Supernatural fic: First Kill (Dean, gen)
Friday, 28 April 2006 17:34![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
krisomniacTitle: First Kill
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
krisomniac
Disclaimer: No intended infringement, no profits, etc. Supernatural, all characters and subsidiaries are owned by the execs down at Warner. I'm just here to have fun.
Ship(s): None
Wordcount: 3600
Summary: She eyed him suspiciously. "You're awfully young to be doing this kind of work."
Dean shrugged and hoped that she couldn't hear the pounding of his heart, wouldn't see the effort behind his easy grin. "I'm older than I look," he told her.
Author's Note: Many thanks toignipes for the incomparable beta-read, and an old Irish curse at her door for dragging me into another fandom. In this story there is no porn, but you might just find a mysterious door, a smattering of action, dollop of adventure, a gun, a coming of age, and a conspiracy of quarters. The town is fictional and the news items are real. Enjoy.
First Kill
The offices of Johnston, Brick, and Carver, Attorneys at Law, were located on the second floor of a three-storey townhouse, at the end of a row of similarly dilapidated structures that hadn't seen paint or polish since--the locals figured--nineteen sixty-two. Below the offices there was a candle shop run by two kindly though unobservant old ladies. They cared as little for the strange happenings in the rooms above them as they did for the progressive decay of their little dustbowl town.
Orange Rock had been unimaginatively named for the color of its soil. During the spring rains, residents affectionately called it Orange Mud, but over the blisteringly hot summer months, the ground dried and fissured, and a fine layer of dust settled on everything from gas pumps to tire swings. The pavement was as dusty as the grass growing between the cracks and the windows of the shabby buildings were sealed against the afternoon heat by a fine layer of silt. Even the cats slinking around the trash piles on the street corners were the color of orange dirt.
Dean Winchester kicked up small clouds of dust as he scuffed his sneakers along the pavement. The cats darted out of his way to hide in the shadows of doorways, under bone-dry storm drains, in cellars and empty bins. Waves of heat rolled up from the ground, off the glaringly metallic roofs of cars, blurring the edges of the world. The sun beat down on his shoulders; his light cotton tee-shirt might well have been a cast iron stove. His skin was starting to burn. There were no trees along the sidewalk, no shade, no clouds, no refuge.
He walked on.
"Spare a quarter?"
An old man was sitting on a bench under the faded bus stop sign. His voice rattled like dry snakeskins and leather, like he wasn't entirely sure what a human voice was supposed to sound like. He wore a wide-brimmed hat, pulled down low, dark glasses that hid his face, and a large, shapeless coat of indeterminate origin. Like everything else, he was covered in a fine layer of reddish dust. The hand he held out towards Dean was calloused and arthritic, knuckles knotty, skin spotted by old age.
Dean rummaged in his pocket without thinking and handed the man the first coin he found, a shiny, new quarter.
"God bless," the old man said, and Dean continued on his way.
A faded sign marked the street level doorway to the offices of Johnston, Brick, and Carver. Dean walked around the premises slowly, past the candle shop and back to the unassuming door. As far as he could see, this was the only way in or out of the building. He entered, waited for his eyes to adjust to the sudden darkness, and walked up a narrow flight of stairs that creaked with every step. Though out of the direct sun, the air was no cooler in here than it had been on the street, dim, stagnant and stifling, Dean wished he was back on the street.
The door at the top of the steps was half wood, half frosted glass. Aged black and gold lettering read 'Johnston, Brick--, At-or--ys -t Law.' Dust bunnies blew across the landing like domesticated tumbleweed in an unseen breeze.
Dean took a deep breath, opened the door, and walked inside.
---
"I should go with you," Dean protested. "You know I can help."
John Winchester shook his head for the fourth time that afternoon. "No. I need you to stay with Sam—"
"Sammy's fine. He's safe with Mr. Johnston. You need help. I heard you talking on the phone...before. You said you'd need a second man inside."
So, John thought, the kid had been eavesdropping. More importantly, he'd guessed what they were talking about. Good.
John cocked his head and looked at his son.
Dean barely reached his shoulders, but bristled with eleven-year-old indignation, a sense of passion and purpose rivalled by few adults John had ever known. He wondered when his son had grown so tall, when his jeans had gotten so short, how long they'd been showing the tops of his socks; John couldn't remember the last time he'd taken the boys shopping for new clothes.
That was the sort of thing a mother did.
He studied the determined set of Dean's jaw, the fierce, green eyes that would always remind him too much of Mary, the broad chest and skinny arms, tense and ready to fight. He shivered--a second man--and felt himself give in. The boy was ready to be tested in the field. They both knew it would happen one day.
"Alright," he said. John sighed and his shoulders sagged with foreboding and the certainty that he'd lost more than just the argument. "You can come." He held out his hand. "Gun?"
