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katehuntington · 5 years ago

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Title: Changes - part six Word count: ±5000 words Summary “Changes”: Huntress Zoë Sullivan (OFC) crosses paths and swords with the Winchesters, when the brothers stumble on a case she’s already working. When complications arise, they are forced to work together. Summary part six: Zoë remains one step in front Dean, which annoys the cocky hunter. As new details about the case unravel, both Winchester brothers find out that the independent woman is not planning to share. Episode warnings: Dark! NSFW, 18+ only! Angst, gore, violence, character death. Description of blood, injury and medical procedures. Demon possession, supernatural creatures/entities. Smut, swearing, alcohol use/addiction. Kidnapping, mentions of torture and murder, illegal/criminal practices. Mentions of nightmares and flashbacks. Author’s note: I couldn’t be more excited to share Supernatural: The Sullivan Series with you. There are quite a few people I want to thank: @coffee-obsessed-writer, @soupornatural & @mrswhozeewhatsis, who edited the early drafts, and my girls @girl-with-a-fandom-fettish & @winchest09 who are deciphering the recent version. Everyone who encouraged me to go for it, you are awesome!

Supernatural: The Sullivan Series Masterlist 01x01 “Changes” Masterlist

Dean squints when he steps into the light. A clear blue stretches out across the sky, the bright color gradually turning paler as it closes in on the horizon. He’s outside in the parking lot crammed with cars; the desk clerk wasn’t lying when he said he was fully booked. The place doesn’t have a sinister feel to it anymore like it did last night, allowing the hunter to let his guard down on this caffeine-deprived morning. The older Winchester brother needs a fix and he needs it badly. Sam drank all the instant coffee and he refuses to drink that shit from the machine in the lobby.

He expected it to be chilly outside, but the sun feels pleasantly warm. Sam woke him up, turning up the volume of the radio completely during the drum solo of a Guns ‘N Roses song. Not because his little brother likes that particular music, but he does like to watch Dean bolt upward in bed. Payback, because the older Winchester can’t deny that he pulled a similar prank on his brother more than once. Honestly, he’s glad Sammy is starting to mess with him again. It’s been a while since they acted like siblings. The joke was a good wake up call, too, he has to admit, but he still feels hungover: wrecked, tired and in desperate need of a cup of coffee, or several.

Traffic rushes by, most of the cars and trucks entering the city of Rochester. It’s a big town, big enough for people to disappear in without others noticing. For a moment, he thinks of those the shapeshifter already took. Sam found a string of at least three disappearances and that conclusion was drawn from the information he had access to offline while Dean was driving up north. These people could be anywhere. Dead? Probably. Going to die if they don’t find that bastard’s hideout fast? Definitely. But before he can work, he needs food, too. Dunkin’ Donuts, now that would be a treasure in this town.

When he asked Sam where Zoë was, all he got was “out”, followed by, “she’s already getting us lunch” when Dean grabbed his wallet and intended to leave. He went outside anyway, in need of some fresh air. His shoulder is throbbing, shooting daggers through his arm whenever he moves it, but as long as he keeps it still, it’s not too bad. In the bathroom earlier, he did peel the gauze back slightly to check the injury, and he has to admit that he was impressed. He might not be able to stand Zoë, but she did an awesome job removing that bullet and sewing him back together. Plus, the painkillers she offered are a God’s gift.

Slowly, he strolls towards his car. The pitch-black Chevrolet Impala blinks in the sun, chrome glistening. Dean smiles; what a sight for sore eyes. He’s honored to own the car Dad gave him a while back. Not just because she’s such a joy to drive, but because it was Dad’s first car. He kind of owes it to his old man to take good care of her. It’s what he expects him to do; to look after the family. “Hey, Baby,” he greets his Chevy, letting his fingertips glide over the trunk. “Since when have we reached the phase that you call me ‘baby’?”

Dean looks over the top of the Impala and finds Zoë’s Harley parked on the other side, but he can’t spot the owner. When he moves around his car he finds her, laying on her back underneath her bike. “Who says I was talking to you?” Dean returns, leaning against the hood. She crawls from under the Road King and judgmentally observes him for a few seconds, then she grabs a socket wrench and slips back under. “Right, men talk to their cars. I forgot they do that,” she nags.

Dean grins and decides not to respond; it’s still early and he’s not sharp yet. The rhythmical sound of the bolt being turned sounds like music to his ears and he has the sudden urge to pull his tools out of the trunk and get some work done himself. But Baby is fine, she doesn’t need any TLC right now. “What’s wrong with your bike?” Dean asks curiously. “I was in a bit of a hurry last night, probably hit a speed bump. It’s just the gasket, nothing serious,” she explains, keeping her eyes on the exhaust. “And what’s wrong with you?” he rephrases his question. “Excuse me?” Caught off guard, she pauses, but doesn’t make an effort to get out from under her Harley. Dean doesn’t bother to repeat himself. “You heard me.” “There’s nothing wrong with me, Shortbus.” Zoë continues tightening the bolt, faster than she did a moment ago, annoyed about the fact that she doesn’t know where he’s going with this. “Then what is that bandage doing there?” Dean asks smartly. Startled, Zoë sits up and hits her head hard against the chrome outlet of her bike, causing a loud bang. Cursing like a sailor she lands back on the ground. “Ow! Fucking hell!”

She didn’t realize her shirt crawled up. Dean smirks at the string of strong language, but hides his smile when she surfaces from under the bike. Irritated, she pulls down her buttoned shirt to hide the gauze through which a little bit of blood has formed a perfect circle in the shape of a bullet wound. She uncomfortably pretends like neither he nor she saw it and disappears under her Harley again. Dean, of course, isn’t going to let it go. “Did Sam shoot you?” “What?” “Last night he fired two bullets. Did he shoot you?” Dean repeats. The huntress scoffs. “Ha! Your little bro isn’t that fast on the draw.” “I’m not kidding,” he states seriously. “Someone apparently was.”

She gives the bolt one last turn and appears from under the bike, this time without hitting her head. Annoyed, she looks up at him, lightning in her brown eyes. Zoë is nowhere near admitting to him what went down. Shit. How the hell is she gonna talk herself out of this one? “Don’t worry, Sam won’t get the credit,” Zoë comments snarky, as she grabs a dirty cloth and cleans her hands, looking away. “If he didn’t do it, who did?” he interrogates, clearly not accepting a smart answer. “What does it matter? It’s nothing serious,” she mutters, getting up. “It is. You got shot, damn it,” Dean argues. “So did you. How’s that shoulder by the way?” Zoë quickly changes the subject, but Dean is smart enough not to take the bait. “No - no - no,” He shakes his head and grins. “I’m not gonna fall for that one. My shoulder’s fine, thanks, but you’re still answering that question.” She sighs; seems like there’s no way out of this. “It’s not that bad, it was a clean shot,” she assures, still avoiding Dean’s question. “Did you get the bullet out?” Dean asks, almost parental. Zoë narrows her eyes at him. “Of course I got the bullet out.” “Who shot you?” he asks again, slowly this time.

Zoë doesn’t answer and saunters up to him, after which she leans against Dean’s Chevy as well. Her hair, still damp from the shower she took earlier and seems black. Despite the crappy night, her natural tan gives her a healthy appearance. The only thing that gives away that she’s tired, are the slightly visible dark circles under her eyes. When she looks aside, she meets Dean’s gaze, who’s waiting for some kind of response. With a sigh, she gives him an answer. “The shapeshifter.” Dean’s eyebrows shoot up, needing a moment to analyze her words. He doesn’t know which question he needs to ask first. “You ran into him?”

