last01standing (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
last01standing) wrote2008-11-22 09:14 pm
last01standing) wrote2008-11-22 09:14 pm
Entry tags:
SPN/DA crossover--World Behind Windows [3/?, gen, Logan, Dean]
Title: World Behind Windows
Rating: PG-13ish
Disclaimer: I can lay no claims on DA, SPN or Life on Mars
SPOILERS: DA pilot, SPN through season four, plot premise taken from Life on Mars (UK)
Summary: Logan gets shot. That’s when things get strange.
Notes:For those of you who know LoM, it might be of interest that Logan is Sam Tyler, Dean is Gene Hunt, Bobby is Hyde, Lillith is the Test Card Girl and Sam Winchester’s disappearance has something to do with this whole mess.
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11
World Behind Windows
Three
Winchester checks them into a motel off a highway in Oregon. He hasn’t said a word for the drive and Logan hasn’t tried to start a conversation. There is something jarring about Dean Winchester. Something broken about every movement, like a puzzle with a few key pieces missing. Winchester checks them into a double room, tosses an overnight bag onto the bed near the door and disappears into the bathroom. Logan moves toward the far bed wondering if that was some sort of habit. It was an odd gesture taking the bed closer to the door, the one that would leave him more venerable to attacks. It means something. Everything in this world has to mean something.
He upturns the duffle bag, dumping all the contents onto the bed. He doesn’t have much. The wallet holds a little under two hundred dollars. The clothes are well worn, but sturdy. The gun is a different model then the one he uses back home. The bullets are definitely silver. The knife is iron. There are a box of contacts and a glasses case at the bottom of the bag. Logan grabs that first, thankful to have something familiar. It takes him a second to remember how to peel off contacts.
The glasses are different from his designer frames back home. Slightly bigger and slightly sturdier, the fashion trend 2009 had been taking before the Pulse made fashion obsolete.
He stares in the mirror. He looks different somehow. He’s wearing a plane white t-shirt with black and red over-shirt and a tattered black leather jacket. He touches his reflection. His hairs, missing its usual mess of gel is laying flat on his head, shorter then he’s used to seeing it. More practical undoubtedly, but different.
The motel phone rings. Logan glances toward the bathroom door. The shower’s running. He can’t imagine why anyone would be calling. Can’t imagine how anyone would have this number.
The phone keeps ringing.
Logan picks it up. “Hello?”
“Take a header into the deep end when the pool’s empty, you’re going to go splat. Law of gravity.”
Logan blinks, cradles the phone closer to his ear. “Max?” he hisses. “Max is that you?”
Max keeps speaking, but her voice is fizzling out like static. “And even Jesus Christ himself had to obey the law of gravity. For a while anyway—“
“Max!” Logan hisses. “Max! If you can hear me you’ve got to get me the hell out of here!”
“What kind of a name is Max?” Winchester asks.
Logan spins around, almost tugging the phone off the night stand in the process. There’s the loud blaring of the dial tone in his ears. Winchester has a towel around his waist, his hair still damp. He gives Logan a devilish grin. “If you’re using a sex line you should know that the real Jeremy Kissinger will not appreciate it.”
“You paid for this with a stolen credit card?” Logan feels like laughing. His subconscious is committing credit card fraud. It’s ridiculous, absurd.
“What else would I pay with?” Winchester asks, brushing by him and digging a fresh pair of pants out of his bag. He gives them a good sniff, shrugs and pulls them on.
“You can’t just steal from people like that,” Logan says before he can stop himself. Before he can remind himself this isn’t real. “That’s someone’s hard earned money! It could be their life savings.”
Dean tugs on a shirt. “Hey, you know the funny thing about our line of work? We don’t get paid! The credit cards are just a service fee.” He shakes his head. “Don’t tell me you haven’t been strapped for cash on this gig? What did your parents leave you a nest egg to feed off of?”
Logan starts to respond, falters, swallows, touches the rims of his glasses. “It’s still wrong.”
