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Hi there!
It's March and the daffodils are about six inches high and it's snowing! Wheeee! Plus, the wind is like some kind of crazy whirlwind out there or something.
You know, my first love of fandom is Buffy, and in that fandom, Spike and Xander. Now, there may not be a ton of Spander stories going on out there right now, but there *are* some, and i thought i'd rec one in particular that never fails to make me smile. Yes, WIP, but lots of chapters so far and pretty regular updates. It's a bit of an AU, a twist on season two and on, i do believe. I have a terrible memory. But it's fun and funny and sexy and i like it. So go read![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
suki_blue's Teenage Dirtbag. You won't be sorry.
Also,sweptawaybayou wrote me a ficlet for when i was feeling all pitiful the other night. Angel and Dean! Wheee! And made me all inspired to write a 'Bones' xover that may or may not happen... Anyway - this will definitely make you *not* pitiful in any way. Hard. Yissss...
One last thing. Think 'don't ask, don't tell' is stupid, shortsighted, possibly evil? Who doesn't! Go here to read about the first Marine wounded in Iraq. Who just happens to be *gay*. There's also a link to contact your congressman/woman and tell him or her that you support the repeal of DADT. You'll be glad you did.
Now for the fic. I'm enjoying writing outsider pov - just looking at the characters instead of inhabiting them. Very interesting. This is little more of the Wolfpack 'verse. Outsider pov once again. The lines at the top are from Rudyard Kipling's 'The Jungle Book' - Law of the Jungle
Thank you,darkhavens for the beta!
Now this is the Law of the Jungle -- as old and as true as the sky;
And the Wolf that shall keep it may prosper, but the Wolf that shall break it must die.
As the creeper that girdles the tree-trunk the Law runneth forward and back --
For the strength of the Pack is the Wolf, and the strength of the Wolf is the Pack.
Rock Creek, Kansas
In his seventy-sixth year, Efram Marshall had come to realize that he didn't need much sleep. So he found himself up and about until long past midnight, doing crosswords and watching Law & Order and perusing the antique compasses on eBay. He'd restricted himself to one a month.
It was pleasant, also, to sit on his porch in the warm June air, listening to the nighthawks diving for gnats, and the whip-poor-wills calling from down by the creek. Crickets and cicadas and frogs chorusing endlessly as he rocked slowly on the glider, his beer growing warm, his feet chilly in their scuffs.
He rarely had company, living as he did. Down at the end of a twisty dirt road, his house half-hidden by cottonwood and cedar. Rarely, but sometimes – sometimes the Rockaway boys, sometimes old Gunther Lapp, as much of a night-owl as Efram. But mostly nothing disturbed the long nights. Tonight, though... Efram watched a pair of headlights duck in and out through the trees, coming fast up his road. Faster than Gunther would ever drive – faster than the Rockaways, idiot boys that they were. Efram wondered if there was some sort of emergency and stood up, indecisive, on his front porch.
He'd been a medic in the Army – had patched up and shipped out an endless string of soldiers over in Korea. Came home and then did it all over again in Vietnam. Once that mess was behind him, he'd settled into his own little practice right here in Rock Creek. Mostly retired now – everybody wanted to go over to Topeka anymore. But sometimes...
The car swept up his drive, big and black and unknown, rumbling like a bear. It jerked to a stop much too close to the porch and Efram felt that familiar little fluttery twist in his gut. Had to be bad, somebody coming here. Coming to him, so late – so frantic.
A door creaked open – then another – then there were two men staggering up his steps, indistinct in the dim light from the living room windows. Clear enough, though, for Efram to see the blood and the dirt and the gun. Shiny silver hand-gun pointed right at his face, held by a hand that shook in autumn-leaf trembles. Efram knew enough about men – and guns – to know that that didn't matter much.
"You the doc?" Voice hoarse and raw, low. Not shaky at all.
