ladyjanelly (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ladyjanelly) wrote2007-07-01 08:07 pm
ladyjanelly) wrote2007-07-01 08:07 pm
Fic: Sunny days JDM/DW ch 3
fictional
PG-13
Jeff sits there, on the bathroom floor, holding Dean until his shaking stops, until the fight goes out of his shoulders. He lets Jeff help him up and doesn’t resist as he’s maneuvered into a bath-robe and sweat-pants. If he looked bad before, he’s hell warmed over, now, his eyes red-rimmed and his lips swollen and flushed. Jeff guides him back to the couch and Dean sits down, a frown between his eyebrows.
“So,” Dean says, “About that talk.”
Jeff takes a seat back on the chair. He wishes for the comfort of a good stiff drink, but he can’t risk being the slightest bit fuzzy-headed.
“How about I start,” Jeff offers, “And you tell me if I get something wrong.”
“Go for it.”
“I’m not John Winchester,” Jeff begins, “I’m Jeff Morgan. I never married; I don’t have any kids. I never knew your mother.” He takes a deep breath, wondering if he’s about to get punched. “I wasn’t there when she died. I didn’t put Sam in your arms and tell you to run.”
Dean’s face is guarded, but he doesn’t interrupt. “I’ve never fought demons. I didn’t raise you and your brother. I didn’t train you how to hunt and fight and kill.”
“Your brother’s special though,” Jeff continues, trying to show Dean that he understands where Dean’s coming from, that he will believe the strangeness Dean’s got to tell. “I know how hard you tried to keep him safe. What you said in the bathroom, I’m thinking something went wrong. The demon gate?”
Dean nods, swallows hard. “The demons got loose. A couple hundred, maybe. Slipped loose and scattered. We thought they’d settle close. Possess some locals, make some chaos, small-scale demon crap. Feed on the negative energy in the area or whatever it is they get out of fucking up peoples’ lives.” He takes a shuddering breath.
“They scattered further than we thought. Took over people in power. The president, some other guys in Washington. Key figures in Europe, god knows who else. A week later, it was war. Martial law. Food riots and half the country in power blackouts.”
Dean goes silent for a moment; whether he’s trying to remember something or decide how much to tell, Jeff’s not sure. “That was--fall sometime, two thousand six. Hell on earth.”
“We lost,” Dean rasps, “We lost and Sam sent me away so I wouldn’t die with him.”
“I’m sorry,” Jeff says, “I know what he meant to you.”
Dean’s eyes narrow. “Yeah, about that. You mind tellin’ me how?”
Jeff’s been thinking about that. The DVD would probably be a little much, he figures, so he goes to the file cabinet of all the scripts he’s done or is considering doing. “There’s no easy way to say this,” Jeff tells him and passes the folder marked “Supernatural: Pilot” over.
Dean frowns, and turns to the title page. Jeff watches, as his eyes flick over the lines of type, as that frown deepens. The color fades from Dean’s face, all except a bright splash of red on each cheek like a slap-mark. He stops and turns back to the front, then leafs through to the end.
“What the fuck?” he asks when he’s done. He tosses the script on the coffee table--a sharp movement, barely controlled.
“You wanted to know how I knew you,” Jeff explains. He feels the first little shiver of worry. A pissed off Dean Winchester is the last thing he wants in his home.
“This--” Dean gestures at the scattered papers, “This is bullshit. This is my fucking life, dude, it’s not a TV show. I’m not--not crazy. I’m not some guy who watched Ghostbusters too many times.”
He moves to his feet, agitated. Bisou whines and presses against Jeff’s knee, not used to people yelling and bumping the furniture.
“Dean,” Jeff says, “I’m not saying you’re crazy. I’m not saying you watched too much TV. I’m saying I knew you were Dean Winchester as soon as you spoke.” His hands are out like he’s talking Dean down from a ledge.
Dean wobbles and collapses back on his ass on the couch. “I--this is too much.” And yeah, Jeff can imagine.
“Look,” says Jeff, “I know we’re not any kind of family. But unless you’ve got somewhere better to go, you’re welcome to stay here as long as you like. The spare bedroom’s a studio, but the couch is comfortable and the kitchen stocked.”
Dean nods, and Jeff isn’t sure if it’s an ‘okay I’ll stay’ nod or an ‘I believe you about the couch,’ nod. He holds his fingers out to Bisou, and she crawls over to accept his apology.
“I’m just gonna sit here a while,” Dean says, all his earlier fire gone. “If that’s okay.”
“Yeah,” Jeff tells him, “Sure. Look, I’ll give you some space, but I’m right out back if you need anything at all. Remote for the TV’s there; the laptop has the internet. Just--make yourself at home. I mean that.”
He tries to project just how much he wants Dean here, how much he wants him to stay. Dean nods again, and Jeff leaves him to process all this.
The sun’s still out, warm and unseasonably bright. Jeff sits out on the back porch for half an hour, reading through some scripts he might be interested in, making some calls to his agent. When he comes back in, he’s not all that surprised to find Dean gone.
