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Hullo!
My, it's chilly. :) My hands, though. In this dry weather the skin is like a lizards and my fingertips are all cracked. Typing kinda hurts. You see? I'm in pain, and yet i post!
Hehe.
I'm working on the third part of the Spangel 'Two Fusiliers' - i just seem to be a little stuck, for some reason. Bah!
Anyway, putting his fic up here - after having posted it in a couple of comms - so i have it my own journal. It's basically an AU of the boys. What if they were a little less...tame? A little more predatory.
The cut text is from Rudyard Kipling's 'The Jungle Book', and the song quoted near the end is a traditional ballad called The Fox Went out on a Chilly Night. Enjoy!
We be of one blood, ye and I...
Everybody called them the Wolfpack – every hunter, at least. Civilians likely called them trouble, and kept well away. Ellen privately thought they were more like a pack of feral dogs; sly and quarreling and vicious, without a drop of human kindness. But then she was a little biased, seeing as how her Bill had died hunting with them and they'd never once said sorry or showed a minute's remorse. Junkyard dogs, she thought, biting the hand that fed.
But the Winchesters were the Wolfpack to everyone else and Ellen didn't share her private thoughts on them much, anyway. They pretty much refused to hunt with anyone – Bill had been one of the few exceptions, for all he'd only hunted with them three times. Mostly they kept to themselves, the boys shoulder to shoulder behind the father, the father looking out on the world with those wary, weary eyes. Dark hair shot with silver over his left ear where something had torn the scalp open long ago. The same something had clawed throat and shoulder and Ellen had seen the scars, once upon a time. Silvery on sun-touched skin, ugly and twisted.
The oldest had a scar, too, right across his throat. His voice had gone from honey-smooth rumble to whiskey-rough rasp but it didn't seem to bother him. It made Ellen shiver to hear it. That voice and that face, too pretty to be real – just one more reason to keep her Jo away whenever the Wolfpack was around.
The youngest didn't have any scars that Ellen could see, just a fox-wicked smile and a temper quicker than his father's. Separately, they were deadly-dangerous; canny hunters who had never lost a fight or failed to kill their quarry. Together they were a force to be reckoned with and sometimes Ellen wondered just how far they'd go to extract their pound of flesh. Pretty far, she reckoned.
They were sitting out in the main room tonight, usual corner table they took over every time. Worn out denim and scarred leather – washed-soft flannel and wool. Glint of teeth and knife-blade and gun barrel as they drank their whiskey and talked. Voices low and eyes flickering up at every move – every sound that got a little too loud. Still coming here even after Bill because Ellen had never told them no. Better to have such as them marginally on the side of good than not, and this way they could at least be haphazardly kept track of. The tables immediately around them were clear, with hunters – hunters! – finding reasons to gradually get up and move away. Nobody wanted those knife-sharp gazes at their backs.
Wolfpack, Ellen thought, and walked over herself, bar rag in her hands to give them something to do. Sensibly spooked by three men who could kill pretty much anything on God's green earth and laugh about it afterward.
"You gentlemen need another round?" Ellen asked. The boys glanced at each other – at their father – and John gave Ellen a little sideways grin. Kind of grin that might have made Ellen's knees weak if it had come from any other man.
"Sure thing, sweetheart," he said, in that rumbling purr of a voice. "And how about some of those burgers we can smell?"
"You got it. Want 'em fixed any special way?"
"With everything," the oldest said. Dean, his name was. He gave Ellen a raking, head to toe glance and Ellen got the impression that he wasn't talking about the burgers.
"Rare," the youngest added. Sam. He picked up his glass and drank the last mouthful out of it – licked a drop of amber liquid off his top lip, looking up at her through long eyelashes. "I mean – really bloody."
"Sure, we can do that." Sam looked like he'd be happy to have it raw, truth be told, and she gave a little stiff smile, turning to go. "Another round and three Roadhouse specials, coming up."
"Something's up," Dean's voice murmured, rasping growl that sent a shiver up Ellen's spine. Sam laughed, a low and dirty sound.
"Boys," John said. Flat warning in his tone and the soft chuckles stopped. Ellen didn't walk any faster – prey runs – but she let out a shaky little breath when she got through the kitchen door. Angry at herself for feeling intimidated. Angry all over again at John Winchester and his damn mission, and at Bill for getting mixed up with them at all. Ellen shook her head – went to the back door and opened it, standing for a minute in the swirl of icy air that came in. Only October but it was cold outside, and it eased the angry flush that had heated her skin and made her hands shake. Years ago, all that was, and nothing to be done about it now. Ellen took a long breath of the ice-edged air and shut the door – turned to the grill and started making up the food. Years ago...
The Winchesters happened into her life – their life – one afternoon deep into the dog days of summer. Bill over in the corner, banging around under the cooler and swearing, sweating in the heat. Every window open and fans going. Ellen was sitting at a table, going over some bills. Watching Jo color, the crayons sticky in her little hands. The porch creaked and the screen door banged open and Bill was on his feet back behind the bar. Gun in his hands, Ellen knew, even though it probably didn't show.
A man stumbled in, carrying a little boy on his back. Another boy pushed in behind him, dragging a duffel that looked much too heavy for such a slight child. The man crouched just a little and let the smaller boy slide off his back and then they all three stood there, dark eyes roving over the room – flicking here and there and back to Bill. Jo just hummed, four and oblivious.
"Can we help you?" Ellen asked, and the man's eyes took her in in one rapid glance – fixed on Bill, trickle of sweat down the side of his dusty face.
"You can get that gun off me," the man said. Rumbling voice, little bit of a smile at the corner of his mouth, and Bill eased the gun up onto the bar.
"Can't be too careful out here," Bill said, and the man nodded.
"That's true. I need a phone, if you have one."
"We do. Right there by the bar," Ellen said, pointing with her chin to the payphone up on the wall. Corkboard above it festooned with cryptic messages and mundane ones and a bunch of grubby business cards. The man said nothing – turned and gave a quick glance to the boys. They looked back up at him, unmoving – silent. Hair dark with sweat and sticking up in spikes – t-shirts stuck to their shoulders.
"You boys want something cold to drink?" Ellen asked, getting up, and they both flinched back. Little one couldn't be any older than Jo.
"You leave my boys be," the man said, his voice holding a hint of a warning growl and Ellen eased back down, hands up.
"It's hot out there, is all," she said. "They look thirsty."
The man stood there for a long moment, as if weighing up things in his mind. As if a drink was too much to ask, or too big a debt. Then he nodded. "Some cold water would be good," he said, and Bill took a couple slow steps over to the beer cooler, lifting the lid.
"Comin' up," Bill said. He fished out three pale-blue plastic bottles from the cooler and came around the bar, holding them out. The man took them – inspected them, running a grease-smudged thumbnail along the seals. Then he handed the boys each a bottle and cracked his own open – took a long drink.
"I'm Bill Harvelle. This is Ellen and our daughter Jo."
The man swallowed and wiped his mouth on the back of his wrist and the older boy took the bottle out of the younger one's hand and opened it for him – handed it back. They both drank, the younger boy letting some run down over his chin. "Slow down, son, you'll be sick," the man said. Not even looking around, but the youngest boy stopped, wiping his chin and panting a little. The man looked at Bill – looked over at Ellen and seemed to come to some decision. "I'm John Winchester. My car busted a belt about ten miles down the road."
"Then you wanna call McCandry's. He'll fix you right up." Ellen stood up and moved to the corkboard – tore a little strip of paper off the scissor-cut fringe at the bottom of the flyer. It had a phone number on it. She walked back over to John, holding it out. "Here – tell 'em you're calling from the Roadhouse and he'll give you a good deal."
John took the scrap of paper – took another long drink of his water and then moved past her with a small nod, heading toward the phone. After a moment his quiet voice rumbled out, explaining where his car was and Bill went back behind the bar, taking up his wrench and getting back to work. Ellen stood looking down at the boys, a feeling of unease low in her belly. The boys were just so quiet. Quiet and wary and nearly motionless. Like little mice, caught out in the open.
Both of them were tanned – lean – their hair cut fairly short, their clothes dusty but in good repair. The oldest one had a bruise on his wrist – the younger one had a scrape on his chin. They both watched her with wary eyes, drinking in little sips, bodies just touching. "You boys hungry?" she asked, and the eyes flickered past her to John – back to her. Nothing. Not a word. Ellen sighed and moved away – sat back down by Jo, who had finally noticed new people.
"Who're those kids?" Jo asked, staring hard, and Ellen gave her a little smile.
"They're John Winchester's boys. He's over there on the phone. Their car broke down."
"Like daddy's did?"
"Pretty much."
"Can they play?" Jo asked, half out of her seat already and Ellen shot a look at John, who was scribbling something in a little notebook.
"I don't think –"
"Hey! Hey, wanna play?" Jo was off her chair and over by the boys in a flash, pigtails bouncing. The youngest boy faded a half-step behind his brother and the older one stood up a little straighter, head going down. Ellen would swear, to this day, that he bared his teeth.
"Dean," John said, clear warning in his tone, and Dean blinked and looked up at John – looked back at Jo, his eyes curiously blank.
"No, we don't wanna play," he said quietly. Tiny sneer in his voice and Ellen felt a little prickle of anger.
"Jo – come help me in the kitchen. We're gonna make daddy some lunch."
"Oh...okay." Jo retreated slowly, looking unhappy, and Ellen stood up – scooped Jo up and walked back toward the kitchen, sharing a look with Bill. John hung up the phone – shoved his notebook away into an inner pocket.
"There a hotel around here?" he asked, and Ellen felt her heart sink.
"Nah, nothing close," Bill said. "We got some rooms out back, though. Couple little cabins that'll do ya 'til your car's fixed." Bill was a hunter, but he had a soft spot for kids – for people down on their luck. Ellen wouldn't nay-say him in front of the Winchesters but... Later, there would be words. Ellen would always wonder if Bill would still be alive if she'd turned the Winchesters out that day.
