and a you’ll be fine, dude, or a worried frown, darkening of the eyes and an order to get his butt into the car because they were going straight to the hospital.
His Father would always stare those asking straight in the eye, looking just the right amount of haggard and worried and he fell down some stairs or he got in a bar fight. No Officer, I didn’t see who, wouldn’t sound so ludicrous.
“My place is pretty old and I fell through the basement stairs straight through to the basement itself. Damn things just gave way under me,” Dean tried, knowing that bar fight and most definitely walking into a door was not going to cut it this time. A banshee had dragged him through a forest and then dropped him on his head and he pretty much looked like it.
“Right,” the policeman in front of him drawled, flipping his little black notebook closed and looking like he could have come with a better story in his sleep, but it was too late at night and close to his shift ending for him to worry about chasing the lie. “You watch out next time,” the man added and the sarcasm in his tone had Dean tensing and closing his hands into fists.
“Who you callin’?” A girl named Jayney asked, stretching one long leg, toes fetching up against his thigh and stroking lightly. Dean fought the urge to smack her foot away because he was going to be in town for another three days and Jayney was the type that called for a second go round. Being sweet the morning after was something that would cinch the deal, or so he figured.
“A friend,” Dean lied. “I keep getting his voicemail and it’s annoying.”
“You wanna check his messages, see if he’s collecting ‘em if you’re worried?” Jayney asked, and Dean looked at her, arresting the movement of her toes by gripping her foot, a little too hard he realized when she winced.
“You can do that?” he asked, marvelling at how small his voice sounded, how hopeful.
“Sure,” Jayney said, pulling her foot back and massaging it with a frown. “My brother works for a provider and he taught me a few things. It’ll probably take a while but I’m sure I can do it. If your friend is just being a jackass and not calling you back, we can change his message to something fun.”
Dean set the phone aside, knowing that although all he wanted was to shove the phone at her and demand she get to work, that it was the surest way to get his ass booted to the curb. He needed to be more than a little sweet.
He flashed a grin and crawled up Jayney’s body, doing what he did best.
Being patient.
There’d been twenty-six messages on his Father’s phone, twenty-three of them from Dean himself, all unheard according to Jayney.
Dean hadn’t thought he could feel worse, but there it was.
The first message that wasn’t his own was from Caleb, imploring John to get in contact, let one of them know he was okay. Even if you don’t want us to tell Dean, Caleb had said and Dean had felt something thick and burning roll through his stomach. The second was from Jim, not asking for his whereabouts but merely promising to keep the home fires burning, to be there if he needed help, and that he was going to keep an eye on Dean.
The third was a woman’s voice Dean had never heard before.
“John, it's Ellen, again. Look, don't be stubborn. You know I can help you. Call me." After a pause, the woman left a number, there was another breath and then the click of the line going dead.
Dean now stood in front of a ramshackle place simply called The Roadhouse, wondering what he was going to say, what this woman thought she could help with. He suspected he knew what but he didn’t really want to think about it too much. All he wanted was to find his Father and the woman’s voicemail was left only days after his Father disappeared.
It was a place to start and that was one thing Dean hadn’t had before.
He knocked a couple of times but didn’t get a response. He found a window at the back that lifted clear out of its frame with a little jiggling and slid through. There was a man sleeping on a pool table close to the window and Dean paused, only moving again when he heard the healthy buzz-saw of the man snoring.
He moved into the main bar area and a tall guy who was sweeping froze, head snapping up. The guy brought a foot down, snapping the brush part of the broom off the handle, bringing the handle up in a neat little arc and holding it in front of himself.
“Who are you?” he demanded, hands tightening on his make-shift weapon, huffing hair out of his eyes.
“I’m looking for a woman named Ellen,” Dean explained, circling the guy with his hands up, not really relishing the thought of getting his teeth knocked out by a busboy. The kid was shaggy haired and freaking huge with impossibly long arms, and his current weapon choice meant his reach would be half a room, at least. “She called my dad offering help. I’m just trying to find out why she thinks she can.”
The broom handle lowered fractionally, the guy’s eyes narrowing. “Mom!” he called, eyes never leaving Dean.
A woman emerged from the back, wiping her hands on a dishcloth, looking unfazed but Dean didn’t buy it. Giving her a quick once over, he noted the way her jeans pulled a little funny at the waist and knew she probably had a weapon tucked in the waistband at the back. Dean figured she was standing by the door, heard the whole thing.
“Sam?” she prompted, looking from the guy, Sam, back to Dean. “Who have we here?”
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Dang. I can't wait to see where this is going. Great start. ;D
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