Zoë averts her gaze, debating her conscience. Should she tell him? She knows he will keep digging until he does, but she could lie, obviously. Oh, what the hell. She might as well give him the whole story. “Yeah, yesterday evening. I had an appointment with a possible next victim, this guy called Cliffer. Turned out the son of a bitch already shed into him,” she explains. “Wait… Cliffer? As in Terry Cliffer?” Dean double checks. She suspiciously tilts her head while looking at him. “Yeah.” “Shit.” He rubs his face, realizing what is going on. “You’re Sharon Evans.” “What? How the hell do you know my alias?” Zoë asks with a tone. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I think Sam technically did get you shot,” he starts off hesitating. “Beg pardon?!” she cries out, turning towards him, completely stunned. “We rang Cliffer around five yesterday afternoon, to meet up with him,” he admits. She stares at him as the missing links connect. She places a hand on her hips, switching her weight to one leg, radiating her attitude. “Let me guess! FBI?” “Yeah. He asked if Sam was Sharon Evans’s partner. We didn’t realize we were on somebody else’s case,” he admits. “You son of a…”

She swallows down another waterfall of curse words and turns around furiously. That’s why the bastard changed! She didn’t give herself away, those dumbass Winchesters did! It’s a bit of a coincidence that two federal agents call, being on the same case without knowing it. The shapeshifter was tailing Cliffer already, she was suspecting that, but when it learned about the appointments, it changed shape quicker than planned. The fucker knew there was at least one hunter in town. It was on to her! “Fuck!” she exclaims.

Furious, she turns away and walks back and forth between Dean’s car and her bike. Dean just follows her with his eyes, not saying a word. He knows that anything coming out of his mouth will only make her angrier, even if it’s just a smart attempt to lighten the mood. “What time’s that appointment?” “Five-thirty.” “Where?” “A bar. I’m not sure where.” “You don’t know?!” she snaps. “Sam knows. He made the appointment, not me,” he returns. Zoë rolls her eyes and forks her fingers through her hair, staring at the passing traffic for a moment.

“I don’t see why this is a bad thing,” Dean starts off, casually, but she doesn’t take it well. “You don’t see why this is a bad thing? It probably means the real Terry Cliffer is dead!” she hisses, lowering her voice when guests walk out the Motel Six. “You don’t know that. There could be two of them walkin’ around,” Dean argues. “The shifter doesn’t know that we’ve met. That gives us the advantage. It doesn’t know we know.” “What was your major plan then, Hannibal Smith?” she taunts. “I don’t have a plan. Like I said–-” “- Sam’s the geek, I know. God, seems like your folks saved the brains for the second child,” she huffs, turning on her heels as she crosses her arms firmly in front of her chest.

Dean glares at her, offended. Not that she notices, with her back already turned to him. She picks up the tools she used for the repair and puts them back in a small case, resting on the saddle. While she cleans up, Zoë tries to figure out some kind of plan, but if she’s not even sure who Sam actually made that appointment with, then how can she work out a strategy? Big chance that she’ll meet the shifter, but it could very well be Terry, so she can't actually go in guns blazing. Cliffer hasn’t been reported missing yet, even though he has a wife and kids. If he did disappear, they would have called the authorities and Zoë would know about that. Nothing is certain, which makes this job so much more impossible to work.

She stops what she’s doing and stares at the asphalt. Gears are turning in her head as she goes over every scenario. Dean observes her for a moment. “Did you eat?” he asks out of nowhere. “Or have coffee?” “No,” she answers confused; what does that have to do with anything? “Then how the hell can you think properly?” he wonders. She shrugs, only just now realizing that her stomach sounds like there’s a war going on inside. She could certainly go with a good latte macchiato to jumpstart her brain, too. It’s no fun to admit, but Dean has a point. “You’re right. I’m off.” Zoë throws her right leg over her Harley and lands in the black leather saddle. She picks up her old biker jacket from the handlebar and puts it on. “Can I come?” The way Dean asks is like a little boy would, innocent and hopeful, adding ‘pretty please’ with his green eyes without actually pronouncing the words. She chuckles and shakes her head. “Sorry, Dean. I fly solo.” Her engine starts with a satisfying purr instead of the louder sputter it produced earlier. Content, she smiles and puts on her helmet. Dean, on the other hand, looks at her just like that same little boy, disappointed, even though he tries to hide it. Without another word, she turns the throttle and exits the parking lot. Just before she turns on the parallel road to the 52 highway, she glances over her shoulder with a smirk from ear to ear. “Thanks for lunch!” she shouts, overruling the sound of her Harley.

Puzzled Dean watches her drive off. Lunch? What lunch? He feels his pockets, knowing he’s missing something. When the identical roar seems to come closer again; he looks up. The Harley Davidson isn’t exactly coming back, but drives up the ramp going to the city. She heaves her hand victoriously, holding his wallet as she drives by. Dean’s eyes follow her, his jaw dropping to the ground. That dirty little thief! She just stole my wallet! He gapes at Zoë, as she and her Harley merge into busy traffic in the distance. How could she…? When did this…? Stunned, he scoffs. Un-fucking-believable. He, one of the best goddamn hunters in the world, just got pick-pocketed. While shaking his head he turns around and walks back to the lobby, muddling softly. “Son of a bitch.”

An hour later, Zoë slips her key in the lock of room 82 and walks in like she owns the world, a straw coming from her iced latte on-the-go firmly between her lips. “Finally!” Dean complains. He made himself comfortable on the bed with his shoes on the bedspread again, sitting up against the back wall reading a magazine Zoë doesn’t want to know the content of. Sam is behind his laptop, not surprisingly. The older of the brothers smiles happily when he sees the Taco Bell symbol on the paper bags she’s holding. It might have taken her a while to get back, but at least she brought the good stuff.

Without responding to his comment, she throws him back his wallet without Sam noticing, who is occupied by research. Dean catches it with his left hand and answers her victorious grin with an unintelligible mutter. She sets down a small tray with two more coffee containers. “I didn’t know how you guys like your coffee, so I brought you both an Americano,” she says. “Francis over there prefers a half-caf double vanilla latte,” Dean comments, wiggling his eyebrows at his brother, who on his turn glares at him and takes his coffee. As if Dean hasn’t eaten for days, he attacks the burrito, quickly tearing away the paper wrap and taking a big first bite. Zoë isn’t surprised by his manners. Sam, however, can’t help but stare at his brother for a moment and clears his throat, disapprovingly. His sibling doesn’t seem to be bothered at all and lets out a satisfied ‘mmm’. “This is good,” he comments with his mouth full. “Thanks, Zo,” Sam says, after which he also takes a bite of his lunch. “Don’t thank me,” she nods at Dean. “He’s the one who paid.” The younger brother frowns and looks over at Dean for an explanation. Dean and paying the bill? That’s new. He doesn’t need to observe him for long before Dean stops chewing and his facial expression goes blank. Uneasy, he looks away and swallows his bite. Zoë watches him, too, smirking like a cheshire cat. “She - uh,” he pauses, studying his taco for a moment. “She kinda… stole my wallet.” Sam almost chokes on his food and laughs out loud, the action earning a lethal glare. He then continues to look the huntress up and down. “That explains the new jacket.” Dazed, Dean looks up. New jacket? What new jacket? Then he spots the black leather Harley Davidson bomber jacket on Zoë, brand new by the looks of it. “You didn’t,” he reacts, shocked. She grins at him, clearly enjoying herself. “Oh, I did.” He grinds his teeth, trying to keep calm. “How much was it?” “Not sure, actually. I didn’t bother to check the price tag when I slipped your card,” she returns, utterly satisfied. For a moment Dean just stares at her, his upper lip nervously twitching. What would that jacket be worth? 400, 500 bucks, maybe? “Oh, don’t be such a cheap jerk about it,” she comments, when she notices his expression, as if he has eaten something spicy yet disgusting. “You have at least a dozen more credit cards hidden in the trunk.” “How the hell would you know that?” Dean snarls at her.