"I see the Winchesters are about," Ash said, fading in from the shadows of the hallway, slightly glassy look in his eyes. God only knew what he got up to in his room. Ellen never asked, just told him he'd better not ever make her lose her liquor license.
"That they are," Ellen said, scraping at the grill with a metal spatula. Rack full of dishes drying from the industrial washer and the night getting on. The crowd had thinned a little but the Wolfpack was still there, the boys playing pool and John sitting at the table, papers spread out and his battered journal open. Writing notes, collating information, something every hunter did. "Wish they'd get back on the road and out of here," Ellen muttered, pressing down with the spatula. Never mind her own nerves – the whole place was tense with them out there. Atmosphere subtly charged and shivering. Ellen was pretty damn sure the Winchesters knew exactly how they affected other hunters – played it up for their own sick amusement whenever they came through.
She finished scraping the grill and wiped her hands clean – pushed back out through the kitchen doors and slid back behind the bar. Ash followed her, settling himself on a stool and taking with a little nod the beer she uncapped and put in front of him.
"They do liven up a place," Ash said, leaning on one elbow and watching Sam and Dean at the pool table. Ellen watched, too, absently polishing the already-gleaming bar.
Dean was saying something to Sam, chalking the tip of the cue he held. He blew across the top of the cue and shoved the chalk into his jeans-pocket – stalked once around the table, studying the lay of the balls. After a moment he chose his shot – bent over and lined up the cue and sent the cue-ball rolling. A solid dropped into a pocket. Two more balls went in and then he missed and Sam laughed, his teeth flashing white in the dim light. It made Ellen shiver.
He walked right up to Dean – close enough that Ellen was pretty sure their clothes if not their bodies were touching.
"What the hell is he doing?" Ellen murmured. After a moment, it became perfectly clear. Sam was digging down into Dean's pocket – digging for the chalk. Taking his time about it, and Dean just...stood there. Legs slightly apart, cue braced on the floor. His other hand on Sam's hip, fingers flexing against the worn denim. Their faces inches apart and even from the bar Ellen could see the flush on their cheeks – could see how dark their eyes were, hooded and hot. "Jee...sus."
"Not real shy, are they," Ash said, and Ellen shot him a wide-eyed look – glanced over at John, who was... Was staring right at her, little grin on his face. Ellen stared back for a moment and then shook her head, turning away.
"That's...that's just..."
"Sacred Band," Ash said, taking a drink, and Ellen blinked at him.
"What?"
"Plato, Plutarch...three hundred hand-picked soldiers who were doin' the nasty? They figured lovers would make better fighters – wanna stand up and be counted, not let their sweethearts down."
Ellen just stared at Ash and then shook her head. "Oookay...that's –"
Ash took another long gulp of his beer – wiped his mouth on his arm. "They were the ee-leet of the Greek ee-leet. Undefeated for forty years. Looks like the Winchester boys know their history."
"They're brothers," Ellen hissed, leaning close. "Some total stranger is one thing but – family... That's wrong. It's just wrong."
Ash grinned around the mouth of the bottle. "Wanna go tell 'em?" he said, and Ellen snorted softly.
"I just wish they'd quit comin' around here. Find some other place to be." Ellen felt a moment's shame at the thought. Even Gordon, whose fanatic's ways and trouble-making mouth made him more enemies than friends was welcome at the Roadhouse. And the Winchesters were doing good. Killing evil. But... Ellen scrubbed furiously at a cigarette-burn on the bar, scowling at it. She had the feeling that if any single person – or hell, every single person – in the place in any way interfered with the Wolfpack... All three men would happily gun them down and then burn their bones.
It was the sudden, complete lack of sound that made Ellen look up fast, hand dropping automatically to the stock of the rifle that was snugged up under the bar. Sam and Dean were still standing at the pool table, hip to hip and shoulder to shoulder. Pool cues held loosely but precisely and Ellen knew for a fact you could kill someone with a cue, if you really wanted to. Crush a windpipe or take out an eye – rip open a belly with the shattered end. Sam and Dean looked ready to do any one of those, and the three hunters standing there in a loose semi-circle around them looked...
Sorry they'd started anything. The whole bar was utterly silent, down to an unexpected pause in the usual jukebox queue. It was quiet enough for Ellen to hear the exchange that came next.
"Now look," one hunter said, holding up his hand, beer bottle glinting in the light. "We don't wanna – wanna hurt you boys but you can't act like that in here."
"Hear that, Sam?" Dean said, grinning. "They don't wanna hurt us."
"I hear that." Sam tilted his head just a little, eyes lively and a little wild behind the strands of his hair. "I think they're lying, though."
"Funny...I do too," Dean said. His chin came down a little – his fingers flexed around the shaft of the cue and his voice dropped a whole register, growling snarl that made Ellen jerk in reaction halfway across the bar. "Which one of you motherfuckers is gonna be first?"
"Oh, shit," Ash hissed, half-falling off his stool in his haste to stand up and Ellen jerked the rifle free of its scabbard. Brought it up and around, leveling it at the boys. Just needed a clear shot, clear shot – fuck. If she shot one of the Wolfpack they'd burn this place down around her ears.
"Getting late, boys." John's rumbling voice cut across the tension like a hot knife. About half the hunters in the room turned at least their heads to look at him. Wisely, the three facing the boys didn't, but Ellen could see their shoulders tense – their feet shuffle just a little on the floor. Threat from two sides, even though the casual onlooker would say it was the Winchesters who were outnumbered. "Best be moving on."
"Didn't get a chance to finish our game," Dean said, his grin sharp-edged and glinting.
"Maybe some other time." John plucked his jacket from the back of his chair and shrugged it on – slid his journal and the papers into the leather satchel that was lying on the table. He turned his head slowly, watching the crowd – smiled when his gaze finally rested on Ellen. "You plannin' on using that weapon, Ellen?"
"Only if somebody starts something," Ellen said, but she let the barrel slew down and left, eyes on John.
"Oh, I don't think anybody's gonna start anything." John moved toward the door and suddenly Sam and Dean did, too, making the hunters closest to them startle back. Clearing a path. Dean laid his cue on a bottle-littered table and sauntered onward. Sam tossed his to a staring hunter who caught it out of pure reflex. The three of them ended up together not five feet from the door and they were nearly there... Until somebody – looked like Doug Pheeny – stepped up and put his hand on John Winchester's shoulder, pulling at him.
"Listen, Winchester –"
That was all he got out. A moment later his voice ended in a pained squawk as the blade of a knife – a strangely curved, wickedly pointed knife – pressed into his throat, Sam Winchester right there behind it. Look of utter fury in his fox-canted eyes, fist doubling up in the man's worn sweatshirt. Voice like the hissing sigh of a blade being drawn.
"Do not ever... touch my dad."
"Get off'a him," somebody said and Ellen felt a wave of sick helplessness sweep over her as whoever it was – she couldn't quite see – cocked a gun. A heartbeat later John had some gods-awful huge pistol out and leveled and Dean had two and other guns were coming out all over the room, safeties thumbing off snick snick snick like some obscene chorus.
"Jesus Christ, Jesus Christ - Ellen –" Ash looked as sick as Ellen felt and she lifted the rifle again, not even sure where she should point it.
This can't be fucking happening, not in my fucking bar - "John! C'mon, now – let's all just –"
"Don't you do it, son," somebody said, and Ellen saw the smear of crimson on Doug's throat where Sam was pressing that knife – fucking sharp knife – just a little too hard into fragile flesh.
"Doug – Jesus, who is that on his other side?" Ellen muttered. Crab-walking behind the bar, trying to see, and it was Gordon, of course it was Gordon. Kill first, never ask, never shut up Gordon making Sam Winchester snarl like a rabid dog. Cornered wolf.
"If you think I can't slit his throat and gut you like a landed fish before you can squeeze that trigger you are one stupid motherfucker," Sam said. Said it low and calm and even, like he wasn't threatening two men's lives.
"Look around you, son – odds are against you." Sam's lip went up at the 'son' and Ellen wanted to duct tape Gordon's fool mouth shut.
"Wouldn't bet on it," Dean rasped. Ellen resisted the urge to shoot the rifle into the air – get all of their attention on her. Every god damn one of 'em'd probably let loose if she did. The air all but crackled as she stepped out from behind the bar and walked slowly toward them, rifle held down but ready, fuck yes.
She took a deep breath. "Listen up – all of you. Killing is strictly fucking off limits in my bar. Anybody dies in here, they're banned for life."
The moment of what the fuck? that came after that was broken by Dean. White teeth showing as he opened his mouth and laughed. Broken-hinge cackle, rasping and ruined by that scar but his eyes – bottle-green – sparkled with mirth.
"Oh, you are one tough bitch, Ellen. C'mon, Sammy – we got better things to do."
Sam flicked a glance at Dean – at John, who was grinning faintly, totally at his ease. Bastard hadn't turned a hair. He gave a short little nod and Sam's fury seemed to snap off like a light. He grinned, too – slid back a step, the knife coming off Doug's throat with a little whisper against his chin. Doug fell back, wheezing, and Ellen eased between him and the Winchesters.
"Better give this place a miss for a while," Ellen said, and John's eyebrows went up for a moment, as if she was telling him to strip and dance the hootchy-kootchy.
"You think?" John asked, and he looked straight at her, dark eyes pinning her breathless and shaking, all amusement gone. A wolf's steady stare, calculating and cold as hell and Ellen's fingers were cramping on the stock of the rifle, her own fear-sweat sharp in her nostrils. "Maybe we will," John said finally. He tipped his head a little toward Dean, who stepped backward and opened the door – held it with his foot while Sam slipped out. Then Dean slid out himself, guns still up and trained on any movement. John caught the door-edge and stood there a moment, surveying the room. He lifted his gun and blew across the end of the barrel as if blowing away smoke. Like some fucking cowboy or a cartoon character, and not remotely funny. And then he grinned again and was gone, fading into the night as if he'd never been. A moment later the stuttering rumble of their vehicles – that old black Chevy and John's big 4 x 4 – reached through the walls and everyone seemed to let out a collective huff of relief.