"I am. Son –"
"Don't call me that. My brother's hurt, and you're gonna fix him. Right now."
The gun lifted and pointed to the house – swung back to center on Efram again and Efram lifted both hands up a little, fingers spread, palms out. He'd thought he was done with crazy men and guns and crazy men with guns once he'd mustered out. But he still knew how to act around a crazy man with a gun, and that was careful and slow and quiet. "All right. The kitchen's got the best light. Straight back."
"Move," the man said and Efram did, shuffling a little in his scuffs. Opening the screen door and then holding it while the man got his toe up against the edge. Waving Efram on, the brother just barely on his feet, head sagging and limbs sprawling, uncoordinated.
The walk down the hall seemed to take forever, Efram listening to the thump of heavy boots and the tiny, animal noises of pain that every step wrung from the hurt man. Efram reached out and flipped on the kitchen light – headed straight across to the sink and turned on the fluorescent strip that hung there, too. Then he turned around, wincing, as the man with the gun swept the kitchen table clean, sending spoons and sugar bowl and salt and pepper flying and shattering to the floor.
"Here, now, let me help –" Efram said and the gun twitched up again, the man shooting Efram a look of pure venom as he laid his brother down onto the scarred wood. The hurt man's long legs hung off the table, muddy boots leaving streaks on the faded green and cream linoleum. He moaned softly, his hands pawing clumsily at his brother, who patted him absently.
"You just get whatever supplies you need and get going."
"All right." First aid was right up under the kitchen sink with the dish soap, because Efram mostly nicked a finger cutting up tomatoes or burned himself on hot bacon fat. The couch and computer were pretty safe territory, unless you counted the time he'd dropped his steak knife right onto his little toe, skewering it to the sole of his scuff. Efram bent and hauled the kit out – big old tackle box that was painted with a cross in drippy red paint. He couldn't quite quit the habit of being well-stocked, even if he'd never need to sew up a man again.
Except maybe tonight, because the man on the table and the one with the gun both had enough blood on them to make Efram think he'd be honing his suturing skills into the wee hours. He hauled the kit over – up – thumped it down onto a chair and positioned the chair at the hurt man's head. Up close, the both of them smelled of burning – an ashy, sulphur stink that scratched at Efram's nostrils. The hurt man had a length of blood-spotted gauze wrapped clumsily around his head, covering one eye, and Efram found a pair of latex gloves and the bandage scissors and gently went to work, sliding the blunt, angled tips of the scissors up under the gauze and snipping carefully. The man jerked at the touch of the cold metal and Efram hushed him.
"All right, now, all right... How'd you boys know where I live?" Efram asked, peeling the gauze away. A standard Army field dressing lay underneath, saturated with more blood – streaked with dirt.
"You helped our dad once. Set his arm," the gunman said, and Efram looked up at him in surprise.
"I did? You boys live around here?"
"No. Now pay attention and fix him," the man snapped, lifting his gun. Free hand knotted in the hurt man's shirt, holding him still.
"All right, all right. Let's see..." Efram lay the scissors aside and pulled up the edge of the dressing, frowning at the damage beneath. Something had cut – or clawed – across the left side of the man's face from hairline to chin. Gouges deep enough to show the sick gleam of wet bone. The eyelid was ripped, lying askew over a bloody eyeball and Efram pulled off a glove and rummaged out his little flashlight – carefully lifted the torn flesh and examined the damage beneath. The hurt man panted, twitching – pulling away and coming up off the table a few inches, only to be pushed back down by the other man.
"Is he – is he blind?" the other man – older brother – asked, his voice cracking a little, and Efram glanced up at him. At the tightly-leashed panic and bloodshot, exhausted eyes.