As she takes a bite of her burrito, she looks up, digs deep down in her pocket and tosses him his car keys. While she casually continues with her lunch, Dean stares at the keys in his hand with his mouth agape, trying to figure out how the hell she got those as well. Sam has a hard time keeping a straight face, and who could blame him? There’s no finer entertainment than this: Dean is getting played. “You touched my fuckin’ car?” his brother hisses. “Obviously. I need to borrow this, by the way.” Zoë holds up a demon protection amulet. “Give that back, Zoë,” Sam demands, trying to be strict. “What else did you take?” “Some herbs, nothing expensive,” she admits, carelessly. “You fucking thief. What did you take, Sullivan?” It’s Dean who rises to his feet, holding his hand out to collect the stolen items. Reluctant, Zoë reveals a dried vine of Viburnum from her inner pocket. “Gardener over here -” Dean nods at Sam, “- went through a lot of trouble to get ahold of that dead plant you have there. I’d give it back if I were you.” “No. I need it,” she decides a matter of factly. Sam narrows his eyes at the huntress, trying to read her. Why would she need that herb? He stares at it, two dried out plants tied together with a double shoestring. It only works for one thing… “Not for yourself, I hope?” Sam asks, carefully. “A case I’m working on the side, actually. Can’t find the damn plants anywhere,” she clarifies. “Keep the damn twig, but I want the amulet back. Get your own supplies.” Dean ushers Zoë to hand the item over, which she does with a sigh. He snatching his coffee from the table and returns to the bed without thanking her. In fact, he’s not happy at all that she has been sniffing around in his car. The silence that follows is awkward, even for Zoë, and she decides to change the subject.

“I reckon you updated Sam while I was out?” Dean nods, taking a sip of caffeine. “In detail.” “Let me get this straight.” Sam, seated on one of the chairs by the table, leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “The shapeshifter knows you’re a hunter.” “It does, but it didn’t know that at the time of the meeting. It knew one of the callers was out to kill him, but for all it cared, I could have been an FBI agent. The fucker shot me anyway,” she elaborates, finishing her drink and tossing it in the trash. Dean crosses his arms in front of his chest. “What’s your point?” “Her point is that if we go to Beetles Bar, pretending to know nothing, it won’t take any risks. If the shifter shows instead of the real Terry Cliffer, it will try to kill us both,” Sam understands. “You guys are not going in,” Zoë makes clear right away, taking a mental note of the bar’s name that Sam just mentioned.

“So, what then? Lure him out and shoot the bastard?” Dean suggests. “Not until I’m sure it’s the shifter, not Terry,” Zoë replies, as she walks over to the fridge. Two confused faces follow her as she opens the door and looks inside. “You’re not making any sense at all,” Dean returns, puzzled, after which he apparently gives up on the conversation and props his feet up on the bed again. “You might actually have made an appointment with the real Cliffer guy, not with that chameleon. No one would be able to tell, unless you shine a flashlight in his face,” she explains, as she takes out three beers.

Sam looks back at Zoë, who beckons one of the bottles to him, but he rejects it. Dean takes both the beers without hesitation. “You’re serious? You haven’t even been up for two hours,“ Sam scolds at the older Winchester brother, astonished by the both of them. “It’s happy hour somewhere,” Zoë defends, puts the bottle against her mouth and takes a swig, earning a grin from Dean. “Want anything else, Sammy boy? Some juice, or milk perhaps?” she coos cheerily as if talking to a child. Dean snorts, almost choking on his beer, but when Sam shoots daggers at him, he quickly takes another sip.

“Don’t call me Sammy,” he warns the huntress, continuing their discussion on the case. “So, there is a possibility that we might actually have a meeting with Terry Cliffer–-” “Okay, stop there for a second. Let me make something very clear: there is no ‘we’.” Zoë leans on the table, her knuckles resting on the surface. Her body language is strictly business all of a sudden; apparently she’s not very happy about Sam and Dean joining in on the case, especially not without her permission. Dean eyes her as he sits up. “You could use our help, Zo.” “Help?” She scoffs. “Thanks to the big ‘help’ you’ve been, I couldn’t finish the case last night!” “That happened, sorry about that. But as long as we’re here, we can offer a hand. Besides, we have an appointment with Cliffer,” Sam argues. “I don’t care. This is my hunt. I’m going to that appointment myself,” she clears up. A quick glance at the clock tells her that it’s a little past three. She still wants to dig up more information on her guy. The boys better get going. “No, you’re not. That’s our appointment,” Dean bounces back. “Seriously? You really wanna fight me on this?” she returns snappily, pushing herself from the table and crossing her arms in front of her chest. “That appointment that you scheduled fucked up my entire case! I was here first and I’m gonna end it!” “Oh, come on. How old are you? Five? Haven’t learned how to share yet?” Dean chuckles with an attitude, adding fuel to the fire.

Before Zoë can counter him, Sam comes between the two hot-blooded hunters. “Knock it off, both of you. It will be easier to catch that shapeshifter with three hunters than with one, Zoë. Why don’t we go there together? You lay low and when we find the shapeshifter, we shoot it. We know he’ll probably be in the bar anyway, either as Terry Cliffer or someone else.” “No,” she decides without any consideration. “I’m gonna deal with this alone and I do not need your help.” “I can see that,” Dean comments, nodding at her abdomen, reminding her of the bullet wound that’s covered by her shirt. “Who’s fault is that again?” she snaps. “I’m gonna say it one more time: I fly solo. I don’t do teamwork, certainly not with you two. End of discussion.”

She takes one last sip of her beer and sets the bottle down on the table with a loud bang. “Who do you think you are, ordering us around like that with your ‘end of discussion’? Our dad?” Sam bites back, defensive for the first time today. She freezes at the comparison and turns her head. The boys can see the fury burning in her eyes, as if they just lit the fuse of a bomb that’s about to explode. His comment stirred something inside of her they should have left alone. “I am nothing like your father!” she hisses. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Dean questions, offended. “Exactly what it sounds like, Winchester,” she counters with a tone. “What did he ever do to you? He exorcised that evil son of a bitch that was wearing you to the prom, for fuck’s sake.” Dean gets up and steps towards her, clearly not too happy about the way she’s talking about his father.

Trying to not lose her cool, Zoë chuckles sarcastically, looks away, and places her hands on her waist. “You owe him,” Dean pushes, halting before her. “I do not owe him a fucking thing,” she snarls fiercely, staring him down. Their eyes battle, waiting for the other to look away, but both Dean and Zoë are determined not to be the first. Her anger towards John Winchester radiates from her; the brothers can both feel it. They struck a nerve, that��s for sure. “I want you out,” Zoë declares without even blinking. “And I’m serious.”

Dean's jaw tenses as he grids his teeth. “Fine.” With a sigh, Sam gets up from the bed and grabs his duffel, Dean already on his way out. The younger brother doesn’t feel like leaving her alone on this case, but Zoë clearly isn’t going to change her mind anytime soon. “If you need us-–” “- I won’t,” she immediately intervenes. “If you do, we’re going south.” He leaves a card on the bed. “Don’t bother, Sam. The stubborn bitch won’t call us anyway,” Dean responds, holding the door.

She ignores his words, annoyed by the slightest sting that his bitter voice leaves. In a quick glance, Zoë sees two phone numbers written down on the card, but she doesn’t intend to pick it up. Sam looks over his shoulder, but he isn’t angry with her. His eyes ask her to please reconsider, but all she returns is a cold gaze. The door closes behind them and the brothers walk down the hallway. “Unbelievable,” Dean scoffs. “What a fucking waste of time.” Their footsteps echo through the hall as they pass the front desk. Sam nods at the younger guy who took over for the day when they exit Motel 6, and enters the parking lot. The sun is still shining and shimmers on the cars passing by on the 52 highway, tires rush over the blacktop. Dean halts on the driver’s side of his Impala.