“Jesus,” Dean says, rolling his eyes. “Where does Bobby find guys like you?”
Logan purses his lips together. He doesn’t like the implications. Doesn’t like that there have been others sent to this man who were now missing in action. He finds his hands sneaking toward his duffle bag, feeling around for the knife.
“Tell you what?” Dean says, voice laced in sarcasm. “How about you pay for the room next time?” He grabs his jacket and grabs his keys.
“Where are you going?” Logan asks.
“Out,” Dean grumbles.
He slams the door behind him. Logan stares at it. That hadn’t seemed like serial killer behavior—not that Logan knows what it seemed like. He stares at the telephone for almost twenty minutes, waiting for the real world to call his subconscious back. He’s lost Max by the sound of it—he’d never really had her to begin with. He’s lost Max and lost Lauren’s cooperation and lost Sonreisa’s fall and quite possibly lost his mind.
He stands up. His right knee is sore. He’d torn his ACL playing basketball back in high school and it had dashed his dreams of playing college. He hasn’t thought of it, hasn’t even noticed it for years but for some reason he stops for a moment to savor the dull ache.
He walks three blocks down the road, cheeks numbed from the bite of the bitter wind and walks into a roadhouse. It’s the sort of place he would never have frequented before the Pulse, the kind of place that was smoky and impersonal and rough around the edges. It’s the only kind around after the Pulse. He walks to the bar orders a beer and starts loitering around the pool table. Twenty minutes later he’s shooting a game.
He’s done this kind of thing before. Back in college when it was good sport to win money off of drunken frat guys, money that would inevitably get funneled into some charity. His friends used to make fun of him for it, called him Robin Hood.
He throws the first game, half because he knows how to play a crowd, half because he really is that rusty. He wonders what the good citizens of Seattle would think of him now—the great and powerful Eyes Only hustling pool in the depths of his own mind. For an instant he thinks he hears Max saying, hey, guy’s got to make a living but it’s gone almost immediately.
He wins the second game on his last shot, and the chubby redneck he’s playing tugs at the brim of his head, scowls and says, “Double or nothing.”
Logan doesn’t even bother with pretext this time. He lets the slightly inebriated redneck break and then he sets up, takes a deep breath and runs the table, taking no notice of the small crowd swelling with anger behind him. When he finishes, he mumbles, “Nice playing with you,” grabs three crumbled hundreds from the table and makes a quick and undignified exit.
He doesn’t know why he’s so worried. There’s no reason for it after all. This is all in his head and there’s no reason for his subconscious to beat him to a bloody pulp.
Except, he rounds the corner and feels a heavy hand setting on his shoulder. He turns around and is rewarded with the sight of a fist sailing toward his head. The punch is sloppy, the movements too wide, but the thing is so unexpected Logan doesn’t have time to dodge it. The fist collides with his face and he blinks back stars. His glasses are dislodged and he tastes blood spilling out of his nose.
There’s something roaring in his ears that sound like a slightly arrhythmic lead from a heart monitor.
“Think you can just walk into my bar and take me for a fool?”
He’s seizing! Someone page the doctor.
Logan spins wildly on the spot, trying to get his bearings.
Come on, Logan, the disembodied voice whispers. You’ve got to work with us. You can fight this.
The man is advancing on him, holding a pool cue like a baseball bat. “I’m going to make you pay for this.”
Logan fights. He knows the principals of how to throw a punch, how to roll with a hit. He’s taken self-defense class and martial arts in his preparation for Eyes Only. He’d wanted to be the best, wanted assurance that he could handle himself against a crime lord’s lackey. He had learned how to fight with the same practical precision that he learned everything else.
This is nothing like that. This is a brawl, a scrum, reminiscent of his one fight in his youth, just a year after his mom died and his dad wasted to nothing.
He comes out on top, the drunken oaf stumbling back toward the bar as Logan turns back toward the motel. He spits blood on to the curb, pinches his nose to stop the bleeding and savors the taste of copper on his tongue.