Dean presented it for inspection. A birthday present--how many years ago?--it was clean and oiled, spotless and fully loaded. John spun the chamber and clicked it back into place, tested the balance, set the safety, and gave the weapon back to his son.
"If you're going to do this," he said, "you have to stick to the plan, my plan. It's the only way we're gonna survive out there."
Dean nodded solemnly.
---
The door closed behind Dean with a barely audible click.
"May I help you?" asked the secretary behind the desk. The plaque in front of her read 'Mrs. Alice Holden,' and her desk was littered with piles of papers, some typed and new, others yellowed and covered with strange black scrawl. A jar of pencils and pens sat beside an old-fashioned inkwell and a lamp with a cracked plastic shade. An ancient typewriter stood on a small table behind her.
"Uh huh," Dean said absently, looking around the room. There were two doors--the one through which he had entered and one to the left of the secretary's desk--three windows on the right-hand wall, too high to jump from...probably. There was a chair under each window, all with sagging seats, faded red cushions, and low tables between them. There was a threadbare runner on the wooden floor and an empty coat rack by the door.
An angry black fly flew across the room, into one of the windows, and tried to find its way to the oppressive air outside. It the screen repeatedly with a loud, metallic sizzle. Buzzz, Ting! Buzz, Ting!
Dean shook his head to clear it. He couldn't get distracted, not now. "I have an appointment," he told Mrs. Holden. The fly hit the screen again. Buzz, twang!
"Name?" Her voice sounded younger than her weathered face appeared, and she spoke with the slow drawl of someone who'd lived in these parts for a while. Dark blue-black makeup was crusted around the edges of her eyes.
"Dean Applebee," he replied, groaning inwardly at the alias.
She eyed him suspiciously. "You're awfully young to be doing this kind of work."
Dean shrugged and hoped that she couldn't hear the pounding of his heart, wouldn't see the effort behind his easy grin. "I'm older than I look," he told her.
Her smile made it clear that she didn't believe a word of his story, but she ran her finger down the lines of a large appointment book. "Smith... Win... Applebee," she mumbled under her breath, then looked up at him. "He knows you're coming. Have a seat. I'll send you in when he calls."
Well, that answered one question.
---
John turned the key, and the engine cut off in the empty lot behind the old bank. Dean looked over, waiting for instructions; he still didn't know where they were going or what he was supposed to do.
"What I need you to do," John said, resting his wrists on the wheel and gesturing with his fingers, "is take care of the guard. I'll go in to negotiate, but they'll station someone between me and my exit, and something tells me this discussion will be one I'll have to leave in a hurry. It won't do to have any of their people in my way."
Dean tried to ask what sort of people they were, but John shook his head and told him not to worry.
"You'll go to the offices after me, using a different name, and come in from the waiting room when you get the signal."
"What signal? How will I know?"
"You'll know. Someone will tell you. Just do your part, take care of the guard, and wait for me back here. That's very important. Don't go anywhere else. Don't speak to anyone else. Take care of the guard and leave."
"How do I take care of the guard?"
He winked and patted Dean's side, where the gun poked out from his waistband. "Instinct," he said. "And you'll want to do a better job of hiding that."
Then he was gone. The car door slammed and the afternoon was silent. Dean still had time to kill before he had to be at Johnston, Brick, and Carver, so he set off down the dusty street, looking into the empty shops, kicking up burnt-orange clouds of dust behind him.
---
Buzzz, Ting!
The fly was grating on his nerves.
A drop of sweat rolled down his spine, but Dean refused to move; any shift of his shirt might reveal the revolver tucked into his waistband. Instead, he reached out and pulled the first magazine off the pile—it was almost a year old—and listened to the clock tick.
He flipped the pages absently, reading about a ballooning accident in Australia—-thirteen dead on the thirteenth, the first recorded head-on collision between balloons. A space shuttle was launched on a top-secret military mission. The Oakland A's were predicted to win the World Series. They did, he remembered. Four zip, despite the earthquake in game two. He'd finally convinced his dad to get them a motel room where they could watch the long-awaited final game. Sammy picked the winning team, and he didn't even know anything about baseball; Dean had secretly hoped that the Giants would come from behind. He closed the magazine and replaced it on top of the pile.
The clock ticked and the fly buzzed.
He took a deep breath, opened his mouth and closed it, wondering what his father would do to pass the time. Mrs. Holden was working on a crossword at her desk. Dean wondered if she was one of their people but decided she looked human enough. He figured she was as good company as anyone right now and cleared his throat.
"Hot as hell out there," he said.
She looked up from her crossword and grinned at him. Wrinkles gathered in the corners of her watery, painted eyes. "You have no idea," she replied, clearly amused. She turned back to the puzzle, and their brief talk was finished.