“Where to?” he asks, opening the door to get in. “We’re staying in town,” Sam decides before he sits down in the passenger seat. “What? No! We have better things to do, Sam,” Dean argues, still mad at the huntress. “I know we do, but I have a bad feeling about this,” Sam admits. Dean sighs. “Here we go again with that feminine intuition shit.” Sam rolls his eyes at him, but doesn’t respond to his words. He can’t understand why, but somehow he has the urge to look out for Zoë, almost like it’s instinct. Unnecessary, of course; she has been fine by herself for four years. Why should today be any different? “Let’s just go. You said something about a possible case in Iowa yesterday? If she can handle this, why bother to stick around if we can hunt something else?” Dean reminds him. “One night. We book a motel, check on her, and if she nails it, we leave. She doesn’t even have to know we’re there,” Sam suggests. “I thought you were determined to find Dad?” Dean looks aside at his brother, waiting for a response. “I still am, but we have no lead, not even a single clue where he is,” Sam points out. “Hey, that’s what I’ve been telling you, but it didn’t stop you from looking. You were the one who was all, ‘I gotta find Dad, it’s the only thing I can think of,’ Dean bounces back, imitating his voice. “And now you’re ditching him for some chick?” “I’m not ditching him for some chick!” Sam denies. “Ah, come on. You like her and you know it,” Dean carries on. “I do not like her, Dean! Jess just died, damnit!” he exclaims.

Dean looks away and pulls at his bottom lip with his teeth. He knows he went too far, so he keeps quiet and turns the ignition. When he flips the key, the V8 motor under the hood growls, impatiently waiting for Dean to back up and hit the road. “You said it yourself: Dad doesn’t want to be found. I don’t see how it’s a bad thing to spend the night here, unless you have some kind of lead I don’t know about,” Sam suggests. “Fine, whatever. As long as that motel has a bed. I really need to get some sleep.”

He puts his car in reverse and looks in the rearview mirror as he guides her out of the parking spot. The shift of his body causes him to grimace, pain cutting through his shoulder. “Feeling alright?” Sam checks. “Yeah, just tired. I need more painkillers, that’s all,” he mutters. Sam takes out his phone and calls a booking agency he had listed in his contacts earlier. As the call goes through, he sighs. It’s going to be a difficult task to find a room with that poker event in town. He waits for someone to pick up on the other side, meanwhile wondering why Zoë got so worked up about their father. Dean has a point; John saved her from that demon, so how could she possibly despise him? Something must have occurred; maybe she crossed paths with him later on and John did something to upset her. She wouldn’t be the first to cross blades with him, after all.

Thank you for reading. I appreciate every single one of you, but if you do want to give me some extra love, you are free to reblog my work or buy me coffee (Link in bio at the top of the page).

Read part seven here

The Sullivan Series tags: @a-gir1-has-n0-name @destielhoneybee @fookinghelljensensthighs @heartsaved @idksupernatural @laphirablack @magssteenkamp

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lilithsgayadoptednephew · 5 years ago

Text

Holy Hands

Fandoms: Shall We Date?: Obey Me! Not Rated Graphic Depictions Of Violence F/M, Other Complete Work

Chapter List

Chapter 12

House arrest was a nightmare, and it didn't go without protest. One look at Lucifer's face, however, and all arguments died on their tongues. It wasn't so bad, the house was big and they could still open windows and stuff. Levi didn't even notice anything had changed.

Lucifer still went to RAD every day to retrieve their assignments and attend to student council responsibilities. Outside of those circumstances he tried to stay indoors as well out of solidarity.

Meanwhile Acacias news app was spelling out only bad news as the days went by. The death toll finally crossed one million. People were so afraid of the demonic attacks they were turning to all sorts of religions for help. Mass prayers and saiances were being held. People accused of being satanists or witches were being arrested in the best cases.

Hunted down by neighbors in the worst.

It was grim, but the humans kept their spirits up as they lived out the long days locked in the house of Lamentation. The brothers were not doing quite as well.

Mixing rising tensions with close quarters and no means of escape was not a good recipe. They were like feral dogs snapping at each other whenever they crossed each other's path. Beel and Belphie had the kitchen under lockdown, making sure they saw exactly what everyone took and how much. Levi's room was now without a door handle, 'can't get in if there's nothing to open the door with' was his logic.

Asmo was slowly healing from his attack, but he'd seemed to have fallen into a depression since the lockdown. He never left his room, hardly even got out of bed. He was always on his phone texting or calling someone. That or he was sleeping, but on his stomach to avoid aggravating his injury.

Satan had gone completely cold. He spoke to no one, looked at no one, and read like stopping would mean his death. They suspected he was stressed and angry as well, but he showed no outside signs. He showed no emotion at all.

Acacia and MC had escaped the terror on Earth by moving to the Devildom, but they'd also trapped themselves in a stress-fueled house of abject misery. MC often fiddled with the bow shaped earring they were given. Wondering if and when they would have to use it. They loved the brothers, they really did, but they knew all to well how unpredictable they could be under pressure.

They stuck close to Acacia at all times.

That is until they started to notice a change in the boys.

"They were all so high strung before, now we hardly see them at all."

"Maybe they're finally relaxing?" Acacia suggested.

"I don't think so" MC confessed. "I think they just...gave up"

Acacia glanced around the room. Breakfast had started a while ago and still they were the only ones there. She looked fearfully at their older sibling.

"MC...are we gonna die?"

"What? Of course not." They waved her off.

"But everything’s so dangerous now, if the most powerful demons in the Devildom can't deal with it then what chance do we have?" Her voice got high with anxiety as she spoke.

"Hey hey stop that" they placated. "We've pulled through way worse than this, remember Mom?"

"...yeah" Acacia flinched and MC instantly felt bad about using such a drastic example.

"All I'm saying is... we're not powerful demons like them. We're human . We were born to survive. We can make it through this, we always do."

Acacia seemed comforted by MCs confidence.

0Simon was walking on a razors' edge. He knew what Michael was planning, and while it was a good plan, there was no good ending for the friends he'd made in the Devildom. Once upon a time he'd looked up to Lucifer as a superior and a friend. It was hard to truly accept they were on different sides.

He couldn't outright disobey Michael, but he could try and help in other ways. All he'd done up until now was healing some human victims and relaying false messages.

Now he was doing something drastic. He shivered as he waited for the man to arrive, the one he had to go to Earth to meet with. He wanted more than anything to go back and forget this had ever happened, but there were innocents on the line. MC and their sister lived in the Devildom now and no matter what his orders were he would not let them be caught in the crossfire. He couldn't.

"Hello birdie" a voice drawled from the shadows.

"I am Simon, is that you...Abaddon?"

The man stepped into the light. Long black hair framed around a sickly grey face. Large orange eyes with rectangular pupils bore into the angel, sizing him up like a wolf would a wounded rabbit.

"That I am, and you have word of my stolen plague?"

"Y-yes" he hoped his voice wouldn't shake but he could feel the evil radiating off the angel of the abyss. "They have been used to set in motion a plot, one I wish to stop."

"Ah that is a dangerous game you play birdie." He smiled from ear to ear. "Talk like that reveals a high confidence, and I think we all know how the fall can be from such a stature."

Simon shut his eyes and braced against the memory of an old friend. Fallen for a youthful mistake. His resolve only strengthened.

"I accept the risk, will you help me?"

Abaddon narrowed his eyes at the angel, grin still in place.

"Alright." He spoke softly. From his head he took one of his horns, the appendage separating from his skull like pulling the leg off a cockroach. "Blow the narrow end and my plague will follow you. Blow the other and I will come. Be careful, if you show me any disloyalty my locusts will only leave bones of you."

"Okay" Simon shivered as he took the horn from the demon. "So I return them to you here?" He asked, but when he looked up the demon was nowhere in sight.