"No, he isn't. Unless he gets an infection. He got lucky – whatever did this to him scratched the sclera, but the iris and pupil are still intact." Efram felt after the man's pulse, fingers resting on the dirty, stubbled neck. More blood here, too – more scratches, not quite as deep. Purpling bruises that showed through rents in an olive-drab t-shirt. The man's heartbeat was thready and too fast and Efram checked the intact eye with his flashlight. It barely reacted, blown wide, a thin ring of golden-brown-green around that black well. "Damn. He's in shock I need..." Efram stopped for a minute and thought. He had more supplies in his office in the front of the house. Stuff he'd been given by this and that ex-patient, some of it illegal.
"What do you need?" the gunman asked, and Efram stripped off his other glove and bent over the tackle box, hunting supplies.
"I need the big foot locker in my office. It's in the front of the house, on the left. Army locker. Your brother needs IV fluids before I can do anything else." Efram finally found the little tin box that held his IV needles and the suture kit and he straightened back up, flipping open the lid and then freezing. The man was leaning across the table, the gun was much too close, and Efram didn't dare to breathe.
"I'm not leaving you alone with my brother."
"Wuh-well then, I'll just – go and –"
"And call the cops? No." The man's hand was shaking harder now – fresh blood was streaking down from a hidden wound somewhere over his ear and Efram could see the panic breaking loose. Efram was no fool. He'd seen men go to pieces in a hundred different ways, in his time – was seeing it right now, and a tiny, insistent voice in his head screamed at him to be careful, be careful, be oh so God damned careful...
"Son, I have no intention of calling the police. And I'm a doctor, for God's sake – I won't hurt your brother."
"Shut up." The man took a hard breath, gun wavering aside and for the first time, Efram noticed the scar across his throat. Old, but still visible – bad enough to have ruined the man's voice for life. The gunman looked down at his brother – reached out and lightly slapped his uninjured cheek. "Sam. Wake up – I need you."
"What in hell are you doing?" Efram snapped, dismayed, and the man snarled silently at him, the gun coming up and aiming like an afterthought – like an extension of the man himself. He slapped a little harder and the hurt man – Sam – jerked under the blow, both his hands coming up to grab wildly at his brother's arm.
"Sam? Hey, buddy. It's me."
"De...Dean..." Sam swallowed, licked his lips and made a little face. Efram imagined they didn't taste very good. "What...? You ok-kay?"
"I'm fine, Sam." The gunman - Dean - leaned down and got his arm under his brother – got him upright, grimacing. Favoring his side in a way that made Efram sure Dean had a broken rib or two. "See this guy?" Dean asked, gently pushing Sam's chin and Sam's head swung around and his good eye focused woozily on Efram.
"Yeah."
"He's the doc. Gonna fix you up but I gotta get his stuff. It's in the front of the house. Can you watch him?"
Sam and Efram both blinked, and Efram opened his mouth to protest – to tell this Dean kid that he was nuts, when Sam nodded jerkily.
"Yeah, I can – I can do it."
"One minute," Dean said, and then he was pressing his gun into his brother's hands and the barrel was lifting and pointing at Efram, more steadily than Efram would have thought possible. "Shoot him if he comes at you. Hell – just shoot him if he moves."
"I g-got it," Sam said. Dean touched his brother's shoulder – turned and jogged down the hall, boots thumping and scattering little clots of dried mud. Efram just stood there, suture kit in his fingers and his mouth dry – heart hammering fit to break his breastbone.
"Son, I won't hurt you."
"I know you won't," the man said, his gaze wandering over the kitchen – finding Efram again with an effort, sweat-sheened skin grey and pale.
"Can you tell me what happened?" Efram asked, and the corner of Sam's mouth twitched up a little, sickly half-smile that showed blood-washed teeth. It made the hairs on the back of Efram's neck stand up and he stared in sick fascination.
"We made a h-hole in the world, doc. Hole straight to h-hell."
"And we sent every last evil son of a bitch we could find right down into it. I got it, Sam." The other was there suddenly, kicking the foot locker across to Efram and lifting the gun out of Sam's hands – easing him back down onto the table while Sam blinked in confusion and then shut his good eye, shivering.