Suddenly she looked up, listening intently to something Dean couldn't hear.
"He's ready for you," she informed him, standing up. Grinning, she opened and ushered him through the door beside her.
Dean stood and took a deep breath. He slowly walked over and entered the room beyond.
---
"There's three rules," John said, "that you gotta remember." The gun was heavy in his hands, shining in the afternoon light. Dean waited, eyes wide. Sammy looked up from his cartoons. John hated that he had to tell them this; he was proud that they were ready to hear it.
"Always shoot straight and stay cool."
They nodded. He ran his fingers along the barrel, straight and cold.
"You'll get the best shot if you let them get close. Just wait for it."
Sam frowned; John continued.
"And, the final rule: aim for the heart. If you've got the right ammo, you'll kill it. Not much can survive without its heart."
He handed the gun to Dean. "Happy Birthday."
---
Mrs. Holden shut the door behind him. Dean's blood was pounding in his ears.
The room was empty except for a wooden folding chair and the man sitting in it. He faced one of the side walls, seemingly oblivious to Dean's entrance.
Sun streamed in through a row of windows lighting the whitewashed walls and ceiling. The floor was bare, and there were no curtains, no fixtures, no outlets, no dust in the corners, no shadows anywhere. It looked like a room ready for occupancy, cleaned, scrubbed, and waiting for new tenants to fill it with the bric-a-brack of new lives. It was no larger than the room he'd just come out of, but it felt huge and cavernous.
There was nothing special about the door on the far side, either. It was painted as white as the walls and simple molding lined its edges, though as Dean watched, a palpable darkness seemed to seep around them.
The man sat in front of it, hunched over his hands, his black leather coat and matted hair in stark contrast to the empty whitewash of the room. He reached out to the doorknob, a cheap, brass piece that Dean was certain he could pick in under a minute--if he had to.
But the door seemed to be pulsing. It moved in time with the pounding of his heart, and Dean decided that he didn't ever want to know what was on the other side.
He swallowed.
The man sat perfectly still, staring at the wall and smoking. He lifted the cigarette to his lips--the end glowed orange against the white wall--held the smoke in his lungs for an impossibly long minute, then slowly exhaled. The smoke rose from his mouth and nostrils in lazy tendrils. With one long-fingered hand, he flicked the ash off the end. It was gone before it hit the floor.
Dean took a deep breath. "I'm Dean... Applebee."
The man took another drag on his cigarette. "I know who you are." His voice was quiet and low, predatory, the kind of voice a jungle cat would use to speak to its dinner. His lips barely moved at all.
Dean stifled the urge to run. His mouth was dry, heart racing.
"I know why you're here." Then the man turned to face him. Smoke floated around his face, and through it his eyes glinted like two blue-black moons, an extension of the darkness creeping in under the door.
Dean didn't move. He could feel the gun against his side.
"Draw your weapon," the not-a-man said. "I've already got mine." He smiled, revealing a set of pointed, white teeth.
Dean pulled the gun and held it in both hands. The metal was cool on his skin, its weight reassuring. He looked steadily down the barrel, aimed for the man's chest.
"You aren't ready." The warning was so low and quiet, that Dean wasn't sure whether the guard had spoken aloud, or the voice was in his head.
With his thumb Dean popped the safety; a satisfying click filled the silence. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes.
---
The monster was leaning over Sam's bed: a black hulking figure, a pearly white light between their faces.
Dean froze. He forgot he had a gun, forgot he had a voice, forgot anything but the sight of the monster and his brother.
By the time he raised the weapon, he knew he was too late.
The door burst open.
---
The chair flew back into the wall and splintered with a sickening crunch.
Dean's eyes snapped open and he watched as the demon-thing lunged, spinning and coming at him from the side. Its eyes burned with pale fire. Its teeth were bared.
It was over before Dean realized what he'd done.
The echoes of the gunshot rang in his ears. Blue-green blood splattered on the wall, and there was a body crumpled at his feet.
Dean took a deep breath and tucked the revolver back into his belt. He turned and did not look back. His hands were shaking, though his breath was steady as he walked through the door and into the waiting room.
Mrs. Holden was not at her desk, but a familiar, shapeless figure was hunched in one of the sagging red chairs, hat pulled down low over his face, a quarter dancing between the fingers of his right hand.
"That your first kill, boy?" the old man asked in his dry, leathery voice.
"What's it to you?" Dean clenched his jaw.
The man shrugged. "Most of the old-timers," he said, "they check the body after they done. Make sure it's dead."
"It's dead," Dean said, then paused. He'd seen the blood fly against the wall, a dark splash in a white room, the body crumpled at his feet, unmoving. He'd felt the heat of his gun as he tucked it back into his belt. "It's dead."
The man shrugged again.
