|phantomas (phantomas) wrote,|
@ 2007-11-02 06:19 pm UTC
|Entry tags:||fiction, mininanowrimo, myfiction, spn|
crossover fic SPN/D&B, John and the Sheriff and mis-identification of same (until one of them opens their mouth at any rate) by various and sundry persons...and zombies. (sex is optional...but imagine the possibilities o.0 )
This is what came out...which I suppose it's the closest to crack fic I have ever got!
title: What happens in Lovelock...
crossover: SPN/Dead & Breakfast
characters: John Winchester, The Sheriff
notes: thanks to disanddat for invaluable help, and one particular line. Also, The Sheriff has been (un)officially named Buford Coneybear, Ford to his friends. Because disanddat says so, and it makes me giggle. Ficlet counting towards mini_nanowrimo. ETA: and change of title at the very last moment!
What happens in Lovelock...
"Here you go!" Black coffee and apple-pie are settled in front of John even before he can open his mouth. He looks at the waitress, raising an eyebrow, but before he can object, she props her elbows on the counter, showing another generous portion of a different kind of pie altogether, and winks at him. "All done with the grave-digging, then?" She whispers.
That puts the fear of god into John. If he had any, that is. "Christo," he mutters under his breath and gauges her reaction, his hand ready on the butt of his gun, hidden under the heavy coat.
"Uhhh. Don't you go all mumblin' funny at me…" her eyes widen a little, she tilts her head toward the back. "Wanna check the new locks?"
He fucks her deep and hard against the wall, a hand under her knee, pushing it high and wide. He doesn't really much care that she calls him Ford a few times, guesses it's an old lover or something. The zip of his jeans gives him a couple of painful bruises in tender places, but what the heck, it's been a while, and this town really makes John Winchester's hackles raise. Sweet sweat and willing warm woman are a fine counterbalance to that. Even though the woman in question mocks him for not wearing 'the hat'. She doesn't care about him being chatty, though, which is a good thing, because John isn't in any particularly social mood. This is not that unusual for him anyway, so he makes do with his tongue and fingers carefully applied in the right places, shushing her words and making her moan instead, and everyone goes home happy. So to speak.
Ghosts, he gets, and spirits and demons and all of that, but people?
People are weird. Dean would definitely agree with him.
He keeps getting winks and friendly pats on the back and he doesn't have to spend one cent for food or drinks, because they all appear in front of him every time he nears the counter in the old style dining room.
Later that night, after one last glance at the reports of mysterious disappearances he's investigating, articles and maps stuck on the walls of his room, he sneaks around town, noticing how every door is locked, every window barred off. Keen on security, this town.
John finds his way to the graveyard easily enough. Quite a number of nameless fresh graves, out there. And yet. He scratches his head, after a couple of quick rituals that don't help at all. He's already back in his truck, lights and engine silent, trying to put together the pieces of this particular puzzle, when he sees the other truck parking in front of the graveyard gates. When the driver gets out, and starts lifting heavy loads off the back of his truck, really looking like people wrapped up in old rugs, John's eyebrows really go so far high up his forehead that for a moment he thinks they'll stay stuck up there.
Seeing weird things is pretty par for the course, being a hunter and all, but … a shapeshifter? Skinwalker? John waits in the dark and only follows the man back inside the graveyard when everything is quiet and still in the deep of the night. Silver bullet to the heart, that'll make it all go away, sure thing.
And a few things – the odd looks, the winks, and "Oh Ford, oh Ford, OH FORD!" – those click into place, too.
If only the guy – shapeshifter or skinwalker or creepy doppelganger creature wearing John's own face, and man, but was he always so scruffy? - wasn't busy wrestling with what John is pretty sure were a couple of un-dead zombies freshly unwrapped. Uh. Well. Moving zombies, that is. Walking, grabby-hands zombies. Ugly, too. There's a shovel lying on the ground, so John picks it up and helps out. Bigger danger first. Zombies heads are great for baseball practice. The sound the shovel makes impacting and squashing their heads is damn satisfying. When nothing is moving anymore, no errant limbs, crawling hands or half-assed torsos on a spree, John rests heavily on the shovel propped in the ground, his gun firmly held in his fist, and stares at …
…himself. Close enough. A little better kept, all considered. With nothing of the anger John knows is constantly seeping from his eyes and voice and manners.
"Uh." The man pushes his cowboy hat – ah, that's it then! That's 'the hat'…– back on his head, hands on his waist. "Just when I thought this shit couldn't get weirder…"
The two men stare at each other.
John Winchester still wonders, days, weeks after, why the heck he didn't put a silver bullet right through Ford's heart then and there. Instead, he spent the rest of the night making sure that the Sheriff's truckload was properly decapitated and buried, giving the man a few tips on the 'salt & burn' routine he and Dean had perfected over the years, and generally having a good time.
The flask the Sheriff – Ford, that was his name – passed him might have had something to do with that. And the manly banter about willing waitresses, about women in general and their funny ways that make men go crazy about them. It was just the rough ground that had John stumbling and casually pouring part of his 'water' flask over Ford, of course, and if a couple of 'Christo' and a handful of Latin words slipped in the conversation here and there, well…John Winchester hasn’t been a hunter for more than twenty years by chance.
And that was how Buford Coneybear, Ford to his friends, Sheriff of a small town just cleared of a zombie-infestation, came to know a bit more about the monsters that go bump in the night, and how John Winchester added one more thing to those he didn't have an answer for and didn't talk about.
That was how John Winchester also discovered, at the tender of age of fifty-something, that a threesome with a woman and a guy looking just like you isn't as fucked up as it sounds. He could get behind Dean's fascination with ceiling mirrors, now, though he swore he would never get used to hear his own voice in a strong southern accent thanking him profusely for 'opening her up for me real nice, much obliged' and, uhm, other similar things.
That was also how the coordinates for the town of Lovelock were clearly marked forever off-limits to his boys on John's journal.
Damn good pie in that town, though.