"Hurts, Dean."
"I know. I got it." Dean looked up at Efram and Efram stared back for a moment and then dug his key-ring out of his pocket – unlocked the foot locker and got what he needed. It was going to be a long night.
Near dawn, Efram was finally done. He dried his hands sketchily on a dish towel and then leaned with a sigh against the sink edge. His back and shoulders were screaming – his hands shaking and his legs feeling like they were about to give out. He shuffled across the kitchen floor, grimacing at the muck and mess all over it. Later – in the afternoon, he'd clean it. Right now... Right now, he ached and he was so tired he felt dizzy – heavy and numb. He fumbled a beer out of the fridge and pried the cap off against the edge of the counter – took a long drink before heading back to the kitchen table. The ruins of two t-shirts lay crumpled on its stained surface, along with the torn packages from fresh bandages and the snipped ends of sutures.
Efram found the aspirin and shook three out into his palm – downed them swiftly with the beer and then put the bottle down with a little crack onto the table. Dear God, he was tired. He let his eyes close for a moment, seeing in his head the image of the older man carefully lifting the younger one up. Making sure he was steady on his feet, one callused palm pressed to a bandaged, dirt-freckled chest. The long, silent look that had passed between them, and the slow touch of foreheads and then lips, a kiss so desperate and so careful – so full of longing and love that Efram had only stared, lost in the sense-memory of the first kiss he'd shared with his Deborah, fifty years ago.
Efram swayed slightly on his feet and forced his eyes open, pushing the memory away. It disturbed him – humbled him – and he was too wrung out to puzzle it through. He made his way slowly down the hall and shook his smirched scuffs off where the linoleum gave way to the faded Oriental rugs. Momma's rugs, still hung up and beaten with an old badminton racket every spring. He stepped onto the rug and made his way to the foot of the stairs, pausing for a moment to look into the living room.
The curtains were drawn closed so that the only light was indistinct – fuzzy gold and peach-rose, coming in around the edges and getting lost in the corners. The hurt boy – the badly hurt one – lay on the couch, cocooned in blankets and swaddled in fresh, white gauze. Face washed clean but his hair still lank with sweat and filth. He was asleep, breathing easily. His brother was on the floor, knees up and arms crossed over them, that damn big gun in his hands. His head was down but as Efram stopped it lifted with a snap, his eyes catching the light and flashing bottle-green and wide in the gloom. He had his own share of stitches and bandages – his own patches of clean, tanned skin.
Efram nodded wearily at him and then took a deep breath – assayed the long, long climb up. For a moment he wished he could just go into his office and collapse in his La-Z-Boy, but he knew he'd regret it once he woke back up. Bed, at his age, was best. With a grunt of effort he hauled himself up the first step and then the next, and was panting lightly when he finally made it to the top.
He shed his clothes in a heap right beside the bed – didn't have the energy for his pajamas or even his toothbrush. He tugged the sheets back and with a wavering sigh collapsed onto the mattress. A slow breeze – fresh with dew and the scent of roses – eddied in through the open windows, teasing a lock of hair across Efram's forehead. He didn't even have the strength to lift his hand to brush it back, and was asleep before the next waft of clean, cool air did it for him.
When he woke, it was just after two in the afternoon, and the boys were gone.
Next in this 'verse:Breathing Space.
ETA: I also meant to pimp The Moonlight Fiction Multi-fandom Archive! Run bytrishabooms. Or at least, partially run by her. Heh. BUT! Good place to find lots of fic, and pretty, too. :)
ETA the Second: Sheesh! Can't believe i forgot. I signed up at Sweet Charity. You - yes you! - can buy me for fic! Wheeee! I mean, i'll write fic. Heh. The money goes to RAINN. Lots of people are signed up - go, peruse, bid! Bidding actually starts on the 15th of March, so you have time to save your pennies!