"It's--see for yourself." Dean turned back toward the white room and looked through the doorway.
It was empty, completely empty, just a room with a door. Dean took a few steps forward, looking around in confusion. The blood, the chair, and the body were gone, though the lingering smell of old cigarettes remained.
Frantic, Dean turned back to the old man. His heart was pounding again, breath shallow.
But the old man, too, had disappeared, and Mrs. Holden was sitting placidly behind her desk.
"Done so soon?" she asked, and Dean could swear he saw her wink at him.
Without bothering to reply, he sprinted from the room, down the steps, into the street, and he didn't stop until he'd reached the empty lot behind the old bank.
Breathing heavily, he checked for pursuit. There was none, and he leaned against the Chevy, catching his breath and wondering what he had really seen while the sun beat down on his back and sweat trickled into his eyes. He was still there when his dad returned, whistling, down the street.
"Hop in," he said. Dean obeyed.
They gingerly sat on the scalding cushions, and John started the engine. They rolled the windows down and Dean reached over to tune the radio, but his dad didn't put the car in gear.
Dean looked up at him.
"Hold your horses. I've got one more thing to take care of." John leaned out the window and smiled. "There you are."
A figure wearing a worn, dust-colored coat walked up to the car. He leaned against the driver's side and brought with him the faintest scent of cigarettes. He lowered the sunglasses to reveal a pair of obsidian, blue-black eyes.
"You got it?" he asked John.
Dean's father pulled something from his pocket and handed it to the man, who hissed with pleasure the moment it touched his skin. "We even?" John asked.
"We even," the stranger replied. "That's a good man you've got there." He inclined his head towards Dean, the dark eyes crinkling in the corners. "Straight shot, cool as night." He flicked the quarter across the car. It landed heads-up in Dean's lap.
Dean didn't know what to think.
"I'll see you around," his father said.
"Might be so," the demon-thing replied. He replaced his glasses and stepped away from the car. John pulled out of the lot and drove silently down the road.
They were halfway back to the highway before John spoke. Tinny, country music was playing on the radio, a song about someone's heart broken by a horse, or a girl, or a winter storm. It was all the same after a while. "So, you met my good friend Carver," he said.
They passed a sign informing them they were now leaving Orange Rock.
The song changed over, new voice, same idea. Dean took a deep breath. "I shot him in the chest," he replied.
John smiled. "Before you can kill a thing, you've got to know where it keeps its heart." He pulled onto the highway, accelerating smoothly and passing an eighteen-wheeler. Wind whipped in through the open windows and Dean could no longer hear the song.
Dean swallowed. "He was in it with you, the whole time? He's your friend?"
"Ally, more like, and a dodgy one at that." His dad took his eyes off the road to focus on Dean. "We don't make friends with the enemy."
"He was your backup," Dean said. "He got rid of the real guard while I was waiting. How come you didn't trust me?" He almost choked on the words.
John sighed. The flat scenery flew past the window, afternoon giving way to dusk. The sunset was fiery red. "I had to know you'd follow directions." He paused. "I also had to know that you'd take the shot, and that if you didn't, you'd stay alive."
They rode the rest of the way in silence.
The Chevy crunched along the gravel in the Johnston's driveway. Light from the kitchen spilled out through the windows and into the dusky world outside. Daniel, his wife, their children, and Sam were eating dinner. Just like a family thought Dean.
He opened the car door and stepped out into the blessedly cool evening. Whiffs of roasted garlic and red meat drifted out into the air. Dean's stomach rumbled; he hadn't eaten since that morning.
"Dean," John said as he walked towards the door, "You can get my back any time."
Dean grinned. Straight shot, cool as night. He should've been tired, but as he fingered the quarter in his pocket, he couldn't wait to tell the others what had happened.
----
Comments, questions, critiques, and pointing out of errors is very much appreciated. All mistakes herein are mine.
Author:
krisomniacDisclaimer: No intended infringement, no profits, etc. Supernatural, all characters and subsidiaries are owned by the execs down at Warner. I'm just here to have fun.
Ship(s): None
Wordcount: 3600
Summary: She eyed him suspiciously. "You're awfully young to be doing this kind of work."
Dean shrugged and hoped that she couldn't hear the pounding of his heart, wouldn't see the effort behind his easy grin. "I'm older than I look," he told her.
Author's Note: Many thanks to
ignipes for the incomparable beta-read, and an old Irish curse at her door for dragging me into another fandom. In this story there is no porn, but you might just find a mysterious door, a smattering of action, dollop of adventure, a gun, a coming of age, and a conspiracy of quarters. The town is fictional and the news items are real. Enjoy.The offices of Johnston, Brick, and Carver, Attorneys at Law, were located on the second floor of a three-storey townhouse, at the end of a row of similarly dilapidated structures that hadn't seen paint or polish since--the locals figured--nineteen sixty-two. Below the offices there was a candle shop run by two kindly though unobservant old ladies. They cared as little for the strange happenings in the rooms above them as they did for the progressive decay of their little dustbowl town.