PG-13
Jeff sits there, on the bathroom floor, holding Dean until his shaking stops, until the fight goes out of his shoulders. He lets Jeff help him up and doesn’t resist as he’s maneuvered into a bath-robe and sweat-pants. If he looked bad before, he’s hell warmed over, now, his eyes red-rimmed and his lips swollen and flushed. Jeff guides him back to the couch and Dean sits down, a frown between his eyebrows.
“So,” Dean says, “About that talk.”
Jeff takes a seat back on the chair. He wishes for the comfort of a good stiff drink, but he can’t risk being the slightest bit fuzzy-headed.
“How about I start,” Jeff offers, “And you tell me if I get something wrong.”
“Go for it.”
“I’m not John Winchester,” Jeff begins, “I’m Jeff Morgan. I never married; I don’t have any kids. I never knew your mother.” He takes a deep breath, wondering if he’s about to get punched. “I wasn’t there when she died. I didn’t put Sam in your arms and tell you to run.”
Dean’s face is guarded, but he doesn’t interrupt. “I’ve never fought demons. I didn’t raise you and your brother. I didn’t train you how to hunt and fight and kill.”
“Your brother’s special though,” Jeff continues, trying to show Dean that he understands where Dean’s coming from, that he will believe the strangeness Dean’s got to tell. “I know how hard you tried to keep him safe. What you said in the bathroom, I’m thinking something went wrong. The demon gate?”
Dean nods, swallows hard. “The demons got loose. A couple hundred, maybe. Slipped loose and scattered. We thought they’d settle close. Possess some locals, make some chaos, small-scale demon crap. Feed on the negative energy in the area or whatever it is they get out of fucking up peoples’ lives.” He takes a shuddering breath.
“They scattered further than we thought. Took over people in power. The president, some other guys in Washington. Key figures in Europe, god knows who else. A week later, it was war. Martial law. Food riots and half the country in power blackouts.”
Dean goes silent for a moment; whether he’s trying to remember something or decide how much to tell, Jeff’s not sure. “That was--fall sometime, two thousand six. Hell on earth.”
“We lost,” Dean rasps, “We lost and Sam sent me away so I wouldn’t die with him.”
“I’m sorry,” Jeff says, “I know what he meant to you.”
Dean’s eyes narrow. “Yeah, about that. You mind tellin’ me how?”
Jeff’s been thinking about that. The DVD would probably be a little much, he figures, so he goes to the file cabinet of all the scripts he’s done or is considering doing. “There’s no easy way to say this,” Jeff tells him and passes the folder marked “Supernatural: Pilot” over.
Dean frowns, and turns to the title page. Jeff watches, as his eyes flick over the lines of type, as that frown deepens. The color fades from Dean’s face, all except a bright splash of red on each cheek like a slap-mark. He stops and turns back to the front, then leafs through to the end.
“What the fuck?” he asks when he’s done. He tosses the script on the coffee table--a sharp movement, barely controlled.
“You wanted to know how I knew you,” Jeff explains. He feels the first little shiver of worry. A pissed off Dean Winchester is the last thing he wants in his home.
“This--” Dean gestures at the scattered papers, “This is bullshit. This is my fucking life, dude, it’s not a TV show. I’m not--not crazy. I’m not some guy who watched Ghostbusters too many times.”
He moves to his feet, agitated. Bisou whines and presses against Jeff’s knee, not used to people yelling and bumping the furniture.
“Dean,” Jeff says, “I’m not saying you’re crazy. I’m not saying you watched too much TV. I’m saying I knew you were Dean Winchester as soon as you spoke.” His hands are out like he’s talking Dean down from a ledge.
Dean wobbles and collapses back on his ass on the couch. “I--this is too much.” And yeah, Jeff can imagine.
“Look,” says Jeff, “I know we’re not any kind of family. But unless you’ve got somewhere better to go, you’re welcome to stay here as long as you like. The spare bedroom’s a studio, but the couch is comfortable and the kitchen stocked.”
Dean nods, and Jeff isn’t sure if it’s an ‘okay I’ll stay’ nod or an ‘I believe you about the couch,’ nod. He holds his fingers out to Bisou, and she crawls over to accept his apology.
“I’m just gonna sit here a while,” Dean says, all his earlier fire gone. “If that’s okay.”
“Yeah,” Jeff tells him, “Sure. Look, I’ll give you some space, but I’m right out back if you need anything at all. Remote for the TV’s there; the laptop has the internet. Just--make yourself at home. I mean that.”
He tries to project just how much he wants Dean here, how much he wants him to stay. Dean nods again, and Jeff leaves him to process all this.
The sun’s still out, warm and unseasonably bright. Jeff sits out on the back porch for half an hour, reading through some scripts he might be interested in, making some calls to his agent. When he comes back in, he’s not all that surprised to find Dean gone.
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