It's March and the daffodils are about six inches high and it's snowing! Wheeee! Plus, the wind is like some kind of crazy whirlwind out there or something.
You know, my first love of fandom is Buffy, and in that fandom, Spike and Xander. Now, there may not be a ton of Spander stories going on out there right now, but there *are* some, and i thought i'd rec one in particular that never fails to make me smile. Yes, WIP, but lots of chapters so far and pretty regular updates. It's a bit of an AU, a twist on season two and on, i do believe. I have a terrible memory. But it's fun and funny and sexy and i like it. So go read
suki_blue's Teenage Dirtbag. You won't be sorry.Also,
sweptawaybayou wrote me a ficlet for when i was feeling all pitiful the other night. Angel and Dean! Wheee! And made me all inspired to write a 'Bones' xover that may or may not happen... Anyway - this will definitely make you *not* pitiful in any way. Hard. Yissss...One last thing. Think 'don't ask, don't tell' is stupid, shortsighted, possibly evil? Who doesn't! Go here to read about the first Marine wounded in Iraq. Who just happens to be *gay*. There's also a link to contact your congressman/woman and tell him or her that you support the repeal of DADT. You'll be glad you did.
Now for the fic. I'm enjoying writing outsider pov - just looking at the characters instead of inhabiting them. Very interesting. This is little more of the Wolfpack 'verse. Outsider pov once again. The lines at the top are from Rudyard Kipling's 'The Jungle Book' - Law of the Jungle
Thank you,
darkhavens for the beta!Now this is the Law of the Jungle -- as old and as true as the sky;
And the Wolf that shall keep it may prosper, but the Wolf that shall break it must die.
As the creeper that girdles the tree-trunk the Law runneth forward and back --
For the strength of the Pack is the Wolf, and the strength of the Wolf is the Pack.
Rock Creek, Kansas
In his seventy-sixth year, Efram Marshall had come to realize that he didn't need much sleep. So he found himself up and about until long past midnight, doing crosswords and watching Law & Order and perusing the antique compasses on eBay. He'd restricted himself to one a month.
It was pleasant, also, to sit on his porch in the warm June air, listening to the nighthawks diving for gnats, and the whip-poor-wills calling from down by the creek. Crickets and cicadas and frogs chorusing endlessly as he rocked slowly on the glider, his beer growing warm, his feet chilly in their scuffs.
He rarely had company, living as he did. Down at the end of a twisty dirt road, his house half-hidden by cottonwood and cedar. Rarely, but sometimes – sometimes the Rockaway boys, sometimes old Gunther Lapp, as much of a night-owl as Efram. But mostly nothing disturbed the long nights. Tonight, though... Efram watched a pair of headlights duck in and out through the trees, coming fast up his road. Faster than Gunther would ever drive – faster than the Rockaways, idiot boys that they were. Efram wondered if there was some sort of emergency and stood up, indecisive, on his front porch.
He'd been a medic in the Army – had patched up and shipped out an endless string of soldiers over in Korea. Came home and then did it all over again in Vietnam. Once that mess was behind him, he'd settled into his own little practice right here in Rock Creek. Mostly retired now – everybody wanted to go over to Topeka anymore. But sometimes...
The car swept up his drive, big and black and unknown, rumbling like a bear. It jerked to a stop much too close to the porch and Efram felt that familiar little fluttery twist in his gut. Had to be bad, somebody coming here. Coming to him, so late – so frantic.
A door creaked open – then another – then there were two men staggering up his steps, indistinct in the dim light from the living room windows. Clear enough, though, for Efram to see the blood and the dirt and the gun. Shiny silver hand-gun pointed right at his face, held by a hand that shook in autumn-leaf trembles. Efram knew enough about men – and guns – to know that that didn't matter much.
"You the doc?" Voice hoarse and raw, low. Not shaky at all.