Orange Rock had been unimaginatively named for the color of its soil. During the spring rains, residents affectionately called it Orange Mud, but over the blisteringly hot summer months, the ground dried and fissured, and a fine layer of dust settled on everything from gas pumps to tire swings. The pavement was as dusty as the grass growing between the cracks and the windows of the shabby buildings were sealed against the afternoon heat by a fine layer of silt. Even the cats slinking around the trash piles on the street corners were the color of orange dirt.
Dean Winchester kicked up small clouds of dust as he scuffed his sneakers along the pavement. The cats darted out of his way to hide in the shadows of doorways, under bone-dry storm drains, in cellars and empty bins. Waves of heat rolled up from the ground, off the glaringly metallic roofs of cars, blurring the edges of the world. The sun beat down on his shoulders; his light cotton tee-shirt might well have been a cast iron stove. His skin was starting to burn. There were no trees along the sidewalk, no shade, no clouds, no refuge.
He walked on.
"Spare a quarter?"
An old man was sitting on a bench under the faded bus stop sign. His voice rattled like dry snakeskins and leather, like he wasn't entirely sure what a human voice was supposed to sound like. He wore a wide-brimmed hat, pulled down low, dark glasses that hid his face, and a large, shapeless coat of indeterminate origin. Like everything else, he was covered in a fine layer of reddish dust. The hand he held out towards Dean was calloused and arthritic, knuckles knotty, skin spotted by old age.
Dean rummaged in his pocket without thinking and handed the man the first coin he found, a shiny, new quarter.
"God bless," the old man said, and Dean continued on his way.
A faded sign marked the street level doorway to the offices of Johnston, Brick, and Carver. Dean walked around the premises slowly, past the candle shop and back to the unassuming door. As far as he could see, this was the only way in or out of the building. He entered, waited for his eyes to adjust to the sudden darkness, and walked up a narrow flight of stairs that creaked with every step. Though out of the direct sun, the air was no cooler in here than it had been on the street, dim, stagnant and stifling, Dean wished he was back on the street.
The door at the top of the steps was half wood, half frosted glass. Aged black and gold lettering read 'Johnston, Brick--, At-or--ys -t Law.' Dust bunnies blew across the landing like domesticated tumbleweed in an unseen breeze.
Dean took a deep breath, opened the door, and walked inside.
---
"I should go with you," Dean protested. "You know I can help."
John Winchester shook his head for the fourth time that afternoon. "No. I need you to stay with Sam—"
"Sammy's fine. He's safe with Mr. Johnston. You need help. I heard you talking on the phone...before. You said you'd need a second man inside."
So, John thought, the kid had been eavesdropping. More importantly, he'd guessed what they were talking about. Good.
John cocked his head and looked at his son.
Dean barely reached his shoulders, but bristled with eleven-year-old indignation, a sense of passion and purpose rivalled by few adults John had ever known. He wondered when his son had grown so tall, when his jeans had gotten so short, how long they'd been showing the tops of his socks; John couldn't remember the last time he'd taken the boys shopping for new clothes.
That was the sort of thing a mother did.
He studied the determined set of Dean's jaw, the fierce, green eyes that would always remind him too much of Mary, the broad chest and skinny arms, tense and ready to fight. He shivered--a second man--and felt himself give in. The boy was ready to be tested in the field. They both knew it would happen one day.
"Alright," he said. John sighed and his shoulders sagged with foreboding and the certainty that he'd lost more than just the argument. "You can come." He held out his hand. "Gun?"
Dean presented it for inspection. A birthday present--how many years ago?--it was clean and oiled, spotless and fully loaded. John spun the chamber and clicked it back into place, tested the balance, set the safety, and gave the weapon back to his son.
"If you're going to do this," he said, "you have to stick to the plan, my plan. It's the only way we're gonna survive out there."
Dean nodded solemnly.
---
The door closed behind Dean with a barely audible click.
"May I help you?" asked the secretary behind the desk. The plaque in front of her read 'Mrs. Alice Holden,' and her desk was littered with piles of papers, some typed and new, others yellowed and covered with strange black scrawl. A jar of pencils and pens sat beside an old-fashioned inkwell and a lamp with a cracked plastic shade. An ancient typewriter stood on a small table behind her.
"Uh huh," Dean said absently, looking around the room. There were two doors--the one through which he had entered and one to the left of the secretary's desk--three windows on the right-hand wall, too high to jump from...probably. There was a chair under each window, all with sagging seats, faded red cushions, and low tables between them. There was a threadbare runner on the wooden floor and an empty coat rack by the door.
