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crossoverficTitle: Because I Could Not Stop for Death
Author: Christie (![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
neversince)
Rating: PG-13 just for language
Word Count: ~1,400
Fandom: SPN/SCC crossover; Sam Winchester, John Connor, Dean Winchester
Spoilers: None. This is just a little AU ficlet – no timeline for either show – could be considered crack
Summary: Sam Winchester and John Connor share a love of emo bangs and Emily Dickinson.
Note: Written formedie on her birthday.
Because I could not stop for Death,
He kindly stopped for me.
The Carriage held but just ourselves
And Immortality
-Emily Dickinson, Part Four: Time and Eternity
///
They found him in the desert northeast of San Bernardino. He was half-delirious with thirst and sunstroke, and Dean only agreed to take him with them when he found fifty bucks in the kid's pocket.
The kid had no identification, a broken cell phone, and one shoe. Dean drove through the Inland Empire and didn't stop until they reached Dana Point. The kid kept mumbling about machines coming and calling Sam "mom."
///
He wolfed down two cheeseburgers, onion rings, and a chocolate shake, plus what was left of Sam's French dip. Dean looked halfway impressed, the other half annoyed.
"The future," Sam repeated, wondering if the kid who said his name was John Connor was certifiable.
The kid nodded, mouth full, and checked his broken cell phone again. As if it was going to miraculously mend, and the SIM card would suddenly be back where it belonged, rather than melting somewhere on the highway in the high desert.
"Robots," Dean said, arching an eyebrow.
Connor nodded.
"Robots possessed by demons?" There was hope in Dean's voice.
Connor shook his head. "Robots created by man," he said. "Then they take over."
"Do they work for the Devil?" Dean asked, looking askance at Sam.
Now the kid's eyebrows knotted and he leaned forward, looking Dean square in the eye. "They're evil all on their own."
Sam kicked Dean under the table, meaning for Dean to leave the kid alone, but Dean just shook his head, as if coming out of deep thought. "I think it's fucked up, Sammy. We're spending all this time and energy fighting demons and trying to keep hellmouths shut, and the world ends up getting taken over by robots? What are we wasting our time for?"
///
Dean agreed to drive John Connor to Griffith Park in the morning, where the kid said he had an emergency rendezvous point with his mother if they ever got separated, if he'd tell them how to stop the machines from taking over. The kid lied, but Sam knew they'd take him anyway.
"Judgement Day in 2011, huh?" Dean asked, pulling the weapons duffel closer to him on the bed.
"Yeah," John said, flipping his hair out of his eyes. He looked at Sam and Dean in turn, as if sizing them up. Dean shifted uncomfortably but Sam ignored it, continuing to go through his clothes to see what needed washing and what could last through Griffith Park. "But we got it, my mom, my uncle and me. It’s not a good idea to bring civilians into it."
Dean snorted at the word "civilians" and began to disassemble the Colt for cleaning.
///
The kid slept worse than he did, and Sam hadn't thought it was possible for anyone to sleep worse than he did. Through Dean's snoring, Sam knew to lay perfectly still, timing his breathing with his brother's until he dropped off to sleep. Sometimes it took hours. Sometimes he never slept. But he lay there, still and silent, dutifully trying.
John Connor did not. He flipped and flopped and sighed loudly, the mattress squeaking under each exaggerated move. Finally, he threw the covers off and set his feet on the ground, not bothering with quiet as he trudged to the closet and pulled the string that illuminated the light bulb inside.
Sam lay still. Sam listened and breathed and waited. When the closet door slid shut and the light went with it, Sam sat up.
He looked at the closet door for a long time. Suddenly he was 14, and his dad was holding sentry at the window. Sam would shuffle toward the bathroom and Dad would bark, "No lights." Sam would take a piss in the dark, then shut himself in the closet with the pull-string light bulb and his school books.
Sam held up a fist, ready to knock, but who knocks on a closet door? Instead, he slid the door open a few inches. "Hey. You okay?"