"Those boys....they really want seen to," Gordon said softly, right behind Ellen. She jerked around, her heart just now pounding fit to burst – her hands shaking so hard she was pretty sure she'd drop the rifle if she had to fire it. Gordon had a far-away look in his eyes and Ellen couldn't stifle the bark of incredulous laughter that burst out of her.
"If you're fixin' to die that bad, Gordon, go on and see to 'em. I'll stand a round on the house in your honor."
"They're not invincible," Gordon said, flash of heat in his gaze and Ellen shouldered past him, watching as all around her hunters eased guns back into holsters and pockets and started talking.
"They're pretty damn fucking close, if you ask me." Ellen got around the end of the bar and clumsily slid the rifle back into its scabbard – grabbed a bottle off the back shelf and poured herself a double.
"Rumors and backroom nonsense," Gordon snapped.
"Bet your life on it?" Ellen asked. Gordon eyed her for a moment, disapproving and stiff, his nostrils flaring. Then he made a little pursing motion with his mouth and turned around – walked off, offense in every line of him. "God damn, god damnit," Ellen muttered, pouring herself another drink and capping the bottle with shaking fingers.
Ash pushed through from the kitchen, his hair every which way, bringing in the cold. "They're gone. Heading west."
"Good riddance." Ash climbed back up onto his stool and resumed drinking his beer and Ellen found a bar rag to shred and the night – slowly – went back to normal. But a little loop of memory – Sam and Dean all but kissing, Sam's knife with a smear of blood on the edge, John's last, lingering glance as he'd vanished out the door – played over and over in her head. No rest tonight, that was for sure.
It was three months before Ellen saw the Wolfpack again, and she expected it to be longer. Halfway into January and she was hauling a box full of bottles outside, to stack by the corner so the brewery guy could pick them up. Moon up in the sky about a week past new and white as polished bone. A low line of clouds bulked along the northern horizon. Everything was navy and tar-black and soft, washed pewter and Ellen stood there for a moment, lifting her head into the breeze. Feeling it curl under her hair and past her collar – breathing it in so deeply it hurt her chest.
Snow was in those clouds, she could all but taste it on her tongue and she shivered, wrapping her arms around herself and going back around the corner – back inside. That was when the hands grabbed her and spun her and she found herself pushed up tight against her own back wall, shoulders aching from the solid thump and her heart in her mouth. Lungs not wanting to work quite right.
"It's a chilly night, Ellen," someone said, and it took a long moment for her to figure out who in fuck it was. But she'd know that voice anywhere and she felt a sudden surge of adrenaline. Fear and anger twisting up through her like snakes.
"D-Dean Winchester, you let me go."
"In a minute," Dean said. He shifted her sideways until they were both standing in the pale slant of moonlight. He had a healing cut on his forehead – a split lip. He smiled at her, and it made Ellen's breath catch sharply in her chest.
"There's two dozen men in there that'd shoot you where you stand if you hurt me," Ellen rasped out, and Dean laughed softly.
"Oh, I'm sure they would, ma'am. I'm sure they would. Guess it's lucky for me I'm not here to hurt you." His voice was a growl but he wasn't angry – not even really touching her now, and Ellen edged half a step away from him, shivering hard. "No, I'm just here to pass along a message. Message from us for Gordon."
"Why don't you just tell him yourself? He's inside –"
"I know he is." Dean leaned against the wall next to her, solid mass of heat and leather-smell. Smoke, ash, gun oil – so much like Bill that for one moment Ellen's gut cramped in frustrated, vicious longing. "I know he is, and that's why you're gonna talk to him. 'Cause fuck knows if I did, I'd spill his guts all over your floor. Don't want that, do we?"
"No. We don't." Ellen wanted to step further away, to get completely away from Dean's heat – from his too-familiar scents and his glittering, amused gaze.
"You tell Gordon he's lucky we've been busy. Next time he tries to step in on a hunt, we're going to take him down." Dean shook his head, his smile fading a little. "Hate to off a hunter – fuck knows we need all of 'em. But it won't stop us, Ellen. You make sure you tell him that. He's pushed too far and he only gets one warning."
"Don't you think –" Ellen started and then lost the rest of her words in a startled hiss of indrawn breath as someone else eased up right behind her, much too close for comfort. "Sam - God –"
"You tell her?" Sam asked, and Dean nodded.
"I told her." He looked up at the sky – at the moon. Sharp lines of shadow and light over his face, transforming him for a moment into something not – quite – human. "Let's shag ass, little brother. Night's wastin'."
"Good night, Ellen," Sam breathed, warm on her cheek. Scent of musk and smoke and bay, his eyes catching the weak moonlight and glinting like a coyote's. They walked away, boots nearly silent in the dust and tamped-down gravel of the yard and Ellen just leaned there, her heart thumping behind her ribs hard enough to hurt. Shaking and feeling a little sick, listening to them go.
"Oh, Fox went out on a chilly night...he prayed to the moon to give him light..." Dean sang softly, and Sam laughed.
"Gonna get me a bone to chew?" There was another laugh – a scuffle of feet and Ellen pushed away from the wall – took a few fast steps, around the corner after them. They were grappling in the white-washed expanse of the parking lot, tiny puffs of dust coming up from the frozen ground. An easy dance of flesh and bone, teeth bared in playful snarls. It ended a moment later with Sam up against the rusting side of old Dan Peel's pickup, Dean leaning right into him.
Catching his jaw in a hand with a silver ring on one finger, tilting it up and Dean's mouth on the skin underneath. Little whine of a noise from Sam, his hands sliding up under Dean's jacket while Dean's mouth slid up, as well – covered his brother's. Ellen wanted to shout at them to just stop it – to get out, go home, get away, as if they were a couple of stray dogs. But she didn't say anything. Didn't move at all while the kiss went on and on and then abruptly stopped, Dean laughing and Sam tipping his head back. Mouth open on a breathy little howl that made Dean cuff the side of Sam's head.
"You freak."
"Takes one to know one." Sam pushed off the truck, deliberately knocking into Dean, who pushed back. "Let's run."
"Think you can beat me?" Dean asked, but he was already moving and then Sam was and they vanished into the darkness in a matter of moments, silent. Ellen stood looking after them, her nose and her ears throbbing with the cold until she heard, ever so faintly, the rumble of a car engine going rapidly away. Then she turned around and went inside, looking for Gordon.
She heard, months later, that whatever demon had started John Winchester on his mission had been killed. Utterly destroyed. They only took out half of Kansas doing it and the miles-wide, smoking crater that was left behind was in the news for weeks. John never made it out – that news got around fairly fast, as well. The boys weren't on the radar at all after that – not a whisper of their presence anywhere and rumors started that they'd died, too. Or been dragged down to hell with the demon they'd vanquished. Ellen, herself, didn't believe it. Speculation ran rampant, and then eased off and finally died outright, starved for information. Things went...back to normal, mostly.
Ellen thought about them sometimes. Thought about what John had done to get his revenge – what he'd turned his sons into in the process. What they'd willingly become. She wondered if they'd ever dreamed of something else. Some other life.
But then her mind would turn, inevitably, back to them in her yard under the moonlight. Scuffling around like puppies, nipping and snarling and laughing, so wrapped up in each other they hadn't bothered to notice her. So sure of their own immortality, and so...happy. Uncomplicated affection and joy that didn't need the world or her approval, just...each other. Not a bad way to be, she figured. Not so bad, after all.
As the dawn was breaking the Wolf-pack yelled
Once, twice, and again!
Feet in the jungle that leave no mark!
Eyes that can see in the dark – the dark!
Tongue – give tongue to it! Hark! O Hark!
Once, twice, and again!
'Hunting Song of the Seeonee Pack' by Rudyard Kipling, from The Jungle Book.
Part two:Dogs of War.
My, it's chilly. :) My hands, though. In this dry weather the skin is like a lizards and my fingertips are all cracked. Typing kinda hurts. You see? I'm in pain, and yet i post!
Hehe.
I'm working on the third part of the Spangel 'Two Fusiliers' - i just seem to be a little stuck, for some reason. Bah!
Anyway, putting his fic up here - after having posted it in a couple of comms - so i have it my own journal. It's basically an AU of the boys. What if they were a little less...tame? A little more predatory.
The cut text is from Rudyard Kipling's 'The Jungle Book', and the song quoted near the end is a traditional ballad called The Fox Went out on a Chilly Night. Enjoy!
We be of one blood, ye and I...
Everybody called them the Wolfpack – every hunter, at least. Civilians likely called them trouble, and kept well away. Ellen privately thought they were more like a pack of feral dogs; sly and quarreling and vicious, without a drop of human kindness. But then she was a little biased, seeing as how her Bill had died hunting with them and they'd never once said sorry or showed a minute's remorse. Junkyard dogs, she thought, biting the hand that fed.
But the Winchesters were the Wolfpack to everyone else and Ellen didn't share her private thoughts on them much, anyway. They pretty much refused to hunt with anyone – Bill had been one of the few exceptions, for all he'd only hunted with them three times. Mostly they kept to themselves, the boys shoulder to shoulder behind the father, the father looking out on the world with those wary, weary eyes. Dark hair shot with silver over his left ear where something had torn the scalp open long ago. The same something had clawed throat and shoulder and Ellen had seen the scars, once upon a time. Silvery on sun-touched skin, ugly and twisted.
The oldest had a scar, too, right across his throat. His voice had gone from honey-smooth rumble to whiskey-rough rasp but it didn't seem to bother him. It made Ellen shiver to hear it. That voice and that face, too pretty to be real – just one more reason to keep her Jo away whenever the Wolfpack was around.
The youngest didn't have any scars that Ellen could see, just a fox-wicked smile and a temper quicker than his father's. Separately, they were deadly-dangerous; canny hunters who had never lost a fight or failed to kill their quarry. Together they were a force to be reckoned with and sometimes Ellen wondered just how far they'd go to extract their pound of flesh. Pretty far, she reckoned.