An angry black fly flew across the room, into one of the windows, and tried to find its way to the oppressive air outside. It the screen repeatedly with a loud, metallic sizzle. Buzzz, Ting! Buzz, Ting!
Dean shook his head to clear it. He couldn't get distracted, not now. "I have an appointment," he told Mrs. Holden. The fly hit the screen again. Buzz, twang!
"Name?" Her voice sounded younger than her weathered face appeared, and she spoke with the slow drawl of someone who'd lived in these parts for a while. Dark blue-black makeup was crusted around the edges of her eyes.
"Dean Applebee," he replied, groaning inwardly at the alias.
She eyed him suspiciously. "You're awfully young to be doing this kind of work."
Dean shrugged and hoped that she couldn't hear the pounding of his heart, wouldn't see the effort behind his easy grin. "I'm older than I look," he told her.
Her smile made it clear that she didn't believe a word of his story, but she ran her finger down the lines of a large appointment book. "Smith... Win... Applebee," she mumbled under her breath, then looked up at him. "He knows you're coming. Have a seat. I'll send you in when he calls."
Well, that answered one question.
---
John turned the key, and the engine cut off in the empty lot behind the old bank. Dean looked over, waiting for instructions; he still didn't know where they were going or what he was supposed to do.
"What I need you to do," John said, resting his wrists on the wheel and gesturing with his fingers, "is take care of the guard. I'll go in to negotiate, but they'll station someone between me and my exit, and something tells me this discussion will be one I'll have to leave in a hurry. It won't do to have any of their people in my way."
Dean tried to ask what sort of people they were, but John shook his head and told him not to worry.
"You'll go to the offices after me, using a different name, and come in from the waiting room when you get the signal."
"What signal? How will I know?"
"You'll know. Someone will tell you. Just do your part, take care of the guard, and wait for me back here. That's very important. Don't go anywhere else. Don't speak to anyone else. Take care of the guard and leave."
"How do I take care of the guard?"
He winked and patted Dean's side, where the gun poked out from his waistband. "Instinct," he said. "And you'll want to do a better job of hiding that."
Then he was gone. The car door slammed and the afternoon was silent. Dean still had time to kill before he had to be at Johnston, Brick, and Carver, so he set off down the dusty street, looking into the empty shops, kicking up burnt-orange clouds of dust behind him.
---
Buzzz, Ting!
The fly was grating on his nerves.
A drop of sweat rolled down his spine, but Dean refused to move; any shift of his shirt might reveal the revolver tucked into his waistband. Instead, he reached out and pulled the first magazine off the pile—it was almost a year old—and listened to the clock tick.
He flipped the pages absently, reading about a ballooning accident in Australia—-thirteen dead on the thirteenth, the first recorded head-on collision between balloons. A space shuttle was launched on a top-secret military mission. The Oakland A's were predicted to win the World Series. They did, he remembered. Four zip, despite the earthquake in game two. He'd finally convinced his dad to get them a motel room where they could watch the long-awaited final game. Sammy picked the winning team, and he didn't even know anything about baseball; Dean had secretly hoped that the Giants would come from behind. He closed the magazine and replaced it on top of the pile.
The clock ticked and the fly buzzed.
He took a deep breath, opened his mouth and closed it, wondering what his father would do to pass the time. Mrs. Holden was working on a crossword at her desk. Dean wondered if she was one of their people but decided she looked human enough. He figured she was as good company as anyone right now and cleared his throat.
"Hot as hell out there," he said.
She looked up from her crossword and grinned at him. Wrinkles gathered in the corners of her watery, painted eyes. "You have no idea," she replied, clearly amused. She turned back to the puzzle, and their brief talk was finished.
Suddenly she looked up, listening intently to something Dean couldn't hear.
"He's ready for you," she informed him, standing up. Grinning, she opened and ushered him through the door beside her.
Dean stood and took a deep breath. He slowly walked over and entered the room beyond.
---
"There's three rules," John said, "that you gotta remember." The gun was heavy in his hands, shining in the afternoon light. Dean waited, eyes wide. Sammy looked up from his cartoons. John hated that he had to tell them this; he was proud that they were ready to hear it.
"Always shoot straight and stay cool."
They nodded. He ran his fingers along the barrel, straight and cold.
"You'll get the best shot if you let them get close. Just wait for it."
Sam frowned; John continued.
"And, the final rule: aim for the heart. If you've got the right ammo, you'll kill it. Not much can survive without its heart."
He handed the gun to Dean. "Happy Birthday."
---
Mrs. Holden shut the door behind him. Dean's blood was pounding in his ears.
The room was empty except for a wooden folding chair and the man sitting in it. He faced one of the side walls, seemingly oblivious to Dean's entrance.