Haloed in 50-watt incandescent, John had purple shadows under his eyes. "Yeah. I'm fantastic." His expression was unreadable, but his tone was all teenager. Sam heard, 'Fuck off, dude. It's 2:30 in the morning and I'm sitting in a closet.'
Realizing John's neck was craned at an unnatural angle to see him, Sam crouched. "We'll find them. Your mom and your uncle will be looking for you, too."
"I know." John sounded like he really did, too. His lips twitched in what had the potential for a smile when he said, "I'd be armed when they find me. They tend to shoot first and ask questions later."
"So does Dean."
There was silence then, and John fidgeted in it. His fingers brushed against the worn cover of a book clutched in his hands. Sam reached out like he was going to touch it, but when he saw the boy tense, he withdrew his hand. His voice lowered a few octaves – what did Sam know about dealing with teenage kids who claimed to be the future savior of mankind anyway? - "What is that?"
John shrugged. "Nothing. Just a book I found."
This time, John held it out, spine showing, and Sam read the faded gold letters on the spine. "Emily Dickinson."
The kid drew his knees up, gangly legs on a body that would eventually catch up. "I found it. It's not – "
"She writes a lot about death and immortality," Sam said. He saw so much of himself in this kid, and he couldn't help it, it devastated him. For the first time ever, Sam hoped his prophecy was right. He'd be the Boy King, the leader of humans to Hell, if it would mean this sixteen-year-old kid could sleep one full night through.
"How do you know?"
It took Sam a moment to remember what they were talking about. Emily Dickinson, death and immortality. He moved out of his crouch and sat down, taking the book from John.
"I’ve read her poems. Here. Listen to this one."
"It was not death, for I stood up
And all the dead lie down;
It was not night, for all the bells
Put out their tongues, for noon.
It was not frost, for on my flesh
I felt siroccos crawl, -
Nor fire, for just my marble feet
Could keep a chancel cool.
And yet it tasted like them all;
The figures I have seen
Set orderly, for burial,
Reminded me of mine,
As if my life were shaven
And fitted to a frame,
And could not breathe without a key;
And’t was like midnight, some,
When everything that ticked has stopped
And space stares, all around,
Or grisly frosts, first autumn morns,
Repeal the beating ground.
But most like chaos, - stopless, cool, -
Without a chance or spar,
Or even a report of land
To justify despair."
When Sam closed the book, John blinked, like he was coming back from somewhere else. His face was white, and Sam thought for a second that the kid might throw up all that food he'd eaten at dinner. John trembled noticeably – a shudder that seemed to tear through him against his will.
When he spoke though, his voice was strangely calm. "That's sort of like...I think that's what the future’s like."
Sam was no stranger to rips between worlds; portals opening up and letting things through and closing again...and he still couldn't wrap his mind around time travel. John was looking up at him, eyes barely visible behind the fringe of bangs, and Sam subconsciously stroked his own hair back, realizing this is exactly what he'd looked like at sixteen. Hiding in the closet in a hotel room at the corner of No and Where, reading Emily Dickinson behind shaggy hair.
He ruffled John's bangs. "You want to watch some tv or something?"
John smoothed the pad of his thumb over the edges of the book. He looked shyly at Sam and shrugged. "I kind of want to stay here and read."
The sickly yellow light didn't show the bright red blush that crept onto John's face, but Sam knew it was there. He knew, because he'd be expecting his dad to haul him up and tell him to get to bed, or Dean to say something like, "Okay, Sir Dorksalot," and pass gas before closing the closet door in order to trap Sam in with the smell.
Sam shrugged. "Don't fall asleep in there," he said, and closed the closet door without further comment.
///
In the morning, Dean found John Connor curled up on the floor of the closet, hair flopping over his eyes, Emily Dickinson's book of poems clutched against his chest. He rolled his eyes and sighed dramatically. "This is the future savior of mankind?" He looked seriously over at Sam. "Well, I guess I know how it ends. The machines win."
