"Get off'a him," somebody said and Ellen felt a wave of sick helplessness sweep over him 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.
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?
no subject
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?