He can hear his heart beating in his ears, echoing the heart monitor going strong ten years in the future and he’s alive, he’s alive, he’s alive.
Winchester’s asleep when he gets back to the motel, tossing and turning like he’s fighting something invisible. Logan creeps over to the dresser, pulls the crumpled bills from his pockets and sets them on the table next to Winchester’s bag. He’s not going to ride shotgun to his fantasy. He is going to take control. He is going to get out. He is going to fight.
He sleeps like a rock and wakes up far to early the next morning to Winchesters gargling mouthwash in the bathroom. He’s still here. It’s still 2009. He’d half thought this would all be over in the morning.
“Rise and shine,” Winchester roars. “Work to be done.”
Logan sits up. It’s 2009 and he’s still here so he might as well play along. “Work?” he asks, almost cautiously.
“Nine disappearances,” Winchesters says. “Nine disappearances in the past nine years. All of them kids. Twelve year on boys. Same physics description. Happens the same time of year which, lucky for us happens to be now. I’m thinking vengeful spirit.”
“Vengeful spirit?” Logan echoes. His head hurts. He can feel every punch from the fight last night.
“What?” Winchester says. “You really think I was going to trust you with a demon first time out?”
Logan blinks. Demons. What the hell is Winchester doing talking about demons. There’s no such thing as demons. His subconscious must be in worse shape then he thought. “Shouldn’t we be looking for Sam?”
Winchester stops mid stride as if the question physically challenges him but the moment passes and he gives Logan a transparent grin. “We’re not going to find Sam if he doesn’t want to be found.” He holds up the crumpled stack of bills Logan had won last night. “Breakfast,” he says. “Looks like you’re buying.”
***
There’s an overabundance of food on the table, eggs, sausage, a stack of pancakes and a tall glass of orange juice. Logan touches the edge of his glasses and stares at his own plate. Eggs. Sausage. Toast.
He’s not hungry. Not in the slightest. Breakfast was a luxury few could afford after the Pulse and Logan himself had fallen out of the habit of eating it due to lack of fresh eggs. He takes a big bite of the toast chewing it slowly before he realizes that there’s butter on the table, jam.
Briefly he imagines taking his funds to a supermarket and buying all the top end ingredients he could have wanted. He loves cooking. It reminds him of his mother and a warm kitchen back from the time before the accident. He hasn’t cooked anything significant in a long time. He hasn’t had anyone to share that extravagance with. He’d thought maybe Max would have humored him for an evening, but that had been disastrous to say the least.
Watching Winchester eat is a spectacle all of its own. He eats with the gusto of a man condemned, food positively disappearing from his plate as Logan munches on his toast without butter and feels sick.
“You gonna eat that?” Winchester asks, indicating his plate with his fork.
Logan pushes his plate over. “Knock yourself out.”
Winchester flashes him a cheeky smile and helps himself.
“What am I doing here?” Logan asks, part to himself, part to whatever forces were keeping him here.
Winchester answers in between sawing off an end of Logan’s sausages and sprinkling pepper on the eggs. He pauses before he takes a bite, a serious expression settling on his features. Logan can hear the wind whistling outside. His fingers curl around the wooden seat. It’s gritty, rough. He can smell burning bacon from the kitchen. “You’re here because we have work to do.”
Work to do, Logan thinks. He has work to do back home. He has to wake up. Sonreisa’s going to keep stealing those pills and the dead vets will just keep piling up. He can’t let that happen. “I have other work to do.”
“So this isn’t good enough?” Winchester growls. “Look I get that you want to get out. Hunting. Everyone’s got a vendetta in this business, but somewhere out there, there’s a twelve year old kid who’s going to disappear.”
Logan wonders about this. He wonders why his subconscious would bring him a serial killer that sounded like his conscious whispering to him at night. Winchester stabs at the sausage with his fork. “And if we don’t stop it, who’s going to?”