They were sitting out in the main room tonight, usual corner table they took over every time. Worn out denim and scarred leather – washed-soft flannel and wool. Glint of teeth and knife-blade and gun barrel as they drank their whiskey and talked. Voices low and eyes flickering up at every move – every sound that got a little too loud. Still coming here even after Bill because Ellen had never told them no. Better to have such as them marginally on the side of good than not, and this way they could at least be haphazardly kept track of. The tables immediately around them were clear, with hunters – hunters! – finding reasons to gradually get up and move away. Nobody wanted those knife-sharp gazes at their backs.
Wolfpack, Ellen thought, and walked over herself, bar rag in her hands to give them something to do. Sensibly spooked by three men who could kill pretty much anything on God's green earth and laugh about it afterward.
"You gentlemen need another round?" Ellen asked. The boys glanced at each other – at their father – and John gave Ellen a little sideways grin. Kind of grin that might have made Ellen's knees weak if it had come from any other man.
"Sure thing, sweetheart," he said, in that rumbling purr of a voice. "And how about some of those burgers we can smell?"
"You got it. Want 'em fixed any special way?"
"With everything," the oldest said. Dean, his name was. He gave Ellen a raking, head to toe glance and Ellen got the impression that he wasn't talking about the burgers.
"Rare," the youngest added. Sam. He picked up his glass and drank the last mouthful out of it – licked a drop of amber liquid off his top lip, looking up at her through long eyelashes. "I mean – really bloody."
"Sure, we can do that." Sam looked like he'd be happy to have it raw, truth be told, and she gave a little stiff smile, turning to go. "Another round and three Roadhouse specials, coming up."
"Something's up," Dean's voice murmured, rasping growl that sent a shiver up Ellen's spine. Sam laughed, a low and dirty sound.
"Boys," John said. Flat warning in his tone and the soft chuckles stopped. Ellen didn't walk any faster – prey runs – but she let out a shaky little breath when she got through the kitchen door. Angry at herself for feeling intimidated. Angry all over again at John Winchester and his damn mission, and at Bill for getting mixed up with them at all. Ellen shook her head – went to the back door and opened it, standing for a minute in the swirl of icy air that came in. Only October but it was cold outside, and it eased the angry flush that had heated her skin and made her hands shake. Years ago, all that was, and nothing to be done about it now. Ellen took a long breath of the ice-edged air and shut the door – turned to the grill and started making up the food. Years ago...
The Winchesters happened into her life – their life – one afternoon deep into the dog days of summer. Bill over in the corner, banging around under the cooler and swearing, sweating in the heat. Every window open and fans going. Ellen was sitting at a table, going over some bills. Watching Jo color, the crayons sticky in her little hands. The porch creaked and the screen door banged open and Bill was on his feet back behind the bar. Gun in his hands, Ellen knew, even though it probably didn't show.
A man stumbled in, carrying a little boy on his back. Another boy pushed in behind him, dragging a duffel that looked much too heavy for such a slight child. The man crouched just a little and let the smaller boy slide off his back and then they all three stood there, dark eyes roving over the room – flicking here and there and back to Bill. Jo just hummed, four and oblivious.
"Can we help you?" Ellen asked, and the man's eyes took her in in one rapid glance – fixed on Bill, trickle of sweat down the side of his dusty face.
"You can get that gun off me," the man said. Rumbling voice, little bit of a smile at the corner of his mouth, and Bill eased the gun up onto the bar.
"Can't be too careful out here," Bill said, and the man nodded.
"That's true. I need a phone, if you have one."
"We do. Right there by the bar," Ellen said, pointing with her chin to the payphone up on the wall. Corkboard above it festooned with cryptic messages and mundane ones and a bunch of grubby business cards. The man said nothing – turned and gave a quick glance to the boys. They looked back up at him, unmoving – silent. Hair dark with sweat and sticking up in spikes – t-shirts stuck to their shoulders.
"You boys want something cold to drink?" Ellen asked, getting up, and they both flinched back. Little one couldn't be any older than Jo.
"You leave my boys be," the man said, his voice holding a hint of a warning growl and Ellen eased back down, hands up.
"It's hot out there, is all," she said. "They look thirsty."
The man stood there for a long moment, as if weighing up things in his mind. As if a drink was too much to ask, or too big a debt. Then he nodded. "Some cold water would be good," he said, and Bill took a couple slow steps over to the beer cooler, lifting the lid.
"Comin' up," Bill said. He fished out three pale-blue plastic bottles from the cooler and came around the bar, holding them out. The man took them – inspected them, running a grease-smudged thumbnail along the seals. Then he handed the boys each a bottle and cracked his own open – took a long drink.
"I'm Bill Harvelle. This is Ellen and our daughter Jo."
The man swallowed and wiped his mouth on the back of his wrist and the older boy took the bottle out of the younger one's hand and opened it for him – handed it back. They both drank, the younger boy letting some run down over his chin. "Slow down, son, you'll be sick," the man said. Not even looking around, but the youngest boy stopped, wiping his chin and panting a little. The man looked at Bill – looked over at Ellen and seemed to come to some decision. "I'm John Winchester. My car busted a belt about ten miles down the road."
"Then you wanna call McCandry's. He'll fix you right up." Ellen stood up and moved to the corkboard – tore a little strip of paper off the scissor-cut fringe at the bottom of the flyer. It had a phone number on it. She walked back over to John, holding it out. "Here – tell 'em you're calling from the Roadhouse and he'll give you a good deal."
John took the scrap of paper – took another long drink of his water and then moved past her with a small nod, heading toward the phone. After a moment his quiet voice rumbled out, explaining where his car was and Bill went back behind the bar, taking up his wrench and getting back to work. Ellen stood looking down at the boys, a feeling of unease low in her belly. The boys were just so quiet. Quiet and wary and nearly motionless. Like little mice, caught out in the open.
Both of them were tanned – lean – their hair cut fairly short, their clothes dusty but in good repair. The oldest one had a bruise on his wrist – the younger one had a scrape on his chin. They both watched her with wary eyes, drinking in little sips, bodies just touching. "You boys hungry?" she asked, and the eyes flickered past her to John – back to her. Nothing. Not a word. Ellen sighed and moved away – sat back down by Jo, who had finally noticed new people.
"Who're those kids?" Jo asked, staring hard, and Ellen gave her a little smile.
"They're John Winchester's boys. He's over there on the phone. Their car broke down."
"Like daddy's did?"
"Pretty much."
"Can they play?" Jo asked, half out of her seat already and Ellen shot a look at John, who was scribbling something in a little notebook.
"I don't think –"
"Hey! Hey, wanna play?" Jo was off her chair and over by the boys in a flash, pigtails bouncing. The youngest boy faded a half-step behind his brother and the older one stood up a little straighter, head going down. Ellen would swear, to this day, that he bared his teeth.
"Dean," John said, clear warning in his tone, and Dean blinked and looked up at John – looked back at Jo, his eyes curiously blank.
"No, we don't wanna play," he said quietly. Tiny sneer in his voice and Ellen felt a little prickle of anger.
"Jo – come help me in the kitchen. We're gonna make daddy some lunch."
"Oh...okay." Jo retreated slowly, looking unhappy, and Ellen stood up – scooped Jo up and walked back toward the kitchen, sharing a look with Bill. John hung up the phone – shoved his notebook away into an inner pocket.
"There a hotel around here?" he asked, and Ellen felt her heart sink.
"Nah, nothing close," Bill said. "We got some rooms out back, though. Couple little cabins that'll do ya 'til your car's fixed." Bill was a hunter, but he had a soft spot for kids – for people down on their luck. Ellen wouldn't nay-say him in front of the Winchesters but... Later, there would be words. Ellen would always wonder if Bill would still be alive if she'd turned the Winchesters out that day.
"I see the Winchesters are about," Ash said, fading in from the shadows of the hallway, slightly glassy look in his eyes. God only knew what he got up to in his room. Ellen never asked, just told him he'd better not ever make her lose her liquor license.
"That they are," Ellen said, scraping at the grill with a metal spatula. Rack full of dishes drying from the industrial washer and the night getting on. The crowd had thinned a little but the Wolfpack was still there, the boys playing pool and John sitting at the table, papers spread out and his battered journal open. Writing notes, collating information, something every hunter did. "Wish they'd get back on the road and out of here," Ellen muttered, pressing down with the spatula. Never mind her own nerves – the whole place was tense with them out there. Atmosphere subtly charged and shivering. Ellen was pretty damn sure the Winchesters knew exactly how they affected other hunters – played it up for their own sick amusement whenever they came through.
She finished scraping the grill and wiped her hands clean – pushed back out through the kitchen doors and slid back behind the bar. Ash followed her, settling himself on a stool and taking with a little nod the beer she uncapped and put in front of him.
"They do liven up a place," Ash said, leaning on one elbow and watching Sam and Dean at the pool table. Ellen watched, too, absently polishing the already-gleaming bar.
Dean was saying something to Sam, chalking the tip of the cue he held. He blew across the top of the cue and shoved the chalk into his jeans-pocket – stalked once around the table, studying the lay of the balls. After a moment he chose his shot – bent over and lined up the cue and sent the cue-ball rolling. A solid dropped into a pocket. Two more balls went in and then he missed and Sam laughed, his teeth flashing white in the dim light. It made Ellen shiver.
He walked right up to Dean – close enough that Ellen was pretty sure their clothes if not their bodies were touching.
"What the hell is he doing?" Ellen murmured. After a moment, it became perfectly clear. Sam was digging down into Dean's pocket – digging for the chalk. Taking his time about it, and Dean just...stood there. Legs slightly apart, cue braced on the floor. His other hand on Sam's hip, fingers flexing against the worn denim. Their faces inches apart and even from the bar Ellen could see the flush on their cheeks – could see how dark their eyes were, hooded and hot. "Jee...sus."
"Not real shy, are they," Ash said, and Ellen shot him a wide-eyed look – glanced over at John, who was... Was staring right at her, little grin on his face. Ellen stared back for a moment and then shook her head, turning away.
"That's...that's just..."