#obey me!#obey me fanfic #Holy Hands

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thegoldendice · 6 years ago

Text

Love Is A Battlefield

Fandom - American Horror Story 1984

Pairing - Xavier Plympton/Reader

Rating - Explicit

Warnings - Suicide, Violence, Mental Heath Issues, Sexual Content, Language, Religious Content

Chapter - 6/12

Read on - ao3, ff.net

Fic Summary - The year is 1984. You're a poor student living alone in L.A., plagued by your problematic relationships with a false friend and a disturbed ex. You meet Xavier Plympton, an aerobics instructor with a dark past, at the gym where you’ve taken a reception job. You quickly develop feelings for him, and you learn to your relief that he likes you too. Soon a deadly series of events befall you and the people in your life. Overwhelmed by tragedy and with your blossoming romance cut short, you are left a wreck. Six years later you discover that while Xavier is dead, he hasn’t quite departed. You soon realise that if you are to be with him and finally achieve true peace and happiness, you must take your own life and become a Camp Redwood ghost.

Chapter Summary - You are forced to accept the fact that Xavier is a ghost when he kills himself in front of you. You come face to face with your old colleague Montana, another trapped soul. She reveals that the Xavier you once knew has changed dramatically since 1984.

Your senses begin to awaken before you are entirely conscious. The wind has picked up - you hear it buffeting the sides of the building you’re in. You are lying down, a rough blanket covering most of your body. There is a pronounced smell of decay in the air around you. It's not unpleasant, in fact, it reminds you of the attic in the house where you grew up.

You want to look around but fear stops you. You were outdoors when you fainted, so someone has moved you. If you don't keep your eyes tightly closed, who knows what you will see.

Xavier is alive.

You saw him.

It has to have been him who brought you inside. Who else would cover you up and try to make sure you were comfortable?

No.

He can't be alive.

He was murdered.

You didn't see him out by the lake. It’s not possible. It must have been some sick freak dressed as him. The newspapers would have shown his picture. Anyone could find out what he looked like, what clothes he wore. It has to be an imposter, hanging around the camp waiting to scare unwitting passers-by.

You can't take it any more. You need to find out where you are. You push down the panic growing inside you and take a deep breath, opening your eyes. You are in a cabin, lying on a musty old wooden bed. The blanket that covers you is well on it’s way to becoming ragged. Everything looks grey. Even the wall hangings that must have been vibrant once have grown dull and muted.

You look around. Your eyes come to rest on a figure in the far corner. You fight to suppress the gasp that manifests in your chest. It’s him, the man who looks so like Xavier. His face is mostly in shadow. You must have been unconscious for several hours, as parts of the cabin are completely dark. The Xavier lookalike sits in a dilapidated armchair that looks as though it's been in this cabin since the 50's. As you watch, the man brings a hand to his mouth and begins to pick at his nails.

You notice a lethal-looking knife resting on the floor beside the man's feet. Terror courses through you and your breathing becomes shaky as you start to panic. Fake Xavier goes rigid. You can't see his face properly, but you know he's looking at you. Before you get the chance to scramble out from under the shoddy blanket, the man heaves himself out of his armchair and moves across the room. You gag on the scream about to make it's way out of your body when you hear him speak.

“Y/n, Y/n, calm down! It's me, calm down.”

You look into the eyes of the man who has crouched down, inches from the foot of your bed. Everything in your body tells you to run, to escape from this situation. Your physical responses haven't caught up to your brain yet. Your brain knows that this is Xavier.

“I know this is a shock.” He says, raising one hand towards you as though you are a frightened animal he needs to keep calm.

You actually manage a laugh. It comes out slightly maniacal, you know. You begin to feel something akin to anger, but it's diluted by pure relief.

“You're alive! You're alive... I can't believe it. You're alive.” Tears begin to form in your eyes. “But Xavier, why? Why have you allowed everyone to believe you were dead all these years!? Why are you still here?”

You don't mean to sound accusatory, but you don't understand. Why the hell would he stay here?

“Oh Y/n, no.” Xavier looks so sad, it confuses you even further. “I'm here because I have to be. I can't leave. I'm dead.”

At that, Xavier moves to grab the knife he left lying behind him. He kneels before you again and, grasping the knife's hilt, he drags the blade swiftly down his left forearm, opening an artery. You watch in disbelief as blood gushes forth, covering him. A cry of horror escapes you when he manages to take the knife in his left hand and wound his other arm in the same manner as before.

“It'll be okay Y/n.” Xavier whispers, his lifeblood spilling out onto the floor. “You'll see.”

With that, Xavier topples sideways, his eyes fluttering closed. You throw off your blanket and crash to your knees beside him. You watch, stupefied, as he dies. He takes a final breath, smiling at you. You fail to move as the blood creeps across the floor, reaching you and soaking into your clothing. You struggle to form sounds, simply gaping at Xavier's lifeless body.

Your tears fall silently.

You hear a creak behind you and turn, numbly, not caring that someone is approaching.

It's him.

Of course, it's him. This is a nightmare. You passed out at the pier, and you're still there, dreaming of a suicidal Xavier. It figures the Xavier of your nightmare would kill himself. Suicide is often on your mind. You snicker slightly at the irony. Confusion clouds Xavier's features. Clearly, he was not expecting you to find the situation funny.

“Shit.” He says. “I thought that would work.”

He comes to kneel beside you, avoiding the blood and ignoring his own dead body. He grasps your arms and shakes you slightly, causing more tears to fall down your face.

“Y/n, this is real. I died here in 1984. I came here to work, remember? To get away from the city and all its bullshit. I asked you to come too, but you had to leave L.A. You left me a message...”

Xavier trails off. You look at him, trying to process what he's telling you. You glance at the body. It's him lying there, dead. There can be no doubt. But here he is in front of you, watching you with his beautiful eyes. Your brain offers up a conclusion that completely ignores logic.

“You're a ghost.”

It's not a question. There can be no other explanation.

“I guess I am,” Xavier replies, smiling slightly.

You're still in shock. You must be, because you're finding it difficult to feel much of anything, emotionally. You're aware of your physical body, of course. You can feel Xavier's bare arm touching your own. He's sitting to the right of you, both of your pairs of feet dangle off the side of the rickety bed. Your backs are pressed against the cabin wall. You can see out of the window opposite you because the single, drawn curtain is so threadbare. It's extremely dark outside.

You have been talking with Xavier for several hours. He left you briefly to get rid of the dead body. You had expected it to disappear or fade away, but Xavier explained that it had to be buried. The thought of someone having to dispose of their own corpse horrified you, but Xavier didn't seem to mind. He told you that Chet, Ray and a few others would help. You wanted to see them, speak to them, but you stayed in the cabin. You didn't think your emotions could cope with attending a ghost funeral. While Xavier was gone, you changed out of your blood-soaked jeans and put on a pair of shorts he took from the old chest of drawers.

Nobody bothered you during Xavier’s absence, and since he returned your cabin has been left alone. You spoke at length together about everything that has happened to you both over the past five years. According to Xavier, many people are trapped here at Redwood, unable to move on after their deaths. You know that they are all aware of your presence, these lost souls. Xavier told you that when a living person comes into the camp, it's as if a shock-wave vibrates through the atmosphere. It was pure coincidence that Xavier was the first ghost to cross your path. That, or fate.

Xavier's skin is cool against yours. His temperature hasn't changed the entire time you've been touching him. You suppose it must be something to do with being dead. You are reluctant to ask, despite his openness about the whole thing. You'd rather he brought it up, or not talk about it at all. As the conversation has come to a natural lull, you rest your head on Xavier's shoulder, feeling incredibly drained.

“Is this okay?” You ask him, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Of course it's okay,” Xavier replies in similar tones.

He reaches towards you and takes your hand, interlocking his fingers with yours. It feels right, despite the lack of warmth in his touch.

“I wish I'd come here sooner. Maybe if Scott hadn't stopped me coming with you, things could have turned out differently.”