"I am. Son –"
"Don't call me that. My brother's hurt, and you're gonna fix him. Right now."
The gun lifted and pointed to the house – swung back to center on Efram again and Efram lifted both hands up a little, fingers spread, palms out. He'd thought he was done with crazy men and guns and crazy men with guns once he'd mustered out. But he still knew how to act around a crazy man with a gun, and that was careful and slow and quiet. "All right. The kitchen's got the best light. Straight back."
"Move," the man said and Efram did, shuffling a little in his scuffs. Opening the screen door and then holding it while the man got his toe up against the edge. Waving Efram on, the brother just barely on his feet, head sagging and limbs sprawling, uncoordinated.
The walk down the hall seemed to take forever, Efram listening to the thump of heavy boots and the tiny, animal noises of pain that every step wrung from the hurt man. Efram reached out and flipped on the kitchen light – headed straight across to the sink and turned on the fluorescent strip that hung there, too. Then he turned around, wincing, as the man with the gun swept the kitchen table clean, sending spoons and sugar bowl and salt and pepper flying and shattering to the floor.
"Here, now, let me help –" Efram said and the gun twitched up again, the man shooting Efram a look of pure venom as he laid his brother down onto the scarred wood. The hurt man's long legs hung off the table, muddy boots leaving streaks on the faded green and cream linoleum. He moaned softly, his hands pawing clumsily at his brother, who patted him absently.
"You just get whatever supplies you need and get going."
"All right." First aid was right up under the kitchen sink with the dish soap, because Efram mostly nicked a finger cutting up tomatoes or burned himself on hot bacon fat. The couch and computer were pretty safe territory, unless you counted the time he'd dropped his steak knife right onto his little toe, skewering it to the sole of his scuff. Efram bent and hauled the kit out – big old tackle box that was painted with a cross in drippy red paint. He couldn't quite quit the habit of being well-stocked, even if he'd never need to sew up a man again.
Except maybe tonight, because the man on the table and the one with the gun both had enough blood on them to make Efram think he'd be honing his suturing skills into the wee hours. He hauled the kit over – up – thumped it down onto a chair and positioned the chair at the hurt man's head. Up close, the both of them smelled of burning – an ashy, sulphur stink that scratched at Efram's nostrils. The hurt man had a length of blood-spotted gauze wrapped clumsily around his head, covering one eye, and Efram found a pair of latex gloves and the bandage scissors and gently went to work, sliding the blunt, angled tips of the scissors up under the gauze and snipping carefully. The man jerked at the touch of the cold metal and Efram hushed him.
"All right, now, all right... How'd you boys know where I live?" Efram asked, peeling the gauze away. A standard Army field dressing lay underneath, saturated with more blood – streaked with dirt.
"You helped our dad once. Set his arm," the gunman said, and Efram looked up at him in surprise.
"I did? You boys live around here?"
"No. Now pay attention and fix him," the man snapped, lifting his gun. Free hand knotted in the hurt man's shirt, holding him still.
"All right, all right. Let's see..." Efram lay the scissors aside and pulled up the edge of the dressing, frowning at the damage beneath. Something had cut – or clawed – across the left side of the man's face from hairline to chin. Gouges deep enough to show the sick gleam of wet bone. The eyelid was ripped, lying askew over a bloody eyeball and Efram pulled off a glove and rummaged out his little flashlight – carefully lifted the torn flesh and examined the damage beneath. The hurt man panted, twitching – pulling away and coming up off the table a few inches, only to be pushed back down by the other man.
"Is he – is he blind?" the other man – older brother – asked, his voice cracking a little, and Efram glanced up at him. At the tightly-leashed panic and bloodshot, exhausted eyes.
