![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Entry tags:
October Snippets - Prior Claim (SPN/Angel crossover 4/?)
Part 1, Part 2, Part 3
Prior Claim
The next morning, Dean woke up slowly, to fading pain in his back and a sinking realization in his gut. Lindsey was still lying asleep next to him, one arm stretched out under his head, and there was a very clear pale white scar on the tanned skin of his forearm. Dean didn't doubt that the scar went all the way around. He didn't have to--all of the pieces were staring him in the face now, all of the things that he'd known all along but had wanted so badly not to be true. The afternoons that Lindsey was busy "working" and the wise woman's dead husband, how Rickman had owned a Chevy and how Lindsey knew that the abandoned Chevy would be right there, why Lindsey was wearing a charm to hide the wearer from justice tied on a piece of hemp around his neck.
Dean eased off the mattress and walked across the room to the chair where Lindsey had set his boots and weapons. He had his gun in his hand and cocked at Lindsey in a matter of seconds, but something made him hesitate before he pulled the trigger, and it wasn't the usual wonder of whether a gun would be any good against this particular evil. Dean was fairly sure that whatever else Lindsey McDonald was, he was also flesh and blood, and guns did damage to flesh and blood.
When Dean had finally convinced himself that he had to do it, Lindsey spoke, without moving from where he was still laying on the bed. "Son, you gonna shoot me, you do it to my face, while I'm awake."
Dean flinched at the sound of Lindsey's voice, and then braced himself to fight, but all Lindsey did was sit up on the bed and face Dean. Dean was still shirtless from the night before, standing barefoot in Lindsey's hotel room, and Lindsey just stared at him evenly. Finally Lindsey made a gesture with his hand as if to say, go on.
Dad had taught Dean and Sam to shoot in any number of empty fields with any number of cans stacked up on a fence. Dean remembered being taught how to use a gun when Sammy was still little enough to cry every time it had gone off, and Sammy had learned at a young age that when guns went off you should stay quiet, find cover, and hide.
Dean shot Lindsey, but somehow Lindsey didn't die. Dean registered it slowly, because Dean was definitely holding the gun, and it was loaded, and he pulled the trigger and the gun went off, and Dean could even say that his aim was true and that the bullet hit Lindsey, and in some way, Lindsey was recoiling and bleeding and just fine at the same time. Dean simultaneously knew that he had hit Lindsey, and that Lindsey should be fatally wounded, and yet it was clear that Lindsey was still sitting up in bed, pissed off but not dead or dying.
It was a tribute to Dad's training that Dean's gun-hand was still steady. "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't kill you," he said tersely, ignoring the obvious question of whether he *could* even do so. Dean's voice revealed too much of his desperate hope that Lindsey had a good explanation that he would share with Dean now.
Lindsey just spread his arms and raised his shoulders in a "What can you do?" gesture.
"You killed old Mr. Rickman?" Dean said, and it wasn't very much of a question. Lindsey didn't say anything, but his eyes showed that he thought the answer to Dean's question was so obvious it didn't require a response, and his half-smile made it clear that he thought Dean had known this all along.
They stared at each other for a long moment and Dean swallowed heavily and wished that Dad or Sam were there, or someone who knew the fuck what to do. Lindsey ran a hand through his own hair wearily.
Eventually Dean lowered his gun and reached across the floor for his shirt. He held it crumpled in his fist and stepped toward the door. "If we cross paths again, I'll kill you," Dean said, raising the gun again at Lindsey to emphasize his point.
Lindsey just laughed. "There's a prior claim, son," he said, and the city polish that sometimes flavored his vioce was nowhere to be found.
Prior Claim
The next morning, Dean woke up slowly, to fading pain in his back and a sinking realization in his gut. Lindsey was still lying asleep next to him, one arm stretched out under his head, and there was a very clear pale white scar on the tanned skin of his forearm. Dean didn't doubt that the scar went all the way around. He didn't have to--all of the pieces were staring him in the face now, all of the things that he'd known all along but had wanted so badly not to be true. The afternoons that Lindsey was busy "working" and the wise woman's dead husband, how Rickman had owned a Chevy and how Lindsey knew that the abandoned Chevy would be right there, why Lindsey was wearing a charm to hide the wearer from justice tied on a piece of hemp around his neck.
Dean eased off the mattress and walked across the room to the chair where Lindsey had set his boots and weapons. He had his gun in his hand and cocked at Lindsey in a matter of seconds, but something made him hesitate before he pulled the trigger, and it wasn't the usual wonder of whether a gun would be any good against this particular evil. Dean was fairly sure that whatever else Lindsey McDonald was, he was also flesh and blood, and guns did damage to flesh and blood.
When Dean had finally convinced himself that he had to do it, Lindsey spoke, without moving from where he was still laying on the bed. "Son, you gonna shoot me, you do it to my face, while I'm awake."
Dean flinched at the sound of Lindsey's voice, and then braced himself to fight, but all Lindsey did was sit up on the bed and face Dean. Dean was still shirtless from the night before, standing barefoot in Lindsey's hotel room, and Lindsey just stared at him evenly. Finally Lindsey made a gesture with his hand as if to say, go on.
Dad had taught Dean and Sam to shoot in any number of empty fields with any number of cans stacked up on a fence. Dean remembered being taught how to use a gun when Sammy was still little enough to cry every time it had gone off, and Sammy had learned at a young age that when guns went off you should stay quiet, find cover, and hide.
Dean shot Lindsey, but somehow Lindsey didn't die. Dean registered it slowly, because Dean was definitely holding the gun, and it was loaded, and he pulled the trigger and the gun went off, and Dean could even say that his aim was true and that the bullet hit Lindsey, and in some way, Lindsey was recoiling and bleeding and just fine at the same time. Dean simultaneously knew that he had hit Lindsey, and that Lindsey should be fatally wounded, and yet it was clear that Lindsey was still sitting up in bed, pissed off but not dead or dying.
It was a tribute to Dad's training that Dean's gun-hand was still steady. "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't kill you," he said tersely, ignoring the obvious question of whether he *could* even do so. Dean's voice revealed too much of his desperate hope that Lindsey had a good explanation that he would share with Dean now.
Lindsey just spread his arms and raised his shoulders in a "What can you do?" gesture.
"You killed old Mr. Rickman?" Dean said, and it wasn't very much of a question. Lindsey didn't say anything, but his eyes showed that he thought the answer to Dean's question was so obvious it didn't require a response, and his half-smile made it clear that he thought Dean had known this all along.
They stared at each other for a long moment and Dean swallowed heavily and wished that Dad or Sam were there, or someone who knew the fuck what to do. Lindsey ran a hand through his own hair wearily.
Eventually Dean lowered his gun and reached across the floor for his shirt. He held it crumpled in his fist and stepped toward the door. "If we cross paths again, I'll kill you," Dean said, raising the gun again at Lindsey to emphasize his point.
Lindsey just laughed. "There's a prior claim, son," he said, and the city polish that sometimes flavored his vioce was nowhere to be found.