“No Y/n. Margaret would have just killed you as well.”

“Maybe that wouldn't have been such a bad thing.” You mumble.

Xavier doesn't reply. You let out a sigh.

“I'm glad you're here now.” Xavier says after several minutes have passed.

You raise your head from his shoulder to look at him. His gaze on you is intent. You inhale, breathing in a tiny hint of the scent you remember from so long ago. It lingers around him, but just barely. His cologne, hairspray, and clean sweat. It's like an echo of the past, bringing tears to your eyes. Before you can stop yourself you are weeping. Xavier raises his free hand to hold your face, wiping away a tear with his thumb. He hasn't stopped staring into your eyes. Despite everything, you want to kiss him. Your lip trembles as he begins to lean down towards you.

When Xavier's lips touch yours, you wonder at the sensation. His touch feels cold, but not unpleasant. It's unusual. Then again, kissing, in general, is unusual for you. You haven't let a single person get near you in an intimate way for six years. The kiss intensifies when you part your lips. Xavier does the same, allowing your tongues to meet and brush together. You feel your body respond as it always does when you're being kissed. Your heart beats faster and your nipples harden inside your bra. You feel heat begin to gather between your legs, giving away the fact that you are reaching peak arousal.

You place a hand on Xavier's chest, clutching him gently. He begins to lean into you and you lie back, taking his weight on top of your body. He lets out a groan from the back of his throat. You know it's been a while for him as well. You are choosing not to care that he was sleeping with Montana until last year, when her true love reappeared and was subsequently killed by Margaret Booth. How can you be jealous? Xavier thought he'd never see you again.

You slip a hand under his shirt in order to connect with his skin, stroking one of his well developed pectoral muscles. You want to caress his entire body, preferably while you are both naked. You sit up slightly in order to remove your shirt, which is just getting in the way. Xavier reaches down to help you. You are about to lift it over your head when you happen to glance down at the floor. Your eyes are drawn to the bloodstains on the shabby rug. You see the knife that Xavier used to open his veins. A wave of nausea swells up inside you, drowning your arousal.

“Xavier, I can't do this. I'm so sorry. It's just you're... you're dead, Xavier.”

His name becomes a sob as it leaves you.

You watch as Xavier backs away, nodding. He says nothing.

“I have to go. I need fresh air. I'm sorry.”

Xavier nods again, moving aside as you get up from the bed and leave the cabin. It's dark outside, but you can still see. You thank your lucky stars that there is a bright moon tonight. You wrap your arms around yourself as the wind hits you. You don't want to venture far, so you sit down on the steps that lead up to the cabin.

Your tears flow freely. You chuckle a little, realising you have hardly stopped crying since you got here. It's a sharp contrast to the overwhelming numbness you felt in L.A. In fact, you don't remember feeling this much in a very long time. Not since the summer you abandoned your suicide attempt and cut yourself off from your emotions.

You are lost in thought, your breathing gaining a steady rhythm, when you hear footsteps crunching towards you. You look up warily and are shocked to see Montana, followed by a dark-haired man you assume to be her lover Trevor. You don't know why it surprises you so much to see her. You knew she was here.

“Montana.” You manage to croak out, your voice hoarse from crying. “How are you?”

Montana smirks at the stupidity of your question but chooses not to address its inappropriateness.

“I'm great, actually. This is Trevor by the way.” Montana angles her head backwards in the direction of the stranger, who gives you a somewhat bored wave but says nothing.

“How are you though? You look like shit.”

You smile. Montana hasn't changed a bit. In fact, she reminds you of your old friend Amy.

“I'm uh... I've been better. The past six years have been hard for me. Not as hard as being dead, I'm sure.”

Montana grins at you.

“It's not been all bad.” She shrugs. “I mean, we are stuck here yeah, but we've always found ways to amuse ourselves.”

Your gaze rests for the briefest moment on the somewhat pronounced bulge in Trevor's trousers.

“I'm sure.” You clear your throat, looking away.

“Oh, I don't mean sex.” Montana laughs, eyes wide. “Now, yeah. I've reformed you see. But before... well before we just killed people to pass the time. Then Trevor came back to me.”

Dread fills you as you watch Montana flash Trevor a sickly sweet smile.

“When you say we...” You trail off, not wishing to complete your sentence.

Montana's expression turns serious.

“When I say we, I mean all of us. Xavier included. I think it's only right that you know the whole truth. Anyway, good to see you Y/n.”

Montana turns to go, Trevor following in her wake. You are left, once again, in utter shock at what you have learned. You feel rooted to the spot, unable to return to Xavier. You don't want to face him, face the truth. He has become a murderer. And you are in love with him. You've been in love with him ever since you first saw him, and not even his death could kill that love. Can the knowledge of what he has been doing since then finally put an end to your desire for him?

You feel utterly stricken as you stare out into the distance, listening to the sound of nocturnal creatures hunting their prey.

You know you will have to face Xavier sooner or later, you can't just leave the camp.

You take a deep, steadying breath and stand. Turning back towards the door, you jump when you realise that Xavier is leaning just inside the threshold, watching you. Clearly, he is able to appear without making a single sound.

“You know about the killing?” He asks, cautiously.

You nod.

“Clearly we have more to talk about.”

You nod again and follow Xavier back into the cabin.

#xavier plympton #xavier plympton x reader #xavier plympton x you #ahs #ahs xavier #ahs 1984 #american horror story #american horror story 1984 #fanfic #ao3 #ff.net

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gumnut-logic · 6 years ago

Text

Sleeping Wounded

Title: Sleeping Wounded

Author: Gumnut

30 Dec 2018 – 2 Jan 2019

Fandom: Thunderbirds Are Go 2015/ Thunderbirds TOS

Rating: Teen

Summary: He deserved it.

Word count: 3367

Spoilers & warnings: Possible spoilers up to end S2. Some whump.

Timeline: Standalone.

Author’s note: This is an answer to a prompt from @i-am-chidorixblossom who asked for something sleep related. It started there and ended up somewhere else, but that happens a lot in my head :D I hope you enjoy it anyway :D

Disclaimer: Mine? You’ve got to be kidding. Money? Don’t have any, don’t bother.

-o-o-o-

“Goddamnit, Virgil, strap yourself in!”

“If I don’t fix this, we are both dead.”

Virgil had his head inside Thunderbird Two’s control panel while Scott desperately tried to keep them level, ever so low over thick forest.

They had lost both VTOL and main thruster control thanks to yet another Fischler invention. The little mobile solar collector had been attracted to TB2’s rear thrusters and had shown that attraction by flying into one, despite Virgil’s desperate manoeuvres. The resultant explosion had taken out not only that thruster, but interfered with its partner. The electrical shock had travelled through her circuitry and disabled VTOL control in the process. The only reason they were still airborne was because Virgil knew his own ‘bird so well, he had been able to get her into a glide long enough to dig into her circuitry and slap together some partial control.

They were going down in any case. It was just a matter of how badly.

Scott felt the controls wallow in the lightest of crosswinds, the missing roar of his brother’s bird as bad as a missing heartbeat.

There was a muffled expletive, a yelp, and suddenly VTOL roared to life.

But only the two front thrusters fired. Scott struggled to keep her in the air. Treetops began to scrape across her underside. “Virgil, strap in!”

And they went down.

-o-o-o-

Scott sat on the lounge and stared at his brother.

Virgil had slipped sideways on the couch and curled himself up in the corner against the armrest, snoring softly. Dressed in his usual red flannel, but barefoot and in shorts, he looked young and vulnerable. A bandage clung to his forehead, emphasising the deep purple of a black eye and tousling his hair into a more of a spike than usual. One arm was in a cast and his red flannel shirt was unbuttoned, the familiar grey undershirt missing, leaving bare skin mottled with bruising and the strapping required for broken ribs.

His little brother was the sleeping wounded, but it was thanks to him that they were alive.