"No, he isn't. Unless he gets an infection. He got lucky – whatever did this to him scratched the sclera, but the iris and pupil are still intact." Efram felt after the man's pulse, fingers resting on the dirty, stubbled neck. More blood here, too – more scratches, not quite as deep. Purpling bruises that showed through rents in an olive-drab t-shirt. The man's heartbeat was thready and too fast and Efram checked the intact eye with his flashlight. It barely reacted, blown wide, a thin ring of golden-brown-green around that black well. "Damn. He's in shock I need..." Efram stopped for a minute and thought. He had more supplies in his office in the front of the house. Stuff he'd been given by this and that ex-patient, some of it illegal.
"What do you need?" the gunman asked, and Efram stripped off his other glove and bent over the tackle box, hunting supplies.
"I need the big foot locker in my office. It's in the front of the house, on the left. Army locker. Your brother needs IV fluids before I can do anything else." Efram finally found the little tin box that held his IV needles and the suture kit and he straightened back up, flipping open the lid and then freezing. The man was leaning across the table, the gun was much too close, and Efram didn't dare to breathe.
"I'm not leaving you alone with my brother."
"Wuh-well then, I'll just – go and –"
"And call the cops? No." The man's hand was shaking harder now – fresh blood was streaking down from a hidden wound somewhere over his ear and Efram could see the panic breaking loose. Efram was no fool. He'd seen men go to pieces in a hundred different ways, in his time – was seeing it right now, and a tiny, insistent voice in his head screamed at him to be careful, be careful, be oh so God damned careful...
"Son, I have no intention of calling the police. And I'm a doctor, for God's sake – I won't hurt your brother."
"Shut up." The man took a hard breath, gun wavering aside and for the first time, Efram noticed the scar across his throat. Old, but still visible – bad enough to have ruined the man's voice for life. The gunman looked down at his brother – reached out and lightly slapped his uninjured cheek. "Sam. Wake up – I need you."
"What in hell are you doing?" Efram snapped, dismayed, and the man snarled silently at him, the gun coming up and aiming like an afterthought – like an extension of the man himself. He slapped a little harder and the hurt man – Sam – jerked under the blow, both his hands coming up to grab wildly at his brother's arm.
"Sam? Hey, buddy. It's me."
"De...Dean..." Sam swallowed, licked his lips and made a little face. Efram imagined they didn't taste very good. "What...? You ok-kay?"
"I'm fine, Sam." The gunman - Dean - leaned down and got his arm under his brother – got him upright, grimacing. Favoring his side in a way that made Efram sure Dean had a broken rib or two. "See this guy?" Dean asked, gently pushing Sam's chin and Sam's head swung around and his good eye focused woozily on Efram.
"Yeah."
"He's the doc. Gonna fix you up but I gotta get his stuff. It's in the front of the house. Can you watch him?"
Sam and Efram both blinked, and Efram opened his mouth to protest – to tell this Dean kid that he was nuts, when Sam nodded jerkily.
"Yeah, I can – I can do it."
"One minute," Dean said, and then he was pressing his gun into his brother's hands and the barrel was lifting and pointing at Efram, more steadily than Efram would have thought possible. "Shoot him if he comes at you. Hell – just shoot him if he moves."
"I g-got it," Sam said. Dean touched his brother's shoulder – turned and jogged down the hall, boots thumping and scattering little clots of dried mud. Efram just stood there, suture kit in his fingers and his mouth dry – heart hammering fit to break his breastbone.
"Son, I won't hurt you."
"I know you won't," the man said, his gaze wandering over the kitchen – finding Efram again with an effort, sweat-sheened skin grey and pale.
"Can you tell me what happened?" Efram asked, and the corner of Sam's mouth twitched up a little, sickly half-smile that showed blood-washed teeth. It made the hairs on the back of Efram's neck stand up and he stared in sick fascination.
"We made a h-hole in the world, doc. Hole straight to h-hell."
"And we sent every last evil son of a bitch we could find right down into it. I got it, Sam." The other was there suddenly, kicking the foot locker across to Efram and lifting the gun out of Sam's hands – easing him back down onto the table while Sam blinked in confusion and then shut his good eye, shivering.