Sun streamed in through a row of windows lighting the whitewashed walls and ceiling. The floor was bare, and there were no curtains, no fixtures, no outlets, no dust in the corners, no shadows anywhere. It looked like a room ready for occupancy, cleaned, scrubbed, and waiting for new tenants to fill it with the bric-a-brack of new lives. It was no larger than the room he'd just come out of, but it felt huge and cavernous.
There was nothing special about the door on the far side, either. It was painted as white as the walls and simple molding lined its edges, though as Dean watched, a palpable darkness seemed to seep around them.
The man sat in front of it, hunched over his hands, his black leather coat and matted hair in stark contrast to the empty whitewash of the room. He reached out to the doorknob, a cheap, brass piece that Dean was certain he could pick in under a minute--if he had to.
But the door seemed to be pulsing. It moved in time with the pounding of his heart, and Dean decided that he didn't ever want to know what was on the other side.
He swallowed.
The man sat perfectly still, staring at the wall and smoking. He lifted the cigarette to his lips--the end glowed orange against the white wall--held the smoke in his lungs for an impossibly long minute, then slowly exhaled. The smoke rose from his mouth and nostrils in lazy tendrils. With one long-fingered hand, he flicked the ash off the end. It was gone before it hit the floor.
Dean took a deep breath. "I'm Dean... Applebee."
The man took another drag on his cigarette. "I know who you are." His voice was quiet and low, predatory, the kind of voice a jungle cat would use to speak to its dinner. His lips barely moved at all.
Dean stifled the urge to run. His mouth was dry, heart racing.
"I know why you're here." Then the man turned to face him. Smoke floated around his face, and through it his eyes glinted like two blue-black moons, an extension of the darkness creeping in under the door.
Dean didn't move. He could feel the gun against his side.
"Draw your weapon," the not-a-man said. "I've already got mine." He smiled, revealing a set of pointed, white teeth.
Dean pulled the gun and held it in both hands. The metal was cool on his skin, its weight reassuring. He looked steadily down the barrel, aimed for the man's chest.
"You aren't ready." The warning was so low and quiet, that Dean wasn't sure whether the guard had spoken aloud, or the voice was in his head.
With his thumb Dean popped the safety; a satisfying click filled the silence. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes.
---
The monster was leaning over Sam's bed: a black hulking figure, a pearly white light between their faces.
Dean froze. He forgot he had a gun, forgot he had a voice, forgot anything but the sight of the monster and his brother.
By the time he raised the weapon, he knew he was too late.
The door burst open.
---
The chair flew back into the wall and splintered with a sickening crunch.
Dean's eyes snapped open and he watched as the demon-thing lunged, spinning and coming at him from the side. Its eyes burned with pale fire. Its teeth were bared.
It was over before Dean realized what he'd done.
The echoes of the gunshot rang in his ears. Blue-green blood splattered on the wall, and there was a body crumpled at his feet.
Dean took a deep breath and tucked the revolver back into his belt. He turned and did not look back. His hands were shaking, though his breath was steady as he walked through the door and into the waiting room.
Mrs. Holden was not at her desk, but a familiar, shapeless figure was hunched in one of the sagging red chairs, hat pulled down low over his face, a quarter dancing between the fingers of his right hand.
"That your first kill, boy?" the old man asked in his dry, leathery voice.
"What's it to you?" Dean clenched his jaw.
The man shrugged. "Most of the old-timers," he said, "they check the body after they done. Make sure it's dead."
"It's dead," Dean said, then paused. He'd seen the blood fly against the wall, a dark splash in a white room, the body crumpled at his feet, unmoving. He'd felt the heat of his gun as he tucked it back into his belt. "It's dead."
The man shrugged again.
"It's--see for yourself." Dean turned back toward the white room and looked through the doorway.
It was empty, completely empty, just a room with a door. Dean took a few steps forward, looking around in confusion. The blood, the chair, and the body were gone, though the lingering smell of old cigarettes remained.
Frantic, Dean turned back to the old man. His heart was pounding again, breath shallow.
But the old man, too, had disappeared, and Mrs. Holden was sitting placidly behind her desk.
"Done so soon?" she asked, and Dean could swear he saw her wink at him.
Without bothering to reply, he sprinted from the room, down the steps, into the street, and he didn't stop until he'd reached the empty lot behind the old bank.
Breathing heavily, he checked for pursuit. There was none, and he leaned against the Chevy, catching his breath and wondering what he had really seen while the sun beat down on his back and sweat trickled into his eyes. He was still there when his dad returned, whistling, down the street.
"Hop in," he said. Dean obeyed.
They gingerly sat on the scalding cushions, and John started the engine. They rolled the windows down and Dean reached over to tune the radio, but his dad didn't put the car in gear.