-o-o-o-

Thunderbird Two was the toughest ‘bird of them all. Her cahelium hull was designed to withstand the rugged heavy lifting to which she was continually subjected. But she was not strong enough to take the repeated beating of ancient hardwoods. Eventually her momentum was no longer enough to keep her going and a great tree stood firm. There was the godawful screech of wood versus metal and her path was warped, the whole plane spinning sideways.

And a ripping groan as her port-side wing was dismembered.

Scott clung on for dear life, praying what little control he had was enough. Beside him, Virgil staggered away from the open control panel, clinging to every purchase hold he could find, making for his pilot’s seat.

Until that final massive tree said no.

Thunderbird Two came to a sudden and violent halt.

As Scott was thrown against his harness, Virgil was lifted from his feet and flung up and over the control panel and landed hard against his ‘bird’s windows.

The rear of the great green Thunderbird lifted as momentum was shed into her environment, and she hung suspended for one breathtaking moment, before she dropped back to Earth with a scream of splintering wood.

The forest groaned.

-o-o-o-

Scott blinked and fought off his own need for sleep. He still had a headache and his wrist was an annoyance, but it was nothing.

Virgil frowned in his sleep, his whole face grimacing.

Sporting his own frown, Scott wobbled to his feet, grabbed a throw off the end of the lounge and made his way slowly over to his brother. His ankle annoyed him almost as much as his wrist, but it was only twisted, only rating a wrap support, unlike his wrist, which was in a splint.

Another grimace crossed Virgil’s face and Scott let the soft throw drift slowly over his sleeping brother. He stood there a moment, watching as Virgil instinctively snuggled into the material.

A sigh and Scott awkwardly folded himself onto the floor beside him and let his head rest against the same armrest on which his brother had lain his head.

He closed his eyes.

-o-o-o-

Scott lost a few moments immediately during and after the crash. His head must have his the headrest just that little bit too hard, because when he did open his eyes, everything was blurry.

“Scott?”

A brother? Virgil?

There were other sounds. Creaking, groaning, something was buzzing, something else was sparking.

The smell of burnt plastic and tart metal. He let out a breath and it turned into a cough. Smoke. It crept into his lungs and tried to strangle him.

“Scott, we need to get out of here.”

Somebody was fumbling at his harness. Yes, harness...Thunderbird?

That somebody was suddenly coughing. A gasp and a groan.

His stomach roiled both with sudden panic and some nasty nausea. Before he could think, he was folded double, coughing and attempting to breathe, his innards clawing outwards. A strong grip caught his arm and he didn’t complete his fall.

“Scott, help me here, please.” There was pleading in his brother’s voice and something else. Scott’s eyes slipped closed. “No, no, you gotta....gotta...Scott!”

The panic returned. Virgil! It was Virgil. Where? He flung his eyes open, but there was only blur and mostly darkness.

The grip on his arm was trying to drag him somewhere, but it didn’t seem to have the strength.

“Virgil?” Oh, and now the world was spinning.

“Scott...argh.”

He frowned. What? Virgil, he assumed it was Virgil, was still attempting to move him. Smoke curled up his nostrils and built another cough. The world tipped on its axis and blanked out for a moment.

-o-o-o-

He let himself drift sitting there beside his brother. His mind flipping through an involuntary mental scrapbook of life. He remembered faces, moments, so many moments. He had four brothers and one sister who shared his life and were so precious to him, but one always surfaced above the others. One was always there, had been the first, and stood by him ever since.

Brown eyes, solid dependability, the one who stepped up to keep him up, his prop, his support, his first brother, his first officer, his best friend.

Who snorted in his sleep.

Scott opened his eyes and turned his head just slightly.

The frown was back, Virgil was in pain.

Pain acerbated by him.

-o-o-o-

He was being dragged. There was no other word for it.

Someone was pulling on his arm and he was being inched across a rough metal surface. There was smoke in his lungs.

He wrenched his arm back and curled up coughing.

A hand grabbed at his uniform and began dragging him again.

“Wha-?” And the coughing took away his voice.

The dragging stopped, metal groaned, and the floor dropped out from under him. It didn’t drop far, but it frightened the cough out of him. A warm breeze of fresh air wafted over his face and the dark blur became a light one. He squeezed his eyes shut at it pierced his retinas.

Off to his right there was a sudden groan of pain. The floor shuddered as something hit it. Scott frowned, his brain attempting to piece together the information it was receiving. Virgil? Where was Virgil?

“Virg...?”

“Hi’m okay...okay...”

Harsh breathing, and the panic swirled up in his gut, something was wrong, something beyond the smoke and the blur.

He reached out and his fingers encountered uniform material, but before he could investigate further, a hand caught his and gripped it tight.

Off in the distance something exploded.

“Shit!”

The hand left his and he was bereft. A gasp, a strangled sound as the floor wobbled under him. “Virgil?”

Another groan. The floor dropped out from under him again. And again. Shudder by shudder he felt himself lowered until the metal under him encountered something more solid.

The fresh air felt so wonderful.

A shadow passed over him and the hand was back. “C’mon, S-Scott. Need to get out of the blasss...radius.”

Blast radius? What? God, focus!

He shook his head and immediately regretted it. Augh, the world was spinning again.

The hand was pulling at him again. “S-Stand up, pleeease.” The parched voice was full of desperation. Virgil was desperate.

His brother was desperate.

Scott pushed himself up slowly and shoved his feet under him. That hand steadied him as his world wobbled and then began leading him.

Still confused, he followed.

-o-o-o-

Scott twisted around, ignoring the twinges from his bruises, and gently brushed his fingers through his brother’s hair. He avoided the bandages and caught the tuft that always stubbornly stood at attention. Ever so softly, he tried to give comfort to his brother without disturbing his slumber.

Ever the sensitive, Virgil immediately relaxed with a sigh.

Scott smiled ever so slightly. His brother was a deep sleeper, always had been, but as sensitive to stimuli as he was when awake. Scott didn’t understand it, guessed it was something to do with that artistic streak of his brother’s, but he did take advantage of it.

Making his presence known ever so quietly, his brother’s sleeping mind would respond and be reassured. It had helped with nightmares when they were young. It helped with injuries now they were adult. Whether Virgil knew about it, Scott did not know, but there had been many a bedside vigil where Scott had reached out to touch and reassure his brother.

He cherished the ability to help him this way.

It was the least he could do.

-o-o-o-

“I-I can’t.”

The hand left him, Scott stumbled, catching his foot on something. His ankle yelled at him and suddenly he was on the ground again.

They had been stumbling through forest. He knew that much. He could smell the trees and the decaying vegetation underfoot. The blur that was his eyesight was getting better and now he was beginning to see shapes and sharper colours, though still with fuzzy edges.

It was definitely Virgil who was with him, his dark hair, blue and green uniform, but he was still missing the details and his brain still wasn’t functioning properly. It faded at times, spun at others, but every now and again it would connect dots and realise things. He clung to those moments.

This was one of them.

He was on the ground, leaf litter caught between his fingers.

Virgil was beside him, gasping.

Scott could see the shapes of his face. His eyes, nose and mouth, but their edges were blurred by a mass of red.

Blood red.

Scott blinked, desperate to clear his vision, and for a moment it flashed crystal in the dappled shade beneath some ancient tree.

Virgil lay beside him, face screwed up in pain, blood smeared across half of it, one eye swelling shut. One arm had some hasty looking bandages wrapped around it and was obviously broken.

His brother whimpered. “John, I-I can’t...”

“It’s okay, Virgil, you’ve made it. You are far enough away.”

“S-sure?”

“I’m sure.” And Scott could hear the gentle reassurance in his younger brother’s voice. “Rest now, Gordon and Alan will be there shortly.”

Virgil’s body just sagged as if all the air had been let out of it. A strangled sound that couldn’t be defined.