_____________________________________________________________________________________
Should be another post this week. =)
| 4 |
Rating: PG-13ish
Disclaimer: I can lay no claims on DA, SPN or Life on Mars
SPOILERS: DA pilot, SPN through season four, plot premise taken from Life on Mars (UK)
Summary: Logan gets shot. That’s when things get strange.
Notes:For those of you who know LoM, it might be of interest that Logan is Sam Tyler, Dean is Gene Hunt, Bobby is Hyde, Lillith is the Test Card Girl and Sam Winchester’s disappearance has something to do with this whole mess.
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11
Three
Winchester checks them into a motel off a highway in Oregon. He hasn’t said a word for the drive and Logan hasn’t tried to start a conversation. There is something jarring about Dean Winchester. Something broken about every movement, like a puzzle with a few key pieces missing. Winchester checks them into a double room, tosses an overnight bag onto the bed near the door and disappears into the bathroom. Logan moves toward the far bed wondering if that was some sort of habit. It was an odd gesture taking the bed closer to the door, the one that would leave him more venerable to attacks. It means something. Everything in this world has to mean something.
He upturns the duffle bag, dumping all the contents onto the bed. He doesn’t have much. The wallet holds a little under two hundred dollars. The clothes are well worn, but sturdy. The gun is a different model then the one he uses back home. The bullets are definitely silver. The knife is iron. There are a box of contacts and a glasses case at the bottom of the bag. Logan grabs that first, thankful to have something familiar. It takes him a second to remember how to peel off contacts.
The glasses are different from his designer frames back home. Slightly bigger and slightly sturdier, the fashion trend 2009 had been taking before the Pulse made fashion obsolete.
He stares in the mirror. He looks different somehow. He’s wearing a plane white t-shirt with black and red over-shirt and a tattered black leather jacket. He touches his reflection. His hairs, missing its usual mess of gel is laying flat on his head, shorter then he’s used to seeing it. More practical undoubtedly, but different.
The motel phone rings. Logan glances toward the bathroom door. The shower’s running. He can’t imagine why anyone would be calling. Can’t imagine how anyone would have this number.
The phone keeps ringing.
Logan picks it up. “Hello?”
“Take a header into the deep end when the pool’s empty, you’re going to go splat. Law of gravity.”
Logan blinks, cradles the phone closer to his ear. “Max?” he hisses. “Max is that you?”
Max keeps speaking, but her voice is fizzling out like static. “And even Jesus Christ himself had to obey the law of gravity. For a while anyway—“
“Max!” Logan hisses. “Max! If you can hear me you’ve got to get me the hell out of here!”
“What kind of a name is Max?” Winchester asks.
Logan spins around, almost tugging the phone off the night stand in the process. There’s the loud blaring of the dial tone in his ears. Winchester has a towel around his waist, his hair still damp. He gives Logan a devilish grin. “If you’re using a sex line you should know that the real Jeremy Kissinger will not appreciate it.”
“You paid for this with a stolen credit card?” Logan feels like laughing. His subconscious is committing credit card fraud. It’s ridiculous, absurd.
“What else would I pay with?” Winchester asks, brushing by him and digging a fresh pair of pants out of his bag. He gives them a good sniff, shrugs and pulls them on.
“You can’t just steal from people like that,” Logan says before he can stop himself. Before he can remind himself this isn’t real. “That’s someone’s hard earned money! It could be their life savings.”
Dean tugs on a shirt. “Hey, you know the funny thing about our line of work? We don’t get paid! The credit cards are just a service fee.” He shakes his head. “Don’t tell me you haven’t been strapped for cash on this gig? What did your parents leave you a nest egg to feed off of?”
Logan starts to respond, falters, swallows, touches the rims of his glasses. “It’s still wrong.”
“Jesus,” Dean says, rolling his eyes. “Where does Bobby find guys like you?”