End.
Author: Christie (
neversince)Rating: PG-13 just for language
Word Count: ~1,400
Fandom: SPN/SCC crossover; Sam Winchester, John Connor, Dean Winchester
Spoilers: None. This is just a little AU ficlet – no timeline for either show – could be considered crack
Summary: Sam Winchester and John Connor share a love of emo bangs and Emily Dickinson.
Note: Written for
medie on her birthday.Because I could not stop for Death,
He kindly stopped for me.
The Carriage held but just ourselves
And Immortality
-Emily Dickinson, Part Four: Time and Eternity
///
They found him in the desert northeast of San Bernardino. He was half-delirious with thirst and sunstroke, and Dean only agreed to take him with them when he found fifty bucks in the kid's pocket.
The kid had no identification, a broken cell phone, and one shoe. Dean drove through the Inland Empire and didn't stop until they reached Dana Point. The kid kept mumbling about machines coming and calling Sam "mom."
///
He wolfed down two cheeseburgers, onion rings, and a chocolate shake, plus what was left of Sam's French dip. Dean looked halfway impressed, the other half annoyed.
"The future," Sam repeated, wondering if the kid who said his name was John Connor was certifiable.
The kid nodded, mouth full, and checked his broken cell phone again. As if it was going to miraculously mend, and the SIM card would suddenly be back where it belonged, rather than melting somewhere on the highway in the high desert.
"Robots," Dean said, arching an eyebrow.
Connor nodded.
"Robots possessed by demons?" There was hope in Dean's voice.
Connor shook his head. "Robots created by man," he said. "Then they take over."
"Do they work for the Devil?" Dean asked, looking askance at Sam.
Now the kid's eyebrows knotted and he leaned forward, looking Dean square in the eye. "They're evil all on their own."
Sam kicked Dean under the table, meaning for Dean to leave the kid alone, but Dean just shook his head, as if coming out of deep thought. "I think it's fucked up, Sammy. We're spending all this time and energy fighting demons and trying to keep hellmouths shut, and the world ends up getting taken over by robots? What are we wasting our time for?"
///
Dean agreed to drive John Connor to Griffith Park in the morning, where the kid said he had an emergency rendezvous point with his mother if they ever got separated, if he'd tell them how to stop the machines from taking over. The kid lied, but Sam knew they'd take him anyway.
"Judgement Day in 2011, huh?" Dean asked, pulling the weapons duffel closer to him on the bed.
"Yeah," John said, flipping his hair out of his eyes. He looked at Sam and Dean in turn, as if sizing them up. Dean shifted uncomfortably but Sam ignored it, continuing to go through his clothes to see what needed washing and what could last through Griffith Park. "But we got it, my mom, my uncle and me. It’s not a good idea to bring civilians into it."
Dean snorted at the word "civilians" and began to disassemble the Colt for cleaning.
///
The kid slept worse than he did, and Sam hadn't thought it was possible for anyone to sleep worse than he did. Through Dean's snoring, Sam knew to lay perfectly still, timing his breathing with his brother's until he dropped off to sleep. Sometimes it took hours. Sometimes he never slept. But he lay there, still and silent, dutifully trying.
John Connor did not. He flipped and flopped and sighed loudly, the mattress squeaking under each exaggerated move. Finally, he threw the covers off and set his feet on the ground, not bothering with quiet as he trudged to the closet and pulled the string that illuminated the light bulb inside.
Sam lay still. Sam listened and breathed and waited. When the closet door slid shut and the light went with it, Sam sat up.
He looked at the closet door for a long time. Suddenly he was 14, and his dad was holding sentry at the window. Sam would shuffle toward the bathroom and Dad would bark, "No lights." Sam would take a piss in the dark, then shut himself in the closet with the pull-string light bulb and his school books.
Sam held up a fist, ready to knock, but who knocks on a closet door? Instead, he slid the door open a few inches. "Hey. You okay?"