"Sacred Band," Ash said, taking a drink, and Ellen blinked at him.
"What?"
"Plato, Plutarch...three hundred hand-picked soldiers who were doin' the nasty? They figured lovers would make better fighters – wanna stand up and be counted, not let their sweethearts down."
Ellen just stared at Ash and then shook her head. "Oookay...that's –"
Ash took another long gulp of his beer – wiped his mouth on his arm. "They were the ee-leet of the Greek ee-leet. Undefeated for forty years. Looks like the Winchester boys know their history."
"They're brothers," Ellen hissed, leaning close. "Some total stranger is one thing but – family... That's wrong. It's just wrong."
Ash grinned around the mouth of the bottle. "Wanna go tell 'em?" he said, and Ellen snorted softly.
"I just wish they'd quit comin' around here. Find some other place to be." Ellen felt a moment's shame at the thought. Even Gordon, whose fanatic's ways and trouble-making mouth made him more enemies than friends was welcome at the Roadhouse. And the Winchesters were doing good. Killing evil. But... Ellen scrubbed furiously at a cigarette-burn on the bar, scowling at it. She had the feeling that if any single person – or hell, every single person – in the place in any way interfered with the Wolfpack... All three men would happily gun them down and then burn their bones.
It was the sudden, complete lack of sound that made Ellen look up fast, hand dropping automatically to the stock of the rifle that was snugged up under the bar. Sam and Dean were still standing at the pool table, hip to hip and shoulder to shoulder. Pool cues held loosely but precisely and Ellen knew for a fact you could kill someone with a cue, if you really wanted to. Crush a windpipe or take out an eye – rip open a belly with the shattered end. Sam and Dean looked ready to do any one of those, and the three hunters standing there in a loose semi-circle around them looked...
Sorry they'd started anything. The whole bar was utterly silent, down to an unexpected pause in the usual jukebox queue. It was quiet enough for Ellen to hear the exchange that came next.
"Now look," one hunter said, holding up his hand, beer bottle glinting in the light. "We don't wanna – wanna hurt you boys but you can't act like that in here."
"Hear that, Sam?" Dean said, grinning. "They don't wanna hurt us."
"I hear that." Sam tilted his head just a little, eyes lively and a little wild behind the strands of his hair. "I think they're lying, though."
"Funny...I do too," Dean said. His chin came down a little – his fingers flexed around the shaft of the cue and his voice dropped a whole register, growling snarl that made Ellen jerk in reaction halfway across the bar. "Which one of you motherfuckers is gonna be first?"
"Oh, shit," Ash hissed, half-falling off his stool in his haste to stand up and Ellen jerked the rifle free of its scabbard. Brought it up and around, leveling it at the boys. Just needed a clear shot, clear shot – fuck. If she shot one of the Wolfpack they'd burn this place down around her ears.
"Getting late, boys." John's rumbling voice cut across the tension like a hot knife. About half the hunters in the room turned at least their heads to look at him. Wisely, the three facing the boys didn't, but Ellen could see their shoulders tense – their feet shuffle just a little on the floor. Threat from two sides, even though the casual onlooker would say it was the Winchesters who were outnumbered. "Best be moving on."
"Didn't get a chance to finish our game," Dean said, his grin sharp-edged and glinting.
"Maybe some other time." John plucked his jacket from the back of his chair and shrugged it on – slid his journal and the papers into the leather satchel that was lying on the table. He turned his head slowly, watching the crowd – smiled when his gaze finally rested on Ellen. "You plannin' on using that weapon, Ellen?"
"Only if somebody starts something," Ellen said, but she let the barrel slew down and left, eyes on John.
"Oh, I don't think anybody's gonna start anything." John moved toward the door and suddenly Sam and Dean did, too, making the hunters closest to them startle back. Clearing a path. Dean laid his cue on a bottle-littered table and sauntered onward. Sam tossed his to a staring hunter who caught it out of pure reflex. The three of them ended up together not five feet from the door and they were nearly there... Until somebody – looked like Doug Pheeny – stepped up and put his hand on John Winchester's shoulder, pulling at him.
"Listen, Winchester –"
That was all he got out. A moment later his voice ended in a pained squawk as the blade of a knife – a strangely curved, wickedly pointed knife – pressed into his throat, Sam Winchester right there behind it. Look of utter fury in his fox-canted eyes, fist doubling up in the man's worn sweatshirt. Voice like the hissing sigh of a blade being drawn.
"Do not ever... touch my dad."
"Get off'a him," somebody said and Ellen felt a wave of sick helplessness sweep over her as whoever it was – she couldn't quite see – cocked a gun. A heartbeat later John had some gods-awful huge pistol out and leveled and Dean had two and other guns were coming out all over the room, safeties thumbing off snick snick snick like some obscene chorus.
"Jesus Christ, Jesus Christ - Ellen –" Ash looked as sick as Ellen felt and she lifted the rifle again, not even sure where she should point it.
This can't be fucking happening, not in my fucking bar - "John! C'mon, now – let's all just –"
"Don't you do it, son," somebody said, and Ellen saw the smear of crimson on Doug's throat where Sam was pressing that knife – fucking sharp knife – just a little too hard into fragile flesh.
"Doug – Jesus, who is that on his other side?" Ellen muttered. Crab-walking behind the bar, trying to see, and it was Gordon, of course it was Gordon. Kill first, never ask, never shut up Gordon making Sam Winchester snarl like a rabid dog. Cornered wolf.
"If you think I can't slit his throat and gut you like a landed fish before you can squeeze that trigger you are one stupid motherfucker," Sam said. Said it low and calm and even, like he wasn't threatening two men's lives.
"Look around you, son – odds are against you." Sam's lip went up at the 'son' and Ellen wanted to duct tape Gordon's fool mouth shut.
"Wouldn't bet on it," Dean rasped. Ellen resisted the urge to shoot the rifle into the air – get all of their attention on her. Every god damn one of 'em'd probably let loose if she did. The air all but crackled as she stepped out from behind the bar and walked slowly toward them, rifle held down but ready, fuck yes.
She took a deep breath. "Listen up – all of you. Killing is strictly fucking off limits in my bar. Anybody dies in here, they're banned for life."
The moment of what the fuck? that came after that was broken by Dean. White teeth showing as he opened his mouth and laughed. Broken-hinge cackle, rasping and ruined by that scar but his eyes – bottle-green – sparkled with mirth.
"Oh, you are one tough bitch, Ellen. C'mon, Sammy – we got better things to do."
Sam flicked a glance at Dean – at John, who was grinning faintly, totally at his ease. Bastard hadn't turned a hair. He gave a short little nod and Sam's fury seemed to snap off like a light. He grinned, too – slid back a step, the knife coming off Doug's throat with a little whisper against his chin. Doug fell back, wheezing, and Ellen eased between him and the Winchesters.
"Better give this place a miss for a while," Ellen said, and John's eyebrows went up for a moment, as if she was telling him to strip and dance the hootchy-kootchy.
"You think?" John asked, and he looked straight at her, dark eyes pinning her breathless and shaking, all amusement gone. A wolf's steady stare, calculating and cold as hell and Ellen's fingers were cramping on the stock of the rifle, her own fear-sweat sharp in her nostrils. "Maybe we will," John said finally. He tipped his head a little toward Dean, who stepped backward and opened the door – held it with his foot while Sam slipped out. Then Dean slid out himself, guns still up and trained on any movement. John caught the door-edge and stood there a moment, surveying the room. He lifted his gun and blew across the end of the barrel as if blowing away smoke. Like some fucking cowboy or a cartoon character, and not remotely funny. And then he grinned again and was gone, fading into the night as if he'd never been. A moment later the stuttering rumble of their vehicles – that old black Chevy and John's big 4 x 4 – reached through the walls and everyone seemed to let out a collective huff of relief.
"Those boys....they really want seen to," Gordon said softly, right behind Ellen. She jerked around, her heart just now pounding fit to burst – her hands shaking so hard she was pretty sure she'd drop the rifle if she had to fire it. Gordon had a far-away look in his eyes and Ellen couldn't stifle the bark of incredulous laughter that burst out of her.
"If you're fixin' to die that bad, Gordon, go on and see to 'em. I'll stand a round on the house in your honor."
"They're not invincible," Gordon said, flash of heat in his gaze and Ellen shouldered past him, watching as all around her hunters eased guns back into holsters and pockets and started talking.
"They're pretty damn fucking close, if you ask me." Ellen got around the end of the bar and clumsily slid the rifle back into its scabbard – grabbed a bottle off the back shelf and poured herself a double.
"Rumors and backroom nonsense," Gordon snapped.
"Bet your life on it?" Ellen asked. Gordon eyed her for a moment, disapproving and stiff, his nostrils flaring. Then he made a little pursing motion with his mouth and turned around – walked off, offense in every line of him. "God damn, god damnit," Ellen muttered, pouring herself another drink and capping the bottle with shaking fingers.
Ash pushed through from the kitchen, his hair every which way, bringing in the cold. "They're gone. Heading west."
"Good riddance." Ash climbed back up onto his stool and resumed drinking his beer and Ellen found a bar rag to shred and the night – slowly – went back to normal. But a little loop of memory – Sam and Dean all but kissing, Sam's knife with a smear of blood on the edge, John's last, lingering glance as he'd vanished out the door – played over and over in her head. No rest tonight, that was for sure.
It was three months before Ellen saw the Wolfpack again, and she expected it to be longer. Halfway into January and she was hauling a box full of bottles outside, to stack by the corner so the brewery guy could pick them up. Moon up in the sky about a week past new and white as polished bone. A low line of clouds bulked along the northern horizon. Everything was navy and tar-black and soft, washed pewter and Ellen stood there for a moment, lifting her head into the breeze. Feeling it curl under her hair and past her collar – breathing it in so deeply it hurt her chest.
Snow was in those clouds, she could all but taste it on her tongue and she shivered, wrapping her arms around herself and going back around the corner – back inside. That was when the hands grabbed her and spun her and she found herself pushed up tight against her own back wall, shoulders aching from the solid thump and her heart in her mouth. Lungs not wanting to work quite right.