Dean looked up at him.
"Hold your horses. I've got one more thing to take care of." John leaned out the window and smiled. "There you are."
A figure wearing a worn, dust-colored coat walked up to the car. He leaned against the driver's side and brought with him the faintest scent of cigarettes. He lowered the sunglasses to reveal a pair of obsidian, blue-black eyes.
"You got it?" he asked John.
Dean's father pulled something from his pocket and handed it to the man, who hissed with pleasure the moment it touched his skin. "We even?" John asked.
"We even," the stranger replied. "That's a good man you've got there." He inclined his head towards Dean, the dark eyes crinkling in the corners. "Straight shot, cool as night." He flicked the quarter across the car. It landed heads-up in Dean's lap.
Dean didn't know what to think.
"I'll see you around," his father said.
"Might be so," the demon-thing replied. He replaced his glasses and stepped away from the car. John pulled out of the lot and drove silently down the road.
They were halfway back to the highway before John spoke. Tinny, country music was playing on the radio, a song about someone's heart broken by a horse, or a girl, or a winter storm. It was all the same after a while. "So, you met my good friend Carver," he said.
They passed a sign informing them they were now leaving Orange Rock.
The song changed over, new voice, same idea. Dean took a deep breath. "I shot him in the chest," he replied.
John smiled. "Before you can kill a thing, you've got to know where it keeps its heart." He pulled onto the highway, accelerating smoothly and passing an eighteen-wheeler. Wind whipped in through the open windows and Dean could no longer hear the song.
Dean swallowed. "He was in it with you, the whole time? He's your friend?"
"Ally, more like, and a dodgy one at that." His dad took his eyes off the road to focus on Dean. "We don't make friends with the enemy."
"He was your backup," Dean said. "He got rid of the real guard while I was waiting. How come you didn't trust me?" He almost choked on the words.
John sighed. The flat scenery flew past the window, afternoon giving way to dusk. The sunset was fiery red. "I had to know you'd follow directions." He paused. "I also had to know that you'd take the shot, and that if you didn't, you'd stay alive."
They rode the rest of the way in silence.
The Chevy crunched along the gravel in the Johnston's driveway. Light from the kitchen spilled out through the windows and into the dusky world outside. Daniel, his wife, their children, and Sam were eating dinner. Just like a family thought Dean.
He opened the car door and stepped out into the blessedly cool evening. Whiffs of roasted garlic and red meat drifted out into the air. Dean's stomach rumbled; he hadn't eaten since that morning.
"Dean," John said as he walked towards the door, "You can get my back any time."
Dean grinned. Straight shot, cool as night. He should've been tired, but as he fingered the quarter in his pocket, he couldn't wait to tell the others what had happened.
----
Comments, questions, critiques, and pointing out of errors is very much appreciated. All mistakes herein are mine.
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no subject
2006-04-28 22:12 (UTC)no subject
2006-04-29 19:57 (UTC)no subject
2006-04-28 22:18 (UTC)no subject
2006-04-29 19:57 (UTC)no subject
2006-04-29 00:20 (UTC)no subject
2006-04-29 19:58 (UTC)no subject
2006-04-29 06:46 (UTC)Man, I love John, but he can be a real bastard at times:
"Instinct," he said. "And you'll want to do a better job of hiding that."
Thanks for sharing this!
no subject
2006-04-29 20:00 (UTC)Hehehe. I guess he's (John's) just doing his best in a screwed up puppy sort of way.
no subject
2006-04-29 07:46 (UTC)no subject
2006-04-29 20:01 (UTC)Thank you!!
Fic: First Kill
2006-04-30 00:50 (UTC)John's pride kind of hurt. That that's the life they live. And Dean's too tall for his clothes.
But then the plan itself, and the test.
And fabulous description of the town.
Re: Fic: First Kill
2006-05-04 02:50 (UTC)I had fun with this one, thank you for commenting!!
no subject
2006-04-30 08:37 (UTC)Like the way you jump back and forward - it's a skill I've never mastered, I'm just too linear when I write.
:-)
no subject
2006-05-04 02:52 (UTC)It's so funny you should mention that, because I have not mastered the skill of picking a single plotline and sticking to it... ;) Every time I try, memories and bits of other stories work their way in.
Anyway, thanks for reading again! I'm glad you enjoyed.
no subject
2006-06-07 14:47 (UTC)Okay, so I was getting ready to rec this and then realized I never actually left you feedback. *scuffs toe* Yeah, that would be me, Queen of the Lame People.
Anyway, I feel in love with this fic so hard. Coming of age fics (especially with Dean) are so hard to pull off and you managed it brilliantly. It was creepy in all the right places, the inner Dean voice was spot-on, and I loved how atmospheric it was without weighing down the fic. And I really loved the glimpses of John.