The world was getting fuzzy again, and before he lost it, Scott reached out and grabbed his brother’s hand. “Virgil!”

The head turned towards him. “S-Scott, you with m-me?”

“Yeah.”

“Th-thank god.”

-o-o-o-

He kept his fingers continually moving, brushing dark hair ever so softly.

Virgil had dragged him out of Thunderbird Two, across he didn’t know how many metres of forest, to a safe distance away from his ‘bird in case she exploded. John had urged him on, despite his injuries and Scott’s disorientation. It was unclear if Virgil had injured himself further doing such a thing, but it certainly couldn’t have helped. Broken ribs, broken arm and a head injury, yet somehow he had managed to make the distance dragging his eldest brother, despite his resistance.

Scott had faded in and out for the rest of the rescue. he vaguely remembered a concerned Alan and Gordon. Virgil attempting to get his attention again. His concussion had been persistent well into his hospital stay.

A blessed sleep of his own had eventually put his brain back together and now it was down to just the headache and occasional dizzy spell.

Virgil had the more serious head injury, yet had escaped the concussion long enough to get them out of there.

Scott leant over and kissed his brother’s hair. Whispered. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” His brother’s deep voice startled him and he fell back on his ass.

With a grunt Virgil looked up at him and grinned. “Hey, Big Bro, how’s your head?”

“Less broken than yours.”

“That is a matter of opinion.”

“No, I have proof this time. I downloaded your medical chart.”

Virgil frowned at him and immediately regretted it. “Ow.”

“More proof.”

“Shut up.”

Softer. “How are you feeling?”

“Like shit.”

“That explains why you look like shit.”

“Thanks.”

“You are welcome. I aim to please.” But he reached out and grabbed Virgil’s hand and squeezed.

A tired eye caught his, and Scott smiled just slightly.

His hand was squeezed back.

“Is he still going through with it?”

Scott reached over to the centre table and grabbed his tablet. He didn’t let go of Virgil’s hand.

“Apparently so.” A one handed fumble and he brought the legal document on screen before holding it up for his brother to see. “Summons and everything.”

Virgil sighed in exasperation. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

“Nope.”

There was silence for a moment, and Scott let the tablet drop to his lap.

“You know he is an idiot. Our lawyers are going to eat him alive.” Virgil’s voice still had a hint of the smoke inhalation rasp.

Scott frowned. “I can hope.”

“Munch, munch, and then spit him out between their teeth.”

Scott smirked. “You sound so sure.”

“That’s because I am. The bastard deserved it.”

-o-o-o-

Scott made his way through the hospital corridor with one hand clutched to his head. It still ached abominably, but he could at least function now.

As he rounded the corner to his brother’s room, he ran into Langstrom Fischler. Literally.

His head pounded as he bounced off the man.

“Can’t you watch where you are walking? You’d think this place was full of blind people.” The whining voice was worse than the collision.

“Mr Fischler.” Be screwed if he was going to apologise.

The man stared up at him for a moment, obviously realising he was familiar but not placing his identity.

“Scott Tracy, Mr Fischler.”

“You!” And he was being pointed at. “You’re one of that Rescue mob who stole my solar collector.”

Scott blinked. “Your collector damaged our cargo plane and caused it to crash while we were attempting to save your life. Again.”

“Well, I want it back.”

Scott frowned. “It is in pieces, Mr Fischler. Many, many small burnt pieces scattered across the Amazonian rainforest.”

“Unacceptable.”

Another blink. “I’m sorry, but there is nothing I can or care to do about it.”

“Well, where’s the other one? The one who shot them all down?”

“Why?” Virgil had given up and ended up deploying his laser and cutting them from the sky before they could move to a populated area.

“I want to give him a piece of my mind.”

“I don’t think he needs it, Mr Fischler.” Scott took a step forward.

Fischler took a step back, but fussed at one of his assistants who was hovering behind him and grabbed a tablet. “Then give me his contact details.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

And Scott was in the stupid man’s face. “Do you have any idea what you did?”

The man’s face was completely blank of any comprehension. “Do? What did I do? I didn’t do anything. It was you and your buzzy machines that got in the way.”

“Your solar collectors were flying bombs. Out of control flying bombs.”

“They were just doing their job. You got in the way.”

Scott’s hackles rose just that increment more. “We could have been killed.” Virgil could have died. “You have no idea.” What he had done to his brother.

“No, I think it is you who have no idea what trouble you have put me through. You and that stupid pilot of that green monstrosity. I want to speak with him, the fool. What right did he have to-“

Fischler was on the ground, nose bleeding profusely.

And Scott’s wrist was screaming at him, his own breathing harsh in his ears. Every eye in the corridor was staring.

He could blame it on the concussion. Possibly. Maybe.

No, the man deserved it and he meant it with every fibre in his body.

-o-o-o-

“I wish I could have seen it.”

Scott arched an eyebrow at his prone brother. “Really?”

“Hey, I think you earned that one. Wouldn’t mind a turn of my own.” He grunted as he moved. “In a few week’s time.”

“Aren’t you usually the one holding me back rather than cheering me on?”

Virgil shifted where he lay and groaned, suddenly struggling to sit up. Scott scrambled to his feet and helped him right himself. Sitting upright and panting, “Okay, h-he definitely deserves it. Shit.” Virgil closed his eyes and stilled for a moment.

Scott held his shoulders and knelt in front of him. No good asking his brother if he was okay, he obviously wasn’t.

That one deep brown eye opened. Raspy. “Thanks.”

Scott smiled just a little, his grip tightening.

“After what he did to my ‘bird, I want to kick his ass.”

“Should I hold you back?”

“You could join in. It will be fun.” And there was a ghost of a smile of Virgil’s face.

Scott mirrored it. “He’s not worth your time or your effort. And Thunderbird Two will fly again.”

Virgil dropped his gaze. “I guess.”

“Besides, I’m the big brother here.” This time he did grin.

And Virgil was grinning as best he could with his swollen face. Almost immediately replaced by another grimace. “Ow.” Scott wanted to hit Fischler again.

“C’mon, let’s get you up to a real bed.”

“Was comfy here.” Was that a pout?

“Really?” He poked the tablet. “The terrible two will be down in a couple of hours, you sure you want to be here then?”

Lips twisted. “I guess not.”

But there was something...

“C’mon.” He offered to help his brother off the lounge.

With a great deal of swearing, Virgil was eventually upright, in a hunched over kind of way. “I am so not taking the stairs.”

“Neither am I.” Scott limped ahead to the elevator, Virgil shuffling behind him. “God, we are a great pair.”

“We are damned lucky.”

He didn’t answer that, just hit the button that would send them to the residential section of the villa.

Another slow trek down a corridor and into Virgil’s rooms. His brother didn’t comment as Scott followed him in. Scott didn’t comment when Virgil didn’t bother to change his clothes, but simply lowered himself onto his bed and groaned onto his least damaged side. Scott grabbed the covers and lay them over the aching man.

A smirk. “Do I get a bedtime story?”

“Do you want one?”

“It was a joke.” Virgil closed his eyes and smushed his face into the pillow as best he could.

But it wasn’t a joke, Scott could see that much.

On a whim, he reached over and ran his fingers through his brother’s hair again. Virgil melted just slightly, a sigh passing his lips. “I hate you.”

Scott smirked and brushed his hair again. “Yes, that’s why you dragged my dopey ass through several hundred metres of dense forest while sporting a broken arm, ribs and a skull fracture.”

“Had to move anyway. Needed the company.”

“Uh huh.”

“Y’ need to go t’bed. Headache.”

“Uh huh.”

“Rest...”

“Uh huh.”

“Hmm-mm.”

Scott grinned as Virgil drifted off to sleep.

-o-o-o-

FIN.

#thunderbirds are go #thunderbirds #virgil tracy #scott tracy #thunderbirds fanfiction #whump

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