"It's a chilly night, Ellen," someone said, and it took a long moment for her to figure out who in fuck it was. But she'd know that voice anywhere and she felt a sudden surge of adrenaline. Fear and anger twisting up through her like snakes.
"D-Dean Winchester, you let me go."
"In a minute," Dean said. He shifted her sideways until they were both standing in the pale slant of moonlight. He had a healing cut on his forehead – a split lip. He smiled at her, and it made Ellen's breath catch sharply in her chest.
"There's two dozen men in there that'd shoot you where you stand if you hurt me," Ellen rasped out, and Dean laughed softly.
"Oh, I'm sure they would, ma'am. I'm sure they would. Guess it's lucky for me I'm not here to hurt you." His voice was a growl but he wasn't angry – not even really touching her now, and Ellen edged half a step away from him, shivering hard. "No, I'm just here to pass along a message. Message from us for Gordon."
"Why don't you just tell him yourself? He's inside –"
"I know he is." Dean leaned against the wall next to her, solid mass of heat and leather-smell. Smoke, ash, gun oil – so much like Bill that for one moment Ellen's gut cramped in frustrated, vicious longing. "I know he is, and that's why you're gonna talk to him. 'Cause fuck knows if I did, I'd spill his guts all over your floor. Don't want that, do we?"
"No. We don't." Ellen wanted to step further away, to get completely away from Dean's heat – from his too-familiar scents and his glittering, amused gaze.
"You tell Gordon he's lucky we've been busy. Next time he tries to step in on a hunt, we're going to take him down." Dean shook his head, his smile fading a little. "Hate to off a hunter – fuck knows we need all of 'em. But it won't stop us, Ellen. You make sure you tell him that. He's pushed too far and he only gets one warning."
"Don't you think –" Ellen started and then lost the rest of her words in a startled hiss of indrawn breath as someone else eased up right behind her, much too close for comfort. "Sam - God –"
"You tell her?" Sam asked, and Dean nodded.
"I told her." He looked up at the sky – at the moon. Sharp lines of shadow and light over his face, transforming him for a moment into something not – quite – human. "Let's shag ass, little brother. Night's wastin'."
"Good night, Ellen," Sam breathed, warm on her cheek. Scent of musk and smoke and bay, his eyes catching the weak moonlight and glinting like a coyote's. They walked away, boots nearly silent in the dust and tamped-down gravel of the yard and Ellen just leaned there, her heart thumping behind her ribs hard enough to hurt. Shaking and feeling a little sick, listening to them go.
"Oh, Fox went out on a chilly night...he prayed to the moon to give him light..." Dean sang softly, and Sam laughed.
"Gonna get me a bone to chew?" There was another laugh – a scuffle of feet and Ellen pushed away from the wall – took a few fast steps, around the corner after them. They were grappling in the white-washed expanse of the parking lot, tiny puffs of dust coming up from the frozen ground. An easy dance of flesh and bone, teeth bared in playful snarls. It ended a moment later with Sam up against the rusting side of old Dan Peel's pickup, Dean leaning right into him.
Catching his jaw in a hand with a silver ring on one finger, tilting it up and Dean's mouth on the skin underneath. Little whine of a noise from Sam, his hands sliding up under Dean's jacket while Dean's mouth slid up, as well – covered his brother's. Ellen wanted to shout at them to just stop it – to get out, go home, get away, as if they were a couple of stray dogs. But she didn't say anything. Didn't move at all while the kiss went on and on and then abruptly stopped, Dean laughing and Sam tipping his head back. Mouth open on a breathy little howl that made Dean cuff the side of Sam's head.
"You freak."
"Takes one to know one." Sam pushed off the truck, deliberately knocking into Dean, who pushed back. "Let's run."
"Think you can beat me?" Dean asked, but he was already moving and then Sam was and they vanished into the darkness in a matter of moments, silent. Ellen stood looking after them, her nose and her ears throbbing with the cold until she heard, ever so faintly, the rumble of a car engine going rapidly away. Then she turned around and went inside, looking for Gordon.
She heard, months later, that whatever demon had started John Winchester on his mission had been killed. Utterly destroyed. They only took out half of Kansas doing it and the miles-wide, smoking crater that was left behind was in the news for weeks. John never made it out – that news got around fairly fast, as well. The boys weren't on the radar at all after that – not a whisper of their presence anywhere and rumors started that they'd died, too. Or been dragged down to hell with the demon they'd vanquished. Ellen, herself, didn't believe it. Speculation ran rampant, and then eased off and finally died outright, starved for information. Things went...back to normal, mostly.
Ellen thought about them sometimes. Thought about what John had done to get his revenge – what he'd turned his sons into in the process. What they'd willingly become. She wondered if they'd ever dreamed of something else. Some other life.
But then her mind would turn, inevitably, back to them in her yard under the moonlight. Scuffling around like puppies, nipping and snarling and laughing, so wrapped up in each other they hadn't bothered to notice her. So sure of their own immortality, and so...happy. Uncomplicated affection and joy that didn't need the world or her approval, just...each other. Not a bad way to be, she figured. Not so bad, after all.
As the dawn was breaking the Wolf-pack yelled
Once, twice, and again!
Feet in the jungle that leave no mark!
Eyes that can see in the dark – the dark!
Tongue – give tongue to it! Hark! O Hark!
Once, twice, and again!
'Hunting Song of the Seeonee Pack' by Rudyard Kipling, from The Jungle Book.
Part two:Dogs of War.
no subject
Yes. This is Ellen. Even without the mention of Bill, this is her, all over.
The oldest had a scar, too, right across his throat. His voice had gone from honey-smooth rumble to whiskey-rough rasp but it didn't seem to bother him. It made Ellen shiver to hear it. That voice and that face, too pretty to be real – just one more reason to keep her Jo away whenever the Wolfpack was around.
Too pretty, too smooth, too dangerous . . . mothers, lock up your daughters =D
The youngest didn't have any scars that Ellen could see, just a fox-wicked smile and a temper quicker than his father's.
For all that Dean displays it more, he's mild-tempered compared to Sam. When Sam loses it, he loses it. And he knows this about himself.
Separately, they were deadly-dangerous; canny hunters who had never lost a fight or failed to kill their quarry. Together they were a force to be reckoned with and sometimes Ellen wondered just how far they'd go to extract their pound of flesh. Pretty far, she reckoned.
The Winchesters. . . .
Wolfpack, Ellen thought, and walked over herself, bar rag in her hands to give them something to do. Sensibly spooked by three men who could kill pretty much anything on God's green earth and laugh about it afterward.
It's like I'm leaning across the bar, listening to her tell me about her experiences with the Winchester boys. The characterization is perfect.
"You gentlemen need another round?" Ellen asked. The boys glanced at each other – at their father – and John gave Ellen a little sideways grin. Kind of grin that might have made Ellen's knees weak if it had come from any other man.
The grin's just window dressing. John's the sort of man who lives for two things: wife and children. Half of him's already dead, and what's left all goes to teaching his kids to fight monsters and keep themselves alive while doing so. There isn't enough of him left to make a grin like that sincere.
"Sure thing, sweetheart," he said, in that rumbling purr of a voice. "And how about some of those burgers we can smell?"
"You got it. Want 'em fixed any special way?"
"With everything," the oldest said. Dean, his name was. He gave Ellen a raking, head to toe glance and Ellen got the impression that he wasn't talking about the burgers.
"Rare," the youngest added. Sam. He picked up his glass and drank the last mouthful out of it – licked a drop of amber liquid off his top lip, looking up at her through long eyelashes. "I mean – really bloody."
"Sure, we can do that." Sam looked like he'd be happy to have it raw, truth be told, and she gave a little stiff smile, turning to go. "Another round and three Roadhouse specials, coming up."
"Something's up," Dean's voice murmured, rasping growl that sent a shiver up Ellen's spine. Sam laughed, a low and dirty sound.
"Boys," John said. Flat warning in his tone and the soft chuckles stopped. Ellen didn't walk any faster – prey runs – but she let out a shaky little breath when she got through the kitchen door. Angry at herself for feeling intimidated.
That's something I've never seen in an SPN fic: the Winchesters seen from the outside, but not viewed in the dangerous-sexy-cool light. Here, they're men--who are less than polite to a woman who just so happens to be handling their food, and who, with a little effort on her part, could turn a large number of hunters against them. Not that that would mean much, since they're such lone wolves, but still.
They need a mother very badly. All three of them.
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I was so terribly nervous about using Ellen's voice, but it just...*worked*. I love her on the show, and i was so pleased when she came out right here.
And yeah, this isn't the 'aren't they awesomesexycool!!' pov that a lot of outsider stuff is written in. This is the pov of someone who knows *exactly* what they're capable of and is smart to be scared.
I think they hunted with Bill because a - hunters are territorial, and if Bill had a 'specialty', he would have wanted in and b - sometimes you need an extra hand, and even though John raised Dean and Sam to be deadly hunters at an early age, they *were* still children and therefore sometimes an extra *adult* was necessary. So.
And no, John has nothing left in him to make that grin anything but window-dressing.
*bounce*
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Oh, yeah. That and the way Sam obeys John without John even having to look over at him. That John knows--or maybe this is all parents--his kids that well, he knows what they're gonna do before they do it. It makes for the shivers.
"Hey! Hey, wanna play?" Jo was off her chair and over by the boys in a flash, pigtails bouncing. The youngest boy faded a half-step behind his brother and the older one stood up a little straighter, head going down. Ellen would swear, to this day, that he bared his teeth.
"Dean," John said, clear warning in his tone, and Dean blinked and looked up at John – looked back at Jo, his eyes curiously blank.
"No, we don't wanna play," he said quietly. Tiny sneer in his voice and Ellen felt a little prickle of anger.
Yeesh, they were little bastards. But only because they were raised that way. This John Winchester was--arguably--a good man. Well, a man who fought evil. But not such a great father. He didn't teach them that it's people like Jo and Ellen that they're fighting to protect. Maybe he forgot it, himself. He surely must have.