Logan purses his lips together. He doesn’t like the implications. Doesn’t like that there have been others sent to this man who were now missing in action. He finds his hands sneaking toward his duffle bag, feeling around for the knife.
“Tell you what?” Dean says, voice laced in sarcasm. “How about you pay for the room next time?” He grabs his jacket and grabs his keys.
“Where are you going?” Logan asks.
“Out,” Dean grumbles.
He slams the door behind him. Logan stares at it. That hadn’t seemed like serial killer behavior—not that Logan knows what it seemed like. He stares at the telephone for almost twenty minutes, waiting for the real world to call his subconscious back. He’s lost Max by the sound of it—he’d never really had her to begin with. He’s lost Max and lost Lauren’s cooperation and lost Sonreisa’s fall and quite possibly lost his mind.
He stands up. His right knee is sore. He’d torn his ACL playing basketball back in high school and it had dashed his dreams of playing college. He hasn’t thought of it, hasn’t even noticed it for years but for some reason he stops for a moment to savor the dull ache.
He walks three blocks down the road, cheeks numbed from the bite of the bitter wind and walks into a roadhouse. It’s the sort of place he would never have frequented before the Pulse, the kind of place that was smoky and impersonal and rough around the edges. It’s the only kind around after the Pulse. He walks to the bar orders a beer and starts loitering around the pool table. Twenty minutes later he’s shooting a game.
He’s done this kind of thing before. Back in college when it was good sport to win money off of drunken frat guys, money that would inevitably get funneled into some charity. His friends used to make fun of him for it, called him Robin Hood.
He throws the first game, half because he knows how to play a crowd, half because he really is that rusty. He wonders what the good citizens of Seattle would think of him now—the great and powerful Eyes Only hustling pool in the depths of his own mind. For an instant he thinks he hears Max saying, hey, guy’s got to make a living but it’s gone almost immediately.
He wins the second game on his last shot, and the chubby redneck he’s playing tugs at the brim of his head, scowls and says, “Double or nothing.”
Logan doesn’t even bother with pretext this time. He lets the slightly inebriated redneck break and then he sets up, takes a deep breath and runs the table, taking no notice of the small crowd swelling with anger behind him. When he finishes, he mumbles, “Nice playing with you,” grabs three crumbled hundreds from the table and makes a quick and undignified exit.
He doesn’t know why he’s so worried. There’s no reason for it after all. This is all in his head and there’s no reason for his subconscious to beat him to a bloody pulp.
Except, he rounds the corner and feels a heavy hand setting on his shoulder. He turns around and is rewarded with the sight of a fist sailing toward his head. The punch is sloppy, the movements too wide, but the thing is so unexpected Logan doesn’t have time to dodge it. The fist collides with his face and he blinks back stars. His glasses are dislodged and he tastes blood spilling out of his nose.
There’s something roaring in his ears that sound like a slightly arrhythmic lead from a heart monitor.
“Think you can just walk into my bar and take me for a fool?”
He’s seizing! Someone page the doctor.
Logan spins wildly on the spot, trying to get his bearings.
Come on, Logan, the disembodied voice whispers. You’ve got to work with us. You can fight this.
The man is advancing on him, holding a pool cue like a baseball bat. “I’m going to make you pay for this.”
Logan fights. He knows the principals of how to throw a punch, how to roll with a hit. He’s taken self-defense class and martial arts in his preparation for Eyes Only. He’d wanted to be the best, wanted assurance that he could handle himself against a crime lord’s lackey. He had learned how to fight with the same practical precision that he learned everything else.
This is nothing like that. This is a brawl, a scrum, reminiscent of his one fight in his youth, just a year after his mom died and his dad wasted to nothing.
He comes out on top, the drunken oaf stumbling back toward the bar as Logan turns back toward the motel. He spits blood on to the curb, pinches his nose to stop the bleeding and savors the taste of copper on his tongue.
He can hear his heart beating in his ears, echoing the heart monitor going strong ten years in the future and he’s alive, he’s alive, he’s alive.