Haloed in 50-watt incandescent, John had purple shadows under his eyes. "Yeah. I'm fantastic." His expression was unreadable, but his tone was all teenager. Sam heard, 'Fuck off, dude. It's 2:30 in the morning and I'm sitting in a closet.'
Realizing John's neck was craned at an unnatural angle to see him, Sam crouched. "We'll find them. Your mom and your uncle will be looking for you, too."
"I know." John sounded like he really did, too. His lips twitched in what had the potential for a smile when he said, "I'd be armed when they find me. They tend to shoot first and ask questions later."
"So does Dean."
There was silence then, and John fidgeted in it. His fingers brushed against the worn cover of a book clutched in his hands. Sam reached out like he was going to touch it, but when he saw the boy tense, he withdrew his hand. His voice lowered a few octaves – what did Sam know about dealing with teenage kids who claimed to be the future savior of mankind anyway? - "What is that?"
John shrugged. "Nothing. Just a book I found."
This time, John held it out, spine showing, and Sam read the faded gold letters on the spine. "Emily Dickinson."
The kid drew his knees up, gangly legs on a body that would eventually catch up. "I found it. It's not – "
"She writes a lot about death and immortality," Sam said. He saw so much of himself in this kid, and he couldn't help it, it devastated him. For the first time ever, Sam hoped his prophecy was right. He'd be the Boy King, the leader of humans to Hell, if it would mean this sixteen-year-old kid could sleep one full night through.
"How do you know?"
It took Sam a moment to remember what they were talking about. Emily Dickinson, death and immortality. He moved out of his crouch and sat down, taking the book from John.
"I’ve read her poems. Here. Listen to this one."
"It was not death, for I stood up
And all the dead lie down;
It was not night, for all the bells
Put out their tongues, for noon.
It was not frost, for on my flesh
I felt siroccos crawl, -
Nor fire, for just my marble feet
Could keep a chancel cool.
And yet it tasted like them all;
The figures I have seen
Set orderly, for burial,
Reminded me of mine,
As if my life were shaven
And fitted to a frame,
And could not breathe without a key;
And’t was like midnight, some,
When everything that ticked has stopped
And space stares, all around,
Or grisly frosts, first autumn morns,
Repeal the beating ground.
But most like chaos, - stopless, cool, -
Without a chance or spar,
Or even a report of land
To justify despair."
When Sam closed the book, John blinked, like he was coming back from somewhere else. His face was white, and Sam thought for a second that the kid might throw up all that food he'd eaten at dinner. John trembled noticeably – a shudder that seemed to tear through him against his will.
When he spoke though, his voice was strangely calm. "That's sort of like...I think that's what the future’s like."
Sam was no stranger to rips between worlds; portals opening up and letting things through and closing again...and he still couldn't wrap his mind around time travel. John was looking up at him, eyes barely visible behind the fringe of bangs, and Sam subconsciously stroked his own hair back, realizing this is exactly what he'd looked like at sixteen. Hiding in the closet in a hotel room at the corner of No and Where, reading Emily Dickinson behind shaggy hair.
He ruffled John's bangs. "You want to watch some tv or something?"
John smoothed the pad of his thumb over the edges of the book. He looked shyly at Sam and shrugged. "I kind of want to stay here and read."
The sickly yellow light didn't show the bright red blush that crept onto John's face, but Sam knew it was there. He knew, because he'd be expecting his dad to haul him up and tell him to get to bed, or Dean to say something like, "Okay, Sir Dorksalot," and pass gas before closing the closet door in order to trap Sam in with the smell.
Sam shrugged. "Don't fall asleep in there," he said, and closed the closet door without further comment.
///
In the morning, Dean found John Connor curled up on the floor of the closet, hair flopping over his eyes, Emily Dickinson's book of poems clutched against his chest. He rolled his eyes and sighed dramatically. "This is the future savior of mankind?" He looked seriously over at Sam. "Well, I guess I know how it ends. The machines win."
End.
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