"There a hotel around here?" he asked, and Ellen felt her heart sink.
"Nah, nothing close," Bill said. "We got some rooms out back, though. Couple little cabins that'll do ya 'til your car's fixed." Bill was a hunter, but he had a soft spot for kids – for people down on their luck. Ellen wouldn't nay-say him in front of the Winchesters but... Later, there would be words. Ellen would always wonder if Bill would still be alive if she'd turned the Winchesters out that day.
The way you tell it, I can see why Ellen had her reservations about adult Dean and Sam--God, but you know how to flesh out a backstory. Makes me wonder, though, why John allowed Bill to hunt with him, knowing full well, the man'd likely wind up dead. Why, of all the hunters who didn't have families to take care of. . . .
Or maybe that was why he chose Bill. Bill had something to lose. A life, a wife and child who'd always know her mother's love.
Okay--I've finished the story--it picked me up and wouldn't put me down, not even to c&p my favorite bits. But it's so damn heavy, I'm gonna have to finish up commenting tomorrow, cuz--whoa.
You're my idol.
::worships::
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And Sam and Dean learned that leasson well and early. *Family* - is all that matters.
Of course, you don't leave yourself with no resources, and you don't spoil your own nest but... There's no way the boys want to play. Playing is done in the safety of that night's bolthole, and 'playing' is usually a form of training, and only John gets to see that kind of vulnerability. Not outsiders.
*smooooooooooch*
Thank you so much, bay-bee.
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i love how it's told from an outsider pov. the awful thing about it is that it's just so plausible. That revenge would become a poison that would taint their souls. That john would do whatever it took to vanquish the demon including making his sons into lovers. The winchesters slowly shedding their humanity and becoming beasts. Except maybe for the feelings they have for each other.
your descriptions are breathtakingly beautiful.
Moon up in the sky about a week past new and white as polished bone. A low line of clouds bulked along the northern horizon. Everything was navy and tar-black and soft, washed pewter..
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Yeah, there are tiny hints of this on the show, and i think rather than a man like Max's dad, *this* is the way that John Winchester would have gone if he'd been a little less stable and a little more obsessed.
Not that he's not obsessed now. Heh.
Thank you!
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God, this John, Sam and Dean are straddling a thin line. They've become predators, not just protectors.
"Not real shy, are they," Ash said, and Ellen shot him a wide-eyed look – glanced over at John, who was... Was staring right at her, little grin on his face. Ellen stared back for a moment and then shook her head, turning away.
Does John merely aprrove of their relationship because it suits his ends, keeps the family together and focused only on family--or did he engineer this, so that Sam and Dean'd never leave each other, and never leave him?
Mary must be spinning in her . . . urn.
"That's...that's just..."
"Sacred Band," Ash said, taking a drink, and Ellen blinked at him.
"What?"
"Plato, Plutarch...three hundred hand-picked soldiers who were doin' the nasty? They figured lovers would make better fighters – wanna stand up and be counted, not let their sweethearts down."
Except for the part where you give care more about sweetheart than about the fight. Not only can't you see past the end of your nose, you don't really care.
Ellen just stared at Ash and then shook her head. "Oookay...that's –"
Ash took another long gulp of his beer – wiped his mouth on his arm. "They were the ee-leet of the Greek ee-leet. Undefeated for forty years. Looks like the Winchester boys know their history."
"They're brothers," Ellen hissed, leaning close. "Some total stranger is one thing but – family... That's wrong. It's just wrong."
Ash grinned around the mouth of the bottle. "Wanna go tell 'em?" he said, and Ellen snorted softly.
That's the thing. They're above all laws but whatever few John's laid down. They don't care what their fellow hunters think--and the opinions of the mob are certainly not the biggest deal ever, but they don't make any effort . . . fit in seems like such a stupid junior high phrase. To find any kind of commonality with these guys who should be their brothers, as well--like an extended family all fighting for the same goal. But they're not, are they? The Winchesters are in it for vengeance, more than the good of humanity. They're not Superman, they're psychotic friggin Batman.
She had the feeling that if any single person – or hell, every single person – in the place in any way interfered with the Wolfpack... All three men would happily gun them down and then burn their bones.
Yeah . . . anything that isn't with them, or at least standing out of their way, is against them. They're a law unto themselves, and they're pretty lawless.
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In my mind, John didn't engineer what goes on with his boys. Being isolated and pretty much depending on each other, natural curiousity and hormones led to stuff that, pretty much, always happens. 'Playing doctor', as it were. But they're so turned inward - and so tuned into each other, and so suspicious of the world that the vulnerability that comes with sex was simply impossible. They only way to be there, to do that, and be safe, was to turn to their family.
No, there's no participation from John. His only love is dead. But he knows, and approves in that it keeps his boys safe, and they're not exposing any weaknesses to strangers.
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"I hear that." Sam tilted his head just a little, eyes lively and a little wild behind the strands of his hair. "I think they're lying, though."
"Funny...I do too," Dean said. His chin came down a little – his fingers flexed around the shaft of the cue and his voice dropped a whole register, growling snarl that made Ellen jerk in reaction halfway across the bar. "Which one of you motherfuckers is gonna be first?"
"Oh, shit," Ash hissed, half-falling off his stool in his haste to stand up and Ellen jerked the rifle free of its scabbard. Brought it up and around, leveling it at the boys. Just needed a clear shot, clear shot – fuck. If she shot one of the Wolfpack they'd burn this place down around her ears.
"Getting late, boys." John's rumbling voice cut across the tension like a hot knife. About half the hunters in the room turned at least their heads to look at him. Wisely, the three facing the boys didn't, but Ellen could see their shoulders tense – their feet shuffle just a little on the floor. Threat from two sides, even though the casual onlooker would say it was the Winchesters who were outnumbered. "Best be moving on."
"Didn't get a chance to finish our game," Dean said, his grin sharp-edged and glinting.
"Maybe some other time."
And if it weren't for John, they'd have killed everyone in the damn bar, except maybe Ellen, and if she didn't drop the shotgun, her, too. John's the closest they've got to common sense. When he dies, what the hell's gonna happen to them, then? When they run up against trouble with more guns than them? The first thing people do when the monster is dead is get rid of the monster-killers.
John plucked his jacket from the back of his chair and shrugged it on – slid his journal and the papers into the leather satchel that was lying on the table. He turned his head slowly, watching the crowd – smiled when his gaze finally rested on Ellen. "You plannin' on using that weapon, Ellen?"
"Only if somebody starts something," Ellen said, but she let the barrel slew down and left, eyes on John.
"Oh, I don't think anybody's gonna start anything." John moved toward the door and suddenly Sam and Dean did, too, making the hunters closest to them startle back. Clearing a path. Dean laid his cue on a bottle-littered table and sauntered onward. Sam tossed his to a staring hunter who caught it out of pure reflex.
John knows nobody's gonna start anything, because Sam and Dean are his puppets, and none of the other hunters has the balls to take them all on. Jeebus, it's like John's showing off his bright, shiny, fantabulous weapon, reminding them all who's top-dog is, though no one was really disputing the fact.
And Sam, of all people, so ready to fight and kill--Dean's rowdy enough to picks fights (fights, not bloodbaths), but Sam strikes me as someone who'd fight out of necessity, or maybe if you pushed him a lot.
But then, this is a the Winchester-bizzaro 'verse.
::shivers::
The three of them ended up together not five feet from the door and they were nearly there... Until somebody – looked like Doug Pheeny – stepped up and put his hand on John Winchester's shoulder, pulling at him.
"Listen, Winchester –"
And they know there's no reasoning with Dean or Sam. of course not, that'd be like reasoining with a knife just before it plunges into your gut. It's John who wields them.
That was all he got out. A moment later his voice ended in a pained squawk as the blade of a knife – a strangely curved, wickedly pointed knife – pressed into his throat, Sam Winchester right there behind it. Look of utter fury in his fox-canted eyes, fist doubling up in the man's worn sweatshirt. Voice like the hissing sigh of a blade being drawn.
"Do not ever... touch my dad."
They're like attack dogs. Especially Sam. It makes me sad . . . all his ideals, his heart, his humanity don't exist in this 'verse. Or they don't exist for anyone who isn't John or Dean.
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They might think they're invulnerable - John knows their not.
And yeah - Sam's still a geek, still the research go-to guy, but all his soft spots are reserved for family. On the show, of the three, i could see Sam going over the edge the easiest. He's so damn *stubborn*.
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The Wolfpack thrives on chaos and murder. Ouch.
Sam flicked a glance at Dean – at John, who was grinning faintly, totally at his ease. Bastard hadn't turned a hair. He gave a short little nod and Sam's fury seemed to snap off like a light. He grinned, too – slid back a step, the knife coming off Doug's throat with a little whisper against his chin.
Just like he's got trained attack dogs. They don't even feel if John doesn't give them the okay, and as soon as it stops being okay with John, they shut it off.
"Better give this place a miss for a while," Ellen said, and John's eyebrows went up for a moment, as if she was telling him to strip and dance the hootchy-kootchy.
"You think?" John asked, and he looked straight at her, dark eyes pinning her breathless and shaking, all amusement gone. A wolf's steady stare, calculating and cold as hell and Ellen's fingers were cramping on the stock of the rifle, her own fear-sweat sharp in her nostrils.
Like he's considering whether or not he wants to completely wreck her life again . . . then decides not to, for whatever arbitrary reason.
"Maybe we will," John said finally. He tipped his head a little toward Dean, who stepped backward and opened the door – held it with his foot while Sam slipped out. Then Dean slid out himself, guns still up and trained on any movement. John caught the door-edge and stood there a moment, surveying the room. He lifted his gun and blew across the end of the barrel as if blowing away smoke. Like some fucking cowboy or a cartoon character, and not remotely funny. And then he grinned again and was gone, fading into the night as if he'd never been. A moment later the stuttering rumble of their vehicles – that old black Chevy and John's big 4 x 4 – reached through the walls and everyone seemed to let out a collective huff of relief.