Winchester’s asleep when he gets back to the motel, tossing and turning like he’s fighting something invisible. Logan creeps over to the dresser, pulls the crumpled bills from his pockets and sets them on the table next to Winchester’s bag. He’s not going to ride shotgun to his fantasy. He is going to take control. He is going to get out. He is going to fight.
He sleeps like a rock and wakes up far to early the next morning to Winchesters gargling mouthwash in the bathroom. He’s still here. It’s still 2009. He’d half thought this would all be over in the morning.
“Rise and shine,” Winchester roars. “Work to be done.”
Logan sits up. It’s 2009 and he’s still here so he might as well play along. “Work?” he asks, almost cautiously.
“Nine disappearances,” Winchesters says. “Nine disappearances in the past nine years. All of them kids. Twelve year on boys. Same physics description. Happens the same time of year which, lucky for us happens to be now. I’m thinking vengeful spirit.”
“Vengeful spirit?” Logan echoes. His head hurts. He can feel every punch from the fight last night.
“What?” Winchester says. “You really think I was going to trust you with a demon first time out?”
Logan blinks. Demons. What the hell is Winchester doing talking about demons. There’s no such thing as demons. His subconscious must be in worse shape then he thought. “Shouldn’t we be looking for Sam?”
Winchester stops mid stride as if the question physically challenges him but the moment passes and he gives Logan a transparent grin. “We’re not going to find Sam if he doesn’t want to be found.” He holds up the crumpled stack of bills Logan had won last night. “Breakfast,” he says. “Looks like you’re buying.”
There’s an overabundance of food on the table, eggs, sausage, a stack of pancakes and a tall glass of orange juice. Logan touches the edge of his glasses and stares at his own plate. Eggs. Sausage. Toast.
He’s not hungry. Not in the slightest. Breakfast was a luxury few could afford after the Pulse and Logan himself had fallen out of the habit of eating it due to lack of fresh eggs. He takes a big bite of the toast chewing it slowly before he realizes that there’s butter on the table, jam.
Briefly he imagines taking his funds to a supermarket and buying all the top end ingredients he could have wanted. He loves cooking. It reminds him of his mother and a warm kitchen back from the time before the accident. He hasn’t cooked anything significant in a long time. He hasn’t had anyone to share that extravagance with. He’d thought maybe Max would have humored him for an evening, but that had been disastrous to say the least.
Watching Winchester eat is a spectacle all of its own. He eats with the gusto of a man condemned, food positively disappearing from his plate as Logan munches on his toast without butter and feels sick.
“You gonna eat that?” Winchester asks, indicating his plate with his fork.
Logan pushes his plate over. “Knock yourself out.”
Winchester flashes him a cheeky smile and helps himself.
“What am I doing here?” Logan asks, part to himself, part to whatever forces were keeping him here.
Winchester answers in between sawing off an end of Logan’s sausages and sprinkling pepper on the eggs. He pauses before he takes a bite, a serious expression settling on his features. Logan can hear the wind whistling outside. His fingers curl around the wooden seat. It’s gritty, rough. He can smell burning bacon from the kitchen. “You’re here because we have work to do.”
Work to do, Logan thinks. He has work to do back home. He has to wake up. Sonreisa’s going to keep stealing those pills and the dead vets will just keep piling up. He can’t let that happen. “I have other work to do.”
“So this isn’t good enough?” Winchester growls. “Look I get that you want to get out. Hunting. Everyone’s got a vendetta in this business, but somewhere out there, there’s a twelve year old kid who’s going to disappear.”
Logan wonders about this. He wonders why his subconscious would bring him a serial killer that sounded like his conscious whispering to him at night. Winchester stabs at the sausage with his fork. “And if we don’t stop it, who’s going to?”
Should be another post this week. =)
| 4 |
Re: Review
(I'd love to comment on the rest, but alas, spoilerphobic tendencies die hard.)