"Hurts, Dean."
"I know. I got it." Dean looked up at Efram and Efram stared back for a moment and then dug his key-ring out of his pocket – unlocked the foot locker and got what he needed. It was going to be a long night.
Near dawn, Efram was finally done. He dried his hands sketchily on a dish towel and then leaned with a sigh against the sink edge. His back and shoulders were screaming – his hands shaking and his legs feeling like they were about to give out. He shuffled across the kitchen floor, grimacing at the muck and mess all over it. Later – in the afternoon, he'd clean it. Right now... Right now, he ached and he was so tired he felt dizzy – heavy and numb. He fumbled a beer out of the fridge and pried the cap off against the edge of the counter – took a long drink before heading back to the kitchen table. The ruins of two t-shirts lay crumpled on its stained surface, along with the torn packages from fresh bandages and the snipped ends of sutures.
Efram found the aspirin and shook three out into his palm – downed them swiftly with the beer and then put the bottle down with a little crack onto the table. Dear God, he was tired. He let his eyes close for a moment, seeing in his head the image of the older man carefully lifting the younger one up. Making sure he was steady on his feet, one callused palm pressed to a bandaged, dirt-freckled chest. The long, silent look that had passed between them, and the slow touch of foreheads and then lips, a kiss so desperate and so careful – so full of longing and love that Efram had only stared, lost in the sense-memory of the first kiss he'd shared with his Deborah, fifty years ago.
Efram swayed slightly on his feet and forced his eyes open, pushing the memory away. It disturbed him – humbled him – and he was too wrung out to puzzle it through. He made his way slowly down the hall and shook his smirched scuffs off where the linoleum gave way to the faded Oriental rugs. Momma's rugs, still hung up and beaten with an old badminton racket every spring. He stepped onto the rug and made his way to the foot of the stairs, pausing for a moment to look into the living room.
The curtains were drawn closed so that the only light was indistinct – fuzzy gold and peach-rose, coming in around the edges and getting lost in the corners. The hurt boy – the badly hurt one – lay on the couch, cocooned in blankets and swaddled in fresh, white gauze. Face washed clean but his hair still lank with sweat and filth. He was asleep, breathing easily. His brother was on the floor, knees up and arms crossed over them, that damn big gun in his hands. His head was down but as Efram stopped it lifted with a snap, his eyes catching the light and flashing bottle-green and wide in the gloom. He had his own share of stitches and bandages – his own patches of clean, tanned skin.
Efram nodded wearily at him and then took a deep breath – assayed the long, long climb up. For a moment he wished he could just go into his office and collapse in his La-Z-Boy, but he knew he'd regret it once he woke back up. Bed, at his age, was best. With a grunt of effort he hauled himself up the first step and then the next, and was panting lightly when he finally made it to the top.
He shed his clothes in a heap right beside the bed – didn't have the energy for his pajamas or even his toothbrush. He tugged the sheets back and with a wavering sigh collapsed onto the mattress. A slow breeze – fresh with dew and the scent of roses – eddied in through the open windows, teasing a lock of hair across Efram's forehead. He didn't even have the strength to lift his hand to brush it back, and was asleep before the next waft of clean, cool air did it for him.
When he woke, it was just after two in the afternoon, and the boys were gone.
Next in this 'verse:Breathing Space.
ETA: I also meant to pimp The Moonlight Fiction Multi-fandom Archive! Run by
trishabooms. Or at least, partially run by her. Heh. BUT! Good place to find lots of fic, and pretty, too. :)ETA the Second: Sheesh! Can't believe i forgot. I signed up at Sweet Charity. You - yes you! - can buy me for fic! Wheeee! I mean, i'll write fic. Heh. The money goes to RAINN. Lots of people are signed up - go, peruse, bid! Bidding actually starts on the 15th of March, so you have time to save your pennies!