Just showing off his weapons--I suppose it's the only satisfaction his has, besides killing.
"If you're fixin' to die that bad, Gordon, go on and see to 'em. I'll stand a round on the house in your honor."
"They're not invincible," Gordon said, flash of heat in his gaze and Ellen shouldered past him, watching as all around her hunters eased guns back into holsters and pockets and started talking.
"They're pretty damn fucking close, if you ask me." Ellen got around the end of the bar and clumsily slid the rifle back into its scabbard – grabbed a bottle off the back shelf and poured herself a double.
"Rumors and backroom nonsense," Gordon snapped.
"Bet your life on it?" Ellen asked.
And that's how legends grow.
But a little loop of memory – Sam and Dean all but kissing, Sam's knife with a smear of blood on the edge, John's last, lingering glance as he'd vanished out the door – played over and over in her head. No rest tonight, that was for sure.
Moral as a hurricane. Huh . . . that's who this 'verse's John--and Sam and Dean--remind me of, in a way. Illyria.
"You tell Gordon he's lucky we've been busy. Next time he tries to step in on a hunt, we're going to take him down." Dean shook his head, his smile fading a little. "Hate to off a hunter – fuck knows we need all of 'em. But it won't stop us, Ellen. You make sure you tell him that. He's pushed too far and he only gets one warning."
So--what happens to Gordon, and where's John? Is he laid up because of Gordon's interfering?
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John's fine, he knows Sam and Dean can do this. He has research and whatnot to do while they go out and burn some energy.
'Moral as a hurricane' - i like that.
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"Good night, Ellen," Sam breathed, warm on her cheek. Scent of musk and smoke and bay, his eyes catching the weak moonlight and glinting like a coyote's.
And Sam, come over all Ted Bundy-polite . . . it makes me wig, it does.
Catching his jaw in a hand with a silver ring on one finger, tilting it up and Dean's mouth on the skin underneath. Little whine of a noise from Sam, his hands sliding up under Dean's jacket while Dean's mouth slid up, as well – covered his brother's. Ellen wanted to shout at them to just stop it – to get out, go home, get away, as if they were a couple of stray dogs. But she didn't say anything. Didn't move at all while the kiss went on and on and then abruptly stopped, Dean laughing and Sam tipping his head back. Mouth open on a breathy little howl that made Dean cuff the side of Sam's head.
It's like they warp reality wherever they are--they make the piece of world they happen to be standing on uncertain, make people doubt what they know and believe and feel. Spreading unease just by their presence, by their happiness.
They're wrong . . . they don't fit. They're not animals, but they're not human enough for most people to be comfortable around. They're . . . wolves in people clothing, and anyone with the instincts god gave a flea'll never feel safe of comfortable around them.
She heard, months later, that whatever demon had started John Winchester on his mission had been killed. Utterly destroyed. They only took out half of Kansas doing it and the miles-wide, smoking crater that was left behind was in the news for weeks.
Their on Sunnydale, only a lot larger and with way, way more fatalities, I'm thinking.
John never made it out – that news got around fairly fast, as well.
To the relief of all who knew or had ever heard tell of him.
Ellen thought about them sometimes. Thought about what John had done to get his revenge – what he'd turned his sons into in the process. What they'd willingly become. She wondered if they'd ever dreamed of something else. Some other life.
Probably not. It's hard to imagine a life different from the one we live in. Most people can't manage it, too well. And if someone handed it to them on a silver platter, they wouldn't know what to do with it.
But then her mind would turn, inevitably, back to them in her yard under the moonlight. Scuffling around like puppies, nipping and snarling and laughing, so wrapped up in each other they hadn't bothered to notice her. So sure of their own immortality, and so...happy. Uncomplicated affection and joy that didn't need the world or her approval, just...each other. Not a bad way to be, she figured. Not so bad, after all.
Not if there's no other alternative, no. It's good that they've got each other, but that's probably all they'll ever have. I suppose in that case, it's good that each other seems to be enough. I don't imagine they have friends, or even comrades. And when one of them dies . . . the other's got nothing at all.
Jeebus.
I'm gonna have to take a few days before I read/comment on the other Wolfpack story.
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Exactly. And they never *will* fit in, and they don't care. At all. The world is their playground. They're predators with a never-ending source of prey. If all the demons died tomorrow, they probably *would* become serial killers. Or drug runners, or hit men.
They don't see 'civilians' as important enough to care about besides saving from evil, and if civilians get in the way...they're toast.
I'm so, so pleased to see your comments. I loved writing this story. I love this 'verse and these boys.
It seems like it really disturbed you, on a lot of levels, and while i kinda want to hug you, i also just love it because it means it *worked*, and i did good, and...
Thank you thank you thank you.
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Grabbed the first on your list, as I honestly haven't had time to read fic since I have so many books from the library to go through.
The 'less tame' aspect of this story is something I've always wanted to see and it's been on my list of fics to write for ages. We know that Dean is like this. Predetor and always watching out so it was wonderful to see it expanded to Sam and enhanced.
The Sam/Dean bits were nice and subtle enough that it wasn't really bothersome. Just the kind of fic I'd love to see more of. It's natural, I suppose, that Sam and Dean would turn to each other, since they're loners. The only thing I question is John's approval. I assume he knows so I'm just a little curious on that.
I also wondered throughout the entire fic if they really WERE wolves. It was great.
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:)
I'm glad you gave it a try despite the overtones of Sam'n'Dean. I try to keep most of the intimate stuff low-key.
John knows and approves mostly because he feels that you simply can't trust strangers. At all. And certainly you can't trust them when you're that vulnerable and open during the sex act. So, he's good with it if only because to him, it means his boys are safe.
Werewolves would be fun! But no. Heh. There's a second part to this, 'Dogs of War', that's in my memories under 'wolfpack'.
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I'm glad you took the challenge, too!
:)
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I love Ellen's POV. I love the extended canine metaphor; that image of pups in the junk yard at the end is especially powerful.
And the pool-chalk scene? Guh.
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Ellen's pov felt 'risky' to me - i'm so glad it worked!
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What I keep coming back to when I read this (which I've done 3 times in 24 hours now, like it THAT much) is how awesome and haunting the whole dynamic is ... and how much I'd love to see this taken mainstream rather than told as SPN AU. There's a soul to this that seems to beg for their own story, told outside the confines of the Supernatural universe. I'd love to read about this man and his boys running semi-feral through a near-future landscape.
But mostly what I wanted to say was, this is AWESOME. Thanks so much for writing it.
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*has giddy fangrrrl moment*
*ahem*
I had this idea in my head for ages, and then finally i got it down in a form that was good, heh. Ellen's pov was scary, but it *worked*, so i'm pleased with it.
I've written another story in this 'verse and i know i'll write a couple more. I'm also kinda toying with doing a bit from John's pov, we'll see.
I see teeny hints of this sort of...pack mentality in the show sometimes - it was fun to extrapolate it out to the extreme.
Thanks again!
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So awesome. Reading it now after finally having watched the whole show, and meeting the characters has a lot more impact, obviously, but it remains as amazing as I remembered it.
Love it.
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Welcome to your new obsession.
:)
And thank you so much!
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What stands out most in my mind is all the canine imagery in this -- the Wolfpack, of course, but also the mention of John's wolf-eyes, the boys scuffling like puppies, Sam's eyes glinting like a coyote's. Sam's little howl and the way Dean looked up at that bone-white moon. The imagery in this was just beautiful.
I was sad when John died at the end, but it seemed right somehow. He would totally sacrifice himself to save his boys, especially here in this universe where all they have is each other. Like Ellen, I don't believe Dean and Sam are dead, not by a long shot. I want to go read your sequel now, but even just ending it like this, I'd be happy with it. It's just... beautiful, on so many levels. *hugs it*
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Yeah, John is always going to be self-sacrificing, in my book. The boys would stop him if they could, but...
Thank you!
:)
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And dude. This is fucking AWESOME. Sexy and dangerous, man, I don't even know what to say except DAMN. I've always loved seeing how dangerous the Winchesters are, and this is jsut a perfect look at what they could've become. Terrifying even to other hunters, just ... animals. I love it.
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Heeeee.
Thank you so much!
I loved the idea of more 'feral' Winchesters and this really turned out so very well. I love the idea of them existing in this bubble of 'us' and every single other person is 'other' and that's just...the way it is.
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:)
Good God
Re: Good God
Yes, he had that awesome knife in the pilot but it's never re-surfaced. Such a pity!
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:)
awesome
This? This was sooo totally awesome, almost beyond words. It was so..dark, chilling, and yet somehow really showed their love for each other...and that's just so totally Winchester!
This is really, really, really good, and so is Dog of War and Breathing Space.
Is there any more in the works? 'Cause that would be wonderful!
~Shadow Spire
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:)
I have another Wolfpack 'verse story coming up soon, that i'm doing for Sweet Charity.
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And please feel free to friend. :)
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And i adore Kipling. 'The Jungle Books' is one of my very favorite books ever.
:)
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The tension - both sexual and under current violence - was just perfect - I think I stopped breathing halfway through this fic. And while I enjoyed the sequels you've written, this one has to be my favorite [and the best in my opinion; sorry, bottom!Sam always makes me feel a bit queasy, I think because he is so much younger than Dean] in this verse, it was almost too intense.
You just given me a new kink - dark, vicious and ammoral Winchesters [I want more NOW].
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Funny how you designate Sam as a 'bottom' - as far as I'm concerned, they both do both - whichever happens to come out on top in that particular wrestling match or whoever's feeling too lazy is the 'top' or 'bottom' that day. I definitely *do not* assign a position to my characters and then that's it, forever. I don't think actual humans work that way, so nobody i write works that way, either. As a rule.
I do have plans for more of this 'verse - i really enjoy writing these boys on the edge of society and humanity.
Thanks again!
:)
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Loved that despite everything they are - everything they've done - Ellen still envies them their closeness, their connection. That's a great twist.
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I love a more evil!Sam.
:)
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:)