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nrrrdy_grrrl: I'd love to see an AU cross-over between X files and SPN where Dean is the Mulder character, Sam is the missing Samantha (but not gender-swap)… Jo is Scully … Note: the prompt was too detailed for a snippet, and I couldn't write more than that, so I just picked.
Jo couldn’t stop trying to figure him out, not even while she was in the shower. Dean Winchester was a rebel in a bureaucracy that prized conformists. Nothing about her initial encounters with him had done anything to illuminate his obsessive behavior. Winchester was as great a mystery as the reason their rental car had died in the middle of the road.
Jo had expected to be asked to evaluate medical evidence, read the histories of dead bodies. She was used to gore. Even before med school, her daddy had made sure she knew how to butcher an animal. But here the puzzles weren’t bloody. They might not even be puzzles.
She shivered, thinking of how the smoking man had refused to come into the light in the AD’s office, how his eyes had glinted as if he were jaundiced.
That was obviously enough speculation in advance of evidence. She turned off the water and grabbed for the complimentary robe—
And found herself pounding on Winchester’s door, terrified that the marks on her back might be something more than psychosomatic.
She would have killed Winchester if he’d laughed, and maybe he sensed that. Maybe it was even her willingness to consider the possibility of witch marks that got him to start talking.
“I was twelve when it happened,” he said. “My little brother was taken, right in front of me. My mother, slammed into the wall. Held there and set on fire. My father—it destroyed him. There was no evidence, nothing to investigate. Just gone, and dead.”
“What did you do?” Jo asked.
He shrugged. “When I was old enough to leave, I did ROTC. Joined the Army.” She knew he was leaving out the specialization in interrogation, the slew of decorations and the classified file, but that was only to be expected. “Got recruited by the Bureau. Seems I had a natural talent for catching bad guys. And once I did that enough so I could write my own ticket, I found the X-Files.”
Jo hugged her knees to her chest. “By accident?”
“At first I thought it was a garbage dump. UFOs? Who believes in that crap? But there were all these reports, mentions of the occult, the unexplained—I was hooked. The things I’ve seen with my own eyes, Harvelle, I know there’s more out there than the Bureau admits.”
His face changed, closed off.
“What?” she asked.
“I’ve been trying to find out more, but there’s someone blocking my access.”
“Like a—conspiracy, you mean? Who?” Maybe he really was just another paranoid, but that didn’t explain why he’d be allowed such freedom by the Bureau, which wasn’t exactly known for the long leash it gave its agents.
“I don’t know. I’ve only been allowed to get this far because of—contacts I have, in the military, in Congress. All I know is there’s someone out there who doesn’t want me to find out what happened to Sammy. You’re a part of that, you know.”
She shook her head. “I’m not part of anyone’s cover-up, Winchester. I make my own decisions.”
“Yeah?” he asked, and smiled. He had a beautiful smile, she realized, turning him from good-looking to fall-down-at-his-feet gorgeous, and she resolved never to notice that again. The last thing she needed was another Jack. “Well, you’re gonna have to make some tough ones if you really want to hunt the things that go bump in the night.”
“All I want is the truth,” she said, thinking about her dad and how he’d died.
The phone rang, and then they were on the case again.
End.
Jo couldn’t stop trying to figure him out, not even while she was in the shower. Dean Winchester was a rebel in a bureaucracy that prized conformists. Nothing about her initial encounters with him had done anything to illuminate his obsessive behavior. Winchester was as great a mystery as the reason their rental car had died in the middle of the road.
Jo had expected to be asked to evaluate medical evidence, read the histories of dead bodies. She was used to gore. Even before med school, her daddy had made sure she knew how to butcher an animal. But here the puzzles weren’t bloody. They might not even be puzzles.
She shivered, thinking of how the smoking man had refused to come into the light in the AD’s office, how his eyes had glinted as if he were jaundiced.
That was obviously enough speculation in advance of evidence. She turned off the water and grabbed for the complimentary robe—
And found herself pounding on Winchester’s door, terrified that the marks on her back might be something more than psychosomatic.
She would have killed Winchester if he’d laughed, and maybe he sensed that. Maybe it was even her willingness to consider the possibility of witch marks that got him to start talking.
“I was twelve when it happened,” he said. “My little brother was taken, right in front of me. My mother, slammed into the wall. Held there and set on fire. My father—it destroyed him. There was no evidence, nothing to investigate. Just gone, and dead.”
“What did you do?” Jo asked.
He shrugged. “When I was old enough to leave, I did ROTC. Joined the Army.” She knew he was leaving out the specialization in interrogation, the slew of decorations and the classified file, but that was only to be expected. “Got recruited by the Bureau. Seems I had a natural talent for catching bad guys. And once I did that enough so I could write my own ticket, I found the X-Files.”
Jo hugged her knees to her chest. “By accident?”
“At first I thought it was a garbage dump. UFOs? Who believes in that crap? But there were all these reports, mentions of the occult, the unexplained—I was hooked. The things I’ve seen with my own eyes, Harvelle, I know there’s more out there than the Bureau admits.”
His face changed, closed off.
“What?” she asked.
“I’ve been trying to find out more, but there’s someone blocking my access.”
“Like a—conspiracy, you mean? Who?” Maybe he really was just another paranoid, but that didn’t explain why he’d be allowed such freedom by the Bureau, which wasn’t exactly known for the long leash it gave its agents.
“I don’t know. I’ve only been allowed to get this far because of—contacts I have, in the military, in Congress. All I know is there’s someone out there who doesn’t want me to find out what happened to Sammy. You’re a part of that, you know.”
She shook her head. “I’m not part of anyone’s cover-up, Winchester. I make my own decisions.”
“Yeah?” he asked, and smiled. He had a beautiful smile, she realized, turning him from good-looking to fall-down-at-his-feet gorgeous, and she resolved never to notice that again. The last thing she needed was another Jack. “Well, you’re gonna have to make some tough ones if you really want to hunt the things that go bump in the night.”
“All I want is the truth,” she said, thinking about her dad and how he’d died.
The phone rang, and then they were